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This excerpt is a delicious favourite from The Companion Contract. The full novel will be on offer via amazon in its e-version from midnight this Tuesday 22nd March PST and 8am 23rd March GMT for 1.week. Following this car-crash social encounter with his unpleasant work colleagues, our dysfunctional anti-romantic social disaster R. Avery makes THE decision that will affect the rest of his life and Jennifer's... Enjoy!

A Crack on the Head & a Shovel of Shit -

Rob Avery experienced an uncharacteristic thrill. The buzz was not because he was going out for the evening, nor because he would have a proper non-microwave meal, but… well he wasn’t quite sure. Maybe the fizzing was because he had managed to make something happen or perhaps it was more than that. Rob had got two people to do something they clearly did not want to do and would probably regret until the evening was over and he didn’t care. On Saturday Rob would go to the hair salon and he would have something new to talk to Ricki about. Happy, Rob went back to his work and stayed at his desk until it was time to make his way to the Baelmer’s fashionable out-of-town residence.

Moor Farm Mews was a little horseshoe of smart barn conversions. The old farmhouse was far enough away for the ongoing extensive renovations not to disturb the new residents. The farmhouse had become vacant along with the barns when the tenant farmer had hung himself due to debt. The Baelmers inhabited the end house. In keeping with the tasteful style of the development, their car-parking spaces featured authentic cobblestones. Rob Avery parked his executive silver car with-integral-bumpers-and-air-conditioning next to the other executive cars in silver, black or red. Lyn Farch had a low red sports affair that he had to lever his wife’s ample arse out of from the inside.

Cliff Hardy, who was keen to show off his new girlfriend, greeted Rob enthusiastically at the door. Although Cliff’s figures were down and he had lost two major clients within a fortnight, and his ex-wife was spreading unpleasant private and personal truths about him, and one of the daughters that Cliff could no longer be bothered to visit was bulimic, he was flying high on his own ego, because he was in the heady position that night of being in possession of the youngest blondest woman at the gathering. OK, Cliff’s girlfriend wasn’t really blonde and she wasn’t that young but everything was relative. Cliff introduced his new mate as ‘Biny’. No one bothered to ask what that was short for.

Forewarned was forearmed, and everyone behaved pleasantly when Rob arrived. They treated him as if he were always intended to be a guest. Lyn’s wife Jan said it was nice to see Rob again and she hoped he was getting out socially now, as if it had been one year rather than six since the divorce. But then, Jan said very little else for the rest of the evening, as she’d been socially stung after confiding under the influence of too much sherry to Mrs Gemmel-Smith that if it wasn’t for the children, she would have left Mr Farch long ago. Jan Farch had also let it slip that she overcame other marital shortcomings by keeping a vibrator under the bed. The vibrator story caused great amusement among Mrs. Gemmel-Smith’s circle of designer acquaintances, not the fact of it, but the naivety of admitting it. Who, conjectured Mrs Gemmel-Smith privately, had not imagined their idiotic spouse dead under a bus? Then they/she’d be free to spend his money and take a satisfying lover? But to admit it, oh dear, how foolish!

Viggo Gemmel-Smith was presiding over the fireplace with his well-preserved and perfectly turned-out wife Suzannah. Mrs G-S perched on the edge of the chaise near to her husband’s left knee. Everyone else was arranged decoratively, appropriately and carefully. Rob on the other hand, knocked Suzannah’s drink over the instant he sat down. As he leant over to try to rescue the drink Rob spilt his own glass of beer and the sticky fluid went down his right trouser leg. Suzannah flinched and gasped, before managing to contain herself and restore to her chiselled features to the expression least likely to lead to further wrinkles. As the honey-brown sherry and some of the excess beer slopped onto Suzannah’s camel coloured, understated but obviously expensive and stylish, silk trouser suit, she clenched. Rob apologised profusely, though strangely he felt no embarrassment. Making matters worse, Rob jabbed at the camel trouser suit with a grubby handkerchief. Some of the women said, ‘Oh dear’ but were secretly amused. Cliff Hardy, who thought everything funny, laughed loudly and inappropriately, as did the squeaking Biny. The other partners made various helpful suggestions but didn’t move from their respective positions.

As Suzannah was trying to fend off the Avery handkerchief, Mary Baelmer, as if by magic, flew in from the kitchen two rooms away trailing gaudy gossamer chiffon. Breathlessly Mrs. Baelmer exclaimed that it was nothing and not to worry. The harassed kitchen help who was carrying a cloth, some warm soapy water and a can of Stain Star closely followed her. Liz Jameson offered her husband Andy’s help in the matter. Mary knew that Liz would never have been so disorganised as to allow such a situation to occur in her own well-appointed home with all the senior property partners present. Firmly but politely, Mary declined any offers, much to Andy Jameson’s relief. Having set the kitchen girl to work trying to save the antique rug, Mary gave her husband precise instructions on showing everyone through to the dining room. The hostess threw Suzannah a look of the deepest sympathy as if the woman’s entire family had just been devastated by plague and pestilence. The look was returned by one of sophisticated resignation and the studied wave of a bony hand. Suzannah drawled,
“It’s nothing Mary, really. Fortunately, it’s just an old thing I threw on this evening.”
She had in fact spent three hours trying outfits on in Harvey Nick’s. Never mind, she rationalised, it was a good excuse to go and buy something else. And anyway, the opportunity to be a martyr and insult Mary’s gathering by insinuating that effort on her part was not required was too much for Suzannah Gemmel-Smith to resist.

On the way through to the dining area, Rob was musing that each room seemed just to be a wide corridor masquerading as a room, despite the architect’s best efforts and a bit of open plan cleverness here and there, when he smashed his head against the stone lintel of a low doorway. Rob decided, for good and all, that the best creatures to inhabit barns were cattle and pigs. The impact made a sickening dull crack, a cross between a click and a thud; bone hitting stone, with only the merest amount of skin and flesh to deaden the sound. Most of the other men were short enough to avoid the disaster and Viggo, although as tall as Rob, was far too aware of himself and his surroundings to have done anything so clownish.

The procession continued with Rob tottering slightly, one hand pressed to his head to prevent his brains spilling out and the other to the wall to keep his balance. By the time he was seated on a corner of the now lop-sided table arrangement, Rob had a huge, shiny greyish-blue egg appearing on his forehead and his vision was impaired.

Jeff and his wife sat at each end of the rectangular, inlaid-rosewood dining table. It would have been perfectly balanced if it hadn’t been for the extra, unexpected, undesirable guest. On Mary’s right sat Senior Managing Partner Viggo Gemmel-Smith, next to him Suzannah, then Cliff and Biny. On her left were Lyn Farch, his wife Jane, poor Andy Jameson and, as far away from Viggo as possible, Liz. Viggo made a point of keeping a distance from Liz at social functions. Whilst his flirting was necessary at work, Mrs. Gemmel-Smith would never tolerate it socially, whatever the business rational. To have one’s husband openly flirting with a woman who thought a frilly jade satin blouse with a brown ‘A’ line skirt and buckle shoes were suitable evening attire would be too, too humiliating for Suzannah.

Rob was squashed onto the corner by Jeff’s right elbow with Liz Jameson on his right. It may have been his unusual diagonal position with the table corner in his diaphragm, or the unpleasant shock occasioned by Julia’s reactions or heightened sensitivity caused by his unconventional day or maybe it was the cracking blow to the temple, but whatever it was, Rob felt he had never seen his colleagues as clearly as he saw them right then.

He surveyed Gemmel-Smith with his ridiculous lank floppy hair. Maybe Gemmel-Smith thought his hairstyle, boyish. The guy certainly thought he was something to be admired physically. That was the odd thing about some men, thought Rob, they could go flabby round the jowls, get a paunch and a saggy arse and still think themselves no end of a devil. A woman in the same condition probably wouldn’t leave the house without surgery. From perhaps the age of eighteen to just before his nineteenth birthday, Gemmel-Smith would have been what a lot of college girls thought was attractive. Youthful good looks, coupled with confidence should be enough to keep him going the rest of his life. The Gemmel-Smiths of this world never actually see in the mirror what other people saw. Gemmel-Smith had never been much of a solicitor but he had an arrogance that convinced others that he knew more than he did. The cleverest thing Gemmel-Smith had ever done, as far as Rob could judge, was to be made managing partner so that his expected income targets were reduced, and then employ a partnership manager. The man was an appalling snob and Rob knew that if he hadn’t been responsible for a significant proportion of the firm’s wealth the pompous twit wouldn’t have given Rob the time of day.

Cliff just lived in another world with an unreality postcode. Rob could almost forgive the man his idiocy. But then, did he then have to flaunt his latest saggy-titted slattern at every opportunity. Even Rob, who could sympathise, was sick to death of the sexual innuendo and broad unsubtle hints at unbelievable nights of steamy exhausting erotic athleticism that would have killed off a twenty-year-old.

Liz would have been OK if she hadn’t had to cultivate a cast iron demeanour to keep her place among the men. Liz had bought her husband, Andy, at a second hand, second-rate husband auction and got him to impregnate her just before her eggs dried up but it wasn’t truly what she’d wanted. What Liz craved and needed was a real man, and there seemed to be none around. Liz was jealous of Cliff, even if she didn’t fully believe his ludicrous sexual claims. She was also keenly aware that if she had performed as poorly as Cliff had financially, there would be difficult questions being asked at board meetings by now, and she resented that. If she wanted poor Andy to do anything remotely passionate or energetic in the bedroom, Liz would have to send him a letter of explanation and written permission before she could expect action.

Jeff was harmless enough, if you could excuse greed and lasciviousness and his appalling attitude to the junior staff as being an after-effect of his own insecurity at not actually having a law degree. Jeff had the ability to string work out longer than any solicitor Rob knew, and that was no mean achievement. Jeff lived for his retirement. Rob wondered at what age you started doing that, living for the day when you did not have to get out of bed. Rob had met few people who had so little notion of the existence of others than Jeff Baelmer. On the day that Jeff’s secretary of twenty-five years retired he went out of the office without uttering so much as goodbye. Jeff had simply left an envelope on his desk with a cheque in it for the secretary to pick up after she had finished his letters. Perhaps his head had been already too full of the new young secretary that would be his to play with for the couple of remaining years he was at Dunston & Brough. The poor discarded secretary had cried for three hours, whilst clicking out the last few letters of her working life.

Under different circumstances, Lyn could have been a genuinely nasty piece of work. As it was Lyn’s financial success really did make up, in his mind, for his short legs and red cheeks. He felt big inside. All Lyn Farch had to do to augment his financial triumphs each day was to bully the junior staff at work, and his wife at home, and drive a very expensive car (with a raised driver’s seat). Lyn had produced two sons who looked as if they might reach average height, one of them smoked, drank, got into trouble at school, spent his father’s money, was rude and arrogant and regularly smashed up the family car. What more could a real father ask for?

Biny interrupted Rob’s reveries, asking if the swelling was painful and then tittering inanely, the kind of tin-foil titter that would make you want to slit her throat after half an hour. Biny dug Cliff in the ribs. Mary, who then decided that it was an awful omission of hers not to have offered some assistance to Rob Avery, suggested a cold compress. Everyone could see that it was too late for that, and they really wanted to get on with their salmon mousse.

The evening didn’t show any encouraging signs of thawing out. Unbeknownst to Rob, he was often how the ice was broken. As all the partners had their individual superiority complexes, Rob Avery was usually the butt of their jokes and sarcastic comments. Now they would have to think of something else to lampoon. Rob felt more than a little light-headed. The blow and the alcohol on an empty stomach made him feel both strangely lucid and lacking in inhibitions. In an odd way, he was enjoying the evening. Not caring what impression you made, was quite liberating. And he didn’t care, certainly not about the people sitting round the inlaid rosewood table.

For want of another topic, Lyn Farch decided to kick off the evening with an account of his eldest son’s latest smash. It had been a new car bought for Mrs Farch that the boy, Lance, had taken without permission. Jan Farch murmured weakly that her son could have been killed, but the assembled company, mindful that that was not the point of the story ignored her. Lyn grew animated and loquacious as he described the excessive speed, the loss of control, the angle of the crash, the conversation with the police sergeant (who happened to belong to the same branch of the Masons as himself). The cost of repairs was also impressively high and if anyone cared to drive down the particular road in question, the smashed bollards and hole in the fence could still be observed; such was the laxity of council workmen. Jeff Baelmer was almost at the ready with the jovial ‘boys will be boys’ response, which was expected, but just at the wrong moment he thrust a generous fork full of mousse in his mouth completely messing up his timing.
From Jeff’s elbow Rob Avery enunciated slowly, clearly, maybe even a little loudly, “Perhaps the boy is mentally ill.”
Jeff Baelmer started to choke on the salmon, Biny giggled, Jan bit her lip and Suzannah looked in exasperation at her husband. It was up to Viggo to save the situation, but while he was trying to think of something that would redeem Lyn, Rob continued helpfully, “No seriously! I was listening to Radio Four in the car the other day and there was a fascinating item on about a newly diagnosed form of mental illness that affects boys. It’s a kind of extreme version of an inferiority complex that is manifested in arrogant and mindless behaviour. If I remember correctly, it can often be associated with failure to establish appropriate boundaries in the home, lack of achievement at school or even, small genitals.” Rob paused. “I must say, I’m not a big fan of what Emma used to call ‘mucked about food’ but this salmon mousse is alright.”
Belatedly Jeff began his ‘boys will be boys’ talk, but the comments sounded hollow. Lyn’s eyes were pinpricks in his doughy face.
Suzannah, who was sitting opposite Lyn said, “They talk a lot of nonsense on these lefty programmes. Young people aren’t allowed good healthy fun these days.”
But it was all too little too late. People started praising Mary on the food and the improvements to the house, then the conversations disintegrated into twos and awkward threes.

The quail was unacceptably overcooked due to Mary’s lapse in concentration but appetites were flagging anyway. Rob allowed himself free reign with the wine even though he was driving home. There was a pleasant zinging, whizzing sensation in his head now and if he raised his eyebrows, he got a sharp pain across his temple that made him feel alive. With a half-chewed piece of the disastrous quail’s breast in his mouth, Rob leaned over Liz Jameson and said, in an audible stage whisper, “The colour of that blouse is very fetching. It suits you. I often think that it’s amazing how… different a woman can look in her evening clothes.” Rob sucked quail juice enthusiastically from his lips.
Liz said, ‘thank you,’ and flashed a triumphant grin around the table. As the receiver of the only overt personal compliment of the evening so far, she was miles ahead in brownie points over all the other women. Liz gave poor Andy a withering sneer and then smiled warmly at the talented commercial property solicitor to her left who worked so hard and contributed so much to the coffers of Dunston & Brough.
Viggo coughed but failed to draw Liz’s otherwise engaged attentions so he was not able to execute a surreptitious wink. As a compliment had been made, and Jeff was the host, he was under an absolute duty to second it so he added, after noisily clearing further food particles from his puffy mouth, “Yes, yes Liz it really is very fetching.”
And whether it was or not was irrelevant. In fact, whether the blouse made Liz resemble an oversized pantomime pixie could not have mattered less, she had the adulation, the flattery and no one else did. Any attempt now to admire the other women would appear as afterthoughts. Suzannah was almost ill with suppressed vitriol. Mary, mindful of Suzannah’s insult earlier in the evening, and secure in the knowledge that Rob Avery had no taste whatsoever, was pleased by Suzannah’s emotional injury.
Recovering slightly, Suzannah looked directly at the vivid green of Liz’s blouse, and said in a rather sharp voice, “I must admit, I do think soft colours add a certain grace to a classic evening outfit.”
“Yes,” agreed Rob innocently, “According to an article I read at the barbers, when the skin is ageing, the more mature woman is wise not to risk strong colours, that’s why you see so many of them in beige.”
Even the more controlled guests found themselves glancing at Suzannah’s camel-beige outfit before they realised what they were doing. Mary and Jan and Liz could have kissed Rob. Biny might have, if she had understood. Viggo, who was caught between a rock and a hard place, knew he was in for a roasting when he got home.

The evening was turning out rather well Rob thought.

“How are you getting on with Jemma?” Rob directed this startling question at his host.
“Fine, fine,” Jeff responded amiably but in a tone he hoped would discourage that line of enquiry.
“We were very sorry to lose Penny,” said Mary. Mary had been close to Jeff’s old secretary and between them, the two women had managed to get Jeff to and from work on time for the last twenty-five years, while making sure he was wearing the right clothes and signing the correct documents. Jeff had assured his wife that the replacement was very similar to Penny, although Mary could never get hold of the new secretary when she rang her husband at work.
“Dot says she can’t type, doesn’t know anything about property law and can’t communicate intelligently with clients,” Rob sympathised.
Jeff smiled nervously at Mary who was listening with every fibre of her being.
“Mind you,” continued Rob, “Seeing as she was only an office junior a year ago I suppose you can’t expect too much. I thought you might have taken that applicant from Mowbers. She seemed very experienced and competent and had an excellent CV and references. Didn’t you say that the Mowbers’ girl had great communication skills Cliff?”
Cliff was caught on the hop, but this time Viggo had his wits about him and interjected, “Sometimes it really is better to train staff to do things just the way you want them done. It can save a lot of hassle in the long run.”
But it was a badly placed defence, as everyone knew there wasn’t going to be a long run in this scenario. However, Jeff and Lyn and Cliff nodded sagely, mumbling their approval of this helpful point of view, but they were relieved when the kitchen help appeared to clear away the still quail-laden plates.

Over the meat course Rob renewed his flirting with Liz. It was quite enjoyable. Not because he fancied her, but he just couldn’t remember the last time he’d flirted with anyone socially. You couldn’t really call what he did with Shaz, flirting. This evening his flirtation was immoderate, bold. Viggo experienced an uncharacteristic anxiety. Cliff felt inexplicably overshadowed. When he could stand it no more, Cliff squeezed Biny’s thigh under the table a trifle too hard in order to get her to perform more satisfactorily. After what he’d given up for a woman with zero personality, no brains and no qualifications, Cliff wasn’t going to be sexually eclipsed by the partnership-saddo and the battle-axe. Biny squealed and turned a hurt kitten face towards Cliff. The pressure on her upper leg would be enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Sweetheart, you’re being a bit rough,” she whined.
“I thought that’s how you preferred it, he he he he.” Cliff addressed his remarks to the assembled gathering. Biny finally got the message and moved her chair closer to Cliff’s in order to do a bit of draping. The problem was that Rob and Liz hadn’t noticed because at that point Rob was reaching the climax of a scandalously vulgar joke that Ricki had once told him. Liz was spluttering into her plate. Rob and Liz suddenly roared with laughter that was not shared by anyone else around the table. A couple of pieces of half chewed red meat flew from Liz’s mouth across the table towards Cliff’s plate.
“Now, now you two share the joke,” said Mary, who was beginning to think Rob Avery must have had some sort of a nervous breakdown.
“Ooooh I couldn’t. I couldn’t possibly. It was just terrible. Really Rob I am shocked, shocked,” spluttered Liz doing a good impression of a convent schoolgirl who has just accidentally opened a copy of the Karma Sutra in place of her Latin textbook.
Cliff and Biny weren’t just eclipsed they were obliterated.
“Now that’s not very polite is it, whispering at dinner,” whined Biny, who was beginning to get irritated by the scruffy lumpy headed man who was unsettling her meal ticket.
Rob Avery turned to Biny as if seeing her for the first time and let his gaze fall on the naked scraggy area commonly described as a chest. Biny wore a very low cut shimmery red dress displaying jutting angular shoulders, each individual bone of her upper rib cage, sunken clavicles and a shadow each side where thin strips of breast hung down. Biny had grown up believing that thinness equalled sexy and blonde was the same as beauty. As she was both thin and blonde, Biny had spent most of her adult life with the majority of her body on display, never questioning or doubting her allure. Biny tanned every week and had a very strict dress code, which was to wear whatever was in fashion. One would have said she had a hide rather than skin. As if a thought had suddenly come to him Rob blurted out, “One of my new clients is a re-constructive plastic surgeon.”
The cavernous silence, which followed, was broken eventually by Biny saying in a high voice, “Aaaand?”
“Well,” said Rob hesitantly as if surprised by the intensely focused interest in what he had to say, “It’s just interesting. The guy, this new client, can build things up, you know plump them back out,” he said looking at her vacant chest. “He can round things off,” he said glancing at her bony shoulders. “He can smooth things out”, he said looking at her deep crow’s feet. “Add a few curves etc.” He paused, then looked down at his plate, prodding the red meat experimentally with the tip of his silver knife. “I just think it’s rather clever and not as expensive as you might think. Of course, some people,” here he gazed appreciatively at Liz, “are curvy enough as it is.”
Liz rocked on ample hips and almost crowed with delight.

Mary was wondering whether to pretend that there was no pudding or cheese board or liqueurs or even to feign a migraine. It was hard to believe she was presiding over such an utterly atrocious evening. What might be said if people stayed much longer under her roof? She began to dread people staying longer. Jeff was dreading people leaving. Viggo was calculating whether he should risk an overt sexual innuendo to Liz and trust that Suzannah would understand that it was a tactical business emergency. Lyn wished he’d bought the Porsche rather than being persuaded by Mrs Farch to settle for the Audi. Liz decided that if Andy didn’t perform satisfactorily that night she was going to invest in a cattle prod. As for Cliff, he imagined, for the first time since leaving his family for Biny, his wife’s swaying hips. He thought sentimentally of Mrs Hardy’s plump, round, womanly breasts and realised that he might never see them again. Cliff remembered how he had liked to place his balding pate between Mrs Hardy’s breasts and make a cosy threesome.

Rob studied the figures around the table. Without knowing where the notion sprang from, he didn’t want to be in their company anymore, not for a second longer. He spent precious waking hours with them, now Rob wanted to leave. It would have been nice to go home to a family, but failing that he would put up with his own company one more time. With no concern for etiquette Rob stood up, nearly tipping over his chair and announced that he had to go. He had not realised how the time had flown. No one proposed a reason for Rob to stay. Suzannah hacked at her food as Rob almost fell onto the table in his eagerness to get to the door. Once he attained a standing position, Rob thanked the startled but relieved Mary for her generous hospitality, edged closely behind Liz’s chair and wished them all a good evening and he’d see them Monday bright and early.

Surprisingly the evening didn’t take a sudden turn for the better when Robert Avery made his exit. Each party secretly wished they too could run away but here were three more courses to survive.

Backing out of the drive Rob clipped Lyn’s wing mirror: what the hell. On the way out, Rob scraped his door against the gatepost. He didn’t care. Dizzy from the bizarre evening, and drink, and mild concussion Rob weaved home with his chin practically on his executive steering wheel along the country lanes in the general direction of town and away from Damascus. As he pulled into the garage assigned to his apartment, Rob could not decide whether he felt intensely euphoric or deeply mind numbingly depressed. Though he saw them all for what they were he also saw himself, lit from behind and in front, in perfect focus. He, Robert Avery was one of them and no one, bar his bank manager, would give a shovel of shit whether he lived or died.