‘Mr Peterson – I do understand that Dance is offering you a cheaper run of advertising space, but I wish you would reconsider your decision to pull your ads from us.’
‘And just explain again, sweetheart, why I would want to do that when your fees are double theirs?’
Emily repressed a sigh, although she knew many of her clients, enjoyed many perks of the job in the bars and clubs even, she had never met Mr Peterson. She did however have a firm idea of what he looked like – fat, balding, sweaty and possibly very lecherous. He always insisted on calling her what she was sure he considered endearing terms, but which made her stomach squirm as if she had a tummy upset. If his club hadn’t been one of the biggest ones in the District, she really wouldn’t have bothered with him. As it was, she tried her best.
‘Basically, Dance is a bootleg. They can offer good rates because they keep their production costs low.’
‘Men after my own heart then, cherry pie.’
Emily was glad he couldn’t see her rolling her eyes. She felt a hand give her shoulder a squeeze and then saw a note appear in front of her. ‘Hang in there!’ Simon disappeared back to his desk without a backward glance. That was the last thing she needed – him finally deciding to chip into her day. She tucked the note under her pad, mentally gnashed her teeth and then turned on the charm.
‘Yes Mr Peterson, I can see how they would appeal to a business man like yourself, but what we can offer that they can’t is a guarantee of quality and readership. You know our readers come to your clubs. Because Dance is unofficial, they can’t promise you a wide distribution or even a guarantee of distribution at all. The Security Forces often remove such publications when they’re sold on in other clubs. I know you would never sanction selling them in your establishment, but believe me there are lots of club owners who are not as professional as you.’ Would he buy it?
‘Fair enough, sweet cheeks, but what can you offer me?’
She thought quickly.
‘Keep your ads with us for the next six issues and we’ll run a full page ad for the price of a half page.’ That was a better deal than any bootleg could offer, but was still not as great a deal as he would see it as. Plenty of profit in it for the paper.
‘Sounds good. As it’s you darlin’, I’ll think it over. Give you a call back this afternoon sometime.’
‘Thanks Mr Peterson. You won’t regret it.’
Emily made a motion of sticking her fingers down her throat and vomiting at Charlotte, the girl who sat opposite her. She always felt as if she’d sold her soul after talking to Peterson. She needed a break.
She rose slowly, tidied her workspace, deliberately didn’t look at Simon and headed out of the office and towards the staffroom for a coffee.
There were a couple of graphics people huddled around the coffee machine in the room that served as a staffroom. It was a big room, had formerly been the chief editor’s office, but as the paper’s circulation figures had grown the editor’s office had relocated to house his increasing ego on the ground floor. Emily knew no one who liked Charlie Bernstein, who was also the paper’s owner. Even Simon showed some degree of subservience to their great and glorious employer, but Bernstein ran the paper at a large profit which pleased both himself and the Joint Government.
She didn’t really want to make conversation with the graphics team, and there was no one else sitting attempting to relax on the grim plastic chairs that the management provided – no doubt to increase the productivity of the workers by making their rest periods as lacking in comfort as possible. Emily spied the water cooler machine in the far corner of the room and headed that way. At least she could legitimately have her back to her colleagues then.
Emily remained at the cooler, sipping icy water and trying to figure out the best way to hook in one of the newer clubs in the District.
‘New perfume?’ a voice enquired, a voice so close to her ear that she could feel the warmth of his breath caress her skin. She tried to quell the adrenalin wave pumping her heart and spreading a blush across her cheeks that she knew would be none too attractive. Her words stumbled over one another and any attempt at a casual reply was lost.
‘Yes. Yes it is. A new one.’
‘You weren’t wearing it on Saturday. Or last week for that matter,’ Simon added, helping himself to a cup of water. Emily watched the large bubbles glug and gurgle in the reservoir of water at the top of the machine. Used them to fill the time before her reply. She didn’t want to appear flustered. He’d never had that effect on her before their date and she wasn’t going to let him now either.
‘No. As I said, it’s new. I got it on Sunday. Went shopping with a friend.’ She didn’t add that she’d felt the need to spend to try to silence the voice that had continued to demand to know how she felt about her date the previous evening.
‘It’s nice. I like it. Kind of …’ He sniffed at her and she couldn’t help but laugh at his exaggerated manner. ‘Kind of warm but flowery at the same time.’
He stood back a little. Emily spotted her chance and seized it.
‘It’s called Fire. In case you ever need to know.’ She replied and flounced across the room with a toss of her head. She didn’t need to look back to know he was smiling.
A more successful call to close a deal with one of the District’s many restaurants raised her spirits further. Before she knew it, the GastroChoice lunch menu had popped up on her computer, along with the time of her lunch hour allocations for the week. Everyone’s lunch hour was decided by an automated computer program to ensure, that across a period of a month, each employee had an equal share of time off during the day. There was some room for negotiation she knew for those higher up the order and especially for the journalists who couldn’t always guarantee when their lunch break would come when they were ‘in the field’ as Simon liked to call it.
She looked at her hours for the week and wondered briefly if any were the same as Simon’s. Not that it mattered. They were hardly likely to slip off together in front of the entire office for some cosy little lunch.
Focus, she told herself and selected her lunch from the options available – all balanced for nutrition as well as flavour and with minimal effort from her required. Her meal would be waiting for her at Dining Circle as soon as she arrived.
Surveying her workspace, Emily was pleased to see that although the morning had not been a big money morning, it had at least been a tidy one. The paper’s unwritten policy was that a workspace could be as untidy as the occupant wished whilst they were working, but that an unmanned space needed to be a tidy one; productivity could be messy, but had to be tidied by lunchtime.
There were a couple of people heading out for lunch at the same time as her, but she lingered a little, deciding she preferred her own company today. Simon was out of the office, in a meeting of some sort she was sure. Not that she cared, obviously. No. If she cared, she could have logged in and checked the company diary and found out exactly what he was scheduled for. If she cared.
The sky outside was so blue it might have come straight from a child’s paint palette. The air was cold and Emily wrapped her coat more tightly around herself as she stepped out of the building.
She had expected to see more people on the streets. What the Joint Government had initially deemed lunch hour ‘guidelines’ were now so ingrained in the population that they had become collective habit. She was sure that Simon could have quoted her the actual clause that suggested at least a twenty five minute walk was to be taken each day during the lunch break. So what if it had been a decision taken by the Joint Government? That had been over seventy years ago. It was good for you, healthy, so why not?
She turned left, deciding to take the long route to the Dining Circle, enjoying the cleansing whip of the air. Her breath puffed out before her, proof that she was really there in the world.
Emily had long felt that theirs was a strange part of the Business District. The offices of all the newspapers and magazines were
clustered together on the edge of the area. They were all housed in old, pre-HaemX houses, sanitised and sterilised long ago of course, while the rest of the profit making companies were situated in tower blocks, most of which were proportional to the amount of money they made.
She knew the reason of course, could remember Charlie Bernstein telling her and the rest of the new recruits, four years ago.
‘People devour news right?’ They had all nodded vigorously, hoping it was the right response. ‘The Joint Government realised when they were starting to create their new and better world, once people had got over just surviving, that people would want this news. The Blood Plague had even killed a lot of the journalists you know.’ They nodded again, faces arranged in serious concern this time. ‘So the newspapers were the first to restart, they were the founders of this District and that’s why we have such crappy accommodation.’ There was a ripple of nervous laughter. ‘One day, this paper, my paper, will be the first to be in a sky rise, and you people are part of that plan, so get to work.’
And that had been that. Welcome over. Work begun. As far as she knew, they were no nearer re-housing. Perhaps that was why Bernstein was so angry all the time.
Now she was amongst the high rises proper. Maybe Bernstein had his eye on one of these steel and glass towers. Their cold gaze stared down on her, made an intruder of her, her lowly contribution to the paper’s fortunes nothing compared to the millions they were worth. She hurried on, eyes on the pavement, doing her best to avoid the increasing numbers of people, personalities hidden by black business suits of armour.
Her eyes seized upon the entrance to the Dining Circle. Each day when she came here, she wondered the same thought – how did the water seem to flow up the curve of the solid glass wall that encased the Dining Circle?
She stepped through the gap in the circular wall and the thought faded. Despite the constant tide of the workers, the effect of slipping inside the Circle was instantaneous calm. The walls enclosed an immaculate, crescent-shaped courtyard. Narrow paths of water carved their way through the paved ground. Glass domes, which changed their muted colours as if to some unheard beat, glowed over the junctions where these streams met. At these junctions, the bubbles conversed and then moved on their way once more.
In the spring and summer the raised square flower beds between the streams would be given over to a mass of fragrant flowers and herbs, all designed to soothe the senses, but winter was the season Emily loved best here.
At this time of year, the lights showed themselves the best, but it was still the flower beds that drew her. The beds were covered over, the soil no doubt composting and regenerating below. Now the tops of the beds were covered in magic.
Her adult-self knew that the magic had to be some kind of chemical gel, but the child that resided in her heart swiftly silenced that voice. The magic was contained within layers of see-through plastic. It did nothing to dim the colours of the magic inside. Subtle purples and pinks mixed with greys that were almost silver, midnight blue, greens that were all the hues of plants in summer, yellows, reds and oranges, the true colours of the sun that was so weak in winter. The gel changed, as if constantly reviewing itself in some unseen mirror, the colours shifting and shading into one another.
Emily paused for a few moments to drink the colours into her soul. Then came the bit she liked best. Her magic. Without even removing her glove, she pressed her finger onto the surface, savouring the slight resistance to her touch. She closed her eyes and then flicked them open again to watch the ripples of colour she had made race off to spread their message of change. Smiling, Emily headed on across the courtyard.
The buildings on the far side of the circle were glass-fronted. Entry was via automatic sliding doors. Emily stepped through into the warmth and headed around the curve, passing eateries for the many other companies on the way as she made her way to theirs.
‘Print’ was a large square section of the Dining Circle hub which served all the newspapers. The central area was given over to groups of tables of varying sizes. Sofas for the more casual diner inhabited the space around three walls, although those that offered a view across the courtyard were the most heavily populated at all times of day.
Emily inserted her card into one of the many readers standing sentry at the entrance. Her eyes quickly took in the information on the screen. She confirmed her food choice and then confirmed the number of credits to be deducted from her account. The reader then demanded that she confirm her confirmations and she passed through into the queue proper.
‘Emily!’ a voice exclaimed behind her. She turned.
‘Hi Annie,’ Emily replied, surprised to feel glad to see her friend from the accounts department. Her earlier desire to be alone had been cured, her spirits raised no doubt by the Joint Government’s lunch time exercise recommendations – how would Simon like that?
Once Annie was through the card reader too, they exchanged basic gossip. Emily decided that office tittle-tattle definitely did not need to include any revelations about how she had spent her Saturday evening. This did not stop her enjoying Annie’s description of her wild evening in a club that Emily had yet to venture into.
‘It was a great crowd. You’d have loved it. Loads of people from the office. And – you might not believe this, but Millie went home with another vamp.’
‘No!’ Emily added more mock horror to her voice than she actually felt.
‘Second one in a week. Good looking too.’
‘Is she seeing him again?’
‘No. You know Millie. Did say he was fantastic though. Could go all night if you see what I mean.’
Emily sniggered despite herself. Although she found Millie’s lifestyle a shade too free for her liking, she had to admit there was part of her that admired someone who could enjoy life so fully without worrying about the consequences. It wasn’t for her that was sure.
Realising that that little titbit had taken them to the counter, Emily swiped her card once more. Her meal details were displayed to the serving woman opposite who then went to collect the food from the preparation area like an obedient dog. To Emily, seeing all the people scurrying around in the kitchen area, chopping, spreading, basting and doing whatever other processes were necessary to feed the District’s hungry, somehow diminished the pleasure in her meal. She knew it was supposed to reassure the diners about the freshness of their meals, but all that manic activity took the edge of her desire for relaxation. Still, she looked around her, no one else ever seemed bothered.
She saw Annie had her tray and was inclining her head towards the middle of the room.
‘Come on. There are some others from the office. Let’s go and sit with them.’
Emily trailed behind her friend, watching Annie’s blonde ponytail swish around her shoulders as she wove between the tables. Emily could see now where Annie was headed, a large table of about eight people.
She was unaware that she had stopped until someone thanked her for letting them out. She was glad of the cover. Simon. Here. In a GastroChoice establishment.
She saw Annie beckon her on and, renewing a grip made tenuous by suddenly sweaty hands, she forced her feet to move.
She had to be normal; she knew him, spoke to him most days in the office, she couldn’t not speak to him now. But why was he here? He never came here.
Relieved at managing not to spill everything off her tray, Emily sat and then greeted everyone in a voice that sounded overly-cheery and far too loud. For a second, she imagined conversation in Print, if not the entire Dining Circle, being killed with her shiny chime of hello.
But the world moved on.
He was two seats away from her on the opposite side of the table. She could feel his eyes on her as she suddenly found it very necessary to focus her full attention on making her hands work the cutlery to carry the food to her mouth.
A conversation struck up at the far end of the table, a topic too controversial not to hook Simon in and she felt herself saved.
She relaxed and a guilty flush spread across her cheeks as she realised she’d been sitting bolt upright and was only just perched on the edge of her seat. Hardly perfectly normal.
‘Yeah, I’d heard that too,’ Simon was saying as Emily tuned in. ‘Life Appreciation curriculum. Apparently one school dreamt it up and now the rest are following.’
‘William’s school is doing it.’ Sam, one of Simon’s fellow journalists, spoke. His son was ten.
‘They should just call it history. Give them the facts about life before HaemX and then trust them to make their own minds up.’ That could only have come from Simon.
Various others joined in, those with and without children. Emily listened, used it as a cover to watch Simon, who, she noted, only had a cup of coffee, not a meal. She didn’t enter into the debate as it seemed her opinion went against the majority view. Why shouldn’t children be taught to appreciate how different life was now? There was no one left alive who could remember it. No human that was. It was important that the future generations knew how life had been changed, how society had had to be rebuilt. How the Joint Government had taken the chance with the remaining population to build a new and equal world. A far better one, from what Emily knew.
She opened her mouth to join in. Then closed it again. If Simon hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have hesitated, but something was holding her back. She frowned. This wasn’t right. There was no way she was going to let him, let one date have that effect on her. She awaited her chance.
‘You can all say what you like, but I’m glad of it. It’s made William far more grateful for what he has, for what his life is like than we’ve ever been able to tell him,’ said Sam.
‘I agree,’ Emily began. All heads snaked to her direction. ‘I think that …’
The loud shrill of someone’s mobile cut her off. Simon’s. The conversation fractured and her comments were shared with only Annie.
Emily only dimly attended to what her friend thought about how good her life was, as she focused on Simon. At first he frowned, then his shoulders slumped. He rubbed a hand across his face and then used it to cup his head as he continued the call. His eyes flashed across to her and he smiled. She dropped her gaze and then wished she had smiled back.
Symbiosis: A Vampire Psycho-Thriller Page 4