The I.T. Girl

  The I.T. Girl

  Fiona Pearse

  © Fiona Pearse 2013

  Fiona Pearse has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2013 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Extract from Yes Chef, No Chef by Susan Willis

  Chapter One

  Fireworks peppered the white sky, celebrating the launch of our company's new manifesto and I rose with the crowd to cheer. Mime artists left behind their impressions to dance with the air while the head of Technology, larger than life on a wavering projector screen, jumped off stage to high-five the New York audience. Smaller projector screens on either side showed Sydney and Tokyo celebrating the same way, though they had the advantage of a night-time backdrop to the global event.

  CouperDaye was known for its attention to detail and I was impressed with the supply of rugs on the January day, gratefully wrapping mine around my legs when I sat back down. Boris was still out of his seat whooping and cheering. Spotlights splashed colour on his face making his plump features seem clown-like. I nudged Sam, sitting in between us who responded with a downward glance. His shoulders were slumped and one foot kicked carelessly below the chair in front of him. I knew he’d rather be anywhere else than be exposed to the cult-management, as he called it. But with a crisp white shirt and dark tie he looked more like a bored managing director than a disillusioned programmer.

  Boris came back down with a thump. ‘How do you like them apples?’ he leaned across Sam.

  ‘Boris get the – ’

  Boris sat back before Sam could finish the sentence and still braying, patted his hair, preening a gelled clump into a twist.

  It was 2 p.m. in London and only 9 a.m. in New York, but after the high-fives, Jerome Ross popped open a bottle of champagne.

  ‘No thanks,’ I said to the waitress who appeared beside me at the same time with a tray of tall-stemmed glasses.

  ‘You can stay for one, Orla,’ Boris sang.

  ‘I have to go back. You can have mine,’ I said to Sam who finally moved to let me pass.

  I walked down the aisle trying to ignore the curious looks. I wanted to explain: I have to go back for my deadline. But I avoided eye contact and instead, tried to spot Cameron. He was in a row near the back with the other graduates. They looked like students on a bus; boisterous with traumatised hair. Our eyes met as I passed and I gave him a wink. He replied with a thumbs-up. It was his deadline too.

  I made it past Security under the flower archway and on to the street. Our company slogans lined the park but they attracted little attention. The public were used to our logo and used to our name.

  The project was on my mind as I rode the tube back to work. I came up into a square surrounded by buildings so symmetrical that it always made me think I was a figure in the architect’s model. From one manicured block to the next, I went over my check list.

  Entering the world of CouperDaye, a slick lobby with smooth, reflective surfaces and low lighting, I walked over a below-floor rock garden, no longer staring down at the meandering path of flowers, as I had done in my first few weeks. Out of the lifts on the twentieth floor I passed a line of meeting rooms and turned into the east wing. Other financial towers stood in the 360 view, illuminated with the same florescent light that mildly strained my eyes, as I settled at my desk in a row of cubicles.

  The afternoon went by in weekend silence. Everyone would be going home to change into their fancy-dress costume and then back to the party. I had brought my outfit into work. A chequered shirt, cowboy jeans and a straw hat – the easiest look I could put together. I completed my checks and then kicked off the software upload, which showed its progress with a bar inching its way across the screen. For a moment, closed in by the artificial walls and the hum of machinery, busy and still, I became aware of how at home I felt. I was where I was supposed to be and I loved my job. A beep told me the upload was complete. Come Monday morning our trading floor would receive new market data, courtesy of my code. I sat back, relieved. Of course something could still go wrong, you could never be a hundred per cent sure – but it was out of my hands now. Time to let my hair down.

  I changed in the toilets with one eye on the small T.V. embedded in the mirror. It was showing a replay of the celebrations from earlier. The sound of fireworks from each city hit the tiled walls, while I removed my makeup and reapplied – light powder over the freckles I had hated as a teenager with darker eye shadow and blusher than before. I topped up my mascara and then ran a compact brush through the ends of my hair. Tilting my head forward in the mirror, I could see my roots under the bright light, but the natural colour was only a bit darker – I wouldn’t have to top-up for a few weeks.

  Spurs clicked against my boots as I made my way back to the venue. The park was littered with plastic champagne glasses and used streamers. The staff, serving drinks earlier, were now piling chairs.

  A security guard held open the heavy doors.

  ‘Thanks.’ I skipped up the steps and offered a smile, in case, in this more social situation I might get an acknowledgement. I saw him every day at work but he looked over my head as usual.

  I checked in my coat and bag and went through a set of tall red curtains. The deep hall was cut with shafts of white light thrown down from the corners of the ceiling. Grey pillars with bulbous curves partitioned the walls. It was like an eighteenth century ballroom with the dust blown off, but beyond the ceiling lights I could see scaffolding. Tomorrow this hall could be the setting for a medical seminar.

  A woman wearing a feather in her hair and a dress with tassels that bounced as she walked passed in front of me going to the roulette wheel. I watched her join a group of 1930’s gangsters who gazed from beneath tipped hats, at the silver ball leaping between grooves. I recognised them from the trading floor. She was the only female trader. She cocked an elbow on the shoulder of one of her colleagues and swirled a glass in her free hand. I noticed they moved the chips without talking, as if they already knew each other’s game.

  I was looking for the bar but as I made my way through each gathering of people, it turned out they were huddling yet another gambling table.

  I squeezed through to one and found Paul from Quants. ‘Where do you get a drink round here?’ I asked, taking a glance at his cards.

  ‘At the end.’ He pulled his cards into his chest. His fair hair, usually dishevelled was gelled into a high coif.

  ‘Who are you supposed to be?’ I asked leaving the circle.

  ‘Bowie!’ He threw his free hand in the air.

  ‘Oh yeah, yeah.’ Too late I noticed the Seventies waistcoat. ‘Looks really good.’

  I squeezed around each group until I spotted Sam in front of the beer taps, frowning into his pint.

  ‘Ah.’ He saw me and picked up a glass of wine. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I took the glass. ‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘Here’s to my new place?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘Thanks again for your help.’ I nodded after a sip. ‘It was great to get a second opinion.’

  ‘When will you exchange?’

  ‘In about six weeks. I can’t wait!’

  Boris joined us, pint in hand. ‘Orla, rollout go alright?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good, good. Looking forward to Monday th
en, starting METX?’

  ‘Looking forward to getting stuck in.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear. Like the outfit,’ he said looking down my clothes.

  ‘I don’t need to ask who you are Boris.’ He’d replaced his tie with a dickie-bow and was wielding a plastic gun.

  ‘Briggs. Boris Briggs.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Shaken, not stirred.’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ Sam said.

  ‘Who do you think Sam is?’ Boris asked.

  ‘It’s hard to tell. Is he himself?’

  ‘He’s – ha, well yeah maybe,’ Boris poked at his clothes. ‘He looks like a depressed superhero with this dark cape.’

  ‘Are you a vampire?’ I guessed. Sam looked at me as if I’d hurt his feelings. ‘Well, with your colouring, you could be from Transylvania.’

  ‘He does have a pale complexion come to think of it,’ Boris said. ‘And with the dark hair and those dark eyes. Let’s see your teeth.’

  Sam blinked showing the smallest sign of embarrassment.

  ‘I mean, you’re basically wearing a cape over your shirt,’ Boris continued, ‘what kind of effort is that?’

  ‘So did I miss anything after I left?’ I interrupted.

  ‘A lot of important information, Orla,’ Boris said.

  ‘A load of bollocks,’ Sam said. ‘Waffling on about CPR.’

  ‘Commitment. Performance. Results.’ Boris enunciated each word.

  ‘METX got a mention as the most important new feed,’ Sam said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t mind him.’ Boris waved a hand. ‘They were talking about all the changes taking place to achieve CPR. You know how we have to re-inject hunger into our work practices. Take our clients out of the recession. And they mentioned the merges as an important part. Speaking of which, here’s young Cameron now. My new whiz kid.’

  Cameron joined our circle and squirmed as Boris reached up to slap an arm around his shoulder. He was dressed as the Milky Bar kid with a cowboy hat pushed to the back of his head and oversized toy glasses perched on his nose.

  ‘Not just a business analyst anymore, are you, Cam. Finally – you’re one of us.’

  ‘Where did I go wrong?’ Cameron said.

  ‘Hey. Girls love programmers, mate. Don’t they?’ Boris looked at me.

  ‘Sure.’ I saluted with my glass.

  ‘No, but seriously,’ Boris said, ‘this is going to be a good move. Challenging times ahead. And actually, Orla, since METX will be the first project under the merge, the department will be counting on you.’

  ‘It’s going to be a disaster,’ Sam said. ‘They haven’t a clue what they’re doing.’

  ‘Mate, we’re fundamentally changing the way we do things. You have to go with the flow.’

  ‘We don’t need to fundamentally change the way we do things,’ Sam insisted. ‘We just need better practices. They overhaul everything just to reassure some hyperactive maniac at the top they’re worth their pay cheque – until it all goes tits up and then they’ll overhaul it back the other way.’

  Boris was distracted by the head of HR joining her team in a swimsuit and shorts. ‘What’s her costume supposed to be, eh? Baywatch?’

  ‘CPR,’ Sam explained.

  ‘Oh, very clever. Revive the Drive,’ Boris read the slogan on the back of her costume. ‘I respect her level of commitment.’

  ‘Where’s the rest of your team?’ I asked Cameron.

  ‘Phil’s the only one I found. He’s just left. I don’t think the others came back after the seminar.’

  ‘Typical,’ Boris said. ‘As usual both our teams are rubbish and it’s just us usual suspects.’

  ‘I thought we were all one team now,’ Sam said.

  ‘Cam, go over there and tell Baywatch the Milky Bars are on you. Quick, mate,’ Boris said.

  Cameron laughed and hid behind a slug of beer.

  ‘Go on, mate. You have to say the line. It’s a waste otherwise,’ Boris continued.

  ‘I think you and Cameron should swap outfits,’ I said. ‘Then you can go around and sexually harass all the women, Boris.’

  ‘The Milky Bar is on me. Way-hay,’ Boris threw his hips forward.

  ‘Oh Boris.’ I cringed.

  ‘Sorry... sorry... that was a naughty one. A bit of a naughty one,’ Boris laughed.

  The dance floor slowly filled when the gambling tables were covered. We brought stools over to the beer taps and watched Boris gather a crowd around his Seventies dance moves. Once we started a shot round, the late night was inevitable.

  Cameron and I fell into a Muse versus Radiohead argument, music being our only common ground, while Sam and Boris made supportive remarks about each other’s football team.

  ‘They are politically and musically more experimental.’ Cameron slurred and his glasses slipped down his nose. He looked like an admonishing school teacher until he couldn’t get his cocktail straw into his mouth.

  ‘But there has to be a point to whiny.’ I opened out my hands, pleading to win the point but realised I was repeating myself and my words were beginning to slur too. I exhaled steadily. ‘I’m going to get some fresh air.’

  I made my way to the double doors as the room started to spin. The balcony was empty and the grounds below were clear except for a group of smokers, huddled near a side-door. I leaned over the railing and focused on one spot trying to get the spinning to stop. There was still a winter chill, but I was grateful for the sobering air.

  The music from inside grew louder for a moment and I realised the balcony door had opened and shut. I was in silence again until a footstep, the soft clunk of a man’s shoe, told me I wasn’t alone. A figure stepped up to the railings and I turned as he cleared his throat ceremoniously. His eyes were heavy with alcohol and intent.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ he asked.

  I laughed at the clichéd line. ‘About once every six months, depending on management whim.’

  ‘You work in R&D?’

  ‘Yes. Which department are you?’

  ‘Me? I’m Columbus.’ He shrugged sheepishly as if admitting a secret and then pinched the ruffles on his shirt, trying to lift them towards me. ‘It’s supposed to be period costume.’

  ‘I guess you have a lot of travel with that.’

  ‘Ha. Yeah I find new lands with client potential.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to have a hat?’ His hair was in excited clumps as if it had also been drinking.

  He lowered his mouth to his glass. ‘Left it on the tube,’ he mumbled and took a sip. I noticed a tie hanging out of his pocket. The top buttons of his shirt were open and the sleeves were folded back to the elbow. The bottoms of his trousers were rolled up too and the shirt was pulled out over them. He looked like a man who was trying to shed himself of the city to walk on a beach.

  ‘Where’s your scroll then?’

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw making a scratching sound against stubble. ‘I’ve already given it to the Arawak Indians.’

  ‘The who?’

  ‘They’re the first people Columbus discovered,’ he gestured with his glass, slopping some beer. ‘Oops,’ he said. Then: ‘They invented raft building.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Is one of those nerdy IT guys your boyfriend?’

  ‘No.’ I laughed again.

  ‘I think you’re lovely.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said casually, hiding a shot of excitement.

  ‘Sorry.’ He held his face and groaned. ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘Well, in that case I’d see a doctor.’

  ‘No. Hah, hah. Obviously I’ve had too much to drink tonight. But normally, I don’t drink.’ He swayed towards me.

  ‘Careful.’ I pressed my fingers to his chest to straighten him up.

  He stood back, making space between us. ‘Who are you supposed to be?’

  ‘Calamity Jane.’ He looked me over with the new information. ‘So if you don’t drink, how come you’re drinking so much tonig
ht?’

  ‘Because I fancy a girl and I’m trying to ask her out.’

  ‘Would you like to dance?’

  ‘Oh fuck no.’

  ‘You know, to the Arawak Indians, dancing was a sign of virility,’ I teased.

  ‘If you gave an Arawak Indian as much as I’ve had to drink tonight, he’d drop dead.’

  When the slow set started, smokers began to join us, silently meeting their relief with a distant stare over the lawn.

  ‘Come on then.’ He took me by the hand back inside to the middle of the dance floor and huddled me like he was trying to protect me from rain. I laughed into his shoulder as I tried to move us round in circles. Fast music started and I broke away in a dance. He stood watching for a moment and then shrugged in defeat and threw himself around in a flurry of moves that looked more like a pre-basketball ritual. ‘This is my mating dance,’ he said into my ear.

  We staggered down the pebble-scattered steps to my basement flat.

  ‘You are the sunshine of my life,’ he sang.

  I leaned him against the wall while I opened the door and then pulled him inside.

  ‘Is this a dungeon?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, switching on a low lamp. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

  ‘Great,’ he said, collapsing on the bed.

  The landlord’s cat appeared at the window. ‘Hsst,’ I warned with a pointed finger. It sprang away making the window rattle. Fridge light illuminated the room for a moment, reaching sleeping porcelain figures along the bookshelf. I poured us a glass of wine to share and began taking off jewellery.

  ‘Oh steady on.’ I held his arm as he struggled out of his trousers.

  ‘What’ll I do with these?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh just throw them... Here, give them to me.’ I folded them over a chair.

  ‘What will I do with my watch?’ He held it up with a clink.

  ‘You can put that on the dressing table.’

  He took off his shirt and handed it to me. Then he sat back heavily on the bed. I stole a glance over his body. Dark hair spread across the top of his chest and continued in a line down the middle, making a tee-shape. His legs were long and pale, covered with dark curly hair. I watched as he bent over struggling with his socks, his body swaying as if he was under water. When the second sock came off he collapsed back on the bed and made a groaning sound that seemed like the last of his energy. I stripped down to my pants and got in bed next to him.