Read part one here and part two here.

Terry was in the room when Jim Rosling dropped dead. I held Mum’s hand when she went, but I was in the car when Dad died. The call came too late. For both of them, though, I knew it was coming. None of us expected Jim to go like that and none of us knew about his heart. He was the hardest worker I’ve ever come across and we all thought he’d go on forever. Terry wasn’t afraid to put in the hours either. He was Jim’s biggest fan and I know it’s not appropriate to quote Tina, but he hung on every word he said. He witnessed the sudden death of the man he put on a pedestal; you might point to that if you were looking for answers.

That’s why I went to Terry’s house that one time, despite the way he acted around me. I wanted to check how he was doing. It was morning and he wasn’t dressed, but it was the weekend. He said he was going to make us a pot of tea, but he was taking so long I thought he might have started crying or dropped a mug. I didn’t know where to look and I tried to back out, but he opened his eyes and I had to pretend I was walking in. I could hear the panic in his voice, but not what he was saying. It was the smell, which was nothing like toast. It was more powerful than what followed him into the office. I suppose that by the time he got to work, what was left was the essence of the action, rather than the stink of branded flesh. Whenever I caught the whiff of Terry after that, I was back in his kitchen.

He thought we had made a connection because he had shared his secret with me and I had told him about the nickname. Forewarned is forearmed, he said. I should have kept it to myself.

Mr. Peter – Richard – raised a few eyebrows when he gave Terry a week’s leave after Jim’s funeral. He must have been hoping Terry would return refreshed and ready to press on with business as usual; the company has always sailed close to the wind and I remember Richard saying that we couldn’t afford to let Jim’s accounts get poached by the vultures. He asked me to go through Jim’s files and make sure everything was up to date so that when Terry got back he could get straight on to them. There wasn’t much to do apart from chase some overdue payments and make appointments for Terry to see the buyers. But on the day he came back to work he insisted on setting aside the afternoon to go through each file and cross-reference – he made a big deal about that phrase, as though he was splitting the atom – them with notes he had pulled together during his week off. He had a tan leather notebook full of crossings out and doodles. He kept tying a leather lace around it, untying it, flicking through the pages and holding it close to his chest as though he was playing cards. As we went through each account it was aha and I see or hmm and lots of scribbling and attempts at looking thoughtful. He was sweating so much I thought he was ill. When the notebook reappeared in January I should have paid more attention. He claimed it was essential information he had been writing down in case he was ever asked to hand over some or all of his accounts to Melanie. This had never, to my knowledge, been discussed at any significant level, and I assumed it was yet another of Terry’s flights of fancy.

Richard had trusted me to make sure the accounts moved from Jim to Terry without a hitch. I was showing willing when I accepted Terry’s invitation to lunch at Cucina Puglia in the high street. He wanted to review the client meetings and discuss how to follow up. I thought it would be a good opportunity for Terry to work on his people skills: I had done some following up of my own and was aware of one or two problems which at the time I put down to grief. All that the clients required was an assurance that business would continue as before. What this boiled down to was them asking, without asking in so many words, do I still get the extra discount that Jim gave me? They love to think they’re getting more than their competitors. Thank God they don’t talk to each other. But Terry had not picked up on this and was convinced Jim had had all sorts of side deals and arrangements that were not on the level. The lady from Watchyards – Mrs. Collins – in particular was upset by Terry’s insinuations. That was the point I should have put a stop to it, but instead I promised to investigate and that gave Terry an excuse for another lunch request.

The day before the second lunch, he left a box of Belgian pralines on my desk. I was a bit creeped-out by the note which said Same table tomorrow, but also I was touched because I had mentioned how they were Mum’s favourites and that we’d shared a box the day before she died. When we sat down to eat he asked if I had liked the chocolates and what could I say but yes, thank you. How could any normal person construe those three words as encouragement? I kept my focus on the matter in hand which was working through the accounts one by one and making whatever observations might convince Terry that there was nothing out of the ordinary about Jim’s methods. The only thing he needed to worry about, I stressed, was keeping the customers onboard. By the time we had finished our coffees – don’t worry, said Terry, this is all on Sunbury – he had put his notebook away and seemed to have forgotten his obsession with five-finger discount and a bad apple in the warehouse. But then one of those men came over with a bucket of roses and that was when the thing with the flowers started.

What sort of a man buys one of those roses? A desperate one, that’s what. Or one that thinks he’s being funny, which is a risky game to play. Buy some proper flowers or don’t buy any at all. A single, cheap rose in a plastic cylinder? What do they imagine that says about what they think of you? No one wants to be that girl. I didn’t – I don’t – but I wish I’d kept my disappointment to myself. He ghosted past my desk an hour later and swivelled mid-step when it dawned on him he’d passed through a flower-free zone. I had left the rose in the restaurant to make a point, but pulled a face as though cursing my absent-mindedness. When he offered to run back into town I said not to bother, but he insisted he would have to buy me a replacement. There was a red rose – from a proper florist, which I admit impressed me the first time – on my desk every Monday morning for six weeks after that. Richard asked me to let Terry down gently because there was too much riding on the accounts and there wasn’t anyone to take his place. That was another chance missed and who’s to say that Terry wouldn’t have settled himself down if one of the bosses had had a word? We wouldn’t be looking for him now, and Melanie wouldn’t be looking over her shoulder every two minutes if I hadn’t been asked not to be too hard on him.

But Terry wasn’t for letting down gently. Don’t waste your money on me Terry: that didn’t work. A girl can have too many roses only encouraged him to move on to orchids; and when I suggested the other girls might get jealous, he winked and said so they should be. They didn’t get jealous exactly, but they stopped inviting me for drinks. I don’t know about Terry changing, but I wasn’t feeling as positive as I had in the past. Responsibility and faith is one thing, but when you’re holding the future of the company in your hands while having to deal with what is now called harassment, your motivation suffers. Firm-but-polite didn’t work, so I moved on to firm-and-to-the-point: stop messing me about or I’ll make a complaint; no more flowers; no more lunches; and work-related communication through work channels only. I had to keep it up all day, every day and I’m sure that is how The Cleaver came into being. If I showed Terry the slightest bit of courtesy the flowers would start up again. They only stopped for good when I dropped a pot of orchids into his waste paper bin in front of the whole office. I had three months of peace after that. That was the frustrating thing: when he knuckled down, he was bloody good at his job.

The company went into administration and Richard moved on. We rose from the flames and his successor, Ivan Hemmings, cantered into the office. He was the man, he assured us, to put Sunbury back on the map. He called me to a meeting and went through a list of names, asking me for a one-word answer after each one. Brown? Stay. Chapman? Stay. Evans? Go. Flanagan? Go. He dropped his pen when I gave the thumbs down on Terry. Our top salesman? No, no, no, Miss Cleaver. He put the flowers down to misguided enthusiasm and raised his hands to his ears when I mentioned the smell. Don’t get personal about personal hygiene. A quiet word is all it takes. I’d heard that before, so I decided to let him learn for himself. I don’t know if it was the smell or the odd mannerisms (Mr. Hemmings’ slant on Terry’s behaviour), but our top salesman was soon awarded an office of his own. With a window. That was the one good decision of Ivan Hemmings’ tenure. He arrived in spring and was gone before the autumn. In any case, the key accounts were happy and Terry was keeping himself to himself. It was the best of times.

I tried pottery. I lasted two weeks in Conversational Italian and was informed that I could choose one more class and if I couldn’t get on with that I’d lose my money. I met Michael in Just for Fun Upcycling. I was three sessions behind when I turned up with an old night stand and zero enthusiasm. I had put so much effort into building a wall around myself that I couldn’t imagine the old me breaking free. Terry had turned me into The Cleaver and she was the sort of person that attacks an old piece of furniture with coarse sandpaper. Michael was using the workbench to my right and I didn’t notice him until he put his hand on my arm and pulled me away from the wood. What’s it ever done to you, he asked. You’ve got to be gentle. Gentle, I said, my most favourite word. He laughed because he thought I was joking and when I started rubbing again he took the sandpaper from of my hand. Gently. He swapped it for a finer grade of paper and showed me how to remove the layers of grease and dirt and varnish in order to return the wood back to a state of innocence. You must be a salesman, I said, with patter like that. But he was a pharmacist.

Michael and I were having fun; courting, as my granddad used to say. The only person I told about Michael was Karen Stubbs. I had a good feeling about Karen. She spent time with all of us and rather than telling us what she was planning, she let us speak. Anything you need to know, I told her, ask me. I was happy with how things were going with Michael; Terry hadn’t bothered me for weeks; and I was hopeful she would leave me to get on with my job and find someone else to lean on. I told her work was fine, I had a new man and it wouldn’t affect my performance. Sunbury first, I said. What I should have said was please don’t mention my new man to anyone else. Karen did find someone else to lean on, but she made the wrong choice. Three months after she started, she found herself another job and moved up north. That was when the Audi first appeared in my street.

I rushed into the office one morning and didn’t remember to turn my phone on until I sat at my desk. Michael had left a voicemail, which I thought could wait until my break. It was more than likely an apology for making me late. It wasn’t. Did I know anyone with a silver Audi estate? He’d seen it parked at the end of the road and was sure it had been outside the house twice before. A fellow with wavy brown hair and a goatee? Here we go again, I thought. Thanks Karen for turning those Audi headlights back on me. I sent Michael a text telling him not to worry, but who was I kidding? He was the chivalrous type. It was good to have him in my life. He wanted me to make a formal complaint, but it was never a good time for that. I told him I could handle it and although it wasn’t what I wanted, it was time for The Cleaver to sharpen her blade. I took any and every opportunity to join in with the jokes and the gossip; I repeated the rumour (my rumour) that Terry’s success was all down to Jim Rosling; and it was me who started the craze for closing his office door when he had left it open. I know what you’re doing, he said to me one morning on his way to the printer. Keep them off the scent, he continued, and he tapped his nose with his index finger. We didn’t see the Audi again for a few weeks until Michael spotted it in the rear view mirror as we were leaving Sainsbury’s. He jumped out of my car, but Terry drove past and waved. I didn’t know you shopped at Sainsbury’s, he had the cheek to say, when we were back in work on the Monday morning.

Simon Tisdale must regret taking the credit for the mentoring scheme. If he had informed us, when it was announced, that he was acting on a suggestion from Terry, I’d like to think I would have raised an objection. That might not be true because I was taking comfort in the possibility that he might turn his attentions to someone else. And I didn’t imagine for a minute that Melanie was in any danger – had I ever been in danger – but I was too busy trying to work out if my relationship with Michael was worth saving. By the time I had that figured out – I can’t believe he said I enjoyed the attention – the mentoring scheme had been shelved. Simon can at least take the credit for that, although given what happened subsequently, it hasn’t come up. The die was cast, I suppose, mentoring scheme or not. I did witness Melanie trying to stick up for her ex-mentor, but these young women are much more alert to this kind of thing, so even though she was always easily swayed I assumed she could see what kind of man he was. Her only mistake was to be kind. Not that she kept his secret.

If there was a change in Terry after the Christmas break I didn’t see it. What I did see was two suitcases in the back of a silver Audi in the car park. How did he manage to find a space near to mine so often? He’d removed the back shelf in the car, so if you walked past you couldn’t help but see the cases. One day he hissed something like Ready when you are as I was getting into my car. He was sitting low in his driver seat in the row behind mine. I thought about what Michael had said about loving the attention, but I couldn’t help myself. For the love of God, Terry, I screamed, what are you talking about? What’s wrong with you? What makes you think someone like me would give someone like you a second glance? Grow up and find someone else to bother.

Melanie says that after what went on at the Christmas party she couldn’t think of a way to refuse Terry without hurting his feelings. She believed they were going to a business lunch with Niall Dudgeon and she was looking forward to dining at Le Chateau. The table was set for two when they arrived, and a long-stemmed red rose had been placed across her plate. She told the police she gave as good as she got; she told us the same and nothing more. She’s been wearing thick woollen sweaters with long cuffs, but I’ve seen the marks the packing tape made on her wrists. She’s working on three of the key accounts now, and not one of the clients has asked about Terry. No one wants to move into his office; not until the smell has gone.