1.

Robert knew he looked good. He was wearing a sky-blue linen blazer, charcoal grey trousers, white shirt and a Paisley pattern tie. His shoes were clean and his hair newly trimmed. Nevertheless, the chief editor cocked his head, sent him a wry smile and said: "We haven't any openings at the moment. You know what it's like just now. You should have seen our advertising revenue." He made a whistling noise and a convincing imitation of a falling bomb with his thumb. Then he gave a quick smile and said: "Can't you try for one of the summer relief jobs?"
    Robert realised that it had not been forgotten. He was capable of a certain detachment from himself and his recent past. It had been three years since he had left the labour daily, Arbeiderbladet, three years since the trouble there, and he was fully aware that the chief responsibility for that unhappy affair lay with him, and that he had acted irrationally, even foolishly. He also knew that it had not been lost in the little pool that was media-Norway. The rumour had not taken many days to spread. And basically - he had to admit - it was fully justified. Up to a certain point. Now, three years on, it was bloody unfair that people still remembered it, still held it against him. That was all there had been to the affair. There had been nothing more, neither before nor after, and even though it had been bad enough, that had been the extent of it. For three years he had been doing a good job at Larsen Text, submitting proficient, and even some good, news reports and articles to that corner of the weekly press that did not concern itself with personal histories. Just the same, everyone remembered the three-year-old affair, including this short, tubby, balding chief editor.
    Robert said: "Those are recruitment posts. You would hardly take on a man of thirty-five there."
    "Possibly not," replied the chief editor. "You know, I believe I can see someone over there I ought to have a word with."
    Robert reached out his hand and placed it on the chief editor's arm. Then he changed his mind, shrugged his shoulders and said "Fine."
    The chief editor raised one finger to his temple and said "See you." Then he was gone.
    Robert retreated a couple of steps and leant against the doorframe, pushed his jacket aside and thrust a hand into his trouser pocket. It appeared that the entire gathering had grouped itself into clusters of five or six people, and he could not spot a single one he could fit into naturally.
    There was something distasteful, passé and old-fashioned about the whole party. Even its setting was chillingly similar to a run of the mill, quasi-social bash from the mid-eighties; a hundred or so people packed together in a relatively spacious and inordinately expensive house in the petit bourgeois district of Vinderen, the vast majority of whom were what might be called "intellectuals". Just under half of them were media and advertising people and a good number were from the theatrical and artistic sets - the young and promising ones. In one corner of the large dining room was a group that made Robert's flesh creep. A not so well-known liberal theologian, a socially and environmentally committed shipowner, a well-known photographic model, a well- known rock musician, a notable psychologist and marriage expert and an up- and-coming TV anchor-man were engaged in apparently hearty conversation.
    There were too many people in black, too. Robert had hoped there would not be so many of these as he remembered from the eighties. The eighties as he recalled them were crawling with young women and men in black costumes, suits and other garb, all sporting berets, idiotic head gear or some other thing that might make them look "artistic" - at least he assumed that was the intention of dressing in those clichéd, outward vestments of the artist. The eighties was the decade in which any fool of a student on an advertising course, or business college graduate, dressed him or herself up in post-modern, "creative" tat. Here they were again, and he felt as if he had been flung into a time capsule that had only whisked him a lamentably short way back into the past.
    He went into the kitchen to see if there were more interesting things in a seemingly less pretentious room, but there was only a couple necking by the sink and two youths in crumpled black blazers at the kitchen table discussing something, completely indifferent to the fact that the girl's mini-dress had ridden a fair way up the small of her back, revealing pink panties beneath black, see-through tights adorned with pale stars.
    Robert turned and went out again. At the door to the living-room he bumped into the owner of the house, his employer, Sigvald P. Larsen, who owned and ran Larsen Text, a man who always made Robert feel stiff and on edge.
    "Having a good time?" Larsen smiled. He was a pleasant man, that was not the problem.
    "Yupp.”
    "Important to put in an appearance."
    "Yes."
    "Useful people to talk to. Contacts, you know."
    "Oh yes."
    "Important to build up a network of contacts. Never know what'll happen. Look at us. Lucrative business for years. But now... Hard times. Everyone's affected. Even the faithful, the loyal ones. Customers for years. Always came to us. Always used our professional services for their copy. Annual reports. Prospectuses. Brochures. Everything. Now it's over. Now they do it themselves. New clients´re hard to find." He clucked and shook his head.
    "Are you trying to tell me something?" Robert felt a chill creep up his forearms. His income had dropped by thirty per cent during the previous twelve months, and he was not happy about it. He needed money. More than he was earning now, more than found its way into his bank account each month. This was the downside of the nineties. A lack of generosity, a depressing sobriety, an unwillingness to use money.
    Larsen shrugged his shoulders. The bow tie of his dinner jacket was askew. "Nothing I haven't said before. We know what's in store for the next couple of years. At least."
    "Yes."
    "You've got talent. You can write anything. Use it. I mention it to everyone. Look out for other things. Don't be in too much of a hurry. Just keep your eyes and ears open. Smile at people. Talk to people. Be nice to people. Never know when you may need them."
    Robert gave him a wry smile. "You've never been quite so explicit before."
    "We lost D.P. Communications today. No more commissions. That sort of thing's frightening. Time to tell everyone who works for me. Nobody knows. I mean, some will go sooner and some later, and you're in a good position, but nobody knows, only that we're going to feel it, every one of us."
    "I hear what you say."
    Larsen laughed. Robert smiled dutifully. Larsen punched Robert on the arm and sailed past him. Robert went into the dining room, to the bar. He plumped for an Irish whisky, scraped a spoonful of ice out of the cooler and sipped at his glass. It was smooth as cream. He doubted that Larsen would suffer any personal hardship for many decades, but who could tell? At least one had a right to hope. The man was not in a growth sector, at all events. In a way Robert could understand his nervousness, and at least it was considerate of him to send out early warnings to his colleagues.
    He looked about him in the dining room, but the chief editor had been the party's status, the only person worth approaching. He recognised some of the faces around him, but none were prospective candidates. It was pointless accosting people he knew would say no. They would regard him as a nuisance, and that was worse than not bothering at all.
    He drained his glass and realised he was beginning to get tight. It was time to go. There was nothing to be gained here, and he did not like the company. He poured out another drop of whisky and made up his mind to leave once his glass was empty.
    "And what do I get?" said a voice directly behind him. He spun round knocking the table with his hip.
    She was not much shorter than him, perhaps an inch or so in her high- heeled shoes. Her dress was of greyish-blue silk with small, black dots, low cut to show her cleavage. Her face was attractive rather than pretty, with high and rather wide cheekbones, slightly almond-shaped eyes and a nose that was a bit on the short side. She had a dimple in her chin, and a shockwave of thick, blonde hair.
    She seemed vulgar, and he liked vulgar women. This one reminded him of a 'page three' girl, and it was good to be reminded of them. "Just what you want. And a lot more, I imagine," he said, grinning.
 

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