The I.T. Girl Read online

  ‘I don’t think I can perform sexually,’ he said.

  ‘You only have to perform sleep.’

  He opened up an arm for me and as I lay my face near his heartbeat, he began to snore.

  I woke to the sound of busy traffic and turned, remembering the night before. He was awake already, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Morning,’ I said.

  ‘Morning,’ he croaked.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Er, yeah... what happened last night?’

  ‘You chatted me up at the CPR party and I brought you home.’ I watched him for a reaction. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t usually drink.’

  ‘No shit.’

  He lifted the covers and looked down.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You’re still a virgin.’

  ‘Jesus, I’m sorry.’ He laughed. ‘Hope I wasn’t too much trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  He looked around the room and saw his clothes folded on the chair ‘I hope er... you didn’t have to kick me in the nuts at any point?’

  ‘You were a gentleman.’ I turned towards him and closed my eyes. After a while, body parts brushed and our faces nudged towards each other. In the extra silence of caught breath our mouths connected. We kept still except for the kiss – aware of goose-pimpled flesh below the covers – until I brought my hand down his chest like a paw and we let skin open up to skin, as if we had been trying to tell each other something the whole time.

  Saturday changed London for me. An event had happened that I couldn’t control, in the same way that I controlled work. We had left our mark on each other. After six months of working for CouperDaye, I would no longer feel like a shadow coming and going from the office.

  We slipped into each other’s curves as the morning went hazily by until the light from the curtains could not be shut out and we realised we were starving.

  I brought him to the greasy spoon where I was beginning to be known. Going about the serious business of replenishing our hung-over systems, talking about our plans for the week ahead, the intimacy which descended earlier slipped away. Outside the café, in the grey afternoon, he must have been thinking the same thing that I was when he came towards me with pursed, goodbye-lips. What would happen when we saw each other in CouperDaye?

  Chapter Two

  I rose earlier than usual for a Monday morning. I had to be in for European market open since my new feed was going live. I showered and dressed while the rollout checklist scrolled through my head. My hair was a quick job – blow-dried holding my head upside down, then I tied it in a high bun and let the short strands fall out. I thought about the new project I was about to start. The business side wasn’t interesting to me, but if it went well, it would get me noticed. I wanted to move into Quantitative Analysis. It had always been my philosophy – if you want to get ahead, get noticed. It had worked for me so far. I flicked through my wardrobe and took out a wrap-around dress, knee-length, navy, with a high-cut v-neck.

  Once I made the transition into the Quants team, I could think about doing it as a contractor in a few years time. It was exciting work and it was where the real money was. I added a belt to the dress and went for high heeled boots instead of flats. Most of the boys dressed down as much as possible with un-ironed shirts and casual trousers but the women in other departments dressed up and I didn’t see why I shouldn’t too.

  Entering through the turnstiles, I flashed my ID badge, aware of a nervous taste filling my mouth. Through the maze of cubicles I offered quick ‘Mornings’ and reached my cube just as the clock clicked 8 a.m. I checked the overnight reports. All looked clean. I checked the terminals. The prices were happily trickling down the screen in columns of orders and trades. I sat back, relieved.

  ‘Hey, she’s in. The golden girl.’ Boris cruised alongside the wall of my cube.

  ‘Morning, Boris. All running smoothly.’ I felt a stab of irritation at the go-fast fin he had sculpted into his hair. It was looking particularly jagged this morning, like a surprised cockatoo.

  ‘Excellent.’ He leaned into the terminal to watch the pricing. ‘I’d like us to grab a coffee later to talk about METX. In fact, why don’t we do it over lunch?’

  Cameron and I followed Boris through the canteen. The large square hall was like a school lunchroom, constantly noisy with conversations dancing along the ceiling.

  Our team always went for the same spot. There were round tables in the middle but more private booths along the sides and back of the hall. We sat in a booth on the window side, overlooking a fountain far below.

  ‘So, how was everyone’s weekend?’ Boris asked, lifting his tie over his shoulder. ‘Cameron, study programming?’

  ‘Is that what programmers do at the weekend?’ Cameron asked, tucking his earphones into his shirt pocket. ‘I watched the match. Then went to a mate’s party.’

  ‘A party, eh? Any good?’

  ‘It was alright. Have five-aside on Sundays though. Only stayed till two.’

  ‘2 a.m.? Blimey, mate,’ Boris said. ‘You’d have to call an ambulance if I was still going till 2 a.m. these days.’

  ‘Thirty-five’s not that old, Boris,’ I said. ‘I hope,’ I added, since I was only a few years behind him.

  ‘Well, in any case, we’ll have to put a stop to that, young man. Now that you’re one of us. What did you do at the weekend, Orla?’

  ‘I studied programming.’

  ‘There, you see?’

  ‘Where did I go wrong?’ Cameron moaned beneath our laughter.

  With his hair too long over a slim face and a small worried mouth, he always made me think of a bird just broken out of its shell. He had only just left business college and already felt derailed. From my first day, I remember Boris winding him up over the merge. I remember feeling like a school girl, being brought around to everyone for a formal introduction.

  ‘Now we’ll meet young Cameron. You’ll be working with him a lot,’ Boris had said.

  ‘Cameron!’ he’d yelled over his cube. ‘You got your earphones in?’

  ‘No,’ Cameron said.

  ‘Oh sorry, mate. I can never tell,’ Boris chuckled. ‘Get a haircut.’ He turned back to me. ‘Let me introduce you to Orla. Orla, this is Cameron. I envision you two working together a lot. Orla’s our new C++ star.’

  I laughed. ‘What do you do?’ I asked Cameron.

  ‘He’s a programmer too,’ said Boris.

  ‘I am not a programmer,’ Cameron said prickly, and Boris replaced his serious face with laughter.

  ‘Okay, y’see, so, here’s the big picture.’ Boris spread his hands out in front of us. ‘Obviously, CouperDaye’s main activity is trading on behalf of clients. And in order to competitively trade we need to get market data as fast as possible. So that’s where your team comes in, Orla. Feeds writes the software that extracts orders – as in buy and sell requests – and trades from what we call a market data feed and then sends it to Desktop who control how it’s displayed on the trading floor. Cameron here, as Business Analyst, coordinates all the teams involved and liaises with the Exchanges. Absolutely nothing to do with programming.’ He smiled broadly at Cameron and shrugged as if waiting for approval. ‘Unless of course, we merge Feeds with Business Analyses. It’s something being talked about to try and improve efficiency, y’see. Have one person handling every step of a project instead of separate teams having to coordinate with each other. So – if that happens – you’ll both be doing both jobs.’

  ‘Mate, I studied business and finance for three years,’ Cameron stated. ‘I’ll resign before I’ll write code.’ But the threat had been mumbled.

  Boris brought me back to the bustle of the canteen. ‘Michelle and I bought a fish,’ he chirped.

  ‘That’s a serious responsibility,’ I said.

  ‘`Shell had one when she was a child.’ He looked at me. ‘Frankie the fish.’

  ‘I think Boris the fish sounds better,’ Cameron sa
id.

  The canteen had quietened down by the time we finished eating. Some small groups were left behind, huddled over their lunch trays, looking like they also had off-the-floor meetings to conduct.

  ‘Right.’ Boris clapped his hands. ‘Cameron, Orla and I have to discuss her project.’

  ‘No worries, mate,’ Cameron stood up.

  ‘He doesn’t mind,’ Boris said as Cameron walked away. ‘Right. I just want to have a chat about METX because this one’s under the spotlight. But, what I want you to understand is that although it is the first global market data feed under CPR ‒ I’m not trying to scare you here ‒ it’s actually going to be quite straightforward in terms of business analysis. We’ll be running a course soon – Introduction to Market Data.’

  ‘Cool. One thing I want to make clear with you... I don’t have any desire to be a project leader or to move into a business role. I want to stay technical.’

  ‘I hear you loud and clear.’ Boris pushed his tray out of the way and crossed his hands over the surface. ‘Look, I’ll keep an eye on how things are going. Make sure you’re on the right track, okay? And, if you have any questions, just ask.’

  ‘Thanks, Boris.’

  In the post-lunch stillness, the canteen doors swinging open disturbed the quiet like giant butterfly wings. My stomach flip-flopped at the sight of the late luncher coming in. He got a tray from a table, since the tray pile was no longer out front, and then waved at the small square window in the kitchen door. His hair was sticking up in vague clumps and he grabbed one of the clumps while he waited. His sleeves were rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt were open. A tie was hanging out of his pocket.

  A chef minus her hat came out of the kitchen and put her hands on her hips. They spoke and she went back inside.

  ‘Have you come across Jerome Ross’ 5-Minute Snaps yet?’ Boris was saying, draining the dregs of his coffee mug.

  ‘I’ve heard of them.’ I tried to concentrate on Boris. ‘I’ve seen one or two.’ The short documentaries were played on internal T.V.

  ‘Jerome will be here for the Data Centre opening and he’ll be making one of his documentaries about London’s contribution to CPR. I thought it might be something for you to get involved in.’

  The chef came back from the kitchen with a small plate of salad and bread rolls. She handed her customer the plate in exchange for money and he turned towards the seating area. Our eyes met immediately. He went to the water machine and filled a paper cup. Then he seemed to consider the empty tables. I could feel myself stiffen when I realised he was walking towards where Boris and I were sitting.

  ‘That sounds really interesting,’ I said to Boris.

  ‘It will be good for your profile and of course the team’s.’

  ‘What do you need me to do right now?’

  ‘I’ll send you the 5-Minute Snap website so you can sign up.’

  The late luncher slid into our booth next to me. ‘You can never get anything decent in this canteen after 2 p.m.’ he said, and began making a sandwich.

  ‘Closing time is 2 p.m., mate,’ Boris said. ‘You’re lucky you got more than a packet of peanuts.’ He lifted his tray. ‘We’ll chat later,’ he nodded at me and shifted out of the booth.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I asked, politely, half turning.

  ‘Hungry. I’ve been in meetings all morning. I hate meetings. They make me feel cornered, like a rat.’ He continued trying to fit dry bits of salad on to the bread.

  ‘You haven’t rolled up your trouser legs today, I see.’

  He paused before a bite. ‘The look doesn’t work without the hat. Look, would you like to go for dinner this weekend?’

  ‘Oh. Yes, okay, let’s do that.’ I nodded after my high-pitched words. I had imagined awkward conversations in the lobby; even romantic hushed tones by the coffee dock. But this bold advance while stuffing his face, I had not anticipated.

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve heard about this Vietnamese restaurant near where I live. It’s supposed to be really good.’

  ‘Great. I love Vietnamese. So, how was the rest of your weekend?’

  ‘Fine,’ I shrugged shyly, feeling monosyllabic. ‘How was the rest of yours?’

  ‘Fine also.’

  He licked his fingers and wiped his hands and mouth when the plate was clean. ‘That will have to do,’ he said.

  I spent the next few days getting to grips with the scope of my project, interrupted only with phone calls to my bank, trying to push my mortgage application through each department. I felt like a part-time employee, becoming so familiar with their process. The survey had cleared and it was just a matter of completing the documentation for the solicitors. Everyone said ‘Don’t get your hopes up, you can still get gazumped’ but I had already joined the local running club and my first run was on Saturday morning.

  The area was new to me and I tried to memorise street names as I walked down a terraced road towards the park. All the houses looked the same, with only a door frame or a pot plant to make them stand out.

  I saw the colourful cluster of tracksuits through the iron gates and hesitated. I had hated running in school; the monotony of the obligatory lap before a game. But I had to do something to make friends. I went through the gates and walked around the green. If there were a club at work it might have been okay, but there was only the men’s football. The running club had a website which showed photos of their sports events and socials, and it said ‘Come and go as you please.’ I was encouraged by the friendly tone.

  But, it was hard to believe I was going to break into a run on this early wintery morning, I thought, reaching the group with grass crackling beneath my feet. The ground was hostile to the dogs that wanted to play and their scarf-wrapped owners sent us bewildered glances.

  I found a piece of railing to stretch against next to a group of women who looked my age. There were about fifty people around; some in tracksuits, others in slim-line shorts and tops. Next to me they were wearing a uniform of leggings and lycra vests. I wondered what their pace was like. Trying to conjure up my stretching routine from school, I listened to their conversation. They were talking about a night out, laughing as they shifted position. I attempted a smile at them but immediately felt silly when they didn’t return it.

  ‘Don’t skip on the stretches. It’s very important.’ A plump woman wearing a head-band to hold back messy hair strolled along the line. ‘Hello.’ She stopped in front of me. ‘You’re new.’

  ‘Yes. I’m Orla. Do I need to fill out a form or anything? Your website said to just turn up.’

  ‘Oh I’m not in charge. I’m just nosy,’ she said. ‘My name’s Deelie.’ Her clothes were obviously designer and colour-coordinated. She had shorts on over leggings and a low cut tee-shirt over a sports-bra that would look more at home in a night-club. ‘I want to see those buns working hard today boys,’ she raised her voice at a group of men nearby. ‘George is looking fine today,’ she said quietly but the women within earshot looked away. I cringed inside; it was obvious she was just here to meet men. When she didn’t get a reaction from anyone, Deelie cleared her throat and moved down the row to find a space.

  ‘Deelie is the welcoming committee,’ the woman next to me said. She had heavy hair tied back and her skin looked freshly moisturised.

  The woman next to her laughed, while stretching over her knee, her pony-tail dangled towards the ground. ‘What’s your distance?’ She turned her head towards me.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really run.’

  She tucked her chin back in to the stretch.

  ‘What’s this club like?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s essential,’ the first woman said. ‘Gets me away from my Blackberry.’

  They stood up, four in a row, and changed position.

  A whistle blew and we gathered in front of a man wearing a luminous arm-band. We were encouraged to run together and ‘Only do what you can, of course.’

>   We took off, forming a nebulous group that narrowed as we moved forward. The women next to me sprung ahead like gazelles, weaving their way to the front. I was at the back amongst a line chatting in tracksuits. But they were still faster than me and gradually closed the gap as I fell behind. The website had said beginners were welcome, hadn’t it? Was I the only beginner?

  I trailed helplessly with my legs beginning to shake and the distance stretching out before me. If they got too far ahead, I might get lost.

  By the time I reached the end of the park I was barely hanging on to the motion of running. The path curved back towards our starting point but through watery vision I saw the figures ahead disappear through a gate. ‘Oh fuck,’ I breathed. The last runner up ahead went through and then I was alone. Finally I stopped, gasping, and threw my hands down to my knees. I knew I should have done a night course. Laughter came out as a hollow rush of air. I raised my hands behind my head and started walking again slowly while my heart thumped against my ribs. Through the gate I waited by a stream of cars going onto the main road, before crossing into the second park. It was an open green, as big as the first. Maybe I should just turn back. I’d look like an idiot, but I was beyond caring. Deelie, in her designer outfit, was on the path ahead. She had some sort of space-age utility belt around her waist with gadgets attached. She tugged at it every few yards. Beyond her, the woman with the ponytail was standing beneath a tall tree talking to one of the men. He seemed to be showing her his shoes. Deelie stopped dead in the middle of the path and grasped at the belt as it fell apart. Mini water bottles slipped out and rolled around the ground. She chased them awkwardly, diving and gathering and glancing ahead. I thought she was going to wave for help but suddenly she ran off the path into bushes along the park wall, with the belt and bottles bundled in her arms. On the green children were playing with a Frisbee and a dog walker was waiting for her squatting dog but they didn’t seem to notice the unravelling woman disappear. She was noticed from the big tree though. They were laughing in her direction.