The I.T. Girl (9 page)

‘Requirements Analysis.
Design.
Flowcharts.
Test plan. Outline
of any issues as early as possible.
Specs to other departments.
And that’s about it really.’ He tapped his pen on the open page. ‘We’ll have a meeting
about once a week, outside of our weekly team meeting, to see how we’re doing. They’re
called Buddy meetings.’

‘What?’ I winced, demanding an explanation.

‘It’s the name we give to a kind of mentoring relationship.’

I stared at the different coloured separators, each representing
a step of the software life-cycle, with Boris’s vision in coloured bullet points.
‘So, this is how you want me to work on
AsiaCap
from now
on?’

‘
BelOpt
.’

‘When will I get back to
AsiaCap
?’

‘You won’t I’m afraid. Sam will be taking it over.’

‘What? Hang
on,
we discussed this at
my six month review. I said I wanted more development and you said I could get the
AsiaCap
project because it’s the only decent development
at the moment.’

‘Look
Orla
,
AsiaCap
is high-profile.
BelOpt
is low-profile. You want to stay
off the radar for a while.’

‘Fine.
Whatever.’ I folded my arms for
the rest of the Buddy meeting and allowed myself to day-dream about my new job.

I took a look at my new specs and immediately realised, as I
thought about moving forward, I would need to know more.

I knocked on the soft wall of Boris’ cube and then waited with
my notebook page of questions while he was on the phone.

‘Okay.
Thanks,
mate. Cheers, Rob, mate.’
He hung up the phone.

‘Hey.
Whatsup
?’
He pointed his fingers at me like a gun.

‘Are you alright?’

‘Just been headhunted again.
Probably
won’t leave but it’s nice to know I’m wanted.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

‘Yes, well, pays to have contacts
y’see
.
Know how to play the game,
Orls
. Rob Hanger. He’s naughty.
He’s a naughty boy ringing me directly.’

I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath with the adrenalin that
hit me on hearing Rob’s name. I should have known Rob Hanger would be looking for
other contacts in his recruitment drive and they would both offer me up in a second
to strengthen their alliance.

‘We usually wait until after hours to carry out our quid pro
quo.
After dark.’
Boris cackled.

‘Excuse me,’ I muttered and disappeared from the cube.

I paced back and forth inside the toilets. ‘You’re breathing.
See, you’re breathing.’ Why didn’t I see that coming? I splashed water on my face
and leaned over the sink for a while, unsure of whether or not I needed to vomit.
I pressed my cheeks with paper towels.

The moment had passed.
And so had the denial.
This industry was too small. I couldn’t lie about working here. And I didn’t want
to leave after such a short period of time anyway.
CouperDaye
was known for being tough.
Anything less than a year would look
like a copout.
Why should I let them do that to me? I stared in the mirror
and then shook my head. I’d have to get through this programme somehow. ‘It’s only
a few months,’ I whispered. Then, when things go back to normal, I resolved, looking
back at my reflection, in my own time I’ll leave, with my C.V. and my career intact.

Chapter Six

I remembered that the club runs were on Saturday mornings. It
was still dark and drizzling through the wind but anything was better than being
at home with my thoughts bouncing off the bare walls. I walked across the grass
towards the group of bright tracksuits against dull light and nodded hello at faces
I recognised from the first time. I went through my stretches, listening to the
groups chatting around me. They sounded like they were enjoying themselves, as if
this was actually a fun way to spend time. I just felt the need to run.

The whistle blew and we took off. I started to find a rhythm
between my pace and my breathing. This time I was determined to stay within the
main pack. I wove through clusters as they formed and broke away until I caught
up with the gazelles and stayed behind them, my lungs heaving and my legs striding
out. It felt really good, I realised – running like a child. Everything can be solved
by running away. Around me, the gazelles were chatting. The conversation was about
the food they had eaten that morning.
Porridge for breakfast and
a banana on the way to the park.
I hadn’t eaten anything.

‘My ears are still full of water,’ one of them said. I recognised
her from before. She tilted her head and banged an ear, her long ponytail jostling.

‘I hate when that happens,’ said another one, further along the
row. ‘But I promise you it’s worse the other way – when you have to get into the
water with cycling burns.’

‘Are you in training for something?’ I asked from behind, trying
to disguise my panting.

‘Triathlon next month.
Are you doing
it?’ The Ponytail turned.

‘
Er
, no.’ I jolted backwards. What
was I doing, trying to keep up with triathlon competitors? My left calf clenched
into a fist and refused to move any further. ‘
Oooch
,’
I said, bending over immediately and grabbing it. I hobbled to the side of the path,
out of the way, and rubbed the knot forming beneath the skin. ‘
Ooof
,’ I said again, straightening and stretching while footsteps
hurried passed. I was going to be last again.

‘Are you okay?’
Deelie
stopped next
to me. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was falling out of a loose bun. She
looked younger than her years, I suspected.

‘I think I’ve pulled a muscle. I don’t understand how. I did
all my stretches.’

‘Right, well, take it easy. Would you like some water?’ She offered
a bottle she was carrying.

‘Yes, I would actually. Thanks a lot.’ I was grateful for the
swig.

We started walking, both of us looking at my leg.

‘So where are you from?’ she asked.

‘Dublin.’

‘And what do you do?’ she fired at me.

‘I’m a software developer. I work for
CouperDaye
?’

‘
CouperDaye
!’
Her eyes widened. ‘That must be high-pressure. I’m in finance too. I’m an events
coordinator for an Exchange. Because of me, middle-aged men get to play
Scalextric
on a boardroom table and then go to a strip bar.’

I was thinking of her ducking into the bushes. ‘What’s this club
like?’

‘Well, I think it’s probably pretty good. But I hate running.
I’m just here because I like one of the men.’ She waved her hand down the path.
‘He put up a notice for this place in work so now I run around here once a week
looking
like
an idiot.’

‘Well, it’s proactive of you at least. Do you think he likes
you too?’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes I do think there’s a spark. It’s a bit
ridiculous though. I have to avoid him when we’re actually running. I dishevel quickly.’
She pulled at a loose strand of hair.

‘Trying to flirt in a tracksuit, now
that’s
high-pressure.’

‘Isn’t it? But, my main obstacle is Jenna
Buckman
. She’s tall.’ She indicated spreading her hands apart.
‘And sort of
swooshe’s
.
And,
I have noticed, her group always takes off first but often she and George arrive
back together.’

‘I wonder if she's one of the gazelles. What does she look like?’

‘Gazelles?’
Deelie
gave me a sideways look. ‘That sounds right. She has a long ponytail. She and George
joined on the same day.’ She said it as if it meant they'd be married. I remembered
Jenna standing with a man below the tree, laughing at
Deelie
,
when she lost her belt.

‘Well, at least if nothing happens you’ll get fit in the process.’

‘Oh, I like that spin on it. Thank you.’

We finished the route with a morning breeze nipping around our
legs.
Deelie
, short for Delia, quizzed me about Dublin
and IT and filled me in on her conversations with George so far.

The flat did it’s best to absorb my thoughts for the rest of
the day. Through the smell of dust and fresh paint, I heaved boxes with out-stretched
arms, shoving them into corners to be unpacked. I deliberately banged anything that
wasn’t fragile, ignoring the twinge, an angry lightning flash, growing through my
neck and down my back.

When all the boxes were cleared I sat on the floor where the
mound had been and watched dust dance in a cloud of light. My homeless belongings
lined the walls: piles of CDs and books and pictures to be hung. I felt trapped.
This was the first time in my life I couldn’t see a way out of something.

The evening brought darkness through the windows. I sipped wine
and stared at the tree tops covered in smoky light whispering up from street lamps.

The thought of the next few months tightened around my throat.
Making a mistake would be like stepping on a landmine. ‘
Disciplinary action
’ I kept seeing the formal black print. It seemed
so extreme – wasn’t anyone allowed to make a mistake and simply learn from it? Was
this programme really just a heavy-handed way of helping me? I had heard once that
if you wanted to fire someone you had to demonstrate you had put in steps to help
them do their job first. So, was this really an aid? Or was it a step? Either way,
the fact that I’d been put on the programme would always be a mark on my record.
That’s why I couldn’t stay. My career in
CouperDaye
was
over. But I couldn’t leave either. And for the rest of my time, I was going to have
this axe hanging over my head, waiting for an excuse to fall. I smoothed a hand
around my neck. Somehow, I was going to have to find a way to survive it.

The window frames should be re-painted, I noticed. The paint
was chipped and uneven. And there were flecks of white paint on the surrounding
walls. They might even be stuck, I realised, putting down my glass. I tried to move
the top windows. One was jammed. The sides were painted over so it couldn’t slide
down the pulley rope. I got a screw driver and slid it through the layers of paint.
The window began to rattle as the sides loosened. But the top was still stuck. I
shoved the screwdriver in against the frame, feeling a ball of anger rising. Why
would someone paint a window like this? I wedged the screw driver in further against
the stubborn seal. ‘Come
on
,’ I growled.
A chunk of wood broke away and flew into the room leaving the window to rattle free.

‘Fuck,’ I shouted after it. ‘Ah, fuck,’ I said again touching
the torn timber in the white frame. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the frustration getting
to me. A party had started downstairs. The soft beat came up through the floor.
I hope that’s not going to go on all night, I thought. My handbag beeped faintly
from the couch. I clicked open the message envelope that read
Columbus
. ‘
Yes, I’m free
’ it said. ‘
Shall
I come over?
’

‘No’ I typed. ‘I’ll come to yours.’

I put on my coat before quickly touching up my makeup and packed
spare underwear and my toothbrush, knowing that despite our rules, I would probably
stay overnight.

His house was in an older part of town than mine, also with a
tradition of market trade which these days attracted mostly tourists. It was squeezed
into a row of tall houses, each behind a gate and a short path, off one of the few
quiet roads. The kitchen and living room were upstairs in an open plan area. Like
my apartment, large bay windows brought the luxury of light. The bedroom and bathroom
were on the ground floor, down a narrow corridor, tucked behind the staircase, where
it was naturally dark, after the porch-light faded. A grandfather clock stood in
the short hallway and chimed every 15 minutes. He said it reminded him of his childhood
– his father had a hobby collecting mechanical things. He was trying to buy a barograph
which would indicate barometric pressure with a delicate inked nib moving on a cylinder
of graph paper. But they were hard to find.

We spontaneously met with a kiss on the lips when he opened the
door. I followed him upstairs and he went back to the kitchen without saying anything
while I settled on the couch and unzipped my boots. I heard the popping sound of
a cork being released from a bottle and then the exchange of air and wine as liquid
was poured.

He settled next to me, with an arm over the couch. ‘Here,’ he
said, slipping the stemmed glass into my hand.

‘Thanks,’ I said, looking at him. I wanted his mouth.

‘How was your day?’

‘I pulled a muscle.’ I raised my legs into his lap.

He examined the calf I offered, gingerly.

‘I tried the running club again. It doesn’t really hurt now,’
I said. I looked around the living room at the faces looking back at me.
A mask from north India over the T.V. and a replica of a deep-sea diving
mask from World War One on a metal bookshelf.
He had tried to convince me
it was an original when I first saw it. I had an urge to turn it upside-down and
put flowers in it. A fertility God defended the open top of the winding stairs.
‘If it’s for fertility, why isn’t it in your bedroom,’ I had asked when it first
startled me. ‘I don’t want it to actually work,’ had been his wide-eyed reply, as
if the answer should have been obvious.

His hand lost interest in my calf and traced my thigh muscle
instead, displacing the folds of my skirt and the thin hem below it.