Alberta Clipper (3 page)

“Sure Mark.
 
It’s all ready to go.
 
Happy days.”
 
Harry
’s cheeks reddened.

“I
have a conference call at nine-thirty, so let’s get cracking
.
 
Oh, guys, this is Petra.
 
She’s just joined us.”
 
Mark gestured at Petra, who had been standing behind him with a dazzling smile fixed on her face.
 
She shook
Harry’s and Craig
’s hands with gushing hellos.
 
When it came to Christine, her dazzle dimmed noticeably.

“Oh, we’ve met.”
 

Third plastic smile of the day, thought Christine, a little intimidated.

“Right.
 
Here’s the agenda and some additional stuff
I want
to go through.”
 
Mark indica
ted to the stack in Petra’s arm
.
 
As she dutifully passed around the table, placing papers in front of each chair, two
more analysts rushed into the room
, glancing apologies in Mark’s direction
.
 

“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
sni
ggered, and Mark gla
red
at him.
 
“Pe
rhaps 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
technicall
y 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 st
alk
ing
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, wi
th 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. 
Y
ou 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
. 
T
hey 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.”  Chri
stine’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.

“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.