David looked at me without smiling. He said, ‘I know you live somewhat in an ivory tower, Alfred, but even you must be aware what a P45 is? You need it for the Inland Revenue and social security people when your employment is terminated by your employer-in this case, us.’

I stared at him. David put down the first piece of paper and picked up the second. He explained that it was a letter, drafted in my name, to Fitzharris & Price. It was a request for a meeting to discuss the Yemen salmon project in the near future. The tone of the letter was apologetic and wheedling, explaining my delay in replying was due to pressure of work and expressing my hope that the opportunity to work together was still there. After I finished reading it I found I was trembling, but whether with annoyance or alarm, I was not sure.

David picked up the P45 again and took back the letter to Fitzharris & Price. He held them up in front of me and explained in a neutral tone of voice, ‘Dr Jones, you can leave the office with your P45 or you can take away this letter and sign it and get it sent by messenger round to Fitzharris & Price. Personally, I am wholly indifferent which you choose to do, but I believe Fitzharris & Price has been told you are the man to talk to, otherwise I have to say I would not have given you the luxury of this choice.’

I looked around me for a chair. I saw one on my left and asked if I could sit down.

David looked at his watch and told me he had an appointment with the minister in half an hour. He said, ‘The minister will be asking me for a progress report on this project. What am I going to be able to tell him?’

I swallowed several times. My legs were trembling. I pulled the chair across, sat in it and said, ‘David, this is wholly unreasonable-’

He interrupted me. ‘Which piece of paper are you going to leave this office with?’

I could not speak. This Nazi behaviour shocked me to the core. I pointed to the letter to Fitzharris & Price.

‘Then sign it now.’

‘May I have a moment to read it?’ I asked.

‘No.’

For a moment I almost lost control. I wanted to crumple the letter up and fling it in David Sugden’s face, but instead I found myself reaching inside my jacket for my fountain pen, and then I pulled the hateful rectangle of paper towards me and signed it.

David immediately took it from me and told me he would send it by messenger himself. He said he had cancelled all my diary appointments by email for the next month. I had one priority, and one priority only, if I wanted to keep my job. I had to meet Harriet Chetwode-Talbot, persuade her that the National Centre for Fisheries Excellence was the only organisation that had any chance of coming up with a proposal for her salmon project, and I had to persuade her that I was the right man for that job.

I nodded. David stood up. He looked for a moment as if he was going to say something by way of apology or explanation. Then he checked his watch again and said, ‘I mustn’t keep the minister waiting.’

I left without saying anything further, I hope with some dignity.

Now, as I record these unpleasant events, I reflect that it would have been nice if Mary had been at home tonight. Sometimes one wants to talk things over with one’s partner. Mary doesn’t like long phone calls. She says phone calls are for information. The trouble is, she isn’t often at home to have the conversations that she doesn’t feel we should have on the phone. But I’m so proud of the way she is getting on.

I hope she will be proud of me when I tell her of the dignified way I stood up to David Sugden’s bully-boy tactics.

15 June

I am writing this in the office.

Mary comes home tonight. I find I have been missing her. There is nothing to eat in the entire house. I must remember to call in at Marks & Spencer on the way home. I will buy some ready-to-eat meals. I must remember to get a new pair of pyjamas, as the elastic has gone in my present (Tesco) pair. I have kept a note of the mean time between failure (MTBF) of various things like socks-hole in the heel; pyjamas-elastic cord failure. I am afraid that I can detect a clear downward trend, almost a planned obsolescence, in some of these products. I am hoping Marks & Spencer will be more reliable.

No bowel movement this morning. A sure sign of stress. I did go for a run, however, and burned off some of the anger that has been churning inside me like bile.

This morning I received a phone call. Sally buzzed through to me and said there was a Harriet Someone on the line from Fitzharris & Price, and would I take the call? For a moment, glorious rebellion: I so nearly said, ‘No, tell her I’m busy.’ But instead I told Sally to put the call through-a girl’s voice with what I would call a cut-glass accent asked if she was speaking to Dr Jones.

She was very polite. She apologised for disturbing me, told me she understood I had been very busy with some major projects and said she would not have disturbed me at present except that her client was being very pressing. Then she asked if I recalled her original letter about introducing salmon to the Yemen?

I made an assenting sound at the back of my throat. I did not trust myself to speak. She took this to mean yes and asked when we could meet. For a moment I was tempted to shout, ‘Never!’ but instead I found myself agreeing to go and visit her at her office in St James’s Street the following morning.

‘Will your client be there?’ I asked.

‘No, he is in the Yemen. But he is anxious to meet you on one of his future trips over here. That is, if you agree to take this any further after our meeting tomorrow.’ We agreed on a time to meet at her office in St James’s Street.

Later

Mary has just come home. She arrived at Heathrow this morning about seven and went straight to her office, and of course she has overdone it. She looked at the Marks & Spencer Italian Selection I had purchased and said, ‘I’m sorry, Alfred, I’ve just got no appetite.’

Naturally I didn’t want to bore her with my problems when she was so exhausted. However, she revived over a glass of wine and talked for a while about US banking regulations. Most interesting. She has gone to bed now, and so will I in a moment.

It would have been nice if we could have talked a bit about my problems at work, but I must not be self-centred.

16 June

My meeting at Fitzharris & Price was not quite what I expected.

I cannot help but feel resentful towards these people who have disturbed the relative tranquillity of my life with their absurd ideas. My intention was to be damning without being rude, discouraging without being negative. I still feel, as I write this, that their proposal is so stupid that it will soon wither and die.

When I arrived at the F &P offices I found an elegant reception area, with an elegant receptionist commanding it from behind a large partners’ desk. Opposite the desk were a pair of comfortable-looking leather sofas and a low glass table with Country Life and The Field laid out on it. Before I could sample any of these luxuries Ms Harriet Chetwode-Talbot came out to meet me.

She thanked me for sparing the time to come and see her. She was courteous, elegant, tall and slender. She appeared to me to be dressed as if she was about to go out to lunch at a smart restaurant rather than for a day’s hard work in the office. Mary always says it is demeaning for working women to dress themselves up like that. She herself is a strong believer in sensible, practical working clothes which do not accentuate the wearer’s femininity.

We went into Ms Chetwode-Talbot’s office, which looked out over St James’s Street. The windows were double-glazed and the room was quiet and full of light. Instead of going behind her desk she guided me to two armchairs facing each other across a low mahogany table on which were set out a white china coffee pot and two cups on a tray. We sat down, and she pulled the tray towards her and poured out two cups of coffee. Then she said, and I remember her exact words, ‘I expect you think we are all absolute idiots.’