One: Just After We Meet

Napier is tall, six foot four, maybe taller. He can see over the partitions in the office without standing. He just straightens his arms out on the armrests of his chair as if he's on the parallel bars and he can see as far as the coffee machine. They're talking about getting rid of the partitions and going open-plan. And we've talked about it. Napier's against it as it would rob him of a slight advantage; I'm against it because the permanent staff, the rest of the office, essentially, are vile thwarted creatures I like not to look upon.
Napier says that I should be less judgmental of my colleagues but this is a little hypocritical of him, as he variously describes our co-workers as "fatheads" and "drones" and is often quite sharp with the supervisors, particularly when they ask him to do anything. Just to give you an idea of what he can be like I shall report an exchange that took place on my first day here. The supervisor involved, whose name is Alison, is somewhat less grotesquely uneasy on the eye than the others, and might be considered pleasant, by the kind of person who would choose to employ such an essentially redundant word.
Alison (appearing at the entrance to our cubicle) : How's our new boy getting on?
Dickie : I'm settling in okay, I hope.
Alison : Good, good. Hasn't proved too much of a burden for you then, Napier?
Napier (lifting his gaze from a well-thumbed copy of L'Histoire d'O) : No, he's stayed out from under my feet. You might do well to follow his example, in fact.

Alison retreats, biting her bottom lip and nodding slowly.

He's not a difficult person to be around, generally, provided you don't say anything that raises his pulse, or do anything that distracts him from whatever he's reading. Last week it was Tropic of Cancer. Napier complained that it was a little story-heavy.

You could call it hauteur. I put it down to the fact that he sees the world from a slightly steeper angle than most of us. The only person with whom he is unreservedly warm is his sister. When she telephones, which she does every morning at eleven (they are orphans and have only each other), he bookmarks whatever filth he's got his nose in, tosses it into his in-tray and cradles the receiver with both hands, speaking to her in quiet, reassuring tones.

Her name is Lara. I've not met her but I imagine that she looks nothing like Julie Christie. Instead she is dark, her hair is soft and straight, where her brother's is coarse and unruly. Her eyes are the same rich shade, but are scintillatingly alive where his are flat, reflecting only disapproval. I dream of her at night; hot, disturbing dreams from which I awake in a tangle of loose bedding.

Napier announces that we are to be introduced, this sister and I. We are inspecting a large, iced birthday cake that has been returned at some expense to the customer services department of the retail group for whom we currently, temporarily work.

"Customer reports flecks on cake which look like greenfly. Jesus, it's green icing. Check she's not on the database, send her a letter of reassurance and some vouchers."

Napier, for all his studied idleness, is decisive when required to be. The cake has been pushed around the office for a couple of days, like a giant chequer, with no-one having a notion of what to do with it.

"Do you think she'll like me?" I ask.
"Impossible to say," replies Napier. "I don't actually dislike you, and she's a more generous spirit than I. You don't smell or anything like that. You are a trifle common, but at least you're not inbred, like so many of them here."
"Thanks. Thanks a lot."