When in Rome... (24 page)

I smile back and keep walking. And then I freeze. Guy is on his way out . . . he’s probably on his way to New York. I didn’t think they’d have sent him away so quickly. I’ve got to do something! If Guy goes to New York before Nigel can tell him what’s really going on, the merger will go ahead and Leary will be shut down and Nigel will lose his job. I can’t let it happen.

I think quickly. What I need is a diversion so I can tell him what I heard last night. Unfortunately there are no diversions on hand, and Guy is nearly at the door.

“Guy! Don’t go!” He turns round and a couple of people who are waiting in reception look up interestedly.

“I mean it. You can’t go. Not until . . . until we’ve talked properly.”

The receptionist looks at me strangely, and Guy looks embarrassed. Oh great. Now everyone’s going to be told that Guy and I are having an affair.

“I’ve got to go,” says Guy kindly, as if he’s talking to a child. “I’m really late and there’s a taxi outside waiting for me. Look, have a word with Nigel.”

“No!” I grab his arm and he tries to shake me off. This is not the measured conversation I had hoped for.

“Guy, I need to talk to you,” I hiss. Honestly, you’d think he would listen to me. I mean, I am one of his personal researchers, a trusted face in a cold, corporate world and all that.

“Look, I’m sure it can wait.” Guy is staring at me. The two men waiting in reception are also staring now. I realize that one of them is the guy I saw last night with Robin. Maybe they’ve been sent to make sure Guy never makes it to New York. Maybe they are waiting for me to go, and then they’re going to follow him out to the cab and do something terrible . . . or maybe they are waiting for him to leave so they can sort out the merger and keep the Learys out of it.

The receptionist calls out to Guy that his taxi won’t wait much longer and then she gives me a meaningful look. I’m sure it’s along the lines of “have some self-respect.” She has a point—I am holding Guy’s arm very tightly.

Guy starts walking and I go with him. He’ll be grateful eventually, I reason.

Once outside, I usher Guy into his waiting taxicab and get in after him.

“So you’re coming, too, are you Georgie? Fine. The Bolton’s, please. Now, Georgie, what exactly can I do for you?”

“You can’t go to New York.” I’m looking out of the back of the cab to see if we’re being followed. “They’re just trying to get you out of the way. Robin said so . . . you’ve been asking too many questions. And Duncan Mailor is behind it all. He’s the chairman at Tryton, which is involved in all the HG acquisitions and he was on the board at that company in America where they went to prison and he’s going to close us all down and you’ve got to stop them . . .”

Guy is grinning broadly.

“Georgie, did you hear where I told this cab to go?”

I shake my head.

“Chelsea. I’m going to see the Learys. And a couple of the other investors. They are all voting against the merger.”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean, you have done some very valuable work, but maybe you want to watch a bit less television.”

“But last night . . .”

“Yes, Nigel told me what you heard last night. And I’m glad you told him. It seems the announcement of the merger was a little premature. One or two of our board members seem to have taken the view that if the merger plans were announced, the deal would become inevitable. Unfortunately for them, our investors did not take kindly to being told about the strategic direction of the company by worried employees, and so the merger talks have been suspended.”

“Duncan Mailor!”

“Taylor,” Guy corrects me. “Well, Taylor was one of them. But the real force behind the merger was Robin. He owns quite a bit of stock—insisted on it when he was appointed, and it appears he wanted to cash in. Which he could only do if the company floated, or was sold. Luckily the majority of the other investors are more long term in their ambitions.”

“So . . . so it’s all off?”

“Well, it is for the time being. And I can’t imagine the shareholders are going to be very keen on the idea when they know the facts. I’m sure we will merge with another company at some point, just not HG, and not now.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “But what about that man in reception?”

“I think he was waiting for Robin.”

“Waiting for Robin?”

“Yes, I think he was going to take him home.”

“You mean . . .”

“I mean that you are talking to the new chief executive of Leary. The chairman was meeting with Robin first thing this morning, and I’m on my way to see the Learys now. They always like to meet the chief exec formally on appointment.”

“So you’re not going to New York, then,” I say slowly. I’m silent for a while. We saved the day. Nigel and I really did it! It nearly makes up for my embarrassment over the little episode in reception. Why do I always have my most excruciating moments in front of Guy?

“No, not New York.”

Guy stops the taxi.

“You’re going to be very late for work.”

“Mmmm.”

“But thank you for trying to save me from a free trip to New York.”

Guy grins and takes a crisp ?10 note out of his wallet. “This should cover your taxi back to the office. Tell Nigel we have been having a strategic planning meeting and that’s why you’re late.”

I get out of the cab and shut the door.

Guy winds down the window. “One more thing.” I look up expectantly.

“Thanks. Really. And tell Nigel that I’d never have guessed it was him if he hadn’t labeled the documents ‘Information Pertaining to the Strategic Combination of HG and Leary Publishing.’ ”

My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Does he mean . . . did he know about the envelope? When we came in for the meeting, did he already know? But before I can ask Guy anything, the taxi has driven off.

I walk into the office triumphantly. As I step out of the lift I look around the first floor proudly and walk over to Nigel’s desk, grinning ear to ear and giving him a little wave. But Nigel doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t even smile. His desk is back to normal—all neat piles and color-coded Post-it notes. He walks over to my desk as soon as I’ve sat down.

“Nigel! Have you heard about Robin?” I whisper excitedly.

“Georgie, you’re late for work,” Nigel says simply. “I will not tolerate tardiness in this department. I assume you will be working an extra half an hour after work today. Now, I think we both have work to be getting on with. The Pensions Bulletin questionnaire you submitted has a number of questions relating to investment managers, which I don’t think are at all relevant to the Bulletin, so would you kindly make sure the revised questionnaire is with me by the end of play today.”

So that’s it then. No celebrations, no more investigative work. It’s just boring old crappy research. But underneath Nigel’s stern expression I’m sure his eyes are twinkling.

In a way I’m relieved everything is back to normal here. I could do with something going right in my life. I turn on my computer and the phone rings.

“Georgie? Thank God! I’ve been trying you all morning. So, did you get it?”

“Hi, Mike,” I say unenthusiastically. “I, um, yes, I got it. I’ll bring it round later, shall I?”

“You are a total gem. Yes, bring it round tonight. I’m here till seven. Maybe we can get a drink afterward? See you later, sexy.”

“Okay.”

I put down the phone. I don’t really feel like going out for a drink with Mike later. Maybe I could send him the disk instead. Yes, that’s a much better idea.

I dig out a piece of paper and start writing: “Mike. Here is the disk. I hope it means we can end this whole stupid saga. G.”

I fold it in half and put it in an envelope along with the Zip disk. I carefully write Mike’s name and the address of his St. John’s Wood flat on it, and take it down to the post room.

If I pull this off, I muse as I walk back upstairs, I will have saved Leary, and saved David’s career. I think I might start a diary, so that my children can read it and be impressed. Or better still, a video diary. That way I might end up on TV.

I could get famous, and then I might become an executive coach or something, teaching people how to grab opportunities and be masters of their own destiny. I could have a slot on day-time television for people who’ve lost their jobs. (“Oh, Bill. We have all lived through the threat of redundancy. Why, when I was working at Leary, I came very close to losingmy job. But instead of accepting the inevitable, I fought the merger. I may have been just a researcher, but I wasn’t afraid of my Goliath . . .”) I’m just working out whether my pink dress from Gucci would work well on TV when Nigel interrupts my reverie.

“Georgie, that is a further ten minutes that I will be adding to the clock tonight. Will you please sit down and do some work? And no more personal calls today.”

Fine. If I can’t make calls, there’s always e-mail. I’ve got to tell Mike I’m not coming round tonight. Short and to the point.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Hi Mike. Afraid I can’t come round later after all—lots going on at work. Have put the disk in the post; you should get it tomorrow. Georgie.

I turn back to the Pensions questionnaire. I can’t believe I’ve still got this stupid thing to do. Is it really important in the big scale of things? I actually think we should have an amnesty from normal work and have a day off or something to celebrate the company not being torn apart by that nasty HG company.

Ping!Ooh, it’s an e-mail. Maybe it’s David? No, it’s Mike.

MIKE MARSHALL: You’re putting it in the post? Georgie, do you realize how important this is? Put in on a fucking bike, at least. In fact, sod that—I’ll come and pick it up myself. Where are your offices? M

Mike come and pick it up? I don’t think so—Nigel would go ballistic, and anyway, I don’t want to see him. Sending it on a bike is possible, but that would mean going back down to the post room and then convincing reception that sending a bike to Big Base Records is a genuine business necessity. And somehow I don’t think they’ll fall for it. Not to mention the fact that I am too embarrassed to talk to anyone in reception since they witnessed me hanging on to Guy’s arm earlier.

I hit Reply.

GEORGIE BEAUCHAMP: Sorry, the post has already left. You’ll get it tomorrow though, and I put it in a padded envelope. G

Well, it’s half true. The envelope was definitely padded.

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==================================  18

I don’t get home until eight. I seem to be turning into someone who works late on a regular basis. The thing is, once I started looking at the Pensions questionnaire properly, I realized that actually a lot of it needed changing. I mean, there were questions like “Pensions Bulletin has recently undergone a design revamp. Would you say, on balance, that you prefer the current illustrative design, or the previous photograph-led design?”

Investment Analysismagazine has a whole team of designers working on it, but Pensions Bulletin is just a two-page newsletter, so that question had to be taken out completely, along with all the questions on individual writers and columns. By the time I had a questionnaire that actually seemed to refer to Pensions Bulletin it was nearly seven-thirty. Even Nigel looked like he wanted to go home, but he stayed as long as I did. And then, as we were walking out, he said, “Thanks for your work on the merger situation. It has been resolved, as I believe Guy has already informed you. I believe that in the circumstances it would be beneficial for the organization if the subject and events surrounding it were not mentioned again.” And that was that.

I look around the kitchen for something to eat. With all these impromptu dinner invitations and trips to Rome I haven’t done any shopping for ages and all I can find is toast. Still, it’s something. I was hoping to see David tonight, but he’s working late.

I put on the television and sit with a cup of tea and hot buttered toast watching “EastEnders.” Pat’s looking a bit worse for wear, but I can really sympathize. I mean, life can be quite exhausting sometimes.

Just as the credits start to roll, the phone rings. I lean over to see the caller ID, half hoping it’s David, but it’s Candy. I could leave it to ring, I think. I mean, I could easily be out. And I really don’t have the energy to talk to Candy. But then again she is David’s friend. And I don’t want to be rude.

“Hello?”

“Georgie?” Who else does she think it’s going to be?

“Yes. Candy?”

“Oh thank God you’re in.”

“Candy, are you okay?”

She sounds dreadful, like she’s been crying.

“Oh yes, oh, everything’s fine. Just, you know, ringing to see how you are.”

“Oh I’m fine. Really fine.”

“How’s everything with David?”

“Oh, fine. We’re fine,” I say wearily, unable to think of anything else to say. Then I hear a muffled sob.

“Candy, what’s wrong?”

She sniffs. “Nothing.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Georgie, remember when you said that Mike was calling you and stuff, and that you thought he wanted you back? You didn’t mean it, did you? I mean, he wasn’t really asking you out and stuff, was he?”

I pause. On the one hand, I would still love to tell Candy just how much Mike wanted me back. She was always so dismissing of our relationship, so convinced that Mike would leave me, and I want to be able to tell her that the only reason he left me was because he didn’t feel good enough. But on the other hand, I can’t risk it. Candy might get it into her head to tell David and that could be disastrous. No, I’m going to have to swallow my pride and pretend that I totally misread the Mike thing. For the second time.

“No, not really. We just saw each other once and, well, nothing really. No, nothing going on there.”

“Oh I’m so relieved. I was so worried.”

“Worried? Candy, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“What, you’re worried about David? Look Candy, I love David. I would never do anything to hurt him, you know that.” I blush as I speak. Wouldn’t do anything apart from going on holiday with his worst enemy. Stealing disks from his coat pocket. You know, nothingreally bad.