Bitter Pills

Peter Argonis

© 2024

1. A Dead End

2. Birthdays and Surprises

3. Changes

4. Executive Privileges

5. On shaky ground

6. Best Enemy

7. Taking Inventory

8. A Grudge Fuck

9. Opportunity

10. The East London School of Economics

11. A Fresh Start

1. A Dead End

“So, as you can easily see, we can turn the Palmer Street plant into a profitable operation. The required investments into equipment upgrades are tolerable compared with the productivity enhancements and the projected savings in personnel costs.”

Tom Verkade took a deep breath after ending his presentation. He looked around at the senior management sitting around the table in the meeting room and he had a sinking feeling. His own boss, Hiram Gunderson, was openly winking at the VP Finance, Walter Moran, while Iris Verkade, Tom’s wife and the president of Villier Pharmceuticals Inc. was nervously twiddling with a paper napkin. It was Moran who finally dropped the other shoe.

“You obviously put in a lot of effort into this strategy paper, Tom. I think we can all agree that this should be included into the paperwork that we will hand over to the investor group. We can probably realize a better offer for the plant. So again, thanks, Tom! I move that we include Tom in the team that will make our final sales pitch.”

Buyers? Tom felt dazed. Just yesterday evening at supper, Iris had encouraged him to make his pitch. He looked at her and her face flushed guiltily. He straightened himself.

“I was under the impression that we planned to use the plant ourselves?”

“Sorry, Tom. This is a new development. We’ve only started the negotiations last week,” Moran answered smugly. “As I said, your effort is appreciated.”

“And what is the opinion of the President?” Tom asked, again staring hard at Iris.

“I…” she cleared her throat. “I concur with Walter. This is obviously too good an opportunity to divest ourselves of a cash drain.”

“You know, you could have told me,” Tom said shaking his head. “I’ll be in my office.”

“Hold yourself ready to give the buyers a tour next week, Tom,” Hiram Gunderson sneered at him. “Don’t muck this up! A lot of cash is riding on this.”

Tom was angry enough to let his countenance slip. “Asshole!” he fake-sneezed. “Sorry, pollen are flying.”

“Tom, that kind of behavior is unacceptable!” Iris rebuked him sharply.

Tom gave her one long look, again shaking his head. He was about to answer when Peter Salieri spoke up. He was the VP for Sales, a relatively recent hire and in Tom’s mind a smart man.

“I think Tom raised a few interesting points that should be discussed in more detail. Selling off the plant will rob us of almost half our production capacity. How am I supposed to increase market share with the constant production delays? Palmer Street could be flexible enough to handle all the small volume stuff while Hiram’s people could continue with the high volume products.”

Tom was impressed. Peter was sticking out his neck while batting for Tom, and he had an excellent point.

“We may invest part of the proceeds from the sales in new equipment for the main production lines. That should takes care of your concerns. This is about the bottom line. Palmer Street has been in the red for three years.”

“That’s only because Hiram lets them only do the low margin products,” Tom answered sharply, encouraged by Peter Salieri’s support. He should have known better.

“Why don’t you mind your own business, Tom?” Hiram Gunderson shot at him. “Being the prince consort doesn’t give you any business competence.”

“Playing golf with the board members doesn’t either!” Tom returned recklessly. “I have degrees in chemical engineering and business management, remember?”

“Tom, Hiram, please!” Iris interceded half-heartedly. “We’re on the same team here.”

“Yeah, right! I’m not so sure about this,” Tom returned bitterly. “Okay, you guys are set on making a quick buck for the next quarterlies, and rather than looking at strategies to improve the outlook you just go for the good old cost-cutting.”

“Cost reduction is imperative in our current earnings situation. According to standard models our overhead is simply too high,” Walter Moran answered silkily.

“You know something, Excel-Boy? Your spreadsheets don’t mean anything when the product quality sucks and we’re losing customers.”

Walter Moran blushed deeply at the Excel-Boy taunt. It was Tom’s nickname for him, and he did not like it one bit.

“May I remind you that I have a degree from the London School of Economics? A conservative financial management is essential for a company’s survival in times like this.”

“Conservative means preserving, Excel-Boy. Didn’t they teach you that in London?”

“Tom, that’s enough now. Accept that we must see the full picture,” Iris interrupted them. “Why don’t you return to your office. Walter will send you the information you’ll need. The buyers will view the plant starting next Tuesday. I think I can authorize a little bonus for you if this plays out well.”

Tom did not even answer. He flipped his laptop shut and left the meeting room without another word. Peter Salieri stood as well.

“I had better get back to work.”

“Peter, we’re not finished,” Iris protested.

“Just forward me the memo with Walter’s ideas, and I’ll assume they’ll be your policies.”

“Peter, …”

“Mrs. Verkade, I am wasting my time and breath. You go and cut costs with Walter, and I’ll go and cut my losses. This company will go tits up in five years, and I don’t want to be anywhere near this train wreck when it’ll happen. You’ll have my resignation by the end of the week.”

Clearly alarmed, Iris stood and walked around the table. “Peter, we need you on the team. You are an excellent sales manager.”

“Am I? Then why the fuck doesn’t anybody listen to me or to reason? You want my honest opinion? The best way of cost cutting will be to eliminate the position of president. Nobody will notice if we receive the directives directly from Walter!”

He left the room without waiting for an answer, catching up with Tom in the hallway.

“Tom, wait! Do you have a minute?”

Tom turned. “Sure,” he nodded. “Listen, Peter. I appreciate your support, but you don’t have to quit over this. Maybe I’ll quit, but you really shouldn’t.”

Peter Salieri smiled at him. “Okay, that’s half of what I wanted to know. Are you considering this, I mean quitting here?”

Tom stopped for a few moments thinking furiously. Then he nodded to himself. Yes. There was no future for him at Villier. Not with the Palmer Street Plant sold. It was the one area of production where he could shine with his background, and now it would be gone. He had hoped for the chance to rebuild it, a chance to prove himself, and Iris had all but promised him that opportunity. Now, Excel-Boy had schemed against the plans and Iris had caved in as usual. Gunderson was behind this, too, Tom suspected. He wouldn’t want Tom in an independent role where Tom could prove himself. Looking at Peter Salieri, Tom nodded with emphasis.

“Yes, I’m fed up with this shit.”

His diction was a little colored by movie language. That was how he had learned English, back in his native Netherlands where he had grown up as the second son of an invalid former railroad worker

Peter Salieri grinned at him. “How about we have lunch? Outside I mean. Maybe I have a proposition for you.”

“You’re serious about leaving?”

“As a heart attack. Why don’t we go right away. Branzino’s? My treat, of course.”

Tom did not know Branzino’s. It was an upscale Italian restaurant. Iris might know it of course, but they rarely ever had dinner together. They lived separate lives these days, with Iris spending the entire days with upper management and Tom working regular hours before returning home to take care of their son Cornelius.

He nodded acceptance. Both men dropped off some documents at their offices and met in the parking lot. They drove separately because Tom needed to be home early. It was Cor’s eighth birthday, and they would host a party for his friends in the garden starting at 3 o’clock. He was curious what Peter Salieri had in mind, but he admitted to himself that he was desperate to leave Villier.

———

He and Iris had met at UPenn. Tom was a post-doctoral researcher on a fellowship from the Dutch government, and Iris was a masters student in chemical engineering. He was her tutor, and in short time they fell in love. Iris was a shy girl, conscious of her status as future heiress of a multi-million dollar company, and she enjoyed the attention Tom payed to her as a person. Tom was a carefree fellow with leftist leanings, and he could not have cared less about the Villier family fortune. To Iris, he was a breath of fresh air, and she filled her lungs eagerly.

After she finished her masters thesis, she and Tom toured Europe for eight weeks. Iris had a ball. She blossomed from the shy, sheltered and inhibited girl into a sensual young woman. She smoked joints in Amsterdam’s coffee shops, she sunned herself topless on the North Sea beaches, she even gave herself to Tom under the open skies in the dunes. Looking back, it was the time of their lives and after that everything went downhill.

Returning to the States, Iris presented the bearded and long-haired Dutch post-doc to her family. No love was lost between Tom and her family. Well, that was not true, not entirely at least. Iris’s father was friendly and accepting, but then he was an outsider in the family himself. Worst was Iris’s grandfather, Emmett Villier Junior, the son of the founder of Villier Pharmaceuticals. To Old Bluenose as Tom nicknamed him, the young Dutchman was an anathema. His plebeian background, his political leanings, and his open indifference to the family fortune made him unacceptable.

Yet, with Iris’s father being supportive, the two young people married anyway when Iris found out that she was pregnant. Everything might have turned out well for them had not Iris’s father died in a weird car crash two months after their wedding, making Iris the new heiress apparent to the family fortune. Cowed by her domineering grandfather, Iris pleaded with Tom to accept a job at Villier while she herself became the personal assistant of her grandfather, being groomed for taking over the business.

Nevertheless, she was ill-prepared to succeed him when he died of liver failure two years later. That effectively ended Tom and Iris’s marriage, for she immersed herself in her management tasks leaving the care for their son to her husband. Tom still worked a full day, but he managed to be at home by five p.m. most days allowing him to spend time with Cor. Iris, by contrast, barely ever saw her son awake on weekdays, and even on weekends there were appointments and business dinners to attend.

The worst thing Old Bluenose had done to them was placing Tom in the production branch under Hiram Gunderson. Hiram was an old school engineer with little or no knowledge of modern processes, but he was a first cousin of Iris’s father. He also shared Old Bluenose’s dislike for Tom, and he made it his task in life to blame Tom for each and every mistake and failure in production.

As insecure as Iris was, she believed that her “Uncle Hiram” would never lie to her, and she met Tom’s view of things with disbelief, joining the club of those who called him a screw-up behind his back. It was mobbing in the truest sense, and with his growing distance from Iris, Tom had no chance to defend himself. He was tired of it.

———

There was a parking lot ahead and Peter Salieri in front of Tom was setting the indicator. They parked their cars and walked the short distance to the restaurant. Tom loved traditional Italian cooking, but being effectively a single parent he rarely had chances to indulge in it.

The two men were seated at a table in the back, away from other occupied tables, and given the menus. Little was spoken while they made their selections, but once the waiter had taken their orders, Peter spoke up.

“Listen, Tom: I have known about this offer for the Palmer Street Plant for almost three weeks, so Moran was lying through his teeth.”

“You knew?”

Peter nodded. “I thought with the restructuring concept you prepared they would shoot down the offer, but you know Moran: he needs cash to balance his earnings report. Tom, I know the people behind the offer. In fact, they’re cousins of mine. It’s the Di Rosa family, and my grandmother was a Di Rosa. They are offering me the job as business manager, and frankly, the offer looks good. Same pay as at Villier, but I'll call the shots.”

Tom nodded feeling a little envy. “That sounds like a hell of an offer.”

“It is. Now, I’ve been thinking. I’ve read your report, and I think it’s spot-on. When this will work out, I’ll need a production manager. Are you interested?”

Tom‘s eyes opened wide as the implications dawned on him. Production manager. It would mean a chance. A chance to prove himself, but also a chance to get out from under Gunderson’s tyranny. Iris would not take kindly to this, he suspected, but then again, if he proved himself away from Villier the snide remarks of him being the prince-consort would be snuffed. He could show his worth, and perhaps it would make Iris realize that her husband was more than a live-in nanny for their son.

“I’m interested,” he said softly.

“Does your contract have a no-compete clause?”

“Naw. I’m just a commie worker bee, remember,” Tom answered sarcastically.

Peter grinned. “Neither has mine. Evans in personnel is such a wuss. Tom, you have to see that at some point we may compete with Villier. Can you do that?”

Tom actually laughed. “Do you have any idea how much I hate that company? I mean, there is some conflict because of my son, but you didn’t mean it when you said that Villier will founder?”

“No, not soon anyway, and certainly not because of a bit of competition. So, can I tell my family to contact you?”

Tom thought about it. He was disloyal to Iris if he negotiated for a new job behind her back, but then again, she had not shown much loyalty herself in the last years.

“Okay, Peter. Go ahead, tell them. I mean, this is legit, right? From what I read in the papers…”

Three years ago, a cousin of the Di Rosas and his wife were murdered by an Albanian drug gang. A few days later, those thugs were found dead, dangling from a water main in the basement of their front operation, the Olympic Gym. Everybody knew that the Di Rosas had retaliated, but nobody could prove a thing¹.

“You mean the Olympic? Please! My cousins were in the hospital watching over the injured kids when those criminals were killed. It was a turf war among drug dealers. No, the Di Rosas are strictly legit these days. I mean, the Old Man is basically a billionaire from his various companies, construction, real estate, even security. Why would he risk that over peanuts?”

“Okay, Peter. I guess with guys like Excel-Boy and Gunderson at Villier, what can be worse?”

“That’s the spirit! Tom, I’m so glad we’re having this talk! I think we can both show those idiots at Villier how this business can be done. Let’s see. You are still supposed to show the buyers the plant?”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s great. You can meet them without anyone being suspicious. Even when you strike a deal, you can always claim how you impressed them with your knowledge and they offered you a job. That should cover you a bit with your wife.”

Tom shrugged. “I suppose she’ll be happy to be shot of me at work.” Maybe they could even work things out between themselves if the work aspect was out of the way.

2. Birthdays and Surprises

After the lunch with Peter Salieri, Tom had to drive home. Mrs. Pound had already picked up Cor at school, and she had used the morning to prepare everything for the birthday party. Cor just wanted to have his friends over to play in the garden, have cake, and later char some sausages on the monstrous garden grill. No clown, no inflatable castle, no DJ. In many respects, Cor was far more Tom’s son than Iris’s, and his ideas of fun were simple.

“Hey, sport! Will they all come?”

Cor smiled and nodded eagerly, but then a shadow fell over his face.

“I wanted to play soccer with them, but Mr. Castro has forbidden it.”

Arturo Castro was the family gardener, an inheritance from Old Bluenose and just as snotty. Tom squared his shoulders. No. He would not allow the gardener to ruin Cor’s fun. He turned to Mrs. Pound, the housekeeper.

“Should I tell Castro or will you?”

Mrs. Pound was one of Tom’s own hires, in fact the only one. When he and Iris moved into the grand mansion, the mausoleum as Tom called it, he clashed immediately with Emmet Villier junior’s housekeeper. She wanted to run the house and the family, she wanted a say in Cor’s education, she wanted a say in what they ate for breakfast. Tom put his foot down, something he had not done nearly often enough as he realized now, and Miss Luger was sent packing. Mrs. Pound was far more compatible with Tom, but she still had a hard time after five years to enforce her authority over the other house staff.

“I can tell him, but he won’t listen,” she shrugged.

“Call him. On the terrace in ten minutes,” Tom said sighing inwardly but determined not to budge.

He had time to change from his suit and tie getup into blue jeans and a polo shirt. He was quick about it, but when he came downstairs, Mr. Castro was already waiting on the terrace.

“You asked for me, Mr. Verkade?”

“Yes. Today is my son’s birthday. He has friends over, and they want to play soccer on the lawn behind the garages. Just so you know.”

“Mr. Verkade! This is not a public park! When Mr. Villier had the garden planned in 1949, he…”

“…had no idea of raising a child,” Tom interrupted the man. “This garden belongs to my family, Mr. Castro, and we use it as we see fit. A few eight-year-olds won’t cause irreparable damage, not if the lawn is worth anything. Get used to it.”

“I will protest to Mrs. Villier!” Castro replied angrily. “You have no right to give me orders, and I…”

It was a bad day for Castro to provoke Tom.

“Furthermore, you will not give any orders to my son, Mr. Castro,” Tom continued unperturbed. “Any repeat of that will lead to your immediate termination. The same will happen if you disobey the instructions from Mrs. Pound. If you feel that you can’t live with that, I’ll be happy to accept your resignation. Now get out of my sight.”

The man stared at Tom in silent fury for a moment or two before he turned to leave.

“Oh, and don’t even think of starting to water the lawn now!” Tom shot the closing salvo.

God verdomme! he swore under his breath. He was done letting the creepy Villier family and their minions run his life! He breathed deeply to overcome the anger and rejoined Mrs. Pound and Cor who helped her with the last preparations. Cor grinned at Tom.

“Thanks, Papa.”

“Hey, this is your home. What good is a backyard if you’re not allowed to use it?”

———

It was past five o’clock, and Tom was busy at the grill frying burgers and hot dogs for their young guests. Iris had not shown yet, much to his anger and in spite of her promise to be home early. For a moment he contemplated calling her, but a perverse pride kept him from reaching for his phone. If her son’s birthday was not important to her, let everybody know it! It was bad for Cor, but then he was used to it by now. The year before she had only come home at six, after the last visitors had been picked up, and then she’d had no patience for Cor either. Grimly, Tom resumed turning the burger patties.

———

At a quarter past eight o’clock, Cor went up to his room. They’d had fun during the party, but after his friends were gone, Cor had become acutely aware of his missing mother. Sensing his son’s dejection Tom then placed a call, but he only got her voicemail.

“I’ll remove the decorations now, Mr. Verkade,” Mrs. Pound announced, but Tom shook his head, no.

“Leave them. Tomorrow’s another day, and I’ll help you. You did enough today. Thank you.”

Mrs. Pound nodded. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Verkade.”

“It is what it is,” Tom shrugged.

Fifteen minutes later he checked on Cor and found him sleeping already. Running around with his friends had tired him sufficiently. Smiling sadly, Tom left his son’s bedroom. Downstairs, he switched off the lights. He even deactivated the porch light. A porch light was a sign of welcome, and Iris was not welcome after that day.

Back in their bedroom, he took a deep breath. What he was about to do could easily spell the end of their marriage. He shrugged for the umpteenth time that day. Did it really matter anymore? He and Cor were apparently just dead weight to Iris. Determined, he took his duvet and pillow together with a change of clothing and headed over to the guest wing. He used one of the guest rooms as a makeshift study, and there he dumped his bedding on the queen size bed.

There was a certain temptation to hit the liquor cabinet downstairs for a nice shot of Scotch, but there was a chance that he would have to confront Iris that night, and he would not give her the satisfaction of being a drunk or even smelling of alcohol. Sleep did not come to Tom. Instead he tossed and turned going over the day’s events.

They had shot down his one chance of moving up at Villier, making his current job a dead end proposition. Then Peter Salieri had dropped that exciting offer into his lap, an offer he was eager to learn more about. On top of that, Iris missed Cor’s birthday in spite of her promises. All things combined spelled a rough patch for his and Iris’s marriage.

‘What marriage?’ he then asked the ceiling above his bed. On good days, Iris was polite. On bad days, she belittled him and accused him of complicating her oh-so-difficult life. Their sex life had also dwindled away under the mutual resentment, and not for the first time Tom asked himself if Iris was perhaps deliberately moving away from him and her son, if she perhaps was having an affair. Walter Moran, Excel-Boy, came to his mind immediately, but he dismissed that. Her tastes could not be that bad. Moran was just a flabby, pasty stuffing for his expensive suits, with no redeeming personal qualities. He was vain, arrogant, and domineering, and Tom thought that Iris had had enough of that from her own grandfather.

He sighed. He probably would never know until it was too late.

———

Iris Villier leaned back into her seat, pinching the bridge of her nose with two fingers. It was late again, almost eleven she saw. Perhaps Tom would be in bed already. That would spare her the confrontation for tonight over the Palmer Street business which was sure to come. She felt bad about it herself. She would have let Tom know of the development, but she had not had a chance for any meaningful talk to him in at least a week.

Something else was also tugging at her conscience, but for her life she could not remember what it was. She exhaled deeply. She would apologize to Tom. She would make it clear that the new development had come as a surprise to her, too. Damn! Why did Walter have to do this without telling her? It was true: the board had installed the VPs of finance and production as answerable to the board alone, a construction to make her ascension to the position of president at age 28 more palatable to the other shareholders. Still, he should have told her. She had to back Walter in the interest of maintaining the authority of the senior management, but now she feared that Peter Salieri, the promising VP for Sales Management, would quit over this business. She could not afford to lose him. He was one of her own picks and one of her few supporters among the VPs.

How could Walter claim to adore her if he presented her with faits accomplis like that? She did not even want his adoration. She was married, and Tom had been loyal to her all those years. He was a good father too, and he used to be a brilliant scientist. Iris could not fathom why he was such a failure at Villier. Perhaps Hiram Gunderson was too critical of him. In that sense, the Palmer Street Plant would have been ideal for Tom to have a fresh start.
The wheels were crunching over the gravel driveway and Iris became aware of her surroundings again.

“Villier House, Madam,” the driver announced. He stepped from the car to open her passenger door and handed her the briefcase. “Good night, Madam!”

“Good night, Perlman,” Iris answered absentmindedly, already walking up the front steps.

Something was strange. Yes, the front lights were not on. Had Mrs. Pound forgotten to switch them on? In the darkness, Iris needed three attempts to find the keyhole, and then she had problems typing in the security code. The door swung open, and the interior was dark, too. Iris found the light switch, and finally she could see.

Paper streamers and balloons hung from the ceiling lights and door frames. Recognition washed over her.

“Shit! Goddamn fuckin’ shit! Oh, damn!” Iris was stamping her feet in anger over herself. It was Cor’s birthday! She had forgotten her son’s birthday! Why hadn’t Tom called? She pulled her cellphone to check. There was a voicemail.

‘Iris, it’s past six. The party’s over, but it would be really nice if you could show before Cor goes to bed.’

Even with the poor quality recording Iris could sense Tom’s anger and disappointment. Oh damn! She really needed to mend fences with the two men in her life. Forget Walter Moran and his constant attempts to suck up to her. Maybe they could spend a week or two away. Damn it! She needed some sex, too. Either she or Tom were always pissed off at the other, and she could not even remember the last time they had made love. What was happening to them?

Seeing Tom’s half of their bed stripped and empty shocked her. Where was Tom? Had he left her? Had he…?

She ran to Cor’s bedroom and yanked the door open. The light from the hallway illuminated the sleeping boy’s face. Shame washed over her. She had let her son down. Very carefully she closed the door again. Now where was Tom? If he had taken his bedding he was somewhere in the house her sense of logic told her. A guest room. She nodded, already walking along the corridor. He had moved to his study to make his point. It was childish but perhaps understandable. She had disappointed him twice in one day. She tried the door knob but it was locked from the inside. She knocked softly.

“Tom? Please open up! Tom! Are you in there?” She knocked again, this time harder. “Tom, we must talk!”

It was amazing how a tall man like Tom could move so silently. Suddenly the door was yanked open and Iris actually jumped back.

“What do you want?” he asked without the slightest trace of friendliness.

“Tom, please come back to our bedroom. This is silly. I know I should have told you about the plans, but I swear I didn’t learn of them before this morning.”

"Then why didn’t you tell Excel-Boy to shove them? You’re the fucking president, and yet you don’t dare to contradict that wind bag. And it’s still no excuse for how you disappointed Cor. I’m sick and tired of inventing excuses for you.”

“Walter is not a wind bag! This petty jealousy that you show…”

“Then stop talking about him as if he’s some sort of savior. After all, Villier got into the doldrums with him at the helm of finance.”

“We also got into the doldrums with you holding up production,” she shot back angrily. “Listen, I don’t want to argue about Walter with you. Will you come back to our bedroom now?”

“What for?” he asked.

“You’re my husband,” she maintained.

“Maybe,” he acknowledged, “but you’ve not been my wife for quite some time. To share a bedroom just so I can hear your snoring is not as tempting as you might think.”

Iris felt the blood leave her face. “That’s unfair. You haven’t been exactly the loving husband either.”

His harsh laughter filled the entire guest wing. “That’s rich from you. You still remember your response the last time I tried to be ‘the loving husband’?”

If possible, Iris’s blush intensified. She did remember. It was over a year ago. They’d had a rare relaxing Sunday afternoon. She was sunning herself, for once wearing a two piece bathing suit. They had been friendly with each other all day, and apparently Tom took this as encouragement. Creeping up behind her, he had suddenly cupped her breast from behind. She had shrieked and torn herself free. She had questioned his sanity pawing her in broad daylight. It had been stupid. The servants had a day off. Nobody could see them. Tom had withdrawn immediately, and although she tried to apologize later he had never touched her again.

“You surprised me then. I apologized, too. Tom, we can’t go on like this.”

She knew immediately that she had touched him with that. He nodded. “I guess you’re right. It’s not easy. I hardly know the woman you are now. We used to have fun together. We used to trust each other. We respected each other. I don’t get any respect from you, only grief. I don’t get any loyalty from you either. For over five years I had your back, and you’ve kept stabbing mine.”

“That’s how you feel?”

He nodded. “When did you ever stand up for me? Peter did today. He’s your pick and loyal to you. He stuck out his neck and you sided against us. We had the strong arguments on our side. We had a strategic vision. Moran only sees the next quarterlies. What are you so deathly afraid of? That Uncle Gunderson might snitch on you to Old Bluenose? That Walter Moran might bludgeon you with his rolled-up diploma from the London School of Economics? Do you think that they only churn out geniuses? Verdomme, Iris, they’re just a business school. People get in there for all sorts of reasons, and not all have to do with talent. The man is ruining Villier with his simpleminded cost reductions.”

“I said I don’t want to talk about Walter. I’m not married to Walter, I’m married to you. Don’t you think it hurts me when Hiram has to report yet another of your screw-ups?”

“Name one!” Tom challenged her.

“Okay!” Now she was getting a little riled. “Just last week, line seven was halted for two days because you had forgotten to request a replacement laser.”

“That’s what Hiram claimed?”

She nodded, a little worried over the calm self-assuredness Tom showed. He stepped back into the room and motioned for her to follow. At the desk at the window he flipped open his notebook and activated his email account. He typed “laser” into the search window, and a number of emails popped up. He opened one date four weeks ago, motioning for Iris to read.

———

From: tverk@vpi.com

To: <purchasing department> tanner@vpi.com

urgent

replacement needed immediately for laser (part nº 312 9901 7743, Coolidge Systems, New Haven). replacement module is critical for continued operation of line 7. original order submitted feb 17 was deferred but part is urgently needed!

Tom Verkade PhD

Line Manager

———

Tom clicked the reply mail.

———

From: moran@vpi.com

To: tverk@vpi.com

CC: Gunderson@vpi.com

Tom, pursuant to our current cost reduction plan, the purchase of the spare part item “laser” at a cost of US $ 30,238 cannot be authorized. Be advised that purchases of replacement parts areauthorized only when a part fails.

WM

“We can go over my list of screw-ups if you want. I’ll be happy to refute each of them,” Tom said evenly.

Iris felt uncomfortable. Hiram and Walter had clearly shifted the blame for the production losses to Tom. $30,238. They had incurrent at least $250,000 in wages and lost production. She felt his eyes on her and returned the look.

“I’ll look into this. I’ll let IT pull the email traffic.”

“Don’t bother. Hiram’s golf buddy runs IT. Wanna bet that my emails disappeared?”

“Aren’t you a bit paranoid?”

“Happened before. Hiram has developed the shifting of blame into an art form. It doesn’t matter anyway. All I want is for you to know the truth.”

“Tom, we’ll sort things out. Maybe we can find you a task away from production. I’ll ask Henley if he can use you in R&D. Hey, you used to be very good researcher.”

“Come on. I’ve been out of research for almost ten years. I don’t want favors. I want equal chances. Besides, I’m looking into opportunities outside of Villier.”

That shocked her. “Tom! You want to quit? Don’t you remember? We wanted to build up something great together.”

“Funny you think of it now. Iris, I need to get away from Villier. I’ll never get a fair chance while I’m there. Even you think of me as some sort of dead weight, a drone.”

“No! Never! I always knew you did your best. Come on, Tom. Let’s work this out somehow. Please, come to bed with me. I’ll have your back from now on. Promise.”

Reluctantly, he let her pull him along the corridor and to their bedroom, and reluctantly he lay down at her side. The distance between them had grown in the last years, and neither of them was at ease when they touched reluctantly under the duvets.

“We should have a vacation. A long one. In Europe. Some beach where we can be ourselves again,” she whispered.

“Let’s think about it,” he sighed, and his lack of enthusiasm showed the size of their rift more than anything.

3. Changes

Tom would have liked to sleep in on Saturday morning. He had not caught that much sleep, not with what was going around in his head and with the late night discussion with Iris. Yet, he woke from the noise Iris was making in the shower. The old pipes in the mausoleum always made a huge racket when somebody showered. He looked at his wristwatch. It was 7:15, Iris’s usual time on Saturdays. Was she going to work? Tom shook his head. What a great way to "work things out", indeed.

Iris emerged from their bathroom not ten minutes later, and as usual, fully dressed in her professional get-up. Seeing him looking at her, she shrugged.

"Look, I need to be in my office for a briefing. I won't be longer than eleven o'clock, twelve tops."

"This is how you want to make things work between us?" he asked.

"Oh, come on! What we have to say will keep until after lunch, won't it?"

"So why exactly did you want me to sleep in this room?"

"Well, not so you can jump my bones right away. We need to clear a lot of things before we can return to that," she returned just a little snidely.

"Well, why then? Humor me. Why was it so important for you that I slept in this room with you? Appearances’ sakes? Keep up the happy couple front? Who do you think you're kidding with that?"

She stomped her foot with impatience.

"Look, I need to go. I don't have the time for this discussion right now. We'll have the whole afternoon and evening. If it's important for you to make your childish point, go move back into the guestroom."

"Maybe I should move out then," Tom said in a very low voice.

This finally shook her. "You can't mean that."

"What if I do? Last night, you were all about 'working things out'. Not seven hours later you're back to leaving us alone. I thought you'd at least have breakfast with us. You could've explained and apologized to Cor."

"I can do that after lunch, can't I? Really, Tom, I need to go. Walter has the newest numbers, and we want to go over my presentation next week. This is important."

"And we're not. I get it."

"Damn it, Tom! Not everything is about you! How about this: I'll keep tomorrow completely free. Hey, we can even make a trip somewhere."

It was futile to argue further.

"Okay, go! But we'll have that talk, and then there must be some changes to your schedules. I'm sick of being a single parent."

———

Of course, come 12 o'clock, Iris had not returned. At 1 p.m. Tom told Mrs. Pound to pack a small weekend bag for Cor. He threw a change of clothes and his toiletries into another duffel bag, and when the clock struck 2 o'clock and Iris had still not returned, Tom had Cor buckle up in the passenger seat of his old Saab and drove off.

He was more or less flying by the seat of his pants with regard to plans, but once out of Philadelphia he took Route 55 heading for Cape May. His cell phone started to chirp when they were already past Millville. A glance at the display showed him that it was Iris. He took the call.

"Hold on a sec. I have to pull over," he said. He exited onto an overpass and stopped the car on the shoulder. Picking up the phone, he started again. "Okay, I can talk now."

That was a preview of Bitter Pills. To read the rest purchase the book.

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