Dylan Pritchard is a writer from London. He graduated from Royal Holloway with a degree in Political Science and has previously gained writing experience via the Faber Academy.
Dylan writes realism and is interested in everyday people’s search for happiness and how difficult this can be in the modern world. He is currently working on a collection of short stories set in different workplaces.
‘Snags’ is a story from the collection. It follows an office-place conundrum and a character’s first tussle between morality and money.
Email: dylanpritchard1@gmail.com
Snags
It’s not something I’d been used to, the hunkering over lip-smeared pints in dank rooms. But in advertising, all major business decisions are made in pubs, and to be in the conversation, you need to be present. So, I go to the pub with my boss Duncan every day, apart from Tuesdays, the day he visits the aquarium. Duncan says he goes there because it relaxes him, that it’s cheaper than therapy. A colleague once saw his six and a half foot hulking figure staring at a group of sea lions, studying their movements as they fought over tossed salmon. If I’m being honest, I’d rather not drink every day – it costs a fortune and hurts my stomach. But Duncan’s a man of power and I indulge his habit to improve my chance of a big salary. The yearly promotion rounds are next Friday, so I’ll soon find out if it has worked.
I did O.K., maybe even well at school and university; not well enough to make me rich or happy, but enough to be – and that’s what I’ve been doing. I have one of those office jobs that’s hard to describe. What can you say. I write emails requesting things requested by someone more senior. I compile reports on spreadsheets, tap numbers into tiny cells, then sum them up. I sit in meetings, sometimes I present charts that show how many people an advertising campaign will hit, but mostly I say nothing. If a client approves a plan, I then book the advertising space.
At work I mostly think of my girlfriend, Sasha, her dark hair that smells of cut apricots, how when there’s a gap in conversation, she smiles, displaying a perfect row of teeth bar one. That tooth peeks under her lips before the others; I call it her snaggle tooth.
***
It’s noon on Wednesday and Duncan taps my shoulder.
“You done that report?”
“No, not yet.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll give it to one of the shit-munchers.”
He smiles, showing his sharp, stained teeth, then nudges his head towards the exit.
“Pub?”
I grab my coat and we walk. I admire Duncan. If he doesn’t know something a client asks, he does a thin smile then uses a firm voice and lies. Five years ago, he helped me when I over-booked a client’s campaign by half a million pounds. My mundane day was turned upside down; I paced the office sweating, playing out a hundred scenes that ended in humiliation while waiting for Duncan to come out of a board meeting. Although the agency was liable, Duncan worked something out with the contractor and my record remained unblemished. It amazes me that I can be trusted to book massive sums with no checks, but that’s how it works.
We walk to his favourite, The Nelle Gwynn. The Guinness there is poured correctly, he says, and the bartenders look heavy and rural. There’s an old-style red jukebox that plucks records with juddering mechanics, and the wooden bar and wall panels are deep mahogany, dotted with photos of the plot from previous centuries. It smells like fried chips and spilt ale. We sit in a booth with red leather seats that sink as you sit and stick to your clothes when you rise. He takes a long slug of his pint, white froth sticks to his beard, he wipes it off.
“Right, tomorrow is big. I have your back for it, don’t worry.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s something I need you to do first.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. It’s a finance thing.”
“OK.”
“Yeah, it’s nothing, really. Just need you to put your name on something. We’ve missed our target and are coming up to year end; we’re going to syphon some money from a client’s purchase order.”
My face twists in discomfort. Duncan shifts in his seat and takes another sip of his pint, then wipes his beard.
“It’s really nothing. A bit like… a policeman throwing a dirty punch here and there in an arrest, or a politician taking a speaking gig between sitting in parliament – every job’s got its version of this. It’s harmless.”
“The dangers of middle management,” I nod.
He laughs at that. “We might have some good news on your promotion this week. This won’t hurt your chances.”
We drink three more pints and chat about sports, rising crime, and Duncan’s top four arses at work. He wipes the final bit of foam from his mouth. “So, you’ll do it?”
“I’ll think about it.”
His face goes hard and his nostrils flare. He looks like he might shout at me but controls himself and scratches his dark wiry beard. I see flecks of skin fall onto his shirt.
“Sure, you take your time. My recommendations for promotions are tomorrow.”
We head back to the office. Another day of mindless work passes by. Through the glass walls of the boardroom, I see Tim, the other colleague up for promotion. Tim is tall and narrow-shouldered, with large, kind hands, and an air of gentle efficiency. He always tucks a pencil behind his ear, like an architect, and in meetings he stands up when presenting and points at charts with a pen, which I know lands well with senior managers.
I research what Duncan’s asked. Out of the types of fraud I can commit, it’s perhaps the most obvious.
***
On the way home that night I ride squished carriages on the Underground, holding cold steel handles, swaying among pits that swing from handles and smell of vinegar. Between stops, I wonder if one of these tunnels has ever collapsed and buried everyone riding it. I arrive at the flat that costs two thousand pounds a month in rent. Living, dining and kitchen occupy the one room, and the bedroom just about fits a double bed, a side table with a red Ikea lamp from my teenage years, and a rail where Sasha’s clothes hang. In the corners of the ceilings in each room the paint is discoloured, and it smells of damp. Because all windows face onto brick walls, I have no idea of the outside weather, so I turn every light and sidelamp on to give the illusion of natural light.
We’ve lived here for six of the eight years since we met when huddled next to a speaker at a house party. We hit it off complaining about the relentless attack of the techno music popular at the time. While holding the iPhone that controlled the music, she said,
“No shame, I swear, you can say anything or anyone. Who would you play, right now?”
Feeling worried about who to pick, I hesitated, then for once just said the truth, which was that I’d play Paul Simon, and cringed at myself until I saw the snaggle-tooth for the first time. She put on one of his songs then kissed me. And since then, she’s made me feel more like myself than I ever had.
In the kitchen I cook. Sasha is always home late. She works as an interior designer. When she bugs me about my promotion and our lack of money, I’m tempted to mention that with the extra hours she works she is on less than minimum wage and that, given her salary, perhaps she doesn’t need three one-on-one boxing sessions with Rafiki at that gym in town that’s as shiny as a top-rated hotel. But I don’t: the way I see it, I am unlikely to ever enjoy working, so one of us might as well have a crack at full-time happiness.
I splash oil in the pan and a fun energy enters my movements as I tip in the orzo, before slicing garlic, anchovies, and fresh chilli to infuse the grain-like pasta in flavour. The aromas are intense and filling the air when I hear the door open.
“That smell delicious. Orzo again?”
I turn; the snaggle tooth greets me before being joined by its less memorable friends.
“Yeah,” I say brightly.
She sits on the sofa and scrolls through her phone. Moments pass, then there’s an excited squeal. “Kate’s having a baby!” She sighs, “Christ, they’re busy. And they just moved into their new house.”
“That’s great news isn’t it,” I say.
“So,” I hear from across the room after some time, “you know, babies don’t need space – we could have one here. I saw it on Instagram. They sleep the first year in your room… and if you breastfeed, they’re basically free.”
“We need to get out of the flat, Sasha, we’ve been through this.”
“Who are we waiting for on that,” she says. “This promotion has been pending a long time. Dad said he’d pay for the deposit. I can’t help my biological clock, you know? Mum wanted more than just me, and it took ages, she said.”
I stir as the orzo bubbles in the thick sauce. It looks too plump; I feel a mild panic, so I pluck it off the heat, blow off the steam and try it. To my surprise, it’s perfect.
We eat sat on the sofa in front of the TV. I’m not watching it; I am staring at the backdoor, imagining a child playing on the slither of patio, and wonder if there is a slim enough slide to fit there. After a while, Sasha says,
“God, I really want to go to The Bahamas.”
She shows me a photo of a big hairy hog, swimming in a cobalt blue ocean, pointing its wet snout at the camera.
“That would be nice,” I say, feigning excitement, “let’s look into it.”
She perks up after that, puts her phone down, offers me some eye contact. As she finishes the orzo she scrapes the contents of her bowl, taking up every morsel, before making a satisfied sound like a dog being stroked. She takes both plates and puts them in the sink. I hear her mark the blackboard with swiping movements of chalk. I stand, walk to the kitchen, and read it: 8/10.
“You know what that means,” she says, passing me her phone. A score of 7 or above means I pick our washing up song. I go for nostalgia and select Graceland by Paul Simon. And then we start the Dish Dance. We often bemoan our lack of a dishwasher. But as our bodies spin and touch while we wash, dry and stack, we share little slaps of the damp dishcloth in time with the music, then we make our own rendition of whatever chorus may be playing, and I find it the happiest moment of the day.
We finish and sit our flushed bodies on the sofa, tired but content, and I decide to tell her.
“Duncan wants me to do something dodgy in exchange for the promotion.”
Sasha’s eyes widen. “How much?”
“50% pay rise.”
Her eyes go huge and round. “How dodgy?”
“It’s kind of fraud, I guess.”
“Has he done it before?”
“Yes, I’m sure he has.”
“So?”
“It’s illegal.”
“But Duncan’s done it…” Sasha shrugs. “And now he’s on… what?”
I don’t respond.
“If you’re uncomfortable with more money, tell HR about it.” She pats me on the crotch a little too hard, so that I jolt. “Let’s just stay here a bit longer, wait till the time is right for you.”
Later, as she gets ready for bed, I kiss the part of her neck she likes, running my hands down her rib cage, resting them on the bend of her hips. She smells like coconuts and lime, and my breath is unsteady as my lips skim the slant of her shoulder, ready for something, but when I open my eyes, her mouth is at the widest section of a yawn.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, pulling away and wrapping her hair in a tie, “I would give you a blow job, but my nose is super blocked.”
She places an index either side of her nose and makes a noise to prove the tight passage, then blows each nostril with a scrunched tissue. We brush our teeth. I read a bit, she flicks through her phone, I turn the bedside light off.
I’m usually a good sleeper, but tonight it doesn’t find me. I am itchy, as if mites are burrowing in the hairs on my arms and legs. I think about Duncan’s offer. After a while I force myself into stillness, lie on my side and breathe evenly, but the thoughts continue, and I stare through the gaps in the blinds at the light-smattered wall, when I feel movement. Some sounds. They are subtle, but I know them. I can feel the cover tremble and shift lightly; it’s a regular movement until there’s a shudder, a pause, then another, and it takes a few of these until I know Sasha’s masturbating.
I pretend to move in my sleep, turning to face her. She’s looking at something on her phone. Time passes and the shudders become more frequent before a final heavier one where she tenses under the sheets, sighs softly, then stops. When I next blink open, the light from her phone is out and she is asleep, curled and content, like a cat beneath a shaft of sunlight.
***
I wake. When Sasha has left, I stand in the shower and picture a scene in my mind’s eye that’s seedy and vengeful from the off: I turn up at Sasha’s best friend’s house and ring the doorbell; she answers in a silk pin-striped navy dressing gown that flaps luxuriously over a thong, the lapels loose over her breasts. Dark nipples are perky beneath the material. She drops straight to her knees and takes me in her mouth. The image is clear but after a lot of grunting and a final, exasperated noise from the back of my throat, I give up, not even hard.
On my way into work, I want to smoke. Whatever normally stops me from buying cigarettes today fails me. The first makes me gag and cough and I wonder how the hell anyone smokes twenty a day. I smoke another and don’t have that thought again.
I have fourteen spreadsheets open and ninety unread emails. I attempt to work through them, but concentration is hard to grasp, like a wisp. I take breaks every ten minutes to do research on my phone about white collar fraud; there’s evidence of jail time in other industries, but only sackings in mine. Not too bad, I think.
Duncan looks at me intermittently and tips his chin upwards, questioning me: Have I done it yet? Will I ever do it? I give him placating and non-committal nods.
***
Noon. Duncan’s eyes meet mine over his computer and he mouths: Pub? I nod.
When we arrive, he’s untalkative, demure, mechanically sipping his Guinness and wiping his beard.
I say, “You alright?”
He wipes his beard again despite not having taken another sip and says, “listen, don’t worry about that thing. I can ask Tim.”
“Oh, really, he’d be up for it?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “He’d do it. He needs a leg up himself.”
“As long as it doesn’t affect anything? Then yeah, let one of the shit-munchers do it!” I say and slap his enormous shoulder, my hand bounces off his frame.
He flinches and doesn’t laugh, his black eyes are small but piercing, and they hold me and my breath stills.
“He’s helping. And as you know, nothing on the promotion is guaranteed.”
“Apart from mine,” I say and wink.
“There are never any guarantees.”
Duncan tips his chin and raises his brows. We sip our beers and make no conversation. I shift in my seat.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it.”
***
Back in the office I study Tim. He’s leading a third client presentation this week and I’ve done none. I know if it’s a straight shoot-out between us in terms of talent, he’d spin, cock the gun, and pin me. I approach him as he makes a coffee.
“Tim,” I say. “How are you feeling about the promotion rounds?”
He turns swiftly.
“Why? Have you heard anything?” he whispers.
I keep my face straight. “No, not a word.”
“No, me neither.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “What will be will be, hey? You can only do so much.”
I agree with him, walk away and smile at his naivety. I find a salary calculator and open a spreadsheet to work out my future happiness. It has rows with items such as: Mortgage (new), Holidays, Baby (new), I allocate my new salary and even after entering all the usual costs there would still be money left. I receive a text from Sasha; it’s a screen shot of a white beach somewhere with palms leaning over the sea, their leaves nearly touching the azure water. She writes, “Imagine here over Christmas”, and I text back to say, “Wow, let’s make it happen! X”
18:30. The office is quiet, and everyone has gone home or to the pub. I sit at my laptop and invoice the client and fiddle with the bookings system to appropriate the money.
I text Duncan to say “Done.”
He texts back a thumbs up and a beer emoji.
***
I am cooking something different when Sasha arrives, in celebration. Melanzane alla parmigiana. I fry slices of aubergine in olive oil, then place them on a napkin to absorb the excess oil, then salt them. In another pan, I create a tomato sauce. A bottle of Rioja from the full-priced isle at Tesco is left open to breathe on the counter.
“Mmmm. Parmigiana. Christ, you do treat me,” she says. “You don’t normally have the time.”
I offer her a glass of red.
“What’s this,” she says.
“I may have had a breakthrough.”
As I say the words, I realise how easy it is, how simple to do something wrong for something right. A swift exchange, leave no imbalance in the world, everything as it was, but with the snaggle tooth now showing.
“Not only that, but I’ve also done some sums.”
“Some sums?”
“Yes. We can go to The Bahamas at Christmas. Maybe not the full deal, but we’ll be away and together.”
Sasha takes out her phone and begins scrolling, “this is just perfect, just brilliant.” She shows me some flights on a website that, like in a stock market, tracks the changing prices. For The Bahamas, an arrow is pointing upwards.
“We’ve got the annual leave; shall we just book it?”
I take out my wallet and give her my card. To my surprise, it doesn’t bounce. We eat and laugh, and her eyes are round and shiny with excitement. She talks about how London has ground us down, and I hear so much truth in what she says. She reminds me of our younger selves on holiday, where we made love on a beach as the sun set. I was lost to the sounds of the lapping waves and the centring feeling at the end as we sat sipping foreign lagers, watching the skies turn pink and the water a deep navy.
We finish our meals and I wash and dry, telling her to relax. She runs a bath. I can hear a jolty freshness in her movements, a new edge to her voice as she sings. I enter the room and her wet hair is sat in the ravine of her back. She has a mole there, I touch it, then take her shoulders in my hands, turn, and kiss her. Her towel drops, she hardens.
“Sorry, not tonight,” she says, patting me on the chest. “I’m on and feeling gross.”
I try to lean in for a kiss, she counters it with a hug.
“I don’t feel sexy in this flat,” she says, then slithers into her pyjamas.
We read by the bedside light. I lay wide-eyed to see if she masturbates. She does.
***
I wake. Outside, it is cold, grey, wet. I smoke three cigarettes on the way in, then drink too much earthy filter coffee in the office. I reach into late morning and feel nervous in my movements, in my stomach. Duncan is yet to arrive.
My searches from yesterday are still there. I look through my findings again and see this time that there has been jail-time in advertising. A Bob Massey went down for fourteen years not two months ago in a similar scenario. I check the illegal booking for £500,000 I’ve made and see it has been marked as paid and stamped with my electronic signature. There are plenty of competing thoughts in my head when Duncan arrives, red-cheeked and winter-swept. He chucks a paisley scarf on the coat stand and sits down.
“Where have you been?” I ask, with a fractious voice I don’t recognise.
“I had a breakfast meeting,” his eyebrows harden. “Is that alright?”
I pointlessly straighten my shirt. “No, of course, all good.”
I see Tim. His big hands move excitedly as he talks to a partner. I check my emails to ensure I haven’t missed an announcement but there’s no update. My movements are excited too, but in a different way, as I click between tabs, doing little of nothing. I pretend to work but struggle to complete any of my spreadsheet or email-based tasks, and at half past twelve, I pick up my coat and point to the exit.
“Pub?”
Duncan turns slowly in his chair, then shows me his most impeachable smile and shakes his head.
“Sorry mate, not today – got way too much on.”
The moment remains aloft, awkward and extended, I straighten my creaseless shirt again then put my coat on and walk to the Nelle Gwynn, where I drink three beers, play music on the jukebox and smoke a cigarette. I order a fourth but don’t drink it, thinking of something Sasha said when I told her about the conundrum and I decide to go back and walk through the blustery side streets that smell of rotting food and alcohol, and when I return to the office and back to my desk, Duncan is not there.
I check my inbox. There is still no official announcement of Tim’s promotion. I still have time.
I create a meeting invite and send it to Duncan and Sara, the Head of HR, requesting a meeting at their earliest convenience, titled: Serious Ethical Breach.
I work on other things for a couple of minutes before Duncan messages my phone:
“Delete it,” he says.
“Promote me,” I say.
“No, it’s too late,” he responds. “Delete it, now.”
“Promote me,” I say again. He doesn’t respond for some time. It feels a very long time as I watch the screen of my phone, waiting for its dull colours to spark into brightness.
My phone pings.
“Congratulations,” he says. “Now delete it.”
I cancel the meeting.