The I.T. Girl

by Pearse, Fiona

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘Yes, well, pays to have contacts y’see. Know how to play the game, Orls. Rob Hanger. He’s naughty. He’s a naughty boy ringing me directly.’

  I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath with the adrenalin that hit me on hearing Rob’s name. I should have known Rob Hanger would be looking for other contacts in his recruitment drive and they would both offer me up in a second to strengthen their alliance.

  ‘We usually wait until after hours to carry out our quid pro quo. After dark.’ Boris cackled.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I muttered and disappeared from the cube.

  I paced back and forth inside the toilets. ‘You’re breathing. See, you’re breathing.’ Why didn’t I see that coming? I splashed water on my face and leaned over the sink for a while, unsure of whether or not I needed to vomit. I pressed my cheeks with paper towels.

  The moment had passed. And so had the denial. This industry was too small. I couldn’t lie about working here. And I didn’t want to leave after such a short period of time anyway. CouperDaye was known for being tough. Anything less than a year would look like a copout. Why should I let them do that to me? I stared in the mirror and then shook my head. I’d have to get through this programme somehow. ‘It’s only a few months,’ I whispered. Then, when things go back to normal, I resolved, looking back at my reflection, in my own time I’ll leave, with my C.V. and my career intact.

  Chapter Six

  I remembered that the club runs were on Saturday mornings. It was still dark and drizzling through the wind but anything was better than being at home with my thoughts bouncing off the bare walls. I walked across the grass towards the group of bright tracksuits against dull light and nodded hello at faces I recognised from the first time. I went through my stretches, listening to the groups chatting around me. They sounded like they were enjoying themselves, as if this was actually a fun way to spend time. I just felt the need to run.

  The whistle blew and we took off. I started to find a rhythm between my pace and my breathing. This time I was determined to stay within the main pack. I wove through clusters as they formed and broke away until I caught up with the gazelles and stayed behind them, my lungs heaving and my legs striding out. It felt really good, I realised – running like a child. Everything can be solved by running away. Around me, the gazelles were chatting. The conversation was about the food they had eaten that morning. Porridge for breakfast and a banana on the way to the park. I hadn’t eaten anything.

  ‘My ears are still full of water,’ one of them said. I recognised her from before. She tilted her head and banged an ear, her long ponytail jostling.

  ‘I hate when that happens,’ said another one, further along the row. ‘But I promise you it’s worse the other way – when you have to get into the water with cycling burns.’

  ‘Are you in training for something?’ I asked from behind, trying to disguise my panting.

  ‘Triathlon next month. Are you doing it?’ The Ponytail turned.

  ‘Er, no.’ I jolted backwards. What was I doing, trying to keep up with triathlon competitors? My left calf clenched into a fist and refused to move any further. ‘Oooch,’ I said, bending over immediately and grabbing it. I hobbled to the side of the path, out of the way, and rubbed the knot forming beneath the skin. ‘Ooof,’ I said again, straightening and stretching while footsteps hurried passed. I was going to be last again.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Deelie stopped next to me. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was falling out of a loose bun. She looked younger than her years, I suspected.

  ‘I think I’ve pulled a muscle. I don’t understand how. I did all my stretches.’

  ‘Right, well, take it easy. Would you like some water?’ She offered a bottle she was carrying.

  ‘Yes, I would actually. Thanks a lot.’ I was grateful for the swig.

  We started walking, both of us looking at my leg.

  ‘So where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘Dublin.’

  ‘And what do you do?’ she fired at me.

  ‘I’m a software developer. I work for CouperDaye?’

  ‘CouperDaye!’ Her eyes widened. ‘That must be high-pressure. I’m in finance too. I’m an events coordinator for an Exchange. Because of me, middle-aged men get to play Scalextric on a boardroom table and then go to a strip bar.’

  I was thinking of her ducking into the bushes. ‘What’s this club like?’

  ‘Well, I think it’s probably pretty good. But I hate running. I’m just here because I like one of the men.’ She waved her hand down the path. ‘He put up a notice for this place in work so now I run around here once a week looking like an idiot.’

  ‘Well, it’s proactive of you at least. Do you think he likes you too?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I do think there’s a spark. It’s a bit ridiculous though. I have to avoid him when we’re actually running. I dishevel quickly.’ She pulled at a loose strand of hair.

  ‘Trying to flirt in a tracksuit, now that’s high-pressure.’

  ‘Isn’t it? But, my main obstacle is Jenna Buckman. She’s tall.’ She indicated spreading her hands apart. ‘And sort of swooshe’s. And, I have noticed, her group always takes off first but often she and George arrive back together.’

  ‘I wonder if she's one of the gazelles. What does she look like?’

  ‘Gazelles?’ Deelie gave me a sideways look. ‘That sounds right. She has a long ponytail. She and George joined on the same day.’ She said it as if it meant they'd be married. I remembered Jenna standing with a man below the tree, laughing at Deelie, when she lost her belt.

  ‘Well, at least if nothing happens you’ll get fit in the process.’

  ‘Oh, I like that spin on it. Thank you.’

  We finished the route with a morning breeze nipping around our legs. Deelie, short for Delia, quizzed me about Dublin and IT and filled me in on her conversations with George so far.

  The flat did it’s best to absorb my thoughts for the rest of the day. Through the smell of dust and fresh paint, I heaved boxes with out-stretched arms, shoving them into corners to be unpacked. I deliberately banged anything that wasn’t fragile, ignoring the twinge, an angry lightning flash, growing through my neck and down my back.

  When all the boxes were cleared I sat on the floor where the mound had been and watched dust dance in a cloud of light. My homeless belongings lined the walls: piles of CDs and books and pictures to be hung. I felt trapped. This was the first time in my life I couldn’t see a way out of something.

  The evening brought darkness through the windows. I sipped wine and stared at the tree tops covered in smoky light whispering up from street lamps.

  The thought of the next few months tightened around my throat. Making a mistake would be like stepping on a landmine. ‘Disciplinary action’ I kept seeing the formal black print. It seemed so extreme – wasn’t anyone allowed to make a mistake and simply learn from it? Was this programme really just a heavy-handed way of helping me? I had heard once that if you wanted to fire someone you had to demonstrate you had put in steps to help them do their job first. So, was this really an aid? Or was it a step? Either way, the fact that I’d been put on the programme would always be a mark on my record. That’s why I couldn’t stay. My career in CouperDaye was over. But I couldn’t leave either. And for the rest of my time, I was going to have this axe hanging over my head, waiting for an excuse to fall. I smoothed a hand around my neck. Somehow, I was going to have to find a way to survive it.

  The window frames should be re-painted, I noticed. The paint was chipped and uneven. And there were flecks of white paint on the surrounding walls. They might even be stuck, I realised, putting down my glass. I tried to move the top windows. One was jammed. The sides were painted over so it couldn’t slide down the pulley rope. I got a screw driver and slid it through the layers of paint. The window began to rattle as the sides loosened. But the top was still stuck. I shoved the screwdriver in against the frame, fe
eling a ball of anger rising. Why would someone paint a window like this? I wedged the screw driver in further against the stubborn seal. ‘Come on,’ I growled. A chunk of wood broke away and flew into the room leaving the window to rattle free.

  ‘Fuck,’ I shouted after it. ‘Ah, fuck,’ I said again touching the torn timber in the white frame. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the frustration getting to me. A party had started downstairs. The soft beat came up through the floor. I hope that’s not going to go on all night, I thought. My handbag beeped faintly from the couch. I clicked open the message envelope that read Columbus. ‘Yes, I’m free’ it said. ‘Shall I come over?’

  ‘No’ I typed. ‘I’ll come to yours.’

  I put on my coat before quickly touching up my makeup and packed spare underwear and my toothbrush, knowing that despite our rules, I would probably stay overnight.

  His house was in an older part of town than mine, also with a tradition of market trade which these days attracted mostly tourists. It was squeezed into a row of tall houses, each behind a gate and a short path, off one of the few quiet roads. The kitchen and living room were upstairs in an open plan area. Like my apartment, large bay windows brought the luxury of light. The bedroom and bathroom were on the ground floor, down a narrow corridor, tucked behind the staircase, where it was naturally dark, after the porch-light faded. A grandfather clock stood in the short hallway and chimed every 15 minutes. He said it reminded him of his childhood – his father had a hobby collecting mechanical things. He was trying to buy a barograph which would indicate barometric pressure with a delicate inked nib moving on a cylinder of graph paper. But they were hard to find.

  We spontaneously met with a kiss on the lips when he opened the door. I followed him upstairs and he went back to the kitchen without saying anything while I settled on the couch and unzipped my boots. I heard the popping sound of a cork being released from a bottle and then the exchange of air and wine as liquid was poured.

  He settled next to me, with an arm over the couch. ‘Here,’ he said, slipping the stemmed glass into my hand.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, looking at him. I wanted his mouth.

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘I pulled a muscle.’ I raised my legs into his lap.

  He examined the calf I offered, gingerly.

  ‘I tried the running club again. It doesn’t really hurt now,’ I said. I looked around the living room at the faces looking back at me. A mask from north India over the T.V. and a replica of a deep-sea diving mask from World War One on a metal bookshelf. He had tried to convince me it was an original when I first saw it. I had an urge to turn it upside-down and put flowers in it. A fertility God defended the open top of the winding stairs. ‘If it’s for fertility, why isn’t it in your bedroom,’ I had asked when it first startled me. ‘I don’t want it to actually work,’ had been his wide-eyed reply, as if the answer should have been obvious.

  His hand lost interest in my calf and traced my thigh muscle instead, displacing the folds of my skirt and the thin hem below it.

  We looked at each other and kissed. His tongue tasted of wine.

  ‘We’re going to waste another bottle,’ he said, pulling me down so my head lay back on cushions.

  ‘I know,’ I whispered with a slow smile.

  ‘Monday Morning, Orla.’ Boris stated the obvious, striding to the other side of the floor. The team followed him, with blank faces, meandering around cubes like ducklings, towards our meeting room.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I called after them. I sipped coffee so burnt and bitter it reminded me of smoking and clicked through the job sites I had applied to. My cover letter was the same as last year, it didn’t need to change. But my C.V. had a new paragraph about my fictional travel over the past six months. I hit the delete button, removing it from each site.

  As people opened up their notebooks, Boris read the minutes of the previous Monday’s meeting. I stared over at the building next to ours. The glass was tinted so I could only see shapes moving inside. The top disappeared into a fat purple cloud that hung low across the sky.

  ‘Let’s get through this quickly then.’ Boris clapped his hands. ‘I know you’re feeling the pressure.’ He pulled a tight smile. ‘We all are at the moment. That Data Centre deadline is looming.’

  Each person gave their project status. It was an opportunity to share information and raise concerns but the complaints made at the start of the merge were beginning to peter out. Small projects made stats look good, we were painfully aware, watching Felix’s emails going around saying how well everything was coming together.

  Cameron gave his status. ‘I think I’ve fixed that Bahrain bug now.’ He had because I’d fixed it for him. ‘And I’m looking at an XML feed. Also, trying to find some time for training tutorials, on the C++.’

  ‘How do you feel about taking on the Warsaw upgrade mate? A little C++ jobby, eh? It’s a small one.’ Boris coaxed.

  ‘I donno.’

  ‘We’ll talk about if after, mate.’ Boris reassured him. ‘Sam.’ Boris looked along the row for the next status.

  ‘Working on Sweden,’ Sam said.

  ‘Let me explain this to you again, Sam. You each give a status and raise any concerns you may have. Working on Sweden and it’s all going swimmingly. Working on Sweden and it’s all going tits up would even give me some indication of how you’re actually doing. This is how this usually works. So start with Hi I’m Sam and I’m a programmer, if it helps.’

  People started to snigger. Sam’s reluctance to take Boris seriously as a project leader was a regular meeting highlight.

  ‘Have to make some changes based on conformance tests but it should be fine,’ Sam offered. ‘It’s going swimmingly. Since when I started the project we were still in separate teams and an analyst did the analysis and I did the coding. That’s how this usually works.’

  ‘Orla?’ Boris turned to me, ignoring the dig.

  ‘Well, I’m handing over AsiaCap to Sam. And I guess I’ll be starting BelOpt shortly. Also, have a new bug report this morning for Madrid. Actually it’s a functional update, not a bug. Working on the design for that. And that’s it.’

  ‘What’s this bug report?’

  ‘They’re getting duplicates. Exchange is sending them so not our fault but I’m going to add some code to filter them out.’

  ‘Okay. Are you happy with that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you happy? Do you want a second opinion or anything?’

  ‘No I do not!’

  ‘Okay. There’s no need to be so defensive.’

  I went back to staring out the window as chuckling circled the room. I had only just started the revision programme and already Boris was treating me like a junior.

  I tried to look busy, sitting low in my chair and continuing to frown at my screen if anyone leaned over the wall of my cube, until they spoke. But Sam came round to the back of my chair and rattled it. ‘Shall we get this handover out of the way?’

  ‘Oi!’ I jumped forward reclaiming my chair. ‘I suppose now is as good a time as any.’

  ‘The poisoned chalice,’ he said.

  ‘No. I already took that myself. Em, listen...’ I lowered my voice. ‘I don’t want anyone else to know about my programme.’

  ‘Okay.’ He sounded accused.

  ‘No, it’s just that Boris was really obvious in the meeting.’

  ‘I’m sure everyone thought he was just being over-cautious... because of METX.’

  ‘I guess... it’s just... I want to get through this thing as smoothly as possible and well, you know what people are like.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘People will think I’m incompetent,’ I said, annoyed he was making me explain.

  ‘No... everyone knows CouperDaye is heavy-handed... but sure, I won’t say a word.’

  I looked down at the specs and moved them around on my desk.

  ‘This ours?’ He picked up one of them. ‘Looks like
there’s a good bit of work to do. Some global ID formatting?’

  ‘Yep. A good bit of development. Here’s the Exchange spec I’m working off.’ I picked it out of his hands. ‘Perhaps have a read through first. Let me know if you’ve got questions.’

  ‘What’s this?’ He held up another spec.

  ‘That’s the spec for Desktop. I’ve no idea if I’ve done the right thing. Maybe you should try and set up a meeting with Phil or something but he’s always busy when I try him.’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with me.’ Sam dropped the spec back on my desk.

  ‘Oh well, good for you. I guess I shouldn’t have bothered either.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said, reading. I folded my arms waiting for his comments.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ He walked away with his head in the papers.

  I was determined to make Boris see how difficult my job had become. Sam and Cameron tutted to each other over the low cubicle walls, knitting contention, but I ignored it, trying to write the Desktop spec for BelOpt. I included Boris on my emails to Phil letting them know the only way I could write the spec was by copying an old spec from a similar project. Portugal had requested the same functionality a year ago. So I took the Portugal spec and changed everywhere it said Portu to BelOpt. There was a section of acronyms against tick-boxes to enable various bits of functionality. The acronyms were listed on the Desktop website but the explanations were just as obscure. I tried to keep sarcasm from my tone, telling Boris in an email that I had to copy over the whole Portugal check-box selection and would just have to hope the Belgium traders were expecting the same functionality as the Portuguese. I removed specific paragraphs about project deadlines and market opening times since I didn’t have that information for BelOpt yet.

  I read it over. The finished document was two pages of superficial, possibly incorrect information. I tried to pad it out by adding a paragraph about the BelOpt Exchange. I described the new feed as taking prices and volumes for options trading in a new Belgian Exchange with an additional requirement of graphical market analysis – that would be handled by Desktop. I requested Phil review my work, at the very least and then uploaded the spec onto our BelOpt website with a note saying I’d provide more information when it was available.