heyday of
flower-power he had launched Wow,
Babe! , to be followed a couple of years
later by F**k , a
journal of street cred printed in multi-coloured inks on black
paper. At this point he had sold out to IBG, the magazine big boys,
and had presided over a variety of offerings ever since. As he
often said, at least twice a day by Kelvin's reckoning, his heart
was in the sixties but his pension was in the next century. Someone
on the top floor had had a good laugh when they saddled him
with Nouveau , a
politically correct magazine for the nervous nineties.
'Congratulations,' said Ted. 'You're now our chief correspondent on
contemporary human relations. In old-fashioned parlance, our sex
writer. Write about these.' And he dumped a bundle of thick
paperbacks on Kelvin's desk.
'What's the
big deal, Ted?'
'That feminist rag Neurotica is running a mail-order offer on female sex
novels. Take a look.'
'It says on
the back, "Not for sale to men."'
'Yes. That's
the angle. These aren't ordinary old wanking fodder - pass the
Kleenex, let's toss off in the bog, kind of thing. This is
sensitive, politically aware, blessed by the sisterhood, erotic
literature, for God's sake. Anyhow, it's all yours. Talk to a few
women, see what they think of it. Then I want an in-depth
evaluation for our readers.'
'Thanks a
bunch, Ted,' said Kelvin.
'Don't sound
so glum, man. Don't quote me but I bet if you can persuade a woman
to actually read that mush you'll soon have her screaming for the
real thing. Play your cards right and you'll shag your way to two
thousand words. Speaking of shagging, I want your piece on
Prosecutor Cuntface on my desk by Friday night.'
'Neanderthal,'
muttered Kelvin under his breath as his boss shambled off. He
wondered for the umpteenth time how Ted had ended up editing a
magazine for the thinking man.
The reference
to Gossamer, however, had him reaching for the phone. Despite his
recent exertions with Petra, the thought of Prosecutor Hawk had his
prick at a stretch to equal, he presumed, the heroes of the
literary works that now adorned his desk.
Tom was still
shaking when Petra arrived at the hospital.
'He's already
had one lot of visitors this morning,' said Nurse Biscuit as she
ushered Petra into his room, 'and I think they've tired him out.
Perhaps you'd better not stay too long.'
Tom looked at
this new arrival with suspicion. She had an intelligent face and
there was kindness in her round brown eyes. But she wore a business
suit and carried a briefcase that looked like a newer version of
Claire Quartermain's. Surely this wasn't some other crazed official
come to torment him?
'Who the hell
are you?' he snapped.
Petra was
flabbergasted. She had been thrilled to see Tom conscious, sitting
up in bed, his eyes once more alive with fierce intelligence. But
there was something else there, too. Surely it couldn't be
fear?
Nurse Biscuit
spoke up. 'Tom, surely you remember Miss Rosewater? She's been here
every day while you've been unconscious.'
The suspicion
vanished from Tom's face but his eyes bored into hers, as if
looking for a clue.
'It's great to
see you alive again, Tom,' said Petra. She wanted to touch him but
she didn't dare.
'Leave us
alone please, Eve,' he said and then he grinned in his old familiar
way. 'I'll be all right with Miss Rosewater, I promise.'
The smile
vanished as soon as the nurse did. Petra cleared her throat
nervously. He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed her hand.
'Are you
really a friend of mine?' he hissed.
His grasp was
painful but she didn't want to break it. 'I like to think so,' she
said. 'Why are you behaving like this? If it's a joke it's in poor
taste, Tom. I've been really worried about you. So has everyone at
the office.'
'Aha.' He
relaxed his grip. 'So you work for me, then?'
'I'm your
Deputy Executive Officer, for God's sake. Why are you asking me
these things?'
'Just one more
question. This is important, believe me. Are we, or have we ever
been, er,
flower-power he had launched Wow,
Babe! , to be followed a couple of years
later by F**k , a
journal of street cred printed in multi-coloured inks on black
paper. At this point he had sold out to IBG, the magazine big boys,
and had presided over a variety of offerings ever since. As he
often said, at least twice a day by Kelvin's reckoning, his heart
was in the sixties but his pension was in the next century. Someone
on the top floor had had a good laugh when they saddled him
with Nouveau , a
politically correct magazine for the nervous nineties.
'Congratulations,' said Ted. 'You're now our chief correspondent on
contemporary human relations. In old-fashioned parlance, our sex
writer. Write about these.' And he dumped a bundle of thick
paperbacks on Kelvin's desk.
'What's the
big deal, Ted?'
'That feminist rag Neurotica is running a mail-order offer on female sex
novels. Take a look.'
'It says on
the back, "Not for sale to men."'
'Yes. That's
the angle. These aren't ordinary old wanking fodder - pass the
Kleenex, let's toss off in the bog, kind of thing. This is
sensitive, politically aware, blessed by the sisterhood, erotic
literature, for God's sake. Anyhow, it's all yours. Talk to a few
women, see what they think of it. Then I want an in-depth
evaluation for our readers.'
'Thanks a
bunch, Ted,' said Kelvin.
'Don't sound
so glum, man. Don't quote me but I bet if you can persuade a woman
to actually read that mush you'll soon have her screaming for the
real thing. Play your cards right and you'll shag your way to two
thousand words. Speaking of shagging, I want your piece on
Prosecutor Cuntface on my desk by Friday night.'
'Neanderthal,'
muttered Kelvin under his breath as his boss shambled off. He
wondered for the umpteenth time how Ted had ended up editing a
magazine for the thinking man.
The reference
to Gossamer, however, had him reaching for the phone. Despite his
recent exertions with Petra, the thought of Prosecutor Hawk had his
prick at a stretch to equal, he presumed, the heroes of the
literary works that now adorned his desk.
Tom was still
shaking when Petra arrived at the hospital.
'He's already
had one lot of visitors this morning,' said Nurse Biscuit as she
ushered Petra into his room, 'and I think they've tired him out.
Perhaps you'd better not stay too long.'
Tom looked at
this new arrival with suspicion. She had an intelligent face and
there was kindness in her round brown eyes. But she wore a business
suit and carried a briefcase that looked like a newer version of
Claire Quartermain's. Surely this wasn't some other crazed official
come to torment him?
'Who the hell
are you?' he snapped.
Petra was
flabbergasted. She had been thrilled to see Tom conscious, sitting
up in bed, his eyes once more alive with fierce intelligence. But
there was something else there, too. Surely it couldn't be
fear?
Nurse Biscuit
spoke up. 'Tom, surely you remember Miss Rosewater? She's been here
every day while you've been unconscious.'
The suspicion
vanished from Tom's face but his eyes bored into hers, as if
looking for a clue.
'It's great to
see you alive again, Tom,' said Petra. She wanted to touch him but
she didn't dare.
'Leave us
alone please, Eve,' he said and then he grinned in his old familiar
way. 'I'll be all right with Miss Rosewater, I promise.'
The smile
vanished as soon as the nurse did. Petra cleared her throat
nervously. He leaned forward suddenly and grabbed her hand.
'Are you
really a friend of mine?' he hissed.
His grasp was
painful but she didn't want to break it. 'I like to think so,' she
said. 'Why are you behaving like this? If it's a joke it's in poor
taste, Tom. I've been really worried about you. So has everyone at
the office.'
'Aha.' He
relaxed his grip. 'So you work for me, then?'
'I'm your
Deputy Executive Officer, for God's sake. Why are you asking me
these things?'
'Just one more
question. This is important, believe me. Are we, or have we ever
been, er,
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