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Firm Discipline
by by Rudi Glenn (Underling)
"It's not about the money, Stuart. It's a question of trust."

Miranda Wells - fifty-two, sharply suited, severely beautiful - sifted through the collection of expense receipts before her.

"Lord knows," she continued, addressing the young man standing awkwardly on the far side of her desk, "on a good day you're already making more profit for this company in ten minutes work than this little lot amounts to. You certainly have the talent. But then I think it's fair to say - especially at your tender age, especially at the start of your career - that I'm paying you handsomely for it."

Stuart Freeman - twenty-two, expensively coiffured, boyishly good-looking - said nothing. He studied the carpet at his feet with apparent nonchalance, although he was somewhat betrayed by the flush rising to his cheeks.

After a few seconds Miranda stopped shuffling and began to lay out the incriminating sheets of paper in a neat row, face up, with the solemn formality of a fortune teller dealing from a tarot deck. Each was turned towards Stuart as though to encourage him to think on his betrayal; each foretold a gloomy future.

Miranda carefully straightened up the last sheet. Then she leaned back in her padded leather chair, folded her silk-sleeved arms across her ample bosom, and let her cool gaze rest on her newest and youngest employee for a long, long moment.

"So," she said presently. "Promising future, enviable salary, and yet..." - she waved an elegant hand dismissively above the offending paperwork - "And yet, this. The question is, Stuart... the question is, why?"

Stuart's mouth tightened a little and he offered a small, apologetic shrug - a gesture that had served him well during the schooldays to which he felt himself suddenly returned.

Miranda waited. She studied her fingernails. She let the silence build. Then she sighed. "I have a theory, if you'll indulge me. It's not enough for you to be young and successful and rather pretty, is it? No, you're one of those young men who's happiest when he's breaking the rules. Playing the chancer. Being a bad boy. Are you a bad boy, Stuart?"

That produced something dangerously close to a smirk.

"I'd straighten that face if I were you, young man," said Miranda, "because otherwise I'll happily do it for you." She drummed her fingers briefly on the desk. "Oh, and I'm still waiting for an explanation, but since I've plenty of paperwork to do here then I'm also happy to keep you standing there all morning if need be. What's more - since it's company time you're wasting - every minute you do stand there is another minute you'll be sat at your desk this evening making up for it."

She peered at him over the steel frames of her spectacles. "Assuming, that is, that you're lucky enough to have a desk to go back to."

That, at least, had some effect. Stuart cleared his throat. "Miranda, I..."