Sitting on top of New York Pizza Mark David’s small, poorly lit office was a bit of a mess. Paperwork lay strewn across the cheap flat pack desk with the waste paper basket overflowing with balled up sheets, Mars bar wrappers and polystyrene cups. The dark green patterned carpet was frayed so badly at the doorway that led from the reception area into the main office space that the door no longer closed properly. The windows could probably do with a wash, too, but he had been putting that off excusing it as pointless considering the tree outside was so overgrown no sunlight would get through the window even if you could see through it.
Mark held the receiver of his rotary telephone to his ear with the help of his shoulder, leaving his hands free to tap away at his smartphone.
“Yes mister Johnson, but regardless of the fact that she wasn’t actually shagging the gardener, I was still the one that spent a lot of time finding that out.
“Well, yes, I suppose—
“Ah, that. Well. That’s erm…”
He placed the smartphone down on his desk and sat up straight in his seat.
“Well, the only real way of me knowing whether or not she was, as you had expected, carrying out acts of infidelity was, as you can imagine, to try it on with her directly owing to the fact that she always had her curtains closed.
“Well, I suppose three times was a bit much but—
“I understand but—
“Well how about a slight discount as a gesture of good will?
The door leading from the reception area was being jostled with from the outside. Through the frosted glass window Mark could see a middle aged man pressing his shoulder up against the door pushing it along the threaded carpet floor.
“Mister Johnson, I’ll have to call you back, something incredibly pressing has just come up.”
Mark tossed the receiver down onto the base and hopped to his feet. He made a little skip towards the office door and helped the man open the door.
“Lift and push.” He grunted as he lifted and pulled the door from his side. “Lift. Lift!”
The door passed the frayed edge and flung itself open, sending Mark stumbling backwards and the gentleman toppling into the office.
“Brian?” Mark asked, his eyes widening in recognition of a friend long since considered lost, or at the very least misplaced and with strict privacy settings on his Facebook page.
“I need your help.” His friend told him, helping himself to a seat.