Alberta Clipper

by Lambert, Sheena

  “I don’t know.” Aggie sat back in her chair.

  Christine could see a painting of the Sugarloaf mountain on the wall behind her. She had given it to Aggie and Jamie for their wedding. It was where they had first met.

  “I texted him to see if he was free to skype on Saturday.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He texted back that he would be out all Saturday at a food fair with Grace. And that’s the second time in a week that he'd been too busy to talk because of a prior appointment with her.”

  Prior appointment. Christ, sometimes Aggie could sound like such a snobby cow. And her Dad. What a coward. Although, she had to admire him for his tactics. It was certainly easier than phoning Aggie up and confessing to having a steady girlfriend. Not for the first time, Christine wished she had a second sibling so that she felt less of a piggy in the middle. She toyed with the idea of faking a computer glitch and switching her video link off so that Aggie couldn’t see the guilt in her eyes.

  “He’s entitled to have friends, Ag.”

  “I know that.” Aggie looked hurt. “It’s just -”

  Oh God, please don’t cry. I’ve just done my make-up for work. Please don’t start me off.

  “It’s just sort of weird, you know?”

  “I know, Ag. But you know what? He’s in great form. For whatever reason. So that’s all we should care about, really.”

  “Yeah.” Aggie sniffed into her mug of tea.

  Christine looked at the clock again. “Look, I’m sorry Aggie, I’m gonna have to go. I have to leave for work.”

  “Sure, of course. Well, have a good day. And if you see Dad,” she looked straight into the camera, “ask him to give me a call when he has a night off from partying with Grace.”

  “Will do.” Christine smiled at her sister. “Say hi to Jamie for me. I’ll call you at the weekend.”

  “Bye Chris.”

  Christine clicked her PC closed with a sigh. She looked at her watch. She’d never get into work before Craig now.

  ~

  Why was it that some days were just so bloody crap? Was he imagining it, or was there some sort of order to it? Some days, things just seemed to work out. Profits were up. The sun was shining. Your favourite flavour soup was on as the daily special at the sandwich bar down the street. And then there were the days when everything went bloody wrong. The kind of day when the first-aid box falls out of the press and gashes you on the head.

  This was one of those days. It seemed to Mark that he’d had a run of them recently. After they had returned home from the garden centre on Saturday, Jennifer had informed him that she was going to stay with her sister for the night. He hadn’t tried to stop her. He’d wanted some space himself, to think through all they had said. Although, he hadn’t done much thinking. After he had penitently planted the clematis against the garden wall, he had spent three hours cutting the grass and tidying the borders and hedges. He’d even mended the door of the shed which had been hanging crookedly since they had bought the place ten years previously. He’d had a shower and walked to the off-licence on the corner. Then he’d gone home, and opened the first of six cans of beer. He’d watched a rugby match on television, taking some guilty pleasure in the fact that he didn’t have to hand over the remote when the news started.

  When he had finished four beers, he had ordered a pizza. With the phone still in his hand, he’d considered phoning someone to hang out with. But who? All his friends would be home with their wives and kids, enjoying their Saturday night in. No one would want to leave their own sofa to come over and get messy drunk with him. For a second, he considered phoning Shay. Nina wouldn’t mind. She’d probably shove him out the door in the hope that he might bring her home some gossip from the office. Nina was such a great girl. He remembered when she and Shay had first got together, back when she had also been employed by CarltonWachs. It had been the talk of the building for weeks. But that was a lifetime ago. He and Jennifer had just met at a wedding. The four of them had socialised together a lot in the early days. Mark sat staring blankly at the TV, marvelling at how differently the two couples’ relationships had turned out.

  Nah. He couldn’t phone Shay. Talking to Shay would just make him feel worse about himself. And there was the fact that he knew Christine. And after four drinks, Mark couldn’t trust himself not to start talking about Christine. He couldn’t let Shay know how he felt. Not yet anyway. He was still living with Jennifer, even if she couldn’t bear to be under the same roof as him. In the end, Mark had thrown the phone over onto an armchair and had gone to open a bottle of wine in the kitchen. The next thing he could remember was waking on the couch at four AM with an empty pizza box next to him.

  Yesterday had been horrible. He’d had the hangover from hell. Jennifer had returned at about five o’clock, and had been just civil. She had made it clear that she hadn’t been in any humour to speak to him, let alone have a meaningful discussion about their future, and they had spent the evening tip-toeing around each other. She had gone to bed early, and he had stayed downstairs watching mindless television until after one, afraid of joining her, but not wanting to make a statement by sleeping in one of the spare rooms. In the end, he had crept upstairs, and lain down on his side of the bed as usual, taking care to keep his distance, his back to her.

  This morning, she had left for work before he had woken. He was worried now that she would think him uncaring, or indifferent to their situation, but he was just so bloody tired.

  And now this.

  Bloody Craig Clarkson. He was a wanker on a good day anyway, but Mark had wanted to kill him this morning as they sat waiting for Shay so they could get the briefing started. Craig might be one of their most successful dealers, but Mark just wished he wasn’t such a loud mouth. And that he was a little less forward with Christine. He practically slobbered over her. As if she would look twice at him. Anyway, it appeared she was already involved with somebody. And bloody Craig had bloody met him. Bloody Gavan, or something. He could tell Christine had been mortified as Craig had smugly announced to the whole room how he had bumped into them on Saturday night. And they had been heading back to her place, he’d said. Well it was none of Craig’s goddamn business what Christine was doing on Saturday night. Sitting there in the meeting room, Mark was torn between wanting to punch Craig to stop him talking, and hanging on his every word. He wanted to know what type of guy Christine would go for. Maybe it wasn’t serious. Maybe he had just been a friend. But from the picture Craig was painting of it all, Mark doubted it.

  It occurred to him that he didn’t have to stay. He was the boss, for God’s sake. He didn’t need to attend these briefings anyway, he just liked his staff to know he was involved and interested. But he was damned if he was going to sit here and listen to Craig go on. Not today. He stood up abruptly, silencing the room.

  “Tell Shay I couldn’t hang around. I’ll be in my office if he wants me.” He looked at Harry. “Just copy me on the email going out to the trading desk.”

  He glanced back through the meeting room’s glass wall as he walked across the floor to his own office, just in time to see Christine swatting Craig with rolled up pages like she meant it. Good enough for him.

  He closed his door behind him. The blinds on his office walls were partially shut, and he left them like that. He looked at his desk, but couldn’t bring himself to sit down at it. He felt sick. He hated this office too. He had never felt comfortable in it. Partly, perhaps, because he spent so little time here. Rarely a week went by that he wasn’t in one of the other CarltonWachs offices around the world. Partly because he had never made an effort with the space. The one time Jennifer had been in it, shortly after he had been promoted, she had suggested hanging a painting and getting a few plants, neither of which he had done. They had made plans to go out and celebrate his promotion by buying a painting for the purpose, but it had just never happened.

  Mark walked over to the window and looked out over Clarendon Square. Miserable Ir
ish weather suited Dublin in lots of ways, but sunny days like this really seemed to give the city a new personality. A bit of good weather was all it took to put Irish people in good humour, and he could see only smiling faces as he looked down the street and over to the gates of the square opposite. Youngsters congregated in shorts and shades, enjoying the freedom of the school holidays. Mothers pushed babies and dragged toddlers in through the gates, likely bound for the playground and the duck ponds within. Along the street, office workers carried laptop bags and talked on phones. Most of the men carried their suit jackets over their arms or were without them entirely. Mark stood on a chair and reached to unlock the window latch to let in some air. It was stiff from lack of use. As he jammed the palm of his hand against it, the sound of a knock on his door startled him.

  “You’re not going to jump, are you?”

  “Very funny. Sorry I couldn’t wait around for the briefing. I had something I needed to do here.” Mark resumed forcing the lock so Shay couldn’t see his face.

  “No problem, I can see you’re busy. I’m only heading in now. I told them to go ahead without me.” Shay stepped further into the room and closed the door gently behind him. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  The clasp snapped back and the window dropped down. The sounds of the street amplified. Mark closed his eyes and breathed in the air, full of scent and heat. He stood down from the chair, putting it back in the far corner of the room as if to reassure Shay of his sanity.

  “I’m fine. What did Marcus want? That was who you were on to, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Shay sat down opposite Mark at his desk. “Actually, it might be a problem. It seems there have been some irregularities flagged in the UK. Proprietary dealing irregularities. Corporate compliance are investigating, and they want to include the Irish operations in the sweep. He didn’t say it outright, but I got the impression that there is more to it than he is letting on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure – it was just Marcus’s tone. I’m wondering if maybe the problem is exclusively here. If maybe the investigation into the UK desk isn’t just a diversion.”

  “Jesus.” Mark leaned back in his chair. “But we have had no indication of there being any problem here?”

  “None.”

  “And who might be involved if there was a problem?”

  “I can’t say for sure. I mean, I can’t really imagine any of my team at it. They wouldn’t be stupid enough.”

  Mark looked doubtfully at Shay. For someone as intelligent as he was, Shay could be blindly loyal and a little naïve sometimes.

  “Well,” Shay relented, “I suppose if there were something going on, it would most likely be Richie, or Mick. Or maybe Craig.”

  Craig. For a second Mark hoped Craig had done something off-side, so he could fire his ass. But, Christ, if Shay was right and there was something going on, they had to get on top of it immediately. Whatever about the person carrying out dubious deals, it would be Mark’s own ass if it was being done on his watch. Could this bloody day get any better?

  “Marcus is going to give you a call later today.” Shay stood up. “He’s likely to fly over later in the week.”

  “Okay. I’ll call him now myself. And Shay,” Mark looked directly at him, “you need to get on top of this. Now. Today. Before the UK are over here breathing down our necks. If there is something going on, we need to know.”

  “Of course. Maybe we should keep this between ourselves for the moment.”

  “Yeah.” Mark leaned on his desk, rubbing his temples. “Actually, no. Go to the meeting. Tell them what Marcus said, but don’t tell them that they suspect a problem here. Let them think that it’s only the London office under scrutiny.” Mark looked back out through the window. “The analysts are like old women when it comes to gossip. The story will be all over the building by this afternoon. Then if someone is doing something, they might try to cover it up. We might notice something.”

  Thirty seconds after Shay had left his office, Petra was standing at Mark’s door with a folder in one arm and a mug of coffee in the other.

  “You wanted to go through your diary to year end this morning Mark?” She smiled sweetly. “Is now a good time?”

  She came in before he had a chance to answer, and placed the coffee in front of him. She left her own paperwork down on the chair Shay had just vacated, and proceeded to tidy the desk as he sat there thinking about the possibility of trouble on the institutional trading team. He watched her as she efficiently sorted through his mess, and made way for her as she walked around the table to leave him with a clear space to work at. She was a funny one. He had never seen her in flat shoes, but he had no doubt that she could walk to the London office and back in her heels if that was what was required of her. She flirted outrageously with him, although she did the same with every male member of staff from what Mark could tell. But it was a safe sort of flirtation. There was never any suggestion of taking things further. Just enough for both parties to feel better about themselves and go home to their partners with a renewed confidence.

  Petra was engaged anyway. Poor bloke. Mark wondered, as he watched her, if she would stay on at CarltonWachs after she married. He struggled with the picture of her at home with young children, but then, what did he know. She would probably be great at it, especially if she ran a household anything like she organised Mark. Maybe he should let her do more for him. She certainly seemed eager to. He just wasn’t accustomed to being waited on at home or at work. Perhaps he should change his attitude towards her.

  “Petra?”

  “Yes Mark.”

  “What would you do with this place?” He gestured vaguely around him. “If you were to make some changes? To make it more, comfortable to work in?”

  Her initial silence worried him. Maybe he shouldn’t have opened his mouth. It wasn’t her brief to act as his personal interior designer. “Oh, never mind,” he began. “I -”

  But Petra wasn’t listening. “Well, firstly, you need a more comfortable space within the room,” she said as she walked around the middle of the floor, one hand held to her chin, the other on her hip. “You don’t need to be sitting at a desk all day. You can easily work from your laptop or BlackBerry in a more relaxed space. A small, firm sofa would be perfect here.” She waved her hand at the space beneath the window which was currently cluttered with piles of trade journals Mark hoped to peruse one day. “You wouldn’t need this,” she laid her hand gently on a small meeting table surrounded by three ugly office-issue chairs. “You can meet individuals in this area,” pointing to the imaginary couch, “and any more formal discussions can be held at your desk, which is more appropriate.” She smiled at him. This was obviously something she had given prior consideration to. “Any larger meetings should be held in the meeting room.” She gestured out across the fourth floor.

  “Right. Well I -”

  “Also -”

  Mark closed his mouth again.

  “Some softer touches would make the space more – you. A plant, a painting perhaps? Ultimately,” she sat down opposite him, “the room should be functional, it should take account of the new technologies we use. You no longer need to be chained to your desk. But it should also be a space that you like aesthetically.” She smiled at him.

  “You obviously like this sort of thing?” he said after a moment.

  “It’s a little hobby of mine.” She shrugged, and flicked her poker straight hair back over her shoulders. “So, should we get started on your diary?”

  “Yes, yes of course.” He reached for his BlackBerry and a leather-bound filofax. “But how would you feel about, maybe, sorting it out for me? The office? I could give you a budget, and you could have free reign. You come up with a plan, and I will okay anything you want me to. Colour-wise, or whatever.”

  “Certainly Mark. I’d be glad to.”

  “And,” he looked at her carefully, “you don’t feel it’s outside your job description? I
don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

  “Mark. My brief is to be your PA. Personal Assistant. If that means booking your flights, or buying Jennifer’s Christmas gift, or re-decorating your office, if it makes your job here more effectual, then that’s what I am paid to do.” She took a breath, and softened her tone. “And I’d like to do it for you.”

  She smiled at him again. And then she put her folder on the desk between them, and opened it to begin organising his life. Confronted by her kindness, Mark suddenly felt miserable.

  “Right so. Thanks Petra. Er, I’ll be back in one second.” He left the room and went out across the lobby to the men’s washroom. He stood at the sinks and splashed cold water on his face. Then he looked at his phone for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning.

  But there was no text from Jennifer.

  FiveAs he turned the key in the door that evening, Mark half expected to see suitcases packed and waiting in the hallway. But there were none. Jennifer’s car was outside, so he knew she was home. He was supposed to be playing squash with an old friend from college, and his plan was to come in, grab his stuff and head straight back out. He had taken the decision mid-afternoon when Jennifer had not contacted him or taken his calls. It would be easier for both of them. He dreaded the thought of discussing what they would eat for dinner, or something equally banal. He would go play squash with Tom, maybe go for a pint afterwards, and come home late enough that she would be in bed, and they could shun any realities for another twenty-four hours.

  He set his laptop case against the hall table and bolted up the stairs to change and get his racket and gear. There was no sign of her. Ready to go, he went back downstairs and into the kitchen. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of wine in front of her and nothing else. It wasn’t like her to be sat doing nothing. She was always doing something. She looked up as he came in.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”