When in Rome... (11 page)

“Stand behind me,” orders Nigel.

“What?”

“Just do it. I don’t want anyone seeing what I’m going to show you.”

“Nigel, you haven’t just downloaded some porn, have you?”

“Look!”

Proudly, Nigel shows me what he’s got. All I can see is lists and lists of names and details. He opens another screen and there are loads of figures.

“Wow, Nigel, that’s amazing!” I’m bluffing, of course. I have no idea what any of it means.

“You don’t know what it means, do you?” Nigel asks.

“Of course I do,” I reply hotly. “It’s, well, it’s really important information on the merger!”

Nigel is breathless. I’ve never seen him this excited. “Not exactly, but close,” he says. “In front of you are the personnel and financial records of every HG company around the world.”

I’m still not sure why this is so exciting, but I’m pretty certain Nigel shouldn’t have that sort of information. He could find out how much everyone is paid, and that’s definitely not allowed.

“Find out how much their researchers are paid,” I beg.

Nigel shakes his head.

“Not relevant,” he says firmly. “What I want to know is what happened to employees from companies that HG has merged with in the past.”

“Ooh, yes, find out about that, too,” I gush. I never knew work could be so exciting. “So how did you find this information anyway?”

“We have our ways.” Nigel’s eyes are glinting.

“We? Who’s we? Nigel, isn’t that like really illegal or something?”

“Only if you get caught.”

“Nigel, you’re scaring me now. Tell me how you did this!”

Nigel’s hands are trembling. “It’s something I learned from one of the people at the Security Convention,” he tells me. “All networks have weaknesses. You just figure out what they are, and wham, you’re in.”

“And in this case?”

“A chink in their firewall. This information is on their network, and I got in through the Boston office. You just send an e-mail to the right person, they respond, and bingo, you’re in.”

“And will they find out?”

“Not if I’m quick enough. Go to the printer.”

My heart is beating faster as I race over. Reams of names and figures are coming out of the printer. I’m just picking the first lot up when suddenly Guy appears out of nowhere and I jump.

“So, how did you think it went this morning?” He’s standing right in front of me. I can’t let him see what Nigel and I are doing.

“Oh, great, you know, um, really interesting.” I turn round quickly, clutching the papers to my chest. I’m standing in front of the printer, but pages and pages are coming out, straight onto the floor.

I need to create a diversion. If Guy sees what we’re printing out, or what Nigel is downloading, we won’t be waiting for the merger before we lose our jobs.

“Your, um, hair looks nice today,” I say.

Guy looks at me uncertainly. He has a receding hairline and has cut his hair to within an inch of its life to make it less obvious that he’s going bald. Why couldn’t I have complimented him on his suit?

“It’s a bit like the Mitchell brothers in ‘EastEnders,’ ” I say. Why? Why? Say something nice, I beg myself.

“Although, you know, a lot more professional. In that suit, I mean. That suit is more godfather than East End gangster, isn’t it? I mean Italians always dress better than the English and—”

Nigel intervenes just in time. “The presentation this morning was most enlightening,” he says, getting up and herding Guy toward the coffee machine. “The strategic alignment does seem to be exceptionally favorable, and . . .”

As soon as they have turned their backs on me, I grab all the printouts and take them back to my desk, hiding them under myMarie Claire .

Denise comes back from lunch. “Bloody Nigel,” she mutters to me. “We could all be about to lose our jobs, and all he can do is smarm up to Guy and talk about business process reengineering or what have you. They’re standing by the coffee machine now, talking about downsizing like it’s not human beings who’ll be affected. He’s got no emotion, that man.”

I nod sympathetically and put a few more files on top of myMarie Claire , just for good measure.

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Nigel doesn’t come back as expected five minutes later. I try to get on with some work, but keep wondering if Guy saw what I was printing out. Maybe he’s issuing my termination notice right now. Maybe he’s keeping Nigel busy while he calls the police and we’re both going to prison and . . .

The phone rings. It’ll be them! Oh God! The police are calling me and I haven’t thought up any excuse!

I pick up the phone tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Hello, who is this please?”

My voice is faltering and my palms are sweating.

“Georgie?”

Oh, thank God, I recognize the voice.

“Mike,” I say with relief.

“I knew you’d be pleased to hear from me.”

“No, it’s not that . . . I thought you were someone else.”

“My, your life is full of little intrigues, isn’t it. So, who am I up against? What’s his name? I’ll have him.”

“No, you idiot. It’s a work thing.”

“Right.” Mike has never been interested in what I do at work. I wish I’d let him think it was another man now.

“So, anyway, about Rome.”

I hold my breath. For a moment I think he’s going to say it’s all off, that it was a mistake, that he’s taking someone else and no hard feelings. To my astonishment I’m almost relieved. I suppose it’ll be one less thing to worry about.

“What about Rome?” I say, trying to sound cool.

“Well, how do you fancy meeting me there on Friday instead of us going together? I’ve got some business stuff to do first, so I thought rather than you having to hang around on your own, I could get it all done on Thursday and Friday, and then meet you in the evening.”

Well, that’s okay then. Actually I’m really pleased we’re still going. Obviously I wasn’treally relieved when I thought Mike might be calling it off. This trip is going to be the best.

“Sounds good to me,” I say enthusiastically.

“So, I could meet you at the station at nine-thirtyP.M . Italian time. There’s a Eurostar at five and you change at Paris. Sound all right to you?”

“Okay, I’ll just book the tickets shall I?”

“You’re gorgeous. Oh, one other thing. Would you mind taking a bag for me? I have to go straight from the airport to a meeting and I don’t want to be lugging loads of stuff with me. I thought you could maybe pop round to my offices later and pick it up.”

“But . . .” I’m about to tell him that I’ve got enough luggage to bring myself and won’t have room for any of his stupid papers, but then decide against it. I mean, one bag—it’s not that much to ask, is it?

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“You’re a star, thanks Georgie. I’ll see you later then? I’ll e-mail you the address of my office. Bye, honey.”

And he’s gone. I am sufficiently buoyed up by the prospect of a weekend in the city of romance to ignore the fact that now, apparently, I am buying my own ticket, which isn’t quite what I had in mind when Mike said he’d “take me.”

As I put the phone down, Nigel reappears. He walks over to my desk and bends down so his face is at the same level as mine. I meet his eyes, but, as always, my attention is drawn by a large red protuberance just to the right of his nose. What a nightmare to still get loads of spots at Nigel’s age. I mean, I get the odd one or two every so often, but Nigel’s skin is truly adolescent. I wonder if he’ll have really young-looking skin when he’s older—you know, because of all the natural oils. It occurs to me that I have no idea how old Nigel is. Somewhere in thirty to forty territory I would imagine, but who knows?

“Georgie,” he says in a loud, jovial voice, “Guy was very impressed with your report on Pensions Bulletin. Do you have another copy you could give me?

“Pensions Bulletin?” I look blankly at him. I’ve already e-mailed the report to Guy, and who knows where I saved it to on my computer. Me and filing don’t really go too well together.

“Um, couldn’t you just use Guy’s copy?”

“No. Could you just give it to me now?”

Nigel is looking at me strangely. Why does he want it? I thought we’d finished with all that mundane sort of work now. And anyway, doesn’t he know that I totally ripped off his report?

“Nigel, could you, um, just give me a while to dig it out, and then I could e-mail it to you?”

“I want thehard copy.”

He wants me to give it to him now, and he wants the hard copy. Is Nigel flirting with me? Is this his idea of office banter?

“Nigel, really, I had no idea . . .” I grin at him. But he doesn’t grin back.

“The report that we were working on earlier,” he hisses, and I suddenly twig.

“You mean the HG stuff?”

Nigel looks at me as if I am a complete idiot. Humbled, I pass over the printouts, sandwiched between myMarie Claire and a random pile of files.

“Thank you, Georgie, much obliged,” says Nigel loudly in a “nothing untoward going on around here” kind of voice, then he gives me a thin little smile before going back to his desk. I’m not entirely sure I’m wild on this “getting to know Nigel better” lark. Still, at least he’s going to be absorbed in those files for the rest of the afternoon, which means I can get on with more important things.

My trip to Rome is proving problematic. I can’t get a seat on Eurostar—apparently there is some special offer on or something and all the tickets have gone—which means I’ll have to fly instead. Flying’s okay; actually it will be quicker than taking the train, but there aren’t many cheap flights to Rome, and I also need to get from the airport to the train station in time to meet Mike.

Nigel looks over and I give him a big smile. The great thing about the Internet is that you can be buying flights for a fab weekend away, and as far as everyone else is concerned you’re sitting at your desk working incredibly hard. David thinks a constructive day in the office is one where he’s performed really well and got things done. I think a constructive day in the office is one where I’ve paid all my bills online, booked a holiday, and compared ten different horoscope readings.

I find a flight for ?60 that gets in at 8P.M ., which will give me loads of time to get to the station in time to meet Mike. Relieved, I fill in my credit card details and press “Buy Now.”

It’s only when I’ve pressed the button that what I’m doing really hits me. I’m going to Rome with Mike. I’m going to Rome with the person David hates and has asked (okay, told) me never to see. If David’s cross with me now, he will be livid if he ever finds out. He’ll probably never talk to me again. The horrible guilt I felt on Sunday begins to wash over me again. I need to rationalize the trip to myself. The truth is, I decide, that I’m only going away with Mike because David hasn’t ever managed to get a free weekend. If he took me away I wouldn’t need to go with other men, would I? And anyway, he’s going to Geneva, isn’t he? And he won’t take me with him. So in a way, it’s pretty much his fault that I’m going to Rome.

I glance up and see Nigel sifting through all the printouts on HG, but he’s trying to do it secretly so he’s got some Leary report on top of it. Every time someone walks past he slams the Leary report down on top of the figures and looks around furtively. Honestly, he’d be rubbish as a double agent.

I try to stop thinking about David, but every time the phone rings I expect it to be him. It’s so unlike him not to call me, even if we have an argument. I don’t want to be the one to call him because frankly he was totally out of line over the weekend, telling me what to do and everything. But I usually talk to David at least once a day and I miss telling him stuff. And I don’t want to go to Rome without seeing him first. I need to make sure we’re okay, that everything’s fine before I go. To be honest, I’m almost hoping that David will cancel his Geneva plans and suggest that we go somewhere instead. Then I can cancel Rome and we can just have a lovely time together.

Except David never cancels his work plans. I can’t help wondering if this trip to Rome is a sign. David obviously doesn’t want to marry me or anything, and this could be the wake-up call I need. Maybe David just doesn’t love me enough.

I pick up the phone and hit “1.” (David is on my speed dial. I love speed dial, like I’m far too important and busy to press more than one digit.)

“Hello?” I’m immediately unsettled—this isn’t Jane on the line. Jane always says “Good afternoon, David Bradley’s office” or “Good morning, David Bradley’s office.” She speaks a bit like the Queen actually. Or like a newsreader from the 1950s. Intimidating, but nice.

“Hi, can I speak to David?” I’m not looking for reassurance that David loves me. I just want to see how he is. You know, in a totally nonparanoid kind of way.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Yes, it’s Georgie.”

“Georgie . . . from where, please?”

“Georgie, his girlfriend, actually.” I sound a bit more agitated than I’d like to, but who is this woman making me feel like I need to justify myself? Why doesn’t everyone in David’s office know my name?

Okay, I’m overreacting a bit. Must be the guilt.

I go on hold briefly, and then I hear David’s voice.

“Georgie. I’m so glad you called. I’m really sorry about the other night. I had no right to talk to you that way.”

“I’m sorry, too,” I say and I actually mean it. There’s something incredibly reassuring about David’s voice. Whenever I’m feeling even slightly unsure of myself, or don’t know what to do about something, I just talk to David and feel like everything’s okay again.

“I wish I wasn’t going away this weekend. I’d invite you along but there’s a new partner working on this case with me and I don’t think I’m going to get a lot of free time.”

“That’s fine, don’t worry,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’ve got loads to do this weekend anyway. We’ve got lots on at work.”

“You’ve got a lot on?”

He sounds really surprised and I find myself getting defensive. Why should David have the monopoly on being really busy at work? I also have important things to do.