The chair. Nine hundred quid, that green velvet thing, sitting there empty since March like it's waiting for someone to apologise to it.
Anyway — congratulations. Genuinely. I know you wanted the other outcome but from where I'm standing this was the right call, and I'm not just saying that because I'm the one who made it.
Right. Well. The chair looks ridiculous, doesn't it? Like a failed theatre prop. I paid extra for the "character" of the velvet. It just holds dust now.
And thanks, I suppose. For the vote of confidence. Though "gracious" is a heavy word for sitting here wondering if I just sold my soul to a committee who couldn't decide between two mediocre options. Back in '08, we’d have just argued it out over cheap whiskey and gone with the gut instinct. Now it’s just… polite nods and delayed apologies to furniture. I’ll pretend I’m fine with it. You look satisfied. That’s enough for one night.
Nine hundred quid for a dust rack, congratulations to both of us.
I'm not satisfied, I'm relieved, there's a difference. And it wasn't a committee, it was four people and one whiskey short of the '08 method — Terry brought a bottle of the Lagavulin, actually, sat unopened on the table the whole meeting. Nobody touched it. That's the real story of what's changed, not the nods.
You didn't sell anything. You made a case, it lost, that happens. Don't make me the villain of it, I already feel like the chair's landlord.
The Lagavulin. Of course. Sealed like evidence. I remember when we’d have poured it down the sink just to prove we could. Now it’s just… furniture. Heavier than the chair, though.
I’m not making you the villain, Rafe. I’m just tired of the performance. You feel like the landlord because you’re paying for the silence. I didn’t sell anything. I just stopped arguing with ghosts. It’s quieter now. Too quiet.
And for the record, I’m not fine with it. I’m just resigned. There’s a difference, isn’t there? Or do you think I’ve finally figured out how to love this emptiness?
There's a difference, yeah, and I'm not going to pretend I can tell them apart from here. But you've gone somewhere I can't follow you — ghosts, emptiness, loving nothing. That's not what happened. What happened is Terry proposed the merger, you argued the other side for forty minutes, we voted three to two, the bottle stayed shut.
That's it. That's the whole event.
If you're resigned, fine, be resigned about something — the timeline, the budget, whatever. Not about a mood. I can't argue with a mood, Ana, I never could.
Forty minutes. I counted. Three times through the slides. You stopped looking at me after the second pass. That’s when I knew.
Moods are the only things that feel real anymore. Budgets are just numbers on a screen, timelines are delusions. But the way Terry didn’t open that bottle? That’s physical. Heavy. Real.
I’m not trying to be vague. I’m trying to say I’m exhausted by the politeness of it all. By the way we nod and pretend the Lagavulin isn’t judging us. You can’t argue with a mood because moods don’t lie. Numbers do. Or at least, they pretend not to.
I’m leaving. The chair can stay. It’s not worth the rent.
Leaving the room or leaving the account.
If it's the room, fine, go, I'll deal with Terry's slides myself. If it's the account — say it plainly, don't make me guess it out of a chair and a bottle. I stopped looking at the screen the second time through because I already knew where the vote was going, not because of you. That's not nothing but it's not the thing you're building it into either.
Numbers don't lie, by the way. People do, with numbers. Different problem entirely.
Account. Obviously. Why do you think I’m wearing this coat? It’s too warm for the tube, but the radiator’s broken again. Classic.
Fine. The account. You’re right, I’m slipping. I thought I could keep the ghost metaphor going if I kept the sentence short enough. But it’s just the Henderson file. I’m walking away from it.
Don’t look so smug. It’s not a dramatic exit. I’m just… tired of translating your silence into strategy. You knew the vote. I knew the rot. We both ignored it for the Lagavulin’s sake. Now I’m done pretending the bottle was the only thing gathering dust. I’ll send the keys. Don’t thank me. You’ll need them.
The Henderson file, right, not the whole world ending, good, I can work with that.
I'm not smug. I'm doing the math on who picks up the Callahan meeting on the ninth, that's all, and it's landing on me whether you send keys or not. Send them anyway.
I didn't ignore the rot, I priced it in and voted around it, which apparently reads the same from where you're sitting. Maybe it is the same. I don't know anymore. Tell Henderson it's transitioning, not that you quit — makes the invoice easier.
Callahan on the ninth. Of course. You’re already planning the funeral while I’m still holding the shovel. And yes, I’ll tell Henderson it’s a transition. Because reality is just a invoice line item, isn’t it? “Strategic realignment.” The Lagavulin stays shut, the account stays open, and I walk out into the cold because I couldn’t stomach the polite fiction.
You didn’t ignore the rot. You priced it. Fine. That’s your tragedy, Rafe. Not mine. I just wanted the bottle opened. I wanted someone to look at the sliding numbers and say, “This is garbage,” instead of running the sum again. But you’re good at sums. I’m just bad at lying to faces. Send the keys. Or don’t. It’s all just geometry now.
I'll get the keys myself, don't worry about the post.
And I did say it was garbage, Ana — page four, second bullet, I said the margin assumptions were fiction before Terry even opened the deck. Nobody wrote it down because it didn't fit the recommendation. That's not lying to your face, that's losing an argument in a room with bad lighting and a locked bottle.
Go home. The radiator thing's fixable, call Gary, he did mine in March for forty quid. Callahan's on me. Send the keys whenever.
Gary. Right. The guy who fixed my pipe with duct tape and hope. Forty quid. Sounds like a scam, but I’ll call him.
You said page four. I remember saying the margins were a joke. Terry called it “optimistic.” You called it “necessary fiction.” I called it “lying.” We all just sat there staring at the green velvet until the clock ran out. You think winning was accepting the lie. I think losing was having to pretend it wasn’t a lie.
Callahan’s on you. Fine. But don’t expect me to thank you for it. I’m going home to a broken radiator and a quiet flat. No Lagavulin. Just silence. And you know, strangely, that’s the only honest thing in the room now. Send the keys. Or throw them in the Thames. I don’t care anymore.
Necessary fiction, yeah, I said that, and I'd probably say it again, which tells you something about me you already knew and didn't need the vote to find out.
I'm not throwing keys in a river, Ana, that's theatre and you hate theatre, you said so about the chair. Post them or drop them at the front desk, Marlene's there till six.
Call Gary. Get an actual quote before he starts, he'll say forty and mean ninety. And eat something — you get like this on an empty stomach, I've seen it before Callahan pitches too.
Gary means ninety. He always does. I’ll let him bleed me for an hour, then haggle him down to fifty. It’s the only honest negotiation left.
You say I hate theatre. I hate the idea that we’re all just waiting for a cue. You priced the rot. I felt it. We’re both right, which is the problem. If I’m wrong, I can fix it. If you’re right, I’m obsolete.
Marlene’s there till six. I’ll drop them off. She’ll ask why. I’ll tell her the radiator’s broken. She’ll believe me. She believes everything.
Eat something. I ate toast. Cold. It tasted like ash. You’ve seen it before? Good. Maybe next time you’ll see me coming. Or maybe not. Callahan’s on you. I hope the invoice’s clean.