The Man Who Flew Too Much Read online

Lawrence Fearnsdale was one of the company’s big bosses and he was generally regarded as the nicest and most personal, except on days when he was about to set off on a business trip. On those days no one wanted to be near him, even the other bosses.

  “Welcome to my office, Fennel,” he said to his secretary when she arrived.

  She almost walked into him, since she was still intent on getting away from Bennet, or anyone else. Not only had Bennet caught her off guard, she had forgotten to prepare herself to be around her boss on one of his flying days. As long as Fearnsdale was still in the building, she could not relax.

  “I have a very busy day,” he continued, ignoring whatever she was worrying about. “I can’t afford to wait for you to decide to work. I hope you haven’t been wasting time gossiping with the other secretaries again?”

  “I have been to the copy room,” she said with her tone missing the expected reverence.

  “And chatting with the single men. I saw you fraternising. Yes, that’s right, I saw you. I am able to go beyond the walls of my office. I am allowed to venture out my door. Bennet is his name, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what his name is.”

  “It’s Bennet. I just told you. I believe he’s in phone sales, or some such thing. I’m surprised he’s still with the firm, actually, since I believe cold-call sales are easier if you have personality. I started in phone sales, did you know? And as you can see, I have a healthy, rambunctious personality.”

  She was not sure if he was joking, and she knew not to quiz him on such subjects. A polite quiet almost-laugh under her breath was her best option, in case he was trying to be funny, and it covered her if he was not.

  “You remember I have a busy day?” he asked as he removed his glasses and inspected them for spots, as he would do when he became irritated. “I have to be at the airport by two in the afternoon, and I need both reports finished and proofed and copied. Or would you like me to fly off without them? Would you prefer me to read the newspaper to my clients?”

  “I have been copying them. That’s where I’ve been, copying them all.”

  “You know how I dislike flying.”

  “They are all ready for your final check.”

  “You do know that, Fennel? Airplanes have a certain scent, a certain ambience, that elicits fear in some people. Some of those people are successful businessmen, who, as part of their job, are expected to regularly go about to different cities, and to do that, they must fly to get there. It is a perfectly reasonable reaction, given the dangers of aviation, and lists of historic air flight failure. And they are indeed long lists.”

  “He was only asking me about the weather. I did not offer my opinion, since the weather does not affect my day-to-day work.”

  “Who was asking you?”

  She pretended that she needed to think of his name, and then said, “Bennet.”

  “How does his question not apply to your work? Weather plays a major importance in the odds of aircraft survival. Does this Bennet person have a better grasp on your job than you do? Should I hire him to help my flying?”

  “Yes, indeed, the weather is important, sorry. I should have realised.”

  “For your information, I have been keeping tabs on the weather for the past week now, and it shall be sunny in both cities, for my departure and destination.”

  “This is good news.”

  “Perhaps, I don’t think you should mind my saying, should Bennet inquire again as to our current atmospheric conditions, you should entertain him with an opinion. You are not getting younger, my dear Fennel.”

  At first what he said did not register, and when it did she was so shocked that she immediately felt her cheeks burn.

  “Mr Fearnsdale, you know I prefer not discussing my personal life.”

  “Seriously, Fennel, all I know about you is you share your home with a multitude of cats. What is the count now? Twelve, is it?”

  “There is nothing wrong with sharing your life with adorable creatures. And it’s fifteen.”

  “One’s enough for me, and we only have that one creature because Ann Fearnsdale demands it. No matter where I go, it’s always trying to trip me up. You’d think it is deliberately trying to throw its little furry body in front of my feet so I fall down, especially down the stairs. Do you think that’s possible, Fennel? Is it out to get me? Does that creature, somewhere buried under all that fur, in its tiny cat brain, sense my distaste for its life and tries to murder me? Murder by cat, what’s that called? Caticide, is it?”

  “Of course not, sir. Your cat is just looking for attention, for a pat or something. It wouldn’t have any thought of trying to hurt you.”

  She did not add what she wished she could:

  But my cats would.