‘Are you still here, Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir. I wanted to ask - have you been out in society much?’
He didn’t look up again. His fountain pen flew over the paper. Blue lines of ink spread over it with graceful ease. ‘No. I detest society. Ever since I’ve returned to England I’ve been far too busy with my business, anyway. Why?’
‘Because you seem a bit behind on social idioms. You see… to “powder your nose” is a phrase that ladies use when they want to indicate to gentlemen that they need to pee.’
There was a loud snap. When I looked, I saw that Mr Ambrose’s fountain pen had snapped in half under the sudden pressure of his fingers. Ink dripped out of the half he still held.
‘Then,’ he said in a very measured, calm voice, ‘please do not do it here.’
I nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Why don't you just do it somewhere else, then?’ Mr Ambrose’s voice wasn’t quite as calm and collected as usual anymore. My, my. Was the great businessman at a loss? I had to hide my smirk.
‘Well, Sir, I checked, and there’s a bathroom downstairs. But it’s only a pissoir, with no separate cubicles. And well, I know you think of me as a gentleman, Mr Ambrose, but I think some of the other staff members might disagree once I let my trousers down.’
‘I see your point.’
Still not looking up, Mr Rikkard Ambrose, one of the country’s richest and most powerful businessmen, pondered the question of where I might pee this afternoon. If I hadn’t been so literally filled with anticipation, I might have burst out laughing. As it was, I preferred standing still.
Finally, he said:
‘You can use mine. It’s in there.’
And he pointed toward a small door at the back of the office that I hadn’t noticed before.
‘Err… your what, Sir?’
‘My toilet. Go do what you need to do, and then get back to work. I don't pay you for standing around.’
I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. ‘You want me to use your personal…’
He looked up, sharply.
‘Mr Linton?’
‘Yes, Sir!’
‘What did we talk about in the last five minutes?’
Suddenly I got the feeling that an awful lot depended on me making the right answer.
‘Err… business, Sir?’
‘Very good. What kind of business?’
‘For the life of me, Sir, I can’t remember.’
‘Very good indeed. Now bring me a new fountain pen. For some reason this one doesn't seem to be working anymore. And then get on with your business, and leave me to mine.’
‘Yes, Sir! Immediately, Sir!’
I managed to bring him a new fountain pen without wetting myself, then ran to the little door, slid inside and shut it behind me. Quickly, I let my trousers drop. Thank the Lord I was wearing trousers and not a hoop skirt! I would have emptied my bladder three times over by the time I had gotten rid of that. With a sigh of relief I closed my eyes and sank down on the toilet.
As anyone will understand, I’m sure, for the next few minutes I was quite busily engaged. It was only after the pressure had appreciably decreased that I could open my eyes and look around at Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s personal bathroom.
I was in largish chamber with - naturally - bare stone walls. The only thing that could maybe be counted as decoration was a small mirror hanging on the door. Maybe. The plain, ungilded frame and small size of the mirror, however, made it appear more likely to me that it was an object of daily use, in typical Ambrosian style.