The Colour of Sunday Afternoons Page 2

  It was time to go.

  At 6:55 am, he was safely cocooned in his company car, driving swiftly to his first sales call for the day. As a pharmaceutical representative, Joe was finding it easy to get appointments to see the doctors; he had a new drug to launch, Zemtril, and they were all eager to hear about it. Houses along the freeway seemed to whiz by the car window, a motivational sales tape played loudly on the stereo, and Joe put his foot down to get to Dr Jennifer Tyson’s surgery on time. It was a long drive across the city.

  Dr Tyson, Joe thought, was one of the more colourful characters on his sales rounds. Feeling nervous, he walked into her consulting room and looked briefly at her tall figure. She was a knockout, twenty-something brunette, with the unorthodox habit of dressing in short skirts and skintight tops. Not the average physician, she was more like Cindy Crawford with a stethoscope.

  “Good morning,” said Joe.

  “Joe! It’s good to see you.” Jennifer Tyson didn’t merely shake Joe’s hand, as she breathed this sultry greeting; she squeezed his shoulder and smiled, with a twinkle in her eye that Joe had long since come to recognise ... and dread. Joe thought of what was now the standing joke at the office, that Dr Tyson wanted ‘more than just information about Zemtril’ from her local Biopharm rep.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Dr Tyson,” said Joe, in a shaky voice, as he sat down on the chair normally reserved for her patients.

  Joe knew the management at Biopharm frowned on any personal involvement with customers. Jennifer Tyson, however, had no such reservations, and Joe secretly felt it was only a matter of time before his professional resolve would weaken, and – despite the inevitable jokes which he would never live down – he would become yet another notch on the Good Doctor’s twenty-four-inch belt.

  Jennifer brought her chair around and put it next to his. Seated comfortably, she reached out and slapped him on the knee. “Now, Joe! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Jennifer. None of that ‘Dr Tyson’ stuff here. So, how are you?” She leaned forward, her ample cleavage bulging obviously from the top of her blouse.

  Joe leaned back and inched his chair a little further from hers. “Ahem ...” he cleared his throat. “I’m fine. How are you ... Jennifer?”

  “I’m ... fine,” she said with a sigh.

  Maybe, Joe thought, he should just give in. After all, there were worse things than succumbing to the attentions of a medical supermodel.

  Before he could ponder the matter further, Jennifer spoke. “I thought you could bring me some more patient information handouts for Zemtril. Everyone wants them, you know.” Jennifer raised an eyebrow and looked deep into Joe’s surprised hazel eyes. For a moment, he began to feel hypnotised.

  Joe swallowed. “But you already have six dozen, Jennifer.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t want to run out.” Jennifer leaned even further forward in her chair, until it looked as if her tortured blouse was about to pop a button.

  Joe began to feel faint. Reaching into his case, he pulled out two dozen Zemtril information sheets, handed them over, and decided he had better get going while the going was good. “There you go. I guess that’s all I can do for you today.” He looked questions at Jennifer.

  “Well ...” Jennifer paused for a moment, seemed to come to some kind of secret decision, then exhaled and slumped back in her chair. “Yes, that’s all, then. Until next time.” She patted him on the knee once more and jumped up from her chair, as if she had work to do.

  “Right, then. See you.” Joe collected his case, squeezed past the buxom doctor on his way out the door, and tried not to look like he was rushing for the safety of his car.

  Jennifer Tyson followed him out with her eyes, longingly. As he disappeared from view, she shook her head gently, sat back down at her consulting room desk, and toyed, thoughtfully, with a stethoscope.

  Joe walked into the rear entrance of the small office block which housed the regional sales office of Biopharm Pharmaceuticals. He glanced briefly at the elevator before deciding to take the stairs; he had gotten a pager message from his boss and wanted to make it to her office without delay. Half a flight up, he met Stan and Harry, the old guard of the tiny local field-force. Friends and drinking buddies, they never exerted themselves unnecessarily in the line of duty. Dressed in their bland, ten-years-out-of-date suits, with thinning grey hair and club ties, they might have been brothers.

  Joe tried to get past them without a conversation.

  Stan saw Joe first. “Joseph, Joseph. And how are you today?”

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “Excellent,” said Stan. “Just fine. We’re going to check out the Cafe Fiesta. Thought we’d hold a nice product launch there for our south-west doctors.”

  “Thought we’d better check out the bar,” Harry added.

  “Have one for me,” said Joe, as he raced up the stairs and out of sight.

  Reaching the second floor, Joe swung the door open and walked into reception. He waved at the young receptionist and strode down the hallway, past the offices of the State Manager and the Assistant Manager, finally arriving at the untidy room in which the sales reps worked.

  The reps room was kept deliberately dull, so no one would feel encouraged to spend time off the road. Several tiny desks sat around the perimeter, creaking under piles of memos and product literature. Boxes of product-name pens, pads, tissues, calculators and executive toys were stacked irregularly around the room, gifts for busy doctors willing to spare a few minutes of their time. No one was in, except Claudia Greerson, a young woman in a severe tweed suit. Joe dumped his briefcase on his desk and left, before she could bother him.

  Halfway down the hallway, he met a young woman coming the other way. She had an impressive figure and a dazzling smile. Michelle Riley was Joe’s main competition as up-and-coming overachiever in the company. She was balancing a tower of several trade books and a small slide projector.

  Michelle stepped aside, allowing Joe to pass. Then she stopped and winked at him. “Joe. I hear you danced the tango with Dr Tyson this morning. I’ll bet she loved every minute of it. Lucky her!”

  Joe groaned. “Oh, gimme a break! It’s got nothing to do with me. She chats up all the reps.”

  “Come now, Joe,” said Michelle, grinning seductively. “I have it on good authority from Helen, at Roche, that Dr Tyson has been talking about you. Can’t get you out of her mind, apparently. Face it, she’s smitten.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Joe.

  “Okay. I’ll change the subject. Vikram’s in a foul mood today,” she said, juggling a stray book that threatened to fall to the floor.

  “Oh?”

  “You bet. He’s been going over the sales figures, grumbling about getting rid of Harry and Stan. He’s got his door shut. Probably typing out a few more e-mails asking for promotion to Headquarters. He’ll be gone in six months, off to New York. Kerryn will be looking for a replacement, you know. Might be you.”

  “No way,” said Joe. “You’re ahead of me. Just look at your market share. You might even win the trip to Hawaii this year, the way it’s going.”

  “Thanks, Joe. You’re sweet. But you’re in the running, too. Who knows who’ll get promoted? It’s fifty-fifty. Anyway, I’ve gotta put this stuff away.”

  With that, Michelle continued on her way to the reps room. Joe couldn’t help watching her. She was a beautiful woman, he thought, with her short, dark hair and milky complexion; the blue business suit she wore suited her well. She certainly made work interesting.

  Joe made a mental note not to bother Vikram that day – he could do without one of the Assistant Manager’s regular temper tantrums. Joe had to admit, however, that if Vikram was mad at Stan and Harry, the ‘Dipsomaniac Duo,’ they deserved it. The sooner they retired, the better for the company. Sometimes, Joe was glad to be just one of the troops, and not to have the pressing responsibilities of a manager; the stress might drive him nuts. But he quickly chastised himself for thinking that way
. It was no way to get ahead.

  Joe came upon the open door of the State Manager’s office, and knocked. It was usually pleasant, chatting with Kerryn Sandercott, even if she was known in the industry as the Iron Lady. Joe liked her. She was tough, but fair.

  “Come in, Joe,” said Kerryn. “How are you?”

  Kerryn’s eyelids were puffy. She looked a little gaunt. Joe guessed she had probably been up half the night, worrying about sales targets, memos and rumours from the top. There was always something happening.

  “I’m fine, thanks, Kerryn. How are you?”

  Kerryn ran her fingers through her cropped blonde hair. “Tired. I’ve been up half the night working on plans for the Zemtril conference. The hotel booked the wrong conference room! We’re twenty seats short. Can you imagine asking twenty of our top doctors to stand up for six hours? But I’ve spoken to the manager and he faxed me a new seating plan. Here, take a look.”

  Kerryn handed over the fax.

  Joe noticed her hand was trembling slightly. It was an odd mannerism of hers. Too much coffee, he thought, coffee and overwork. Joe was sure that he would never make the same mistake; he would never flirt with burnout.

  “Hmmm,” Joe hummed. “Well, if they really can fit the seats in, then I guess it looks okay. Might be a bit tight, but what else can we do?”

  “I know what!” said Kerryn. “I’ll send Claudia over there, this afternoon. If anyone can see through a ruse, it’s Claude. She’ll put that hotel manager on the straight and narrow.”

  Joe laughed. “So, I hear Vikram’s in a bad mood.”

  “Yes, sit down, Joe. That’s what I want to speak with you about. You see, I’m not sure how much longer Vikram’s going to be with us. He wants to get into the Product Development Bureau in New York. Nobody knows exactly what’s going to happen yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, sometime in the next six to twelve months, he really does make it there.”

  “Oh,” said Joe, a little lamely.

  “Yes, and if he does go, we’re going to need a new Assistant Manager around here. Headquarters have put forward Michelle’s name, and yours, as the two possibilities. But it’s all very tentative. Vikram might not even go.”

  “Right, right.” Joe was beginning to feel inexplicably nervous.

  “If the vacancy does come up, I’d much rather see you in the job, but Michelle’s considered the front runner by Headquarters. After all, she’s probably going to take out the national prize for best market share, and that’s hard to beat. On the other hand, you might be able to impress them, if you could pull off a little coup for me. No guarantees, but it just might help.”

  Joe hesitated for a split second. Somehow, he felt pressured by the sudden possibility of getting promoted. “Uh ... no problem. What do you need?”

  If Kerryn heard the uncertain tone in Joe’s voice, she ignored it with consummate skill. “It’s this Zemtril conference coming up. We need a respected chairperson, or we’re not going to get the attendance we want. We need someone who’s really going to impress the doctors. I was thinking of ... Martin Jefferson.”

  Joe leaned back in his chair. “Jefferson? Head of Cardiology at City Hospital? He’s a tough nut to get an appointment with, Kerryn, far less to get to chair a conference, but I suppose we do have a couple of openings we could try with him. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great, Joe. If anyone can do it, you can. Even Headquarters couldn’t ignore a gem like that. So, good luck. Remember now, it’s all very tentative. Nothing may come of it, but, on the other hand, it all might come together. Okay?” Kerryn seemed to have finished with the matter and was beginning to look impatiently at her paperwork. It was clearly time for Joe to leave.

  “Okay,” said Joe. “Nothing definite. I understand.”

  “Great.” Kerryn nodded. She scribbled on a notepad.

  Joe took the hint, got up, and walked slowly back to the reps room.

  This was a big day, Joe thought. Three years at Biopharm had finally paid off with an opportunity for promotion. Working on the Jefferson case, however, wasn’t going to be easy. And even if he were successful in getting the respected doctor to chair Biopharm’s Zemtril conference, it would still be months before he might know whether it was he, or Michelle, who was to be promoted. He had better start working pretty hard to get the edge. He would have to cancel the next couple of practice sessions for the band – the boys at the jazz club would not be happy. Reaching his desk, he sat down heavily, grabbed the telephone and punched in the number for City Hospital.

  “Dr Jefferson’s secretary, please.” Joe rubbed the back of his neck. He listened to the music on hold. Despite all the good news, he suddenly found himself feeling strangely tired.

  It was going to be a long day.

  Chapter 3

  Jane stood waiting for the elevator at the ground floor of E Block, City Hospital. She knew that, in sales, time was money, so she was pleased the Chief Pharmacist had agreed to see her at once. It was only a few hours since Christina had first mentioned Margaret Hoffman’s name, but Jane was already quietly confident she could fix the drug inventory program and thereby secure a major customer.

  In the distance, marching down the polished white-floored passageway, effortlessly passing nurses and visitors, a tall figure in a black suit approached the elevator lobby. Jane saw him coming. His head was down, studying a diary feverishly as he walked, and he carried a large black briefcase. Finally, the man arrived at the elevator just as the doors were opening. Jane noticed his hair was ruffled and untidy, as he stepped into the elevator behind her. She pressed the button for the tenth floor.

  Joe Mathews was lost in study of his diary. He hardly noticed there was anyone else in the elevator. He couldn’t believe Martin Jefferson, the esteemed Head of Department, Cardiology, had cancelled a previous engagement to see Joe – a mere drug rep – at such short notice. To make the appointment, Joe had to juggle his own schedule. He flipped through his diary one more time, making sure he had gotten it all right. Suddenly, he heard a woman’s voice speaking to him.

  “Going up?” Jane asked. She found it amusing that this absent-minded man had walked into an elevator and forgotten to press a floor button. He was handsome, in a distracted kind of way, she thought, with his hazel eyes and pale complexion. There was a friendly look about him.

  Joe looked up from his diary. He was surprised to see a very attractive woman standing right next to him. Her hand hovered over the elevator control panel; the button for the tenth floor was illuminated. The woman wore a beige business suit and carried a laptop computer. Had Joe not been so desperately busy, he might have struck up a conversation with her. As it was, he settled for a simple reply.

  “Oh – tenth, please. Thanks.”

  Joe buried his attention back in his diary. If only he could get Jefferson on side, he might have a shot at that promotion Kerryn was talking about. It would be a great challenge, to win Jefferson over, but he would manage it somehow. True, Michelle would probably be promoted rather than him, but never think negative, Joe told himself – that’s the sales rep’s credo.

  As the elevator began its upward journey, Jane’s thoughts returned to Margaret Hoffman. Chief Pharmacists were notoriously difficult to deal with. This wasn’t surprising, considering the pressure they were always under from hospital bureaucrats to cut costs, while doctors simultaneously demanded more of the best, most expensive drugs. It was a no-win situation and a thankless job. What you certainly did not want to deal with was a Chief Pharmacist whose computer system was fouled up and who was, therefore, having a very bad day. Even so, Jane managed to retain her optimism as the elevator slowed.

  The elevator speaker sounded the little ping that hospital elevators make to announce the doors are about to open. Joe closed his diary. Jane tucked her laptop neatly under her arm. The doors slid open and the two busy young people set off in opposite directions, toward their respective appointments.

  Had they turned back to watch the
elevator, at that precise moment, they would have seen something most inexplicable.

  The doors, rather than closing, as was their normal wont, remained open. Where there should have been nothing but thin air, in the vacant elevator, there was a faint cloud of green smoke. In a few seconds, a green blob, about four feet high, vaporous at first, then jelly-like, began to materialise. At last, the figure of a chubby, middle-aged, balding and very short man became clear. He had a jolly, untroubled face and wore a kitsch, green leprechaun suit, complete in every detail down to his polished leather boots. It was the sort of bogus leprechaun found in shopping malls: the kind of character small children love to have their photo taken with but who, secretly, is wondering if he gets paid enough per hour to be Santa, or, in this case, Shamus. This particular leprechaun, however, had anyone been able to see him, would have appeared to be taking his work very seriously. He dusted himself off, admired his boots for a moment, straightened his tunic, and then muttered contentedly.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  Smiling a satisfied smile, the little man walked out of the elevator and wandered merrily down the corridor, poking his nose into various offices as he went. No one seemed to notice him. In fact, it was as if he were completely invisible; not a single glance was cast in his direction.

  After a minute or two of this, satisfied that no one could see him, the strange and jolly leprechaun passed by the desk of a junior accounts clerk, a young man scratching his head in consternation at an uncooperative spreadsheet. The leprechaun, apparently finished his business, at least for now, began to dissolve into a cloud of green smoke. The smoke, unlike the little man himself, was quite visible. The clerk looked puzzled, as a wisp of green mist floated in front of his computer screen. He coughed, frowned, and returned to his calculations, wondering if someone in the next office was smoking one of those ‘other’ kind of cigarettes his mother had always warned him about.