Authors: Fiona Pearse
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
Extract
from Yes Chef, No Chef by Susan Willis
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 then, 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.’