Page 9 of The First Time I Saw You
Once in flight, I open my laptop and go through my notes again, double-checking figures, familiarising myself with the staff at Greenlight. His name sits there now: Samuel McLaughlin – Head of Information Technology. He got the promotion.
Hours pass, and I close my eyes as I try to ignore the child behind me talking incessantly, but every time I do, I see Samuel’s face.
A stewardess approaches and I order a cup of coffee. She passes it to me with a smile; I take a sip and close my eyes again. Turbulence bounces the plane and the seat belt sign pings on. I drain the last of my cup, reach for my compact, and re-apply my make-up, pushing my memories to the back of my mind as the plane makes its descent.
I’m checked into the hotel by a petite girl with thick, orange eyebrows which look like furry orange peelings, and an hour later, I’m looking up at the Greenlight regional office. I take a deep breath and walk through the rotating doors.
‘Sophie Williams to see Edward Johnson, please.’ I hold my briefcase firmly in my hands, my palms dry despite the adrenaline pumping through me.
‘Twenty-fifth floor.’
‘Thank you.’
I step into the lift and with every floor that passes, my nerves bubble in my stomach. The doors open, and I’m surrounded by the hum of computers sliced with the sharp sounds of phones ringing, the mechanics softened by the warm smell of coffee and perfume. I’m greeted by an Amazonian brunette who takes my hand, giving it a firm shake.
‘Ms Williams? I’m Katherine Day, Kat for short. Welcome to DC. Did you have a good journey?’
‘I did, thank you.’
‘Mr Johnson and the board are through here.’ The door is pushed aside to reveal a huge oval-shaped conference table. I ignore the fact that there are possibly thirty to forty people sitting around it, most of whom are engrossed in heated arguments. I ignore that my hand is shaking and that I have just sat in the wrong seat and have had to get back up and move to another; I ignore that my boss isn’t yet sitting at the table. I ignore all of this because he is here. From the corner of my eyes I see him agitatedly run his hands through his dark hair, his accent becoming thicker as his voice rises; but I can’t let this happen again, can’t let my feelings for him get the better of me. I’m here to make a proposal: that the company I work for ‘acquires’ his.
‘Ah, Ms Williams, glad you could join us.’ The conversations drop, like the end of an echo. My voice feels thick, but when I speak it is clear and steady.
‘It’s a pleasure, Mr Johnson. If we could just wait a few moments for my colleague to arrive?’
‘Unfortunately, Mr Swift had to leave after an emergency call. He said that the proposal is your baby anyway?’
I try to curb the frustration I am feeling towards Bob Swift; his wife is in the last month of her pregnancy and I have no doubt that is the reason for his swift departure.
‘Of course. If you could all turn to page two of the proposal?’ I take a sip of water and begin to make my way to the computer at the front of the room. I smile as I open the presentation.
‘Greenlight Finance has long been one of the champions of small businesses; indeed, up until recently, it has been one of the leading lenders in its field.’ I take a deep breath and meet the conflicting stares around the table. ‘However, in the last two years there has been a considerable decline in profits.’ I take another sip of water. The remnants of the Welsh accent I have tried so hard to lose have slipped in: ‘prof-ets’, I’ve said.
‘This is not new news . . .’ a mole of a man squints at me, clicking his pen repetitively, ‘what with the recession and—’
‘Your figures show a distinct decline before that, if I could continue?’ There, much better.
‘After a thorough evaluation of your financial reports, we can see that this coincides with the increase in small business loans realised by the bigger banking groups of the Washington DC financial district. We believe that this is due to a new piece of software that was implemented and sold exclusively to these three institutions.’
The faces are shadowed by the purple light shining from the screen; for a moment, I’m reminded of a punnet of blueberries.
‘This is old news,’ the mole digs at me. ‘That software is tied into a watertight agreement with those companies – how does it help us?’ I meet his poky eyes and I’m reminded of Danger Mouse’s sidekick, but then I remember he was a hamster, not a mole.
‘We at Sandwell Incorporated have had a breakthrough with one of our programmers in our tech department. He has designed a new piece of software that is faster and superior to any other systems of its kind.’ I pause for a moment to allow the mutterings to subside. ‘Our software uses real-time data from the most popular search engines to the biggest on-line shopping sites, which would streamline any small loan applications, making the process smoother, more transparent and – more importantly – faster. We own the patent for this software.’
‘And what is it that you want for this software?’ The Northern Irish voice stings my skin and for a moment I’m paralysed.
‘In a nutshell?’ I meet his eyes. ‘Greenlight Finance.’ My words cause an eruption of voices and movement. I take a sip of water and calm myself. We had expected this reaction, but it was supposed to be Bob dealing with the fallout, not me. He has a much softer way of approaching these things, using flowery language and humour to make the proceedings more pliable.
‘Ms Williams?’ Samuel’s accent masks the anger behind the statement. ‘Can I ask how long your programmer has been working on this software?’
‘I don’t see how that is relevant at this point.’ I turn away from his look of disgust and instead answer the barrage of questions being thrown my way. He doesn’t say another word to me for the next two hours.
Week One
Samuel
Sweet Jesus, would you look at her? My hair feels too heavy for my head and the room too full of, well . . . her. She’s thinner than I remember, and her haircut is more severe, I notice as she speaks to Ed. She’s annoyed about something, that’s for sure, because she’s tapping her hand against her thigh quickly, like the day we argued about women drivers.
