Learning Curves

by Gemma Townley

  She leaned against the door and took a deep breath. What had her father said? It was so hard to find people you could trust. Well, he could trust her. She’d had enough of scheming and sneaking around. She’d come here to pick up her father’s laptop and phone, and she’d done that now. So she was just going to open the door and go home.

  And hope against hope that this didn’t all blow up in her face.

  21

  George sat staring ahead grumpily. It was eight o’clock on Saturday morning, and he was wide awake and bored. What was the point, he asked himself, of being the chief executive of one of the best known management consultancy firms if you still ended up like this, tubes in every orifice and subject to the whims of nurses and doctors over whom you had no bloody control whatsoever? What was the point of being fabulously wealthy if you couldn’t buy your health? To buy your way out of bloody hospitals before the buggers got you with one of those hospital bugs or nicked one of your kidneys when you weren’t looking?

  He looked around his private room, taking in the institutional bed that he’d been in for nearly a week now, the drip and machines beeping at him from beside his bedside cabinet, the cheery wallpaper that made him want to jump off a cliff, and the gaping hole where a television should be. No news, nothing that might agitate him.

  It was insufferable. It was outrageous. He had a private doctor. He took pills. He shouldn’t be here.

  And the pain. The pain was worse than he’d expected. Not that he’d expected a heart attack—that sort of thing happened to other buggers, not George Bell. But still, he’d never realized it would hurt so much. It had started as a bad case of heartburn. Too much cheese, he’d thought to himself. And port, perhaps.

  But his usual antacids hadn’t done anything, and when he’d turned to the hard stuff, the tablets his doctor had prescribed for emergencies, they hadn’t done a bloody thing either. George had decided to call his doctor, to tell him in no uncertain terms that next time he was prescribed something for “emergencies,” and something that cost not an inconsiderable amount of money, too, he’d expect it to work. But there’d been no answer. Then the pain had spread outward, stopping him in his tracks. His left arm had started to tingle, and then the pain had spread along it, causing him to shout out. He’d made it to the sofa and tried Emily, but she wasn’t answering either. Bloody Christmas had meant that everyone was out, away, somewhere else. And so George had sat there for twenty minutes, breathing slowly, wondering whom to call, what to do. And then he remembered his daughter.

  Somewhere deep inside, George had actually been rather pleased to have such a dramatic reason to call Jen. No “can I buy you lunch” or “I wondered if you wanted to pop over for a coffee” for him and his estranged daughter. No, on balance, he thought that “Jen, I’m having a heart attack, and I need your help” was far more interesting.

  But, naturally, she’d been out, too.

  So eventually, having even considered calling Harriet in a moment of madness and swiftly rejected the idea, he’d dialed 999, reasoning that after decades of being screwed by the tax man, he should take advantage of an ambulance at least once. Get a bit of value out of the state. He’d described his symptoms, and twenty minutes later two young men had turned up, put him into a wheelchair, and taken him to John and Lizzie’s Hospital where he’d been trussed up like a chicken, connected to some awful beeping machines, and prodded every so often by a doctor who looked like he’d barely left school.

  And now look at him. On his own. Weak and away from the office. It was too much to bear.

  He sniffed despondently. Of course, he was supposed to be convalescing. Bloody joke that was. His private room was about as private as a public convenience— people wandering in and out at all hours, never knocking, never asking permission. Given rabbit food to eat and encouraged to drink lots of water. Most vile drink around in George’s opinion. Tasteless. Absolutely bloody tasteless.

  On top of all that, no one would let him see a single newspaper. No work, he’d been told by the nurses. Nothing that might upset you. What they didn’t realize, George kept trying to point out, was that not having access to newspapers was far more upsetting than reading the rubbish printed in them.

  George’s thoughts were interrupted by the phone. He’d had to fight for the luxury of having a phone, too—they’d tried convincing him that having a phone might also create more stress. Idiots. If he didn’t get a phone, he’d patiently explained, he would not be the only person round here with a heart problem. Of course, Emily was guarding the number as if it were the Holy Grail, which meant that next to no one actually called him. But it was there for emergencies. He just hoped that this wasn’t going to be one of them.

  “George here,” he answered gruffly, hoping for some news. Hoping for some information that would ease his mind if not his heart.

  “George! Good to hear you, old chap. It’s Malcolm.”

  George frowned and pulled himself up to a better sitting position. He paused before answering, gathering his thoughts. He didn’t like to talk to Malcolm Bray, Axiom’s chief executive, without having his wits about him.

  “Malcolm! How good of you to call.”

  “Well, I just heard the news. Sorry to call so early, George, but, well, it was a bit of a shock. You know I would have come down to see you if I hadn’t been tied up. So how is the old ticker?”

  George groaned. “Bloody awful. And being in hospital is not helping. It’s a dreadful place, you know. Sooner I see the back of this room the better. There’s nothing to do here but read out-of-date magazines.”

  “My sympathies are with you. I felt the same when I had my knee done. Nowhere is as bad for your health as hospital, eh?”

  George agreed heartily.

  “Well, I look forward to seeing you when you’re fit and well,” said Malcolm cheerfully.

  “Absolutely. Must have a drink one of these days.”

  “I’ll get my secretary to fix something up. Oh, just one thing before you go . . .”

  “Yes?”

  There was a pause. “I gather you haven’t read the newspapers.”

  George clicked his tongue. “My medical notes on the Internet, are they?” he quipped sarcastically. “No, I bloody well haven’t read the newspapers and if I don’t get one soon, someone somewhere is going to lose their job.”

  “Oh, well, not to worry,” Malcolm said quickly. “There’s just been some more rubbish printed on this Indonesian thing, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. You just concentrate on getting better.”

  “Not to worry?” George asked concernedly. “That means that something’s gone wrong, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, no, everything’s fine. Really.”

  “Right,” said George, sounding unconvinced.

  “Good. Good to hear it. Thanks, George. And we’ll catch up very soon.”

  As George put the phone down, he felt an uncertain feeling rise up within him. He needed his mobile phone and his laptop, and he needed them now. Where the hell was Jennifer?

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bell!”

  Oh sod. It was the older nurse. The cheerful one. George preferred the young, sullen one—she looked as if she enjoyed her job about as much as George was enjoying his stay in hospital. They didn’t talk to each other and George could be as grumpy as he liked. But this one—she was interminable.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it! Deary me, these curtains haven’t been opened! Let’s bring some sunshine in, shall we?”

  “It’s January,” said George. “I hardly think we’re going to get much sunshine.”

  “Nonsense! Winter sun is lovely and warm. Now then, isn’t that better? And how is the patient eating? Oh dear, not good. Did you not feel like breakfast today?”

  “I did feel like breakfast, actually. I just didn’t feel like eating that drivel. Chap needs bacon and eggs. Hot buttered toast. Not that . . . that . . . mush.” George was talking on autopilot; his mind was elsewhere, worrying.

  “Now,
now, we want to get your heart better, don’t we? That means healthy eating, Mr. Bell. Good, nourishing food. Lots of fiber and fruit and none of those awful fry-ups!”

  George focused on the nurse for a minute, taking in her own curves, and was tempted to ask whether she’d managed to kick the fry-up habit herself, but decided against it. Those bedpans could be very uncomfortable.

  “I want to have a cigarette.” His fingers were drumming now and he could feel himself becoming agitated.

  “Of course you do. But you’re not going to, are you, Mr. Bell? We’re not going to give in to Mr. Temptation, are we? We’re going to be strong and ignore our cravings. You’ve got your nicotine patches, haven’t you?”

  George stared miserably at the box on his bedside cabinet. “I don’t want a patch, I want a cigarette. Better still, a cigar. And I want you to stop being so bloody cheerful.”

  “Oh, you’ve got to stay cheerful, Mr. Bell. Otherwise where would we be? There’s enough reason to be sad, what with children dying in Africa, even on the ward upstairs. Heartbreaking, isn’t it? Then there’s those poor people in Indonesia with no homes, no money, and there’s that big hole in the aid money and no one knows where it’s gone. It’s a terrible state of affairs, Mr. Bell. And what I say is, be grateful for what you have and be cheerful while you can.”

  “The aid money’s disappeared? Disappeared where?”

  “If I knew that, then it wouldn’t have disappeared, would it?” the nurse said hurriedly, suddenly remembering that she wasn’t meant to be discussing the news with this particular patient. “Now you get some rest and don’t worry yourself.”

  “Fat chance,” George said under his breath as she left the room. Sheepishly, he picked up a tissue and blew his nose. One of the little-known side effects of a heart attack, he’d discovered, was the propensity to cry at any given moment and for absolutely no reason whatsoever. He’d developed various strategies for dealing with it— including sending people from the room on errands, blowing his nose and surreptitiously wiping his eyes at the same time, and talking loudly about being allergic to hospitals. But what he hadn’t mastered was stopping them from coming in the first place. Bloody nurse just had to stroke his head and he felt little tears pricking at his eyes, felt an irresistible urge to press his head to her chest and to blub like a baby. Bloody disgraceful, he thought to himself, and probably due to the drugs. Quicker he could get out of here the better.

  “I’m not going to cry,” he heard himself say, and immediately placed a pillow in front of his face to smother his shame. “I’m George sodding Bell and I am not going to cry.”

  “George, what on earth are you doing?”

  George started. That didn’t sound like the nurse. Slowly he removed the pillow from his face.

  “You?” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  Jen drummed her fingers nervously on her kitchen worktop as she waited for the kettle to boil and poured herself a cup of tea. She was doing her best to put Paul Song and that phone call out of her mind, but it was like trying to keep water out of a leaking boat—every time she managed to think of something else, Paul Song kept trickling back into her head, leaving her exasperated and confused. There had to be an explanation, she kept telling herself. She just had to trust her father and not get involved. After all, look what had happened last time—hiding in cabinets and leaks to the press. It wasn’t exactly a record to be proud of.

  Moving back to the kitchen table, she pulled out her papers. Maybe if she lost herself in her studies she’d forget all about it.

  Assignment 3: Conduct a SWOT analysis of a business or industry, using models and theories covered in the course.

  She frowned and started to make notes. Chosen industry: bookselling. Chosen business: Wyman’s. Internal strengths: Daniel . . .

  She crossed that bit out and found a little respite from her Paul Song quandary. Daniel, who was always a welcome intrusion into her thoughts. Is a sexy managing director a strength that could be leveraged? she wondered idly. She sighed. If she was really going to do some work, she needed to do some proper research. Find out about industry margins, profit levels, that sort of thing. She should go to the library and go online.

  Or, she suddenly thought, she could spend the morning organizing broadband for her apartment. Sure, it could be considered a diversion tactic, but it would save so much time in the longer term. No more having to wait in turn at the Bell library, or, worse, her local municipal library, where there were only two computers. No more sitting in Web cafés on a Sunday where they charged by the hour. Not that she’d ever done that; she hadn’t taken the MBA seriously enough before. But now things were different. Now she felt it was time to commit.

  Except it would take forever. Days, maybe weeks, and she needed to finish this assignment by Monday. She could do the internal bit with Daniel tonight (she blushed at the thought, embarrassed and slightly thrilled that she could be so smutty while in the midst of an important MBA assignment), but she still needed information about other bookshops—share prices, analysis reports, stuff like that.

  She sighed again. She’d have to go to the library. But would there be time? She wanted to get to the hospital by three and that meant leaving at two, which only gave her . . . three hours. Hopeless—by the time she got to the library and waited in line, she’d only have an hour, two at best.

  Unless . . .

  Her eyes fell on her father’s laptop. It was bound to have an Internet connection. She frowned. No, she couldn’t. Since getting back from his house yesterday she’d been so badly tempted to have a little look through his files—just to check that everything was okay, just to reassure herself. But it would be wrong. She couldn’t do that sort of thing.

  Although, if she did use it, she could get to the hospital quicker, and he did seem in quite a hurry to get ahold of it.

  But it was still his computer. It would be an invasion of privacy.

  Although she’d only be opening up the Internet browser, not looking at any personal files or anything . . .

  She opened up the case.

  Okay, she told herself. Quick analysis of the situation.

  Option One: Go to library, lugging laptop, wait in line, do research, get to hospital late and flustered.

  Option Two: Use laptop. Just surf Web; don’t look at anything else, thereby making no infringement on father’s privacy. Get to hospital early and relaxed.

  Deftly, she took the laptop out of its case, plugged it in, connected it to her phone line and booted it up.

  Two hours later, she was nearly done. She’d downloaded spreadsheets and reports and editorials on the bookselling industry from the FT and the Wall Street Journal, and had even found some commentary on Wyman’s itself, including some very complimentary articles about Daniel when he got the job. Now all she had to do was transfer them all onto a CD and she’d be ready to go.

  And she hadn’t even looked at any of her father’s files.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t been tempted, either. She’d wanted so much to have a quick search under “Axiom” to see what she could find. But she hadn’t had so much as a peek—her days of spying on her father were well and truly over. If she’d learned one thing recently it was that trust was paramount.

  Maybe Paul Song was working for her father as a feng shui consultant, she thought severely. He could have had a disaster with some crystals or something—that would explain the desperation in his voice.

  Jen frowned. As much as she tried, she just couldn’t picture her father going in for feng shui, or crystals for that matter. Okay, so maybe her mother had asked him to call, to find out how her ex-husband was. Maybe Paul had dialed a wrong number. Maybe . . . Jen shrugged. Maybe she was just going to have to live with the fact that she didn’t know and might not ever find out.

  She picked up a disk and slotted it into the laptop to transfer the Web files she’d been browsing. The drive opened up in a window and she moved her files across. Then she f
rowned—there was an Excel spreadsheet with “2004–05 accounts” and she couldn’t remember whether it was hers or not. She double-clicked on it, expecting to see the filed accounts of one of Wyman’s competitors or a boring accounts spreadsheet from Bell.

  But instead, the spreadsheet contained something very different, and when the file sprung up on the screen, she gasped.

  22

  “You!” George said again, his eyebrows raised. “Well, I really am honored!”

  Harriet watched as he turned to put his pillow behind his head, wiping his eye surreptitiously as he did so. She smirked slightly.

  “You know, it doesn’t really suit you, looking helpless like this. I bet you’re not enjoying it in the slightest, are you?”

  George looked at her defiantly. “I won’t be here for much longer,” he said quickly. “So, what can I do for you? Need some money to bail out that firm of yours? I hear you’re running out of funds, but then again that’s hardly surprising, bearing in mind that you seem to have something against accepting clients who can actually afford to pay you.”

  Harriet smiled sweetly, trying not to let her agitation show. He always said that, she told herself quickly. There was no need to rise to it just because this time he’d hit a nerve.

  “Unlike Bell Consulting, who will take on anyone with money, no matter how they got hold of it,” she said, moving over to the window to look out. “You don’t have much of a view here, do you, George. I’d have thought you’d have demanded the best view in the hospital, a man with your . . . authority.”

  She looked at the various tubes sticking out of George as she spoke and he narrowed his eyes.

  “I don’t want a view, I want to get the hell out. Now, are you just here to gloat or does your visit have a purpose? I suppose you must be needing company now that your daughter has seen through you.”