Melting in the Middle

Andy Howden

Description

Long-listed for the Exeter Novel Prize, Melting in the Middle is a literary comedy about redemption and second chances, played out amid the madness of modern life.For Stephen Carreras, life is in turmoil. His career with Britain's worst chocolate company is heading for the rocks when it's taken over by US confectionery giant Schmaltz. He's just turned forty, he's messed up on marriage and is struggling to keep a toehold in the lives of his monosyllabic teenage children.Then he meets Rachel, who dances to a very different beat. She challenges him to do good among the carnage that surrounds him. But to do so, he must confront his past and work out all over again what really mattersPraise forMelting in the Middle:"The dialogue zips along at a pace that keeps the reader on their toes without running out of breath"Ian McMillan, poet, author and presenter of The Verb on BBC Radio 3"Whip-smart funny and brilliantly observed. Howden is a great storyteller, turning recognisable personalities and corporate events into sharp and clever comedy."Louise Fein, author ofPeople Like Us "I was completely charmed. Funny, poignant and uplifting."Cathie Hartigan, author ofNotes From The Lost

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 novembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800468061
• Langue: English

Extrait

About the Author
Andy Howden grew up in the Yorkshire Dales and read English Literature at the University of Sheffield before setting out on a career in market research which took him to London, Paris and Hampton Wick. He has worked for a number of companies, not all of them entirely sane.
Melting in the Middle is his first novel, started on a MA in Creative Writing at St. Mary’s University, and was long-listed for the Exeter Novel Prize.
Andy lives in South West London with his wife and has two grown up children who have left home but fortunately keep popping back to see him.



Copyright © 2020 Andy Howden

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 978 1800468 061

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

In honour of my dear mother, Thelma Howden, who always encouraged me to write, and my beloved wife, Caroline Ewart, who made sure that I finally did.

The important thing is this:
To be able at any moment
To sacrifice what we are
For what we would become.

Charles Dubos
Approximations, 1922
Contents
Part One Late November to December 2014
Part Two January to February 2015
Part Three March to August 2015
Part Four Late November to December 2015

Part One
Late November to December 2014
Chapter One
Stephen Carreras gazed into his screensaver. His two children looked back at him, heads inclined towards each other in a show of sibling affection for the camera. Kate in her swimsuit, smiling from an awkward ten-year-old body. And Jake, still a podgy eight-year-old, proudly flaunting his ice lolly, with lips of lurid orange. Summer holiday in Cornwall, little more than four years ago. Just before he screwed up.
‘Steve would doubtless see the sense in these budget cuts, if he was paying attention to my presentation.’ Oscar Newte, wearing a pink open-collared shirt and a smug expression, stared at him from the front of the meeting room.
‘Don’t bet on it,’ Stephen said.
He had no idea what draconian measures Newte had been proposing. It was true, he hadn’t been listening. So agreeing might be signing his own death warrant. And anyway, he liked to disagree with the man as a point of principle.
It was tempting to let his mind drift back to those happy days at the beach while Newte was presenting his financial review, a dish served with lashings of pessimism and a sprinkling of pomposity. Stephen glanced around the other board members of Grimley’s Confectionery, sinking ever deeper into their meeting chairs. Discarded coffee cups, toffee wrappers and the curling sandwiches from their working lunch, as unpalatable as the profit warnings on Newte’s charts, littered the rectangular Formica table. Jim Jeffries, arms folded, head lolling forward slightly to reveal his bald patch, was dribbling a little; a gentle, rhythmic snoring emanating from his nostrils. Nobody gave him a nudge.
So much for an ‘Away Day Energiser’ in this beige Molitor hotel, whatever a molitor was, on a building site somewhere near Cambridge.
But Stephen needed to focus now. He was on next. He reached for the one remaining bottle of mineral water, twisted it open and poured himself a fizzing glass. This was his chance to show everyone who was boss – or who should be. Interviews for the managing director role must surely be imminent. And Stephen was quite certain he was the man for the moment. Among this crew, Newte was the only possible competition. But he was again demonstrating he could bore for Britain. At long last, he put up what he declared to be his concluding slide. It looked to Stephen indistinguishable from those that had preceded it, a graph in which the lines were sloping gently downwards.
Newte opened wide his arms in a last appeal to his audience. ‘Therefore, lady and gentlemen, I fear that my end of term headmaster’s report is that you can and must do better.’ A sinister leer spread across his florid features. ‘And next year, of course, I’m sure that you will – or face the consequences.’
An unpleasant little reminder that Oscar Newte, for all his wind-baggery, currently had the power of the finance director – and a belly full of low cunning.
Stephen strode to the front. His rival needed to be taken down. And it was time to wake the rest of them up.
‘OK, everyone, time for some good news,’ he announced and launched into his presentation. It was, he felt, a tour de force – in the circumstances. A punchy demonstration of how as marketing director he had, if not exactly improved sales of Bingo Bars and Munchy Moments, then at least stabilised them. And even Little Monkeys, the problem child, had survived another year.
He was good at this stuff, shutting out those nagging doubts about the future while on his feet presenting, glossing over the sales data far too adeptly for this bunch to note the dodgier elements of his argument. Even Jim was sat bolt upright, wide-eyed and trying to follow the action.
But after a while Stephen became aware that now Oscar Newte was not paying attention to him. He could see his rival in the corner of his eye, playing with his phone, nodding his head in a knowing way, and murmuring, ‘I thought as much,’ just loudly enough to ensure he was heard.
Eventually Stephen was so distracted that he brought his presentation to a premature close.
‘So, to sum up, this is the strongest ever marketing plan for my brands. Any questions?’ He stared defiantly at his six colleagues.
Behind him on the screen, the final slide of his PowerPoint deck shouted out an optimistic proclamation:
LITTLE MONKEYS: LOOKING TO THE FUTURE
‘I have a question,’ Newte chirruped. Of course he had. Leaning back in his chair, he pushed his red-framed glasses onto his forehead and folded his hands behind his head, revealing a small damp patch under each arm.
‘Do you seriously think Little Monkeys has a future? Or indeed any of these brands?’
Stephen hesitated. But only for a second.
‘Absolutely, Oscar, you clearly haven’t been following. You seem more interested in your phone. Anything you’d care to share with the rest of us? Don’t tell me, a bad year for Pinot noir in your vineyard?’
Newte rose to his feet without responding to the barb.
‘Indeed I do have very dramatic news. If I could have your attention please, everyone?’
All eyes turned to face him at the other end of the table, leaving Stephen with little choice but to sit down and concede the spotlight. Newte addressed the room. ‘As you all know, there has been some speculation about the future direction of the company following the retirement of your… our… dear chairman, and I have needless to say, as your FD, been keeping abreast of developments. I have naturally been sworn to secrecy, but there appears to have been an – unfortunate – leak to the financial media, so I believe it’s appropriate for me to read out this breaking news on Business Live , which I think you’ll agree renders the Carreras master plan for next year somewhat irrelevant.’ He glanced triumphantly at Stephen, then peering at his phone, cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner.
‘I quote. The takeover of Grimley’s by US confectionery giant Schmaltz has been completed today. A Schmaltz spokesman in Chicago announced the deal in an early morning press conference. Schmaltz has been voraciously acquiring European chocolate businesses over the past three years but its decision to take over Grimley’s will surprise some analysts as the latter, still family-owned, has been in the financial doldrums in recent years.’ This raised a dissenting ‘bloody cheek’ from Jim Jeffries, but Newte continued. ‘The company’s departing chairman, Gordon Grimley, last surviving family member in the business, was unavailable for comment. But a Schmaltz spokesman said the Americans would appoint a new MD for the UK business and a new senior leadership team imminently. He refused to rule out job losses at Grimley’s East Midlands HQ in Middleton or their factory in Dumfries.’
And with that, Newte flipped his phone case closed and surveyed his audience.
‘The Yanks are coming,’ he smirked.
The room went quiet but for the whirr of the projector blowing a steady jet of hot air against Stephen’s right cheek.
‘I can’t believe the media know about this before we do,’ Stephen said. Although given how much of a car crash Grimley’s was these days, it seemed entirely possible. ‘It’s probably pure speculation,’ he ventured.
‘Well, as I said, obviously a shame about the leak, but I can assure you it’s true.’ Newte looked at him pityingly.
Silence descended again, until finally it was left once more to Jim Jeffries, as the elder statesman, to articulate his feelings.
‘Well, fuck me,’ he growled.
‘Thanks, Jim. I think I can safely say you speak for all of us,’ Stephen said.
His chances of becoming the next MD of Grimley’s were now officially zero. Whereas the odds on getting