Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

Nigel gets up and walks over to the printer. He picks up the pages for me and brings them over.

Now that’s what you call teamwork.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hisses.

“Research! I’m getting loads of stuff for you to go through!”

“Georgie.” Nigel’s fists are clenched. “Did you understand when Guy talked about discretion?”

“Yes, of course I did,” I whisper confidently. “We’ve got to keep our mouths shut. I understand perfectly!”

“So then you may not want to have these pages coming out all over the floor. You may like to wait at the printer rather than leave them for someone else to find.”

Nigel stomps back to his desk. Honestly, I think he might be taking this a bit far, but he is a paranoia junkie.

I read through all the pages of names and numbers, hoping that something will come out and grab me like in Agatha Christie novels and I can say “Of course, they did it with mirrors” or something and I’ll have solved the mystery. But instead my eyes glaze over as I turn to story after story about finance and shares and profits and really boring stuff like that, and apart from some of the names being the same again and again, there’s nothing else that stands out at all.

When I’ve got a sufficiently impressive pile of papers, I decide I need a break, and I go out to buy a sandwich for lunch, which I eat at my desk. I am enjoying the feeling of doing something important. I feel all charged up and serious. I finally understand what David meant when he said that he really enjoys his work and how once he gets started on a case he can’t stop till it’s finished. Maybe I could get a job as a top research analyst for the government or something. I think I’d be really good at it. Maybe I should get David to introduce me to someone at the fraud office.

By the end of the day I have a pile of papers that is about four inches high. I did actually take a rather extended lunch break (Denise boughtHeat magazine at lunchtime and I spent most of the afternoon reading it), but still, it’s not how long you work, but what you achieve that matters, and I even had to go to the stationery cupboard to get more paper for the printer. How dedicated is that? I call up Nigel—I think he’ll prefer that to me walking over to his desk.

“Nigel, I’ve got some interesting information,” I say, imagining I’m Scully from “The X-Files.”

“Maybe you should come over and take a look at it.”

Nigel doesn’t say anything; he just puts the phone down and comes over. This is so much better than what we used to do. He arrives at my desk looking quite exhilarated. “So what have you got?”

I show him my pile of printouts with a confident smile.

“Right,” he begins uncertainly. “But what’s the interesting information?”

“All of it!” I whisper excitedly. “I’ve got piles of stuff on Tryton, on HG, on Leary . . . look how many pages there are!”

Nigel looks at me strangely. “Georgie, interesting information means something that doesn’t add up, or a link that we didn’t know about. You need to go through the pages to find it.”

“I have!” I say hotly. At least I read through some of it. The problem is, I didn’t understand a word, but I’m not going to tell Nigel that.

“Right, well then, you’ll be able to tell me what this interesting information is.”

Nigel looks like he’s smirking. How dare he; I do all this work and now he’s making fun of me.

“Yes I can, actually,” I say angrily. “It’s that . . . that . . .”

I grab the top sheet from my pile and scan it for something to tell Nigel. It’s a page of information on the Leary Group, its board of directors, and its major shareholders. I spot a name that I recognize. “That Duncan Taylor is a major shareholder in Leary, and . . .” I pause for dramatic effect, “and is the chairman of Tryton.” I look at Nigel triumphantly. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s interesting or not, but at least it’s a link. Or should that be linkage?

Nigel looks really impressed in spite of himself. “I’m sorry, that’s really good work,” he says, the smirk disappearing from his face. “What else do we know about Duncan Taylor?”

I flick through the pages in front of me, but can’t find his name anywhere. Frankly, one incredible insight is, I think, quite enough for one day.

“Nigel, it’s been a long day. Maybe we should wait until tomorrow to find out about Duncan Taylor.”

“You can wait?” says Nigel incredulously. “You don’t need to know now?”

“Um, well, of course Iwant to, but, you know, sometimes you’ve got to be patient,” I say knowledgeably. “If we rush it, we could screw up.”

Nigel nods slowly. “You could be right. But can I take these anyway? Maybe a fresh set of eyes will be able to find out something else.” A fresh set of eyes. Yes, that would be good.

“Why don’t you brief me tomorrow morning?” I say crisply. I’m getting into this whole business lark. The good thing about going out with David is that you learn all sorts of phrases that make you sound incredibly businesslike. He’s always asking people to brief him or to debrief him. I’m not entirely sure what the difference is, so I use them interchangeably. Actually I don’t really use them at all, but I’m going to from now on. I might even buy a proper suit and a briefcase and start striding around purposefully. Who knows, when Guy sees all the work I’ve done, I may get promoted. I could be a high-flying business executive with loads of airmiles and a mobile phone that never stops ringing.

I look at my watch and to my amazement it’s nearly five-thirty. We finish at five, and I’m never late going home unless Nigel forces me. Everyone else has left already. I realize I’m going to be late for David if I’m not careful. I quickly turn off my computer and put on my coat. Nigel has gone back to his hunched-over-computer position, so I don’t bother to say good-bye to him; I just give him a quick wave and go.

I decide against taking the lift. (It’s superstition. I never take the lift on my way out of work in case it breaks down and I’m stuck in it overnight. Whereas I always take it in the morning; if it breaks down then, it means sitting in the lift instead of working and that’s fine by me. So long as I’ve got a magazine or something, obviously.)

The stairs at Leary are at the back of the building so I make my way across the office quickly. I open the door to the stairwell and I’ve just started walking down when I hear two people having a fraught discussion. Any fraught discussions at Leary generally mean fantastic gossip; I once heard one of the directors telling a girl from communications that her backside was as whippable as a horse’s. Denise loved that; she told everyone and no one ever found out that it came from me. I didn’t mean for it to end up in the company newsletter and for the director to leave, but that was hardly my fault.

“What did he say exactly?” I hear one man say.

“He asked about HG’s future plans. But in detail. He wanted to know the three-year plan and stuff. Wouldn’t be a problem, but he said it in front of a couple of board members and got them all interested, too.”

“Okay. We’ll just have to fudge it. Why don’t you send Guy to New York for a few weeks to do some reconnaissance work? If he’s out of the picture, I can easily smooth things over with the board. Once they see the financial implications they won’t give a fuck about three-year plans.”

“Even the Learys? They always get so emotionally involved,” says the other man sarcastically.

“The Learys? The guys are idiots. Come on, all three of them are about to pop their clogs anyway. Look, it’ll be fine, so long as we get round Guy.”