Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“You look fab!” I exclaim, walking over to Denise, and she smiles. That’s another thing. If you compliment Denise she graciously accepts it, like she knows the compliment is true. Whereas if someone says something nice about something I’m wearing, I’ll immediately say something like

“This old thing? Oh, it’s not that great really. It might look like silk, but it’s a polyester mix really. And it’s a nightmare to wash. It was very cheap. . . .”

I sit down at my desk and discover that in my rush to leave last night, I didn’t actually turn off my computer and I already have some new e-mails.

The first one is from Guy, and it’s been sent to both me and Nigel.

GUY JACKSON: Nigel/Georgie, some new information has come to light on the merger and I’d like you and your team to do some work for me. Can you both come to my office at 10am to discuss? Keep this confidential. Guy.

Ohmygod. He knows. He knows everything. He’s getting us in on the pretext of helping us out when really he’s going to make us admit that we, sorry, Nigel, has been illegally hacking into our future parent company’s personnel files.

I quickly look up at Nigel and he meets my eye. By the look on his face I can tell that he’s been sitting terrified at his desk waiting for me to get in since he got the e-mail. I try to give him a reassuring smile, but I don’t feel very reassuring. Nigel grimaces and looks back at his computer.

He looks really scared.

My next e-mail is from my mother. James has been trying to get her to use the Internet for ages, and it seems he has finally triumphed.

CAMILLA EDWARDS: Hello. This is an e-mail. James tells me you will get this. Personally I prefer the telephone.

There’s another one from James.

JAMES EDWARDS: For God’s sake, send your mother a message. Otherwise she’ll never use e-mail again. Hope everything’s going well? Love James.

E-mail is actually ideally suited to my mother, I realize. She doesn’t generally require someone to talk to; rather, she likes people she can talk at. And with e-mail she can write as much as she likes without anyone telling her that actually they have to go out now, or go to bed, or whatever.

I press Reply.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Hi Mum! Congratulations—welcome to the information superhighway! Sorry can’t write a long message because very busy here. See you soon—maybe over the weekend? Lots of Love Georgie x (P.S., James, are you sure you know what you’re doing?!)

I’ve also got an e-mail from David. I tentatively open it.

DAVID BRADLEY: Darling, I called you last night but you didn’t answer. Are you still okay for this evening? I’ve bought a Harry Connick Junior CD for us to dance to . . . x I want to smile but I feel sick to my stomach. David thinks I’m coming over for a lovely supper and dancing and actually I’m going to be searching for some stupid Zip disk to give to Mike.

And if he does know why I went to Rome, he must really hate me. It’s all horrible. I’ve never been any good at lying—I was always the one who went red in assembly when the headmistress said something had been stolen or something, even though it was never me. I have a highly developed guilt complex and it’s making me feel ill.

I hit Reply.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Can’t wait! G x

More like “Can’t think of anything else to say because I’m going to be there under totally false pretenses!” I think as I hit Send. I suppose everything will be okay eventually. That this is for the best. But I don’t like it.

“Georgie?” Nigel’s face is about two centimeters away from mine and I jump.

“Nigel, will you not do that, please? Can’t you just stand back a bit like other people?”

Of course I don’t really say that. I just move my head back and give him a look.

“I think we need to talk before going in to see Guy,” he continues. “Get our story straight.

There’s a meeting room free if you’ve got a minute?”

Get our story straight? I’m not sure about this “our” business. All I did was stand in front of the printer and talk to Guy about his hair, or lack of it. I suppose in a court of law that could be considered aiding and abetting, but I didn’t know what Nigel was doing. And even if I did, what was I meant to do? Tell someone? Well, yes, I suppose that’s what I should have done instead of suggesting sending the material anonymously. But still. This is very much Nigel’s problem.

“Okay,” I shrug. “Nigel, do you think we’re in trouble?”

“I don’t know, Georgie. I really don’t know.”

We go to the second-floor meeting room. The second floor is where all our magazines and newsletters are actually produced. Everyone looks very po-faced. I don’t recognize many faces; frankly, after my encounter with Gary from IT, I rather went off company socializing. And Nigel never ever goes to the pub after work, so I’ve kind of followed suit.

I sit down and Nigel shuts the door.

“The question is whether Guy will be able to establish any linkages between the envelope and my computer,” says Nigel.

“Linkages? You mean links?”

Nigel shoots me a dark look. Nigel learned the wordlinkages at a management training course.

He has never been able to give me one good reason why the wordlinkages is any different to the wordlinks , but he always tries to drop it into conversation, particularly if any of the directors are around.

“If he has established anylinkages . . .” Nigel emphasizes the word for good measure and continues to pace up and down. “. . . I will simply explain that I was actioning the research, and that I stumbled on the records through error.” I nod seriously. I’ve never seen Nigel like this.

He’s pacing around and his face is all pink. I’ve seen the pink before, just not the pacing.

“How are you going to explain the envelope?”

“I’ve thought about that. I’m going to say that I was going to give him the pages, and I left them on my desk and they disappeared.”

“So someone else found them on your desk and sent them to Guy, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“And that helps us how?”

“It means that we didn’t enter an agreement to deceive. We printed out information pertinent to a business-linked criticality and this information was circulated by someone else.” Nigel is gripping the top of a chair and staring at the table. I’m not sure that even Guy would have understood a word of that, but the last thing I want is for him to repeat it for me. I look at my watch.

“Nigel, it’s nearly ten now. Shouldn’t we go up to Guy’s office?”

Nigel looks a state. Dark patches have appeared under his arms and beads of sweat are evident on his forehead. If Guy suspects Nigel of anything now, when he sees him his suspicions will be confirmed immediately.

I realize that this could be the last time I stand in this room as a Leary employee. If Guy knows, we could be escorted from the building never to return. I suddenly feel really attached to this dismal office block. I’ve worked here for five years, and it’s sort of a home away from home. I take in the pink floor tiles, the white board on which someone once wrote “Technological advances” in black pen and underlined it three times only to find out that they’d used the wrong pen and it wouldn’t come off. They can’t make me leave, I think to myself. I belong here. I’ve even snogged Gary in IT, for God’s sake. Nigel is combing his hair to one side. He looks truly dreadful. I realize that if I do get the sack, I will even miss him in a funny sort of way. I’ll have no more stories to tell my friends.

We take the lift up to the fourth floor in complete silence. I feel like we’re on our way to a really important exam or something. The fourth floor is nothing like the rest of the building. For one thing, the carpet is really thick so it’s a lot quieter. And for another, there are no open plan areas, just offices with secretaries outside. The secretaries never smile at you. Guy’s is particularly fearsome—I’ve been to see him a few times now and she always gives me this piercing look as if to say “I know you’re a time waster” and I automatically feel like I have no right to be there at all. Like when I go to the doctor, I’m always convinced the doctor thinks I’m wasting her time.