At seven twenty-eight and seventeen seconds George passed the corner of his desk and noted, with his usual annoyance, that the cleaners had yet again left his chair slightly out of line. He adjusted it and sat down. At seven thirty precisely he opened his diary and began the day’s work.

An hour or so later Tom wandered over.

“Have you got the Rosenna file, George?” He sat on the corner of George’s desk, pushing the in-tray over by nearly a quarter of an inch.

“No, I have not, as you should know,” George replied, pushing the in-tray firmly back into place, and thereby causing Tom to get off the desk.

Tom drifted away to Sandra. “Have you got the Rosenna file, San?” he asked.

“Sure, Tom.” She passed him the folder. “Had your fingers burnt by the Dragon again?”

He nodded.

“Somebody really needs to do something about him,” she went on. “He’s getting worse, I’m sure; he was even straightening the pencils on my desk yesterday!”

“He needs someone to look after him!” Grace waved a motherly arm at George’s hunched shoulders. “A good woman would soon have him sorted.”

“That let’s me off, then!” Sandra wriggled her bosom in mock-provocation. “I’m never good!”

Grace frowned, but Tom played the game. “Oh, I’m sure you’re good at… some things!”

Sandra giggled.

“But what are we going to do about George?” Grace stuck to the main issue. “I don’t suppose he’s ever had a woman friend even.”

“They’re not tidy enough,” agreed Tom. “And as for – “ he began to mimic George – “all that sort of thing! Far too messy! Why, the sheets might get crumpled!”

Sandra giggled again, and even Grace laughed.

“Did you hear him tearing a strip off Andy?” she said.

“Oh, Andy’s just a God-bothering pest,” Sandra shook her head. “Always on about religion. Doesn’t stop him looking down my cleavage, though, does it?”

“Yes, I know,” Grace crushed the interruption, “but did you hear George? Couldn’t possibly believe in any of that because no self-respecting God would have got involved in anything so messy as crucifixion! So messy! I ask you! What sort of an argument is that?”

“We’re agreed, then?” said Sandra firmly. “We’ve got to do something about George.”

“Planning meeting sandwich bar lunchtime,” answered Tom. “I must get back now.”

The planning meeting was not a total success, but they did agree on a few points: first, that their best bet was to soften him up, even make friends with him, and get him to relax that way; second, that they needed to note and observe and get some facts; and third, that Sandra flashing her boobs at him would be counterproductive. The last by a majority of two to one.

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So Tom stopped sitting on his desk and dislodging his in-tray, Sandra stopped teasing him and became helpful, and Grace, who started at seven o’clock, straightened his chair before he came in and had his favourite marker pens in stock.

And he began to talk, just a little. And despite Tom’s matiness and Sandra’s obvious sex appeal, it was Grace he talked to most. She even began to mother him a little.

But it was in talking to Tom and Grace together that he let out the big clue.

“A cairn terrier?” he said, “That must be very pleasant. I always wanted a dog, myself, but my mother disapproved. She always said they were too messy, too much fuss.”

“Really?” said Tom, trying to be casual.

“Yes. But next door had a dog, a big soppy Labrador, and I used to sneak round there sometimes and play with it.”

Both Grace and Tom completely failed to imagine George playing with a big soppy Labrador. However.

“That’s funny,” said Tom. “A friend of mine keeps Labradors, and they’ve still got some puppies from the last litter. Would you like one? They practically give them away to a good home.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly!” But his eyes said something else.

“Why not? Your house is plenty big enough, surely? And you’ve got a huge garden.”

“Oh, no, not huge. It’s fairly big, no more.”

“Big enough, though. Come on, let me speak to them and see if they’ve still got one. You’d love it!”

“Well, maybe, if it’s well behaved.”

“Oh, Labradors are always well behaved. They’re so intelligent. You’d find it no problem. Oh, there’s Bruno after the Cottestone project. Must go.”

The three met in the sandwich bar that lunch time.

“Well, I must say that was really fortituous!” exclaimed Grace. (“Fortunate…” murmured Sandra.) “That he should want a Labrador and you could help him! You knew where to get one! It’ll be the making of him, you’ll see!”

“Er, yes.”

Sandra giggled. “That just leaves one problem, doesn’t it, Tom!”

“What?” said Grace.

“Well, Tom now has to find someone who breeds Labradors before George finds out!”

“What? You mean…”

“Oh, Grace! Tom pulls this sort of trick all the time! Lies through his teeth and then makes it true afterwards! Go and ask Jeff Thorne about the Macley and Tompkins presentation if you don’t believe me! Real accomplished little liar is our Tom!” She pinched his cheek. “That’s why none of us let him get behind our desks!”

“Well, I never!” Grace sat back in the chair, bending it precariously.

“But as usual,” Sandra went on, “he’s fallen on his feet. I do know someone who breeds Labradors, and they do indeed almost give some of them away to good homes.”

“Some of them?” Grace sounded sceptical.

“I gather it’s the ones that aren’t – oh, I’ve forgotten the proper word, but they’ve got something that would stop them being shown. Nothing that hurts the dog, just a funny marking or blotch on their coat, something like that. I’ll have a word with Jack – he’ll be co-operative, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure you can handle him, my dear!”

“Oh yes, Grace! Jack and I can handle each other very well indeed!”

A month later.

At seven twenty-eight and seventeen seconds, George was running to his desk. He threw himself down in his chair, ignoring its alignment. He paused to get his breath back. A few minutes later he pulled his diary open and settled down to work.

An hour or so later Tom wandered over.

“Have you got the Jenster file, George?” He sat on the corner of George’s desk, pushing the in-tray over by nearly a quarter of an inch.

“I don’t think so,” George replied, reaching for a filing cabinet drawer. “No. Sandra’s got it, I think.”

“Oh. Oh, by the way, there’s a thing on in the canteen this lunchtime – did you know? About the new reorganisation and how we’re going to be moved around.”

“Yes, thanks, Tom, yes, I had heard, but I can’t get.”

“Oh?”

“No, I have to take Looby out for a walk at lunchtimes. She’s too young yet just to leave in the garden.”

“Oh I see. Pity – it’s just your sort of thing.”

George nodded and turned back to his work. When Tom stood up George didn’t straighten the in-tray.

Tom drifted away to Sandra. “Have you got the Jenster file, San?” he asked.

“Sure, Tom.” She passed him the folder. “We’ve really tamed the Dragon, haven’t we!”

He nodded.

Grace turned round. “I told you he needed a good woman!”

“I’m not sure a Labrador bitch counts as a good woman,” demurred Sandra.

“It’s female, demands continuous attention and insists he buys her dinner all the time,” answered Tom. “What’s the difference?”

Sandra made a face at him, and Tom laughed.