Replacing the phone in its cradle, Paul dropped his head into his hands. No one seemed to have room. Thommo said he could have his couch, but Paul was all too aware of the lumps and broken springs. He’d sat on the uncomfortable piece of furniture often enough when Thommo invited the guys round for beer and televised sport.
Paul was no snob. The last thing he could call himself would be house-proud, but Thommo’s place was a tip. His last girlfriend had walked out on him six months earlier, no doubt because she was fed up with cleaning up after him.
Looking at his watch, Paul realised it was almost knocking-off time, and he’d got precious little work done. Putting a couple of executive summaries in his briefcase, he straightened up his desk and prepared to leave.
Standing in the corridor
