I decide to ignore Nigel?s ?you?re late? look and head for my desk. ?You just won?t believe the bloody Tube,? I begin, looking for a sympathetic audience in Denise, our administrative assistant. Denise, however, is on the phone with her long-suffering husband explaining that she has looked up ?rising damp? on the Internet, and the work he?s done over the weekend is never going to clear up the problem. Nigel clears his throat.
?I have no doubt that you have a perfectly thought-out excuse for your tardiness this morning,? he begins?Why alwaystardiness ? Why can?t he ever just use the wordlate like normal people???but this is the third time in a ten-day period, and I?m afraid I?m going to have to file a report for personnel.?
Nigel loves filing reports. If you ever want to get round him on something, you just write a report, with lots of figures and a few words like ?strategic game plan? or ?cross-fertilization.? He salivates over it, files it, and you can pretty much do what you want for the rest of the day.
?So, good weekend?? I ask brightly. Nigel nods and looks a bit sheepish. I suddenly remember. ?Ah! Was it this weekend?? Nigel quickly looks over to Denise to check that she can?t hear. I lower my voice. ?So, was it good??
Nigel, like me, doesn?t really want to be working at Leary Publishing. Actually, Nigel doesn?t really want to be working in publishing at all. He kind of wants to save the world, but I?m never sure quite how he intends to do it. Nigel is a conspiracy theory nut. He thinks the government is watching us, he thinks things like the landing on the moon didn?t happen, and he thinks the majority of popular culture is a ploy to take our minds off the real issues and what?s actually going on. I haven?t managed to establish exactly what the real issues are, but Nigel spends hours and hours in Internet chat rooms and reading bizarre newsletters that debate the latest methods ?they? are using to throw us all off the scent. If you ever want to have a laugh, you just call him up and make a clicking noise down the phone. He starts thinking his phone is being tapped and he totally freaks out?sweating and everything.
So anyway, this weekend he went to a convention?of ?X Files? nuts, paranoid freaks, computer nerds, and anyone else without anything to do, sitting round talking about security and freedom and stuff. I know this because two weeks ago, when creeping up on Nigel, I saw a brochure for the convention, and it was called Between Security and Freedom?Drawing the Battle Lines. Nigel only told me what it was because I threatened to tell everyone about it if he didn?t.
?It was an immensely enjoyable weekend,? Nigel whispers, trying to sound utterly professional but obviously full of the joys of spring. ?There were people there from all over the world. The power base is growing, you know. And evidence of conspiracies is mounting up.?
?Great!? I always try to extend my chats with Nigel because then I can postpone doing any work for a bit longer. Plus, if I get him thinking about security, he may forget about filing a report on my lateness. ?So, meet anyone nice??
I have a theory that Nigel is only obsessed with conspiracies because it?s been so long since he last had sex. If he ever has, that is. I?ve never heard him take a personal call at work, and he never mentions a single friend who isn?t ?part of the network.? He doesn?t even try to talk to anyone at the Christmas party, and I don?t think he?s ever had a girlfriend?which means he?s stuck in a bit of a catch-22. I mean, who?s going to want to go out with someone who?s such a freak? And if he doesn?t get laid, he?ll never realize that there is a whole world outside the Internet.
?It?s best not to talk too much to people,? says Nigel. ?You never know who?s listening or watching. But the network is certainly growing.? He looks down as if worried he?s said too much, then looks at his watch. ?Georgie, I think it is time that you commenced your work. It is now nine-thirty, and as you well know, the working day begins at nine.?
Denise, who has finished her phone call, rolls her eyes at me and I go back to my desk and switch on my computer.
I?m staring out the window onto the street below. It is now eleven-thirty and so far all I have managed to do is respond to a few e-mails and write the heading for a questionnaire I?m supposed to be writing. The questionnaire is meant to judge the popularity and success of Leary?s latest pensions newsletter. Nigel told me on Friday that we are probably going to bin the newsletter because it?s proving very expensive and we don?t have enough subscribers. So what Guy wants is a report demonstrating that it was a stupid idea in the first place (it originated in the marketing department, so none of us really care if it works or not) and should be scrapped.
I type: How would you describe ?Pensions Bulletin?: crap, really crap, or abysmal?
I highlight the line and delete. Surely there are better things I could be spending my time on? But I suspect that whatever I turned my hand to today, I would be pretty useless. Since Saturday I have been going over and over again in my head my chance encounter with Mike. The smart car, the smart clothes, the fact that I was wearing my least flattering pair of jeans . . . and David. He was really edgy, even after watching ?EastEnders? and the ?Antiques Roadshow.? And then he suddenly got up, made a quick phone call, and said he had to go to the office. I mean, David does sometimes work on the weekends, but to go to the office on a Sunday night has to be desperate by anyone?s standards.
Really, I should be worried about David and wanting to reassure him that I?m totally over Mike. But instead I?m daydreaming about Mike. I?m imagining bumping into him again, without David, and driving off in his car.
?He is a total bastard and you are well rid of him,? I type carefully, and then type it again. ?You love David,? I type, and highlight it in red. I picture David sitting at his desk. (I?ve never seen his desk, but imagine an accounting office somewhere full of Nigels in dark suits, staring at computer screens full of figures.) He?s looking very serious, with those little lines above his eyes that appear when he?s concentrating. I love it when David brings his laptop round to my flat on weekends and tries to work. He sits there intensely, going through e-mails and figures, and I sit there doing everything I can to divert him. I consider it a challenge when he says he has to work. Just how easy will it be for me to get his attention? Of course I always succeed pretty quickly. He pretends to get cross, then he gives me his crinkly smile and puts down the lid of his laptop with a sigh. Come to think of it, maybe that?s why he ends up going to the office on a Sunday.
Suddenly the phone rings and jolts me out of my reverie. ?Georgie Beauchamp? I answer on autopilot.
?You kept your name then?? Oh my God! It?s Mike! Okay, stay calm.
?David and I are not married,? I retort, adding a ?yet? for good measure.
?You must be so happy together, so much in common,? he continues.
?Is there a point to this nice little chitchat?? I sound stern, and am pleased. This is a lot better than standing in the rain without an umbrella.
?It was nice seeing you the other day.?
?Well.? I realize I don?t have anywhere to go with this particular statement. I am certainly not ready to say it was nice seeing him, too?especially as it was very far from nice.
