Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“Fallout?” I think I know what he means, but you can never be sure with Nigel. Once he asked me to do some research on the relevance of ABC to today’s accountant. I rung round a whole load of bemused accountants to find out whether the alphabet was really a useful tool for them in their current roles, only to discover (when the report was complete) that Nigel was actually talking about some business tool called Activity Based Costing. I never dared tell him my mistake, and we continued publishing the ABC CD-ROM because everyone in my research report said it was absolutely essential.

“I mean, what happens afterward. What happens to the companies.”

Well, obviously, that’s what I thought he meant.

Nigel and I sit at his desk going back through the last twenty years of publishing mergers. I had no idea there were so many publishing firms. Nor did I know how many publishers are owned by one company. Like, take theFinancial Times . Did you know that they are owned by Pearson, who used to own London Weekend Television? No? Well, neither did I. We put together a big list, focusing on cross-border mergers, then we highlight all the U.K.-U.S. ones.

I take my half of our final list back to my desk, and I’m about to do a search on the Internet, when I suddenly notice something. On the screen from my original search on HG, a name on one of the documents rings a bell.

“Nigel.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Nigel reluctantly gets up and walks over to my desk. I am looking at a news report on a previous merger—HG and a French book publisher.

“Isn’t this the same company that was involved in the Brightman-Glover merger?”

Nigel looks closely at my machine.

“Scroll down,” he orders.

We search through old news reports looking for information on all the U.S.-Europe mergers in the past ten years. Sure enough, in nearly all of them the same name keeps appearing: Tryton.

“Not a company I’ve heard of,” admits Nigel. I haven’t either, but that doesn’t mean much. I mean, I haven’t heard of any of these companies.

Nigel doesn’t say any more about it, so I assume it isn’t really that interesting after all, and I carry on noting down share prices and collecting information.

By twelve, I’m starving from all this hard work so I go out to get some lunch. When I come back Nigel’s in exactly the same position, hunched over his computer.

I guess it’s because he thinks his job is on the line and he’s trying to demonstrate how hard he works and how essential he is. Personally I prefer theque sera sera approach. If I’m going to lose my job, then there isn’t much I can do about it, so I may as well make the most of it while I’m here. I sit down at my desk and take out my new copy ofMarie Claire to flick through while eating a tuna sandwich.

There’s an article about people who have slept with their boyfriend’s/husband’s/wife’s/girlfriend’s best friends. One girl slept with her boyfriend’s best friend and is now married to him with three kids; one girl slept with her best friend’s husband and is now miserable and on her own. I look at the pictures and can’t understand why anyone would want to sleep with any of them, but it does make me wonder. If I go to Rome with Mike, could I get carried away and end up sleeping with him? The thought has crossed my mind. And as David hasn’t even called or anything, I may not have a boyfriend anymore, so sleeping with Mike wouldn’t even be wrong. But if I did sleep with Mike would I be the happy-ever-after one, or the miserable-on-her-own one? There’s a counselor giving advice in the article, and she suggests looking deep inside yourself to discover whether you are happy, and to see if there’s something else that needs fixing before you sleep with someone else. Well, my curtains still haven’t been put up, but I’m not sure that will have much of an impact on my Mike/David dilemma.

“Got it!”

I look up startled. Nigel has just punched the air. You know, like a footballer or something.

Believe me, Nigel is not the sort to punch the air.

“Nigel?”

He looks round quickly. Everyone except Angela, the telesales team leader, is out at lunch, and she’s taking a call—she’s got her headphones on so she won’t have heard his celebratory cry.

He motions for me to come and look at his computer screen. Reluctantly I put down a rather interesting article on plastic surgery and wander over.

“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—”