The Colour of Sunday Afternoons

  The Colour of Sunday Afternoons

  by

  Robert Gollagher

  Copyright © Robert D. Gollagher 1998

  www.robertgollagher.com

  Draft Y

  It was a perfect suburban morning. The rising sun painted the big city of Metropolis gold in the glow of dawn. On Berwick Street, Jane Hamilton’s small house was silent and peaceful. It was a charming timber home, with a tulip patch in full bloom out front, and a white picket fence.

  But the silence was shattered by the scream of an electronic alarm clock. Jane came suddenly awake. She wiped sweat off her face and stared restlessly at the ceiling – she had just had another nightmare. It was something about her house being on fire, but she couldn’t remember the details. She had been having a lot of nightmares, lately.

  Jane staggered out of bed.

  After a hot shower, she inspected her pale face in the mirror. Her blue eyes were bloodshot. She had worked until two in the morning the night before. Sunday night. Jane groaned. How she hated Mondays! She brushed her auburn hair and put on a little make-up. Soon, Jane looked the part of the perfect young businesswoman, in a smart beige suit and a white blouse.

  She had her breakfast on the coffee table, scooping up print-outs of the computer program she had been working on the night before, as she ate, and stuffing them into her briefcase.

  A few minutes later she was in the company car, pulling out of the driveway and turning onto Berwick Street, in search of a clean run to the freeway. Another day had begun in the modern life of Jane Hamilton.

  Hewitt University was a busy place on Monday mornings. Jane drove quickly into the main parking lot, swung into an empty bay, and a moment later was marching toward the old Administration Building. Her business suit was out of place in the sea of jeans and T-shirts around her; hundreds of students were making their way between classes, joking with friends and enjoying the warm spring morning. Reaching the imposing stone building, Jane pushed open the heavy wooden doors and strode quickly down a maze of corridors until she reached the Registrar’s Office.

  She knocked sharply on the door, and entered.

  Neils Eriksson was not exactly her favourite customer.

  Eriksson sat behind his impressive desk and waved vaguely at the chair in front of him. “Ms Hamilton. Please.”

  Jane sat down. Eriksson glanced quickly at his watch, as if expecting storm troopers. Jane decided she had better get straight to the point. “Mr Eriksson. You’re having trouble with your Datafile system?”

  Eriksson had a face like granite – grey, hard and not something you wanted thrown at you first thing in the morning. “Look. This university has over twenty thousand students. Do you know how many requests we get for academic records in a week? In a month? In a year? When we have computer trouble, the whole thing grinds to a halt. It’s a problem we simply can’t afford; your company is supposed to have fixed it.”

  Jane replied calmly. “Mr Eriksson, we have spoken about this before. There is a simple solution.”

  “You’re going to tell me to buy new computers? Funding is tight, Ms Hamilton. The high-flying departments get the money: Nuclear Medicine, not the Registrar’s Office. That is, unless you can get me a bigger pie.”

  Jane sighed. “Your biggest problem is the software. The company that wrote it left a lot of bugs in the program. When the system hits one of those bugs, it crashes.”

  “That company, Ms Hamilton, is out of business, which is why we hired Infosolve in the first place. Last Friday was the second time this month the system’s gone down.” Eriksson rose from his chair. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet! Come with me, if you will.”

  A little surprised, Jane got up and followed Eriksson. A short walk further down the twisting corridors brought them to a small office. The door was open, and it was marked: Isabella Giovanni. Chief Clerk.

  A young woman was sitting in the untidy room, frowning at a small computer screen. The office was jam packed with books, papers, and stacks of computer magazines which towered perilously in every corner.

  Eriksson walked in. “Isabella. Can I interrupt you? This is Jane Hamilton, from Infosolve. I’d like you to talk to her about our Datafile problems.”

  The young woman ran her fingers through her dark hair and fixed Eriksson with a steely glare. “We’ve met,” she said gruffly.

  Jane smiled, but not so much that Eriksson would notice. “Yes. Hi. We ... met last month. Isabella’s the one who suggested upgrading the server in the print shop. Have you been happy with the results, Mr Eriksson?”

  “Well, it does seem to be an improvement.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” said Jane, trying not to sound triumphant. “So, Isabella, do you expect the Datafile system to crash again?”

  “Expect it?” Isabella threw her hands up. “I know it! This thing will be down again within the month. It’s like clockwork.”

  With the self-confidence that comes from long experience dealing with difficult clients, Jane decided to take control. “Mr Eriksson, I don’t think we need to talk further about this. It’s obvious your software’s inadequate. What if I could put in a new program which would handle your existing requirements without crashing – would that be a worthwhile investment?”

  Eriksson looked bewildered. “Yes, it would, but I don’t see how we could afford ...”

  Jane cut him off, much to the amusement of Isabella. “As a matter of fact one of our best programmers, Steven Swift, just finished a package for Eden University, last year. It’s been running without a hitch for six months. We could have it in place for you in, say, six weeks. You’d get another two or three years of use from your existing computers, at a fraction of the cost of buying new hardware.”

  Eriksson glanced at his Chief Clerk, whose face seemed to be twitching with mirth. “Well, I do have a limited capital improvement fund. I’m sure it would cover the cost of new software, but wouldn’t it be cheaper to patch up the program we already have?”

  “Mr Eriksson, if I could, I would, but the fact is that old Datafile program is an industry dinosaur. It’s going to be quicker and cheaper to put in a new program, and I have one of the best programmers in the country to do it for you. What do you say?” Jane knew she had won.

  Eriksson scratched his chin. Isabella’s eyebrows rose in amazement as her boss finally spoke. “Well, Isabella,” he said dryly, “I think we should go ahead with Ms Hamilton’s suggestion. Thank you, Ms Hamilton. We’ll hold a meeting next Monday morning to discuss the procedure. First thing.”

  Isabella shrugged. “Okay. Right. Nine o’clock sharp. I’ll round up the troops and make sure everyone’s there.”

  Her boss turned and left, leaving Isabella and Jane alone in the tiny office. The normally vivacious Italian was a little lost for words. Finally, she laughed. “You know, Jane, around here, we call him Erik the Viking. I can’t believe you got him to bury the hatchet. Maybe you’d better tell me about this new program.”

  Jane sat down, with a smile. “You bet,” she said.

  Jane focussed on the hands of her expensive wristwatch. She had left Hewitt University an hour ago. Now she was about to walk through the glass doors which led the way to Infosolve Software Solutions, the company she had worked at these last three years. It was only ten o’clock – not bad going, cross-town through peak hour traffic.

  She pushed the doors open and strode into reception. Grace Le Mesurier, radiant as always, smiled broadly from behind the counter. Jane mused that Grace was wasted here; she could make a fortune in modelling. In her twenties, she was elegant, African, and self-assured. She had the tall good looks of a Nigerian.

  “Hi, Grace,” said
Jane, with a little wave.

  “Hi, Jane. You look happy. What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing,” said Jane. “Only I finally got Eriksson at Hewitt to upgrade his software. His Chief Clerk nearly kissed me!”

  “Kissed you?!”

  “Calm down,” said Jane, with a frown. “Her name’s Isabella.”

  “Oh. You know, all work and no play makes Jane a dull girl. When are you going to find a nice man?”

  Jane held up her hand like an angry traffic cop bringing an errant driver to a screeching halt. “Grace! I’m perfectly happy single. And if I have to sit through one more fishing story with one more pot-bellied lawyer, I’ll go mad! But when someone interesting shows up, I promise, I’ll listen to your advice.”

  “Well, that’ll be a first. Anyway, Boss Man’s been pressuring Steve again. Speedy spent the night under the desk, in a sleeping bag.”

  “Again?” Jane shook her head. “I know Speedy loves his work, but this is ridiculous. So what if he’s the fastest programmer in the west? He still needs to sleep. Michael should know better than to turn the screws on him.”

  “Michael?” Grace steepled her hands and rested her chin, leaning lazily forward on her stool. She was quite an imposing figure behind the high reception counter. “Jane, Michael’s been tightening the screws so long he’s forgotten how to do anything else. The man’s not seeing straight.”

  Jane nodded. “I know, Grace. Magnificent Michael. Well, Head Office will want him, sooner or later. He won’t be here forever.”

  “Speaking of The Great One, he wants to see you in his office, ASAP.”

  Jane winced, theatrically, and walked off down the corridor toward the programming room. When she arrived at the large chamber, she cast an eye over its neglected pot plants and familiar desks. The space was sliced into individual work areas by felt-covered dividers, and the whole scene was bathed in the false sunlight of fluorescent tubes. Her five colleagues were busy at their terminals.

  Closest were three youngsters: Nira Kerford, Albert Price, and Janette Hofert. They were talented kids, Jane thought, but they had a lot to learn about dealing with customers. The old man of the group, Gary, occupied a desk in the corner; he and Jane had become friends. But Jane’s closest friend at work was the fast-programming genius, Steven Swift – better known as Speedy. Jane strolled over to his cubicle and slapped her hand down on his shoulder. He was typing in computer code at an incredible rate.

  “Hey, Speed,” said Jane, jovially. “How goes the battle?”

  Steven Swift looked around from his terminal and, with some difficulty, focussed on Jane’s face. There were bags under his eyes. At thirty, Steve still had a childlike quality about him, with his mop of black hair and his charming smile. Today, he looked uncharacteristically exhausted. A sleeping bag poked out from under his desk. “Jane,” he said simply. “It goes. It goes.”

  “Did you pull another all-nighter?”

  “Boss Man wants the Finch account finalised by five. Nothing a little coffee won’t fix. You know me. I’ve always worked best under pressure.”

  Jane frowned. “It wouldn’t hurt to get a good night’s sleep, you know.”

  Steve rested his chin on his hand. “I will, Janey, I will. If you say so.”

  “When you’ve had some rest, I’ve got something juicy for you. Eriksson at Hewitt University has finally bitten the bullet. You can put the Eden system in for him next week. He’s ready to buy.”

  Steve perked up. “Great! Nice little program, that, and very healthy for our incentive payments, too. Thanks, Janey. No problem. I’ll get over there.”

  “Thanks, Speedy,” said Jane. “Have you seen the Boss Man around? Grace says he wants to rake me over the coals again.”

  Steve yawned. “El Magnificente? In the boiler room – where else?”

  Jane made her way to the State Manager’s office. Pausing at the door, she watched her unpopular boss through the glass: a portly man in an aging pinstriped suit. She took a moment to summon up the courage to go in.

  They didn’t call it the boiler room for nothing. Michael Pavlovich was pacing behind his desk, shouting complaints into the telephone. Red faced and furious, he suddenly slammed down the phone in disgust.

  Now or never, Jane thought, as she pushed open the door and walked in.

  “Michael,” she said simply.

  “Jane. Yes, what is it?”

  “We’ve just closed a deal with Hewitt University. They’ll take the Eden program. Steve’s going to put it in next week.”

  This stopped Pavlovich dead in his tracks. He looked at Jane for a moment, then flashed his little half-smile – a meagre gesture, to be sure, but it was the closest he ever got to looking happy. “But we’ve been trying to move them for months. Well done, Jane!”

  “Thanks.”

  Secretly, Jane felt sorry for the old tyrant. He was almost pathetic. Michael was forty-eight going on sixty-eight, a hard-driving workaholic from a poor Ukrainian family. He had risen through the corporate ranks by the sheer force of his iron will and an apparently superhuman capacity for work, but he saw little of his wife and children. Pavlovich wasn’t the only senior manager at Infosolve to have had cardiac bypass surgery, and although it had gone well, he was looking old. Even a superhuman has limits, Jane thought.

  “Jane, I’ve just been on the horn to Head Office. They’re breathing down our necks again. I told them to back off. The Hewitt account will be just the good news they’re looking for.”

  Jane nodded.

  Michael took a seat and went on.

  “Sit down, Jane. I wanted to see you. Head Office got my report on your progress. Everyone agrees you’re doing a great job. In fact, we’d like to start training you for a management position. This is strictly under wraps, you understand, but at the end of the year, I’ll be moving into the National Sales Manager position. Christina will be the new State Manager; we’d like you to take her position, as Deputy State Manager, Sales.”

  Jane was surprised. She had been expecting bad news. After all, one never got good news from a visit to the boiler room. This was a shock. “Er ... thank you, Michael, and ... congratulations on the National Sales Manager position.”

  For once, Michael was gracious. “No, Jane. You deserve the congratulations. We consider you the top problem solver in the company. You’ve got the people skills. Your sales results are first class.”

  He stood up and shook Jane’s hand. “Well, Jane, the end of the year is a long way off, but it’s time to start your preparation. We’ll send you to a management course. You’d better see Christina about it this afternoon. Now, I’ve got to get back to these figures.”

  Jane got up and left, closing the door of Michael’s office behind her.

  She scarcely had five seconds to reflect that all her career dreams were coming true, when Christina Forward, the Deputy State Manager, strode out of her adjacent office and – in typical style – began to speak at breakneck speed without the slightest preamble.

  “Jane. I see you’ve spoken to Michael. Congratulations. We’ve all thought you deserved promotion for a long time. It’s good to see it happening.”

  Jane took a moment to collect her thoughts. Everything was happening so fast, she could barely believe it. She looked at her hero, Christina, whom she saw as the perfect career woman. Dark skinned, poised and stylish, Christina had a sharp business sense matched with an unshakeable desire to win. She was an impressive figure in her designer business suits; not even the big players in New York could intimidate her. With the exception of being single at thirty-eight, Jane thought Christina had an almost ideal life, moving in social circles where most up-and-comers wouldn’t even get a toe in the back door. Now, Jane was about to be promoted into Christina’s position. “Thanks, Christina. Thanks. And ... congratulations. I think we’ll all be pleased to have you as our manager, at last.”

  “Yeah, I know Michael’s been a little difficult. He’s not the same since the triple bypass last
year, Jane. He went through a lot.”

  “Maybe the move to Head Office will do him good,” said Jane.

  “Maybe. But there’s something else we need to touch base about.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’ve got a big customer with a big problem. It’s another program we inherited, only this time there’s far too much invested to replace it with a new package. I’d like you to troubleshoot it for us. Head Office have given it top priority, so we have to get it right, no matter what. I want you to handle it.”

  Jane was intrigued. “Who is it for?”

  “The Chief Pharmacist at City Hospital. You know her?”

  “No.”

  “Name’s Margaret Hoffman. She’s a tough cookie. The hospital’s drug inventory system is the problem. We can’t afford to lose the account, Jane. We have to fix it.” Christina looked serious.

  “I’ll get right onto it.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Christina walked off down the corridor toward the conference room, leaving Jane to digest the good news.

  Jane made her way back to the programming room slowly. Promotion was soon going to be hers. She was pleased, but she was tired. She slumped down at her desk and wished, bitterly, that she hadn’t had the nightmare last night.

  There was a cramp in her stomach that wouldn’t go away.

  Chapter 2

  Joe Mathews loved mornings, even Monday mornings. At this particular moment, he was whistling happily to the smooth sounds of Miles Davis. He savoured the rich aroma of Costa Rican coffee which percolated through his modern apartment, all the way from the large kitchen to the gleaming, steamy bathroom. Joe had finished his three-mile morning run, showered, and was now getting dressed for work.

  He buttoned up a blue shirt, tightened the knot on a pale blue tie, and pulled on the jacket of his favourite black suit. He made a half-hearted effort to comb his short, sandy brown hair, and then went to the kitchen.

  As he attacked a large bowl of cereal, Joe pondered the unsavoury fact it had been nearly a week since he’d managed to practise his jazz. A sleek, black electronic piano sat neglected in the living room. Joe pushed aside the rest of his puffed wheat and drank his coffee.