Alberta Clipper

by Lambert, Sheena

  “Right, let’s get started,” he pulled out a chair. “Petra, could you organise some coffees for us?”

  “Of course Mark. Oh dear, I seem to be one pack short.” The space in front of Christine was left empty. “I wasn’t aware that these gentlemen were joining the meeting,” she simpered at the two analysts who grinned at her like teenagers. “And I always make an extra copy, just in case.”

  Mark looked at her like she was suddenly speaking Spanish.

  “Petra, maybe you could bring in an extra copy with the coffee?” Christine looked straight at her.

  “Of course, Christine.” Petra turned and strode from the room.

  “Wow.” Craig leaned in close and whispered to Christine. “What did you do to annoy her?”

  “I dunno.” She sighed. “A PhD probably.”

  He sniggered, and Mark glared at him. “Perhaps you’d get us started Craig?” he said.

  ~

  An hour later, Christine was sitting at her desk, reading the four-month seasonal forecast she received every two weeks from one of the weather information suppliers CarltonWachs subscribed to. Although technically part of the bank’s analytical department, she had her own small office, separate from her colleagues. It was her sanctuary. A little bit of peace in the otherwise high-pressure environment of the fourth floor. Her role as the only European-based meteorologist meant her workspace was a colourful hive of information, with various screens showing complicated graphics of weather patterns which were continuously updated and revised. Accommodating these screens required a larger than average desk, and it was commonly assumed that this was the reason for her having her own office.

  But Christine suspected that it might just have also been a small gesture of chivalry on Mark’s part when she had joined the firm. There were plenty of women employees in the CarltonWachs accounts and marketing departments, but all the other analysts she worked with were men, as were all the other non-administration staff on the fourth floor. Whatever the reason for it, she hadn’t objected. It suited her to have her own space. It suited her very well.

  When she had finished reading, she opened her emails. There were two from the MET Institute, three from her father who was learning how to use email, and one she didn’t recognise. She clicked on it, while simultaneously rooting in her desk drawer for a granola bar she was certain she had stashed there the previous week.

  “What the? Oh no. Oh no.” She re-read the offending email in disbelief before standing abruptly and stalking to the door of the office.

  “Craig!” she yelled. Half of the dealing desk lifted their heads to look at her. Craig was on the phone, with his legs crossed on the desk in front of him. He looked over at Christine, covered the handset and mouthed “What?” at her, before finishing the call abruptly and following her into her office.

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about this?” She sat back down at her computer and pointed at her monitor. “Dear Christine,” she read aloud in a sarcastic tone. “Congratulations!” Another glare at Craig, who was leaning against her doorway looking bemused.

  “You are through to the next stage of our search for the next Channel 3 Weather Presenter! You really impressed us with your story of how you longed to be a weather girl since you were little. So sweet to picture you under your Barbie umbrella in front of the TV playing pretend for your parents.”

  Christine looked up at Craig in horror before continuing to read.

  “And of course your qualifications speak for themselves… Jesus Craig, they want me to meet them at their studios next week.” She jabbed at the screen again. “You did this, didn’t you? Admit it.”

  Craig sat down on her desk and leaned over, trying to see the computer screen. He looked guilty.

  Christine shook her head. “Oh dear God.”

  “Christine,” Craig started to laugh. “I can’t believe it. You actually got through. That is bloody hilarious.”

  “Oh gee, thanks Craig.” Christine looked back at her computer, hoping the email would have somehow disappeared. But, no. It was still there.

  “Oh that’s just too funny.” Craig jumped down from the desk, bellowing laughter, gasping for air. “I only entered you as a joke. Oh, you should go to the audition. Can you imagine if you got through?”

  “CRAIG!”

  “Okay, okay, sorry. But you should be flattered. They must have thought you would be good. Wouldn’t you like to be on TV, knowing half of the men watching were, how shall I put it, enjoying the show?”

  Christine shook her head. “I am going to get you back for this. Big time.”

  “Okay, okay, sorry, sorry.” Craig lifted his hands in submission. “Just email them back, and say you’ve changed your mind. Say you can’t bring yourself to leave your wonderful colleagues here.”

  “Oh, just get out.” Christine pointed at her door.

  Craig started to laugh again. “Oh wait til the lads hear about this.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Christine’s eyes were wide. She could do without Mark Harrington thinking she had weather girl aspirations. “And please don’t apply for any jobs for me in the future without letting me know first, okay?” She glanced out through the glass wall, and smiled. “Although, feel free to send your own résumé out. By the look on Shay’s face, you might need to.”

  Craig followed her gaze and saw Shay standing at the door of his office with his arms folded, looking straight in at them. He lifted some random papers from Christine’s desk, and returned to his own workspace, thanking Christine officiously as he departed.

  Left alone, Christine sat staring incredulously at her computer screen. Craig could be such an idiot. She jumped when the phone on her desk rang.

  “Hello, Christine here.”

  “Hey, Christine, Amanda in reception. I’ve got your father on line four.”

  Christine threw her eyes up to heaven and tapped the receiver off her head in a mock beating.

  “Christine?”

  “Okay Amanda. Thanks. You can put him through.”

  Christine gazed out of her window over the tops of the trees in the square opposite. The sky had lost its haze and was a deep unspoiled blue.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Dad. How are you?”

  “Great. You?”

  She hesitated. “Great. I got your emails. Well done. How’s the class going?”

  “Uh, alright. The email thing is easy enough. I sort of knew how to do that anyway. But we’re supposed to open a Twitter account next week. I really have no clue what the hell that will entail.”

  A retired French and German teacher, Matt Grogan had managed to make it through the last ten years of his career without having to embrace any new means of communication. He had a mobile phone, and could even manage the odd text in an emergency, but teaching sixteen-year-olds foreign languages hadn’t required anything more technologically advanced than a DVD player, and he had managed to get to retirement without a Facebook page.

  But when Christine’s mother had died unexpectedly, his days had suddenly become long and lonely. Encouraged by his family, he had undertaken a number of further education courses. The cookery one had been very useful; his poker buddies had been particularly enthusiastic. They used to take turns hosting the weekly game, now it was almost always held at Matt’s. The painting course had been a disaster, merely serving to confirm his own long held suspicion that he had not one artistic bone in his body. But he'd had to admit that this latest one – Communicating with Your Computer – had been a good idea. Aggie, Christine’s older sister, had been particularly keen. She was hoping to keep a closer eye on her Dad from her home in Australia if she could skype him. That idea had suited Christine too.

  “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it, Dad.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Did you get an attachment? With one of the emails? You were supposed to get an attachment.” He pronounced the word like it was new to his vocabulary.

  Christine flicked back over her emails.

&n
bsp; “Yeah, there’s something here alright.” She clicked on the file, and a smiling photo of her father filled her screen.

  “Lovely. Is that Deano, or Frank?”

  “Funny. But it came through, yeah? That’s great.”

  Christine smiled. “Good for you Dad. Welcome to the twenty-first century. You might get electricity into the house next.”

  “You’re hysterical. Forget that science lark, you should have a career in television.”

  Christine laughed out loud. “Don’t even joke. So anyway Dad. What’s up? You called me.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Everything’s fine. It’s just -”

  Christine could hear her father take a deep, calming breath.

  “Dad?”

  “It’s just – at the class. There’s a lady. Grace. She’s taking the class too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, I was considering – just considering – asking her over. For dinner. Some evening.”

  A number of emotions hit Christine all at once, and it took her a second to make sense of them. Shock was certainly one of them. She hadn’t expected this. Her mother was dead nearly five years, but this was the first time her Dad had mentioned anyone else. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it. At the same time, she was happy – happy for her Dad who was obviously picking himself up and trying to live a life. Good for him. She was also touched that he was calling to ask her blessing.

  “Chris? Have I upset you? I’m sorry. If you’d rather I didn’t -”

  “No. Dad I think that’s great. What’s she like? Twenty-year-old blonde looking for a sugar daddy?” As soon as she had said the words, she held her breath.

  “'Fraid not. Not too many of them at computers for dummies. No, she’s a widow herself. She’s got two grown-up children and a couple of grandchildren. I actually don’t know how old she is. It’s not the kind of thing you ask.”

  “A glamorous granny so. Nice one Dad. Well, the cookery lessons will come in handy now. She’ll be very impressed.”

  “And you don’t think Aggie would mind?”

  Christine wasn’t sure whether her sister would mind or not. But her sister was on the other side of the globe, so there was little point in involving her. “Of course not. You don’t have to ask our permission you know Dad.” Christine looked up to see Shay at her office door, silently tapping his watch. She nodded at him. “Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a lunch meeting. I’m thrilled for you. Enjoy it. Let me know when she’s coming over, and I’ll make sure to pop in unexpectedly to give her the once over.”

  “Eh, no thanks Chris. Maybe another time. First date and all, ha ha.”

  Christine detected a note of nervousness in his voice. “You’ll be great, Dad. You’re entitled to have friends you know. And fun.”

  “I know Chris. But well, you know yourself.”

  “I know Dad. I know.”

  TwoIt was almost eight that evening when Mark turned the key in his Georgian front door, grateful the house was empty. Jennifer was usually home before him, but today she had a drinks reception at the college where she taught English literature, so she would be late. He threw his keys into the bowl on the hall table and walked down the steps into the kitchen.

  The house was very tidy – evidence that it was Monday and that their cleaner had been. Not that the house was ever really untidy. Sometimes Mark imagined himself arriving home to a house full of clutter and mess, and being greeted enthusiastically by a small child of no specific gender for whom he would hunch down as the child ran into his arms screeching ‘Daddeee’. Of course he knew that this fantasy had been imported into his subconscious from countless TV shows and movies. He was under no illusion that most fathers of small children went home to tired, cranky children, and tired, cranky wives.

  But Mark never went home to either. Jennifer had never wanted children in her twenties, and had never wanted them in her thirties either. And now, unlike most of her friends who had fallen foul of their hormones along the way, she was heading for forty still perfectly content in her life choices. And Mark had been okay with that. It wasn’t something he had ever given any major thought to, he supposed. If Jennifer had wanted babies, they would probably have had babies, but Mark had no regrets. He wasn’t one of those men who needed to procreate. He hadn’t such a high opinion of himself that he felt the world needed his genes. And he supposed he had enjoyed the freedom being childless offered. It had allowed him to really focus on his career. And he had a great career. And Mark didn’t really believe that you could have it all. Either way, there were no kids.

  Nor was there a marriage. Again, that was more to do with Jennifer than Mark. Jennifer had been engaged in her mid-twenties before she had met Mark, and it had ended badly. Well, actually it had ended with her fiancé making another girl pregnant, and the girl tracking Jennifer down to make sure that she was aware of it. Which, of course, she hadn’t been. So the engagement had ended, and Jennifer had made it clear to Mark when they met that she had zero interest in a second attempt. Ever since he had known her, she had worn her father’s signet ring on the fourth finger of her left hand as if to confirm that there was no room for any other jewellery there, so back off. Again, Mark hadn’t really minded. His mother had occasionally hinted at wanting a day out while she was still alive, but when she had died, there had been no one else to care. So they had never married. They had bought this house, but that was really all they had to show for ten years together. A house. A nice house, but just a house, with two empty bedrooms.

  Mark sloshed some red wine from an open bottle into a big glass. He closed his eyes as he felt the alcohol sedate his stressed body. It had been a shitty day. He hated having to start all over again with a new PA. His previous one had known him inside out. Now he would have to get to know Petra and she him. Although she was certainly easy on the eye. When she had walked into the first round interview a little over a month ago, he had almost done a double-take, and he was fairly sure Shay had had to lift his own jaw up off the meeting room table. And it wasn’t just her physical attributes. Petra had a confidence that was impressive, formidable. But then that type was often trouble. He’d have to watch her, make sure she was coping with the very masculine dynamic of the fourth floor. Although somehow, Mark thought she would manage the boys just fine. It could be the girls she might have trouble with. Mark had noticed her coldness towards Christine. He gazed out the patio doors and took another mouthful of wine. Sometimes managing office personalities expended more of his energy than the bank’s actual business. And it never ceased to amaze him how women could be so hard on each other.

  He noticed a pair of high-heeled shoes on the floor next to the dresser, shoes that had been discarded in discomfort the previous evening. The whole evening had been an exercise in painful experience. Standing there, Mark tried to remember when he and Jennifer last had a fun night out. One that would have ended with their returning to this very kitchen for a night-cap, laughing, dissecting the night’s events. When they would have listened to Leonard Cohen and chatted over a brandy before falling into bed. He knew he hadn’t imagined them, but he struggled to recollect a recent one.

  Last night should have been easy. Relaxing. Casual dinner in their local bistro with neighbours they had known for years, just a few drinks and a nice meal on a Sunday evening. But Mark knew he had been sullen and preoccupied. Jennifer had even commented on it. And he was fairly sure that their friends had observed the coolness that now seemed to be commonplace between them. The whole evening had felt strained, and they had returned to the house in silence, apart from some expletives from Jennifer which had been directed at the affronting footwear.

  Mark sighed. Maybe it was just a rough patch. Maybe they would be okay. Maybe they could drift over the current lull in their relationship, until things got back to normal. But Mark couldn’t deny how he felt. And he knew he wasn’t being honest with Jennifer. Or with himself. A
nd the truth was that he did have feelings. Strong feelings. Feelings that he was trying unsuccessfully to suppress.

  Feelings for Christine.

  Christine.

  Mark poured himself more wine. She had mentioned at lunch that she was meeting friends this evening in a new wine bar in the city. She had asked him if he had heard of it, if he had been there. But he hadn’t, and the conversation had ended there. He could have asked her about her holiday plans. About her family. She had a sister living in New Zealand. Or was it Australia? He could have asked after her. He could have asked who she was meeting at the wine bar. But he hadn’t wanted to hear that it was a boyfriend. He’d rather imagine her at a table drinking wine with a gaggle of pretty twenty-something girlfriends. Eating tapas served by attractive Spanish waiters. Shit. No. He didn’t want to imagine that. Mark took another large mouthful of wine. He had wasted a perfect chance to talk to her today, and it was his own goddamn fault. He just couldn’t behave normally around her.

  She was just so bloody perfect. Not only was she intelligent, far more so than most of the dealers who probably earned three times her salary, she was beautiful too. But it was more than that. Christine had plenty of friends at CarltonWachs. Everyone seemed to like her, from the girls in reception to the senior management. And yet, she was not what Mark would call bubbly. There was something reserved about her. Not standoffish, but maybe a little, guarded. Mark thought this only made her more attractive. He was all for being a little bit private. He had no time for colleagues who spilled their guts every Monday morning expecting a captive audience. He suspected that Shay had always thought him too disconnected from the staff. But Mark was the boss. It wasn’t appropriate for him to be buddies with his employees. It just wouldn’t work. He wondered what Christine thought of him. He didn’t want her to think him unapproachable. He could probably strike a better balance, he supposed. Shay managed it. Maybe he should try.