Gemma Townley - When in Rome...

“In case Nigel comes back. You knowInvestment Analysis ?”

Denise looks at me blankly.

“That magazine they produce upstairs. We did some research on it last year.”

Denise nods. Obviously the magazine has made no lasting impression on her.

“Nigel has the research file on his computer, hasn’t he?”

“ ’Spect so,” says Denise, uncertainly.

“And you’ve got his passwords . . .”

Nigel’s paranoia that no one can be trusted extends to us. He is convinced that everyone at Leary would like nothing better than to break into his computer and read all his stupid strategy alignment reports or whatever he has on there, and he is constantly securing his computer with streams of passwords and booby traps. Like anyone would want to break into it and read his stupid files! Apart from now, that is. Luckily our IT department got mad at him one time when they needed to access his database and couldn’t get in. So now he has to tell Denise all his passwords. But he still changes them every week.

“Oh no. Nuh-uh.” Denise turns away. “I am not nosing around Nigel’s computer when he’s due back any minute. You’re going to have to think of something else, I’m afraid.”

“Please . . .”

It’s three minutes to three. “Come on, Denise, you know I’d do the same for you.”

“Like I’d ever need you to.”

“You’d be saving my life . . .” I plead.

It works. Looking as if she would rather be fed to piranhas, Denise makes her way over to Nigel’s desk.

She takes out her notepad and starts typing in all his passwords. “You know I’m not allowed to do this.”

“I know, I know, but this is a real emergency.”

“And what is it I’m looking for exactly?”

“Look under research. Do a search for ‘Investment Analysis.’ ” Denise carefully types the words as I spell outanalysis .

“Nope, can’t find it.”

“It must be there,” I beg. “Look again. Look under . . . I dunno, try ‘magazines’ or something.”

Still nothing.

Suddenly I have a brainwave. “Try ‘strategy,’ ” I suggest.

“Okay, what about ‘Management Strategy Review Documents’?”

“Yes!” I squeal. “I bet it’s there.” And indeed it is.

“You want me to e-mail the report to you?”

“I do love you, you know,” I grin. “Any time you want me to take you away from all this, just say the word.”

Suddenly out of the corner of my eye I see Nigel and Guy coming down the corridor.

“Quick, he’s coming.”

Unflustered, Denise hits a button and picks up Nigel’s phone. As he turns into the office, Denise’s dulcet Essex tones can be heard on the phone to an imaginary customer.

“No, absolutely, Mr. Bingham, I’ll arrange that for you.”

By the time Denise has carefully put the phone down and written an imaginary name and number on a bright yellow Post-it note, Nigel is hovering over his desk looking at her.

“Hi Nigel,” Denise says calmly. “Your phone was ringing and I was on my way back from the Ladies, so I picked it up for you.”

“Very kind of you. Anything important?”

“Oh, no, just someone wanting a sample copy ofAccounting Facts, Part Two .” Denise winks at me and takes the Post-it note back to her desk.

I race back to my desk and open the e-mail Denise has sent. The report is attached, one hundred questions ready to go. I quickly go into Edit and replace “Investment Analysis” with “Pensions Bulletin,” then print it out.

“So, Georgie,” Nigel turns to me. “I assume you have the Pensions Bulletin research ready for Guy?”

“Absolutely, just printing it out.”

I move over to the printer, which is churning out page after page. Feeling utterly pleased with myself, I hand the report over to Guy.

He looks at it briefly. “Looks very impressive. You must have worked very hard,” he says, handing it back to me. “Would you mind e-mailing it to me?”

Nigel is staring at me. “Yes, well, Georgie has had the project for a while,” he says.

“Really?” replies Guy. “But we only commissioned the research last week. I think it’s a great effort from your team.”

Nigel smiles thinly as Guy strides back down the corridor. “Well done, Georgie,” he finally manages as he sits down.

“Oh, it was definitely a team effort,” I say, raising my eyebrow at Denise, who splutters into her coffee.

I leave work on time and get home in time to have a hot bath before “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”

starts on BBC2. I know I’m probably not the target age group for this program, but I like it, and anyway, no one has to know. Not that I’m a Buffy nut, or anything. I mean, I haven’t even watched its spin-off, “Angel.” It’s just something I do if I have the time. And I generally make sure that I do. Have the time, that is. Anyway, Buffy has just managed to pin down a particularly nasty-looking demon when the phone rings.

“Georgie Beauchamp.” I am so engrossed in the fight action that I answer the phone as if I was at work. “Sorry, I mean, hello?”

“Hello Georgie Beauchamp. It’s Mr. Bradley here,” says David, mocking me.

“Oh sod off, I’m just have a bad day. How are you?”

“Busy. But missing you. Do you want to do dinner later?”

“When you say later, just how late do you mean?” I’m looking at my watch and it’s already gone seven.

“Eight-ish.”

“I have a better idea. How about you come round here at eight-ish with a take-away and we can watch the Paramount Comedy channel?”

I love television. I mean, I do other things, it’s not like I just sit on my own and watch TV all day long, but there’s really nothing better than curling up on the sofa with a good take-away and

“Friends” or “Cheers” or something.

“Sounds perfect. See you then.”

When I first started going out with David we went out constantly. I was so pleased to finally have a boyfriend who would actually do some of the things I wanted to do, instead of Mike, who always told me where he was going and asked if I wanted to come, too, which just isn’t the same at all. It was so great to be asked what I wanted to do that I got a bit carried away. In one week we would go to the cinema twice, check out two exhibitions, go to the theater, and eat out at any new restaurant that opened. After a couple of months we were both exhausted, but neither of us wanted to admit it, so we carried on for another month. I think it was me who finally broke, and one night suggested staying in rather than going to an Albanian film night at our local arts club.

David thought it was because I thought he didn’t want to go, and spent twenty minutes trying to convince me of his enthusiasm for film as an artistic medium and the importance of emerging cinema from countries like Albania. I was all “no, really, we don’t have to go,” and David was like “I really want to.” Finally I told him that I didn’t know anything about Albanian cinema, didn’t care about it, and wanted nothing more than to watch reruns of “Friends” eating takeout.

As I said it I suddenly got really scared that he would realize that I wasn’t his type after all and would dump me immediately, but instead he burst out laughing and gave me a huge hug.

We talked for hours that night—it was the first time we both admitted which bits of us were real and which were more for effect. You know, like I always say that my favorite band is some really obscure one with lyrics that are really deep, when, in actual fact, when no one’s there I dance around to Madonna. And I always say I much prefer homemade food and hate artificial additives, but I’ve actually got a cupboard full of chocolate biscuits and cakes with bright pink icing that bears no resemblance to anything in the natural world. David admitted that he doesn’t really understand poetry, that he likes Jack Higgins novels, and that he prefers Stallone films to anything with subtitles.