The Colour of Sunday Afternoons Read online

  "And," said Janette, with a wicked smile, "henceforth everyone will do aerobics classes at 6:00 am before starting work."

  "How about chanting a mantra during lunch?” Gary added. “That should be good for our psychic energy."

  Jane laughed. "Okay, okay. Forgive the speech. I get a little carried away. But what I'm saying is: I'm not Michael. I’m here to work with you guys, to get things done smoothly, not to get you to work for me. But just remember, if I catch any sleeping bags under desks, I will bring in 6:00 am aerobics classes!"

  "You see how power corrupts?" said Steve, with a wink.

  “Ultimately,” said Garry, loud enough for Jane to hear.

  "Okay," said Jane, "let's move on. I think we're all familiar with everyone’s projects from the taskforce meeting last Friday. That leaves us with Nira’s project. Nira, could you give us an update?"

  Nira summoned the courage to speak. "Well, my code’s coming along really well. I fixed the problems that Michael ..." she looked at her shoes for a moment, remembering the dead man, " ... that Michael wanted changed. It's running quite well, but ... um, there is a problem." Nira waited for a response.

  Jane thought for a moment. "It's running, at last? That's great."

  Albert broke in. "Nira fixed a subroutine that I'd been working on for a whole week, in less than an hour. She got it running in no time.”

  Nira shrugged. "I just changed the variable structure. Anyway, the problem with the project that Michael assigned me to work on is, well, it's redundant."

  Jane's eyes widened. "Redundant?"

  "Yes. You see, Michael wouldn't listen to me. I tried to tell him the whole job could be simplified by using a different method for communication between the main server and the terminals. The program he had me spend six months writing could have been avoided altogether, just by using a different comms protocol, one which we already wrote last year. In fact, I wrote it. That's why I know it could have done the job for us all along. But I couldn’t get Michael to listen."

  "Did anybody else know about this?" Jane asked.

  "Well," said Albert, embarrassed, "Nira had mentioned it to us. But she's the only one who really understands that particular program. It's her field of expertise. Michael just wouldn't listen to her."

  Gary spoke up. "No one wanted to be on the receiving end of Michael's anger, Jane. Who wanted to tell him he was wasting tens of thousands of dollars on a redundant job? We were all too worried about loosing our jobs."

  "None of this," Janette chipped in, with uncharacteristic gravity, "was ever going to come out in one of our old meetings. How could it?"

  Jane was shocked. "I'm sorry. I didn’t know. This is exactly the kind of thing that has to change. Nira, thank you for raising this. Let's go over the project tomorrow. I'll buy you some lunch. And I'll be recommending that you be considered for an advanced programming scholarship. I can see you’re just the sort of programmer we need to troubleshoot our top programs. Well done."

  Nira was too embarrassed to say anything much, but she looked pleased. "Thanks," she said simply. “Thanks a lot, Jane.”

  Steve spoke. "I knew you wouldn't let us down, Jane. We're all glad to have you in the driver's seat, at last. Now we can get some real work done."

  Murmurs of agreement came from everyone.

  Jane turned a faint shade of red. "Thanks, guys. Well, it's been a quick meeting, this morning. Does anyone have any more general business?"

  No one said anything, so Jane wrapped up the meeting without further ado. "Okay. Thanks for your attention, everyone. Now, let's get out of this stuffy room and have some coffee on the balcony."

  The group rose and migrated noisily out of the conference room to the adjacent balcony, which overlooked the panorama of suburban streets below. Everyone jostled for coffee, tea and cakes set out on a small table.

  Steve cornered Jane by the chocolate cake. "I see you didn’t forget that little talk we had, before you were promoted, when you said you would do things differently if you made it to the top. Jane, I think you're going to make a darned good boss!" Steve walked away before Jane could reply.

  Jane stood for a moment, allowing the compliment to sink in.

  Janette brought her out of her musing, thrusting a piece of lemon cream cake under Jane's nose. "Here you go, Jane!"

  "Oh, Janette. Thanks." Jane took the cake. She looked at the little group of people, all happily chatting. They were all more awake than she had ever seen them after a monthly meeting.

  Jane decided she was finally doing something right in her life.

  Things really were changing, after all.

  Chapter 15

  It was a stormy Thursday night. The dark city streets of Metropolis were wet with rain, making the small basement jazz club seem warm and inviting by comparison. The chalkboard outside the door read:

  ‘Tonight at Blues Cafe –

  Duplicity Three. 8:30 till late.’

  Inside, a few patrons stood at the small bar; another fifty or so were seated at tables around the crowded room. Four musicians took their places on the stage. Joe was one of them. He sat down at the grand piano, opened the lid which covered the keys, and blew on his hands to warm them up.

  Duplicity Three had a guest singer with them that evening, an out-of-towner by the name of Nancy O’Brien. She was a tall, beautiful woman with dark hair and milky skin; she looked stunning in a revealing green sequin dress. Anyone who looked closely at the piano player would have seen him cast the occasional puzzled glance in her direction.

  The drummer brushed the drums. The bass player picked up his huge double bass and plucked a couple of notes. Joe sat up tall on the piano stool.

  Finally, Nancy walked up to the microphone. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Blues Cafe. This is Duplicity Three, and I'm Nancy O'Brien. On piano, Mr Joe Mathews. On bass, Mr Louis Harris. And on drums, Mr Steve Shorter." Nancy looked at the band and snapped her fingers in a beat a few times. The group took their cue. They launched into the old standard, A'int Misbehaving.

  Nancy’s sultry voice floated through the room, almost magically. She turned a perfectly innocent Louis Armstrong number into a sexy refrain. In the background, content to be out of the spotlight, Joe played piano.

  He was good. The band was good.

  Nancy was a dream.

  At a table near the front, sat an infrequent visitor: Kerryn Sandercott. Kerryn had come to hear Joe play, just as she had promised when he had turned down her offer of promotion. She smiled at her new husband, Carlos, who sat close to her, and thought about her old love of painting. She listened to Joe’s piano. He certainly had a talent for music, she thought.

  She was very glad she had come.

  Jane paced absent-mindedly around her office at Infosolve. The rest of the staff had gone home hours ago. Outside her large, third-storey office windows, rain was coming down heavily. A stormy wind blew in the darkness, smashing raindrops crazily against the glass. Jane shouldn't have been there so late on a Thursday night, but everything was still new to her: her promotion, her new office, and the changing atmosphere at work for which she was responsible. She just needed time to take it all in. And so here she was for an hour or so, on a stormy Thursday night, thinking.

  On her desk there was a framed picture of her sailing, which Joe had given her as a gift, a few papers, neatly stacked, and the laptop computer, closed. In a corner of the room were two large potted ferns. Jane thought they needed water, so she filled a cup from the water cooler and trickled some into the soil. "There you go, fellas," she said aloud, and mused silently that this was about as close to being a gardener as she would ever get.

  Turning back to the windows, she took in the rainswept scene of the suburbs around her. Streetlights and signs lit the night into a spiderweb of colour, twinkling city stars. She began to lose herself in thought. A lot had happened in those last two months.

  A lot of good things.

  "Yes, they have," said a lou
d male voice.

  Jane jumped two feet into the air, came down, terrified, and spun around expecting to see some office-stalker maniac. In an instant, the thought flashed through her mind that she was foolish to be alone in an empty office block at night. And then she saw him, of course: Shamus – short, chubby and harmless.

  Jane was going to launch into a tirade about how angels shouldn’t sneak up on people, but she noticed that he was completely ignoring her.

  Shamus walked around her office.

  Apparently, he was filled with curiously. The little man opened the filing cabinet, peered into it, and closed it again. He ran his fingers over the smooth desk. He even sat down in Jane's swivel chair and pretended to be a king. He waved his hand, regally, to an imaginary crowd of subjects.

  Jane stood in silence, bemused by the whole spectacle.

  At last, Shamus spoke to her. "So, you finally made it to the top, eh, Jane? You're the boss now. How does it feel?"

  Jane distrusted the question. "Well ... it feels ... good. But I suppose you're going to give me the lecture, about how work is killing me and that I shouldn't have taken the promotion, about what a big mistake I’ve made. Right?"

  Shamus took off his cap and scratched his head. "You know, I think I'm allergic to polyester. I really do. Anyway, what were we talking about? The speech. No. No speeches to give today, Jane. No speeches at all."

  Jane walked over to the desk and sat on it. Shamus was still in her chair. "Really? You think this promotion is okay?"

  Shamus smiled. "Jane, Jane, Jane. Don't you know yet? It's not what I think that matters. It's what you think, what you want. Are you happy in this position? Is this what you want to do, right now, with your life?"

  Jane thought for a moment. "Well, I am happy, yes. I work with a great bunch of people. I do something I'm good at, something I enjoy. This is what I want to do, right now. I don't want to do it my whole life, but this is what I want, now." She hesitated. "Is that right, Mr Angel? Is that okay, do you think?"

  "It's Maguinty, Jane. Maguinty. Mr Angell is the boss, and it's Angell with two Ls. You don't want to upset him."

  "You know what I mean! Was this a good decision, or not?"

  "Hmmm,” Shamus hummed. “You remember the burning house, Jane? Remember what started the fire? If you promise me you won’t forget that, then I’ll tell you a secret."

  "Er, okay," said Jane.

  "Come closer, now."

  Jane leaned across the desk.

  Shamus whispered, "I'm not supposed to tell you mortals things like this, but ... things are going to work out just fine. For a mortal, you show a lot of promise. I think you did good, kid. Yeah, you did good."

  "Thanks," said Jane, lamely.

  With that, Shamus hopped up from his chair and walked toward the door. He turned before leaving. "Oh, there is one more thing. How are things going with that other mortal? What's his name? Jim ... Jack ... Joe ... Joe Mathews. Hmmm?"

  Jane looked a little surprised. "Joe? What about him? Well, things are going okay, I suppose. We’ve only just met. I hardly know him."

  Shamus raised his eyebrows. "You want a little advice?"

  "Not really."

  "You should call him tomorrow. You'd better confirm that sailing date for Sunday. I'd hate to see it get forgotten in all this ..." Shamus gestured, indicating the office, "work."

  "Shamus, what is this? Are you a guardian angel or Cupid? I'm perfectly capable of handling my own ...”

  Shamus cut her off. "Fine! Just a suggestion. I’ve gotta run, anyway. Guess I won't be seeing you for a little while, then. Amazing, Jane, but it looks like you've put the fire out, at last."

  "I have?"

  Standing in the doorway of her office, Shamus began to fade into green smoke. "Sure. Just remember, now – don't play with matches!"

  "No matches," said Jane.

  The last ghostly image of Shamus faded away.

  Jane went to the window and looked out over the city.

  At the Blues Cafe, the first set for the night was finished. After the applause died down, Joe got up from the grand piano and walked off the stage. The rest of the band went straight over to the bar, but Joe joined Kerryn and Carlos at their table.

  "Hope you liked it," said Joe.

  "Liked it?” said Kerryn. “You never told me you were so good. I knew you could play ... but really I had no idea! You could turn pro, if you wanted to."

  “It’s just a hobby,” said Joe, uncomfortable with the compliment.

  Carlos concurred, in his singsong Mexican accent. "Jes, jou are pretty good, Joe. But how about jou do a few Latin numbers next time, uh?”

  "Sure. Why not? We can play a little Tom Jobim, if you like."

  "You know, Joe," said Kerryn. "I can see now why you wanted the time to do this. You're quite a musician."

  Joe was embarrassed. "Can I buy you another drink? Carlos?"

  "We already got a few too many," Carlos replied.

  Kerryn went on. "By the way, I spoke to the National Sales Manager. He sends his congratulations on the Cardiac Society meeting and the Zemtril conference. Dr Jefferson even wrote him a letter! Your name’s buzzing at Headquarters, Joe. I told them you wanted to stay in sales and not go into management. That’s fine. We’ll groom Michelle for promotion, instead. She's ambitious. She’s got a lot to learn yet, but one day she'll make a good manager. Oh, and one more thing, Joe ..."

  "Yeah?"

  "Your raise came through. I thought I'd bring you the good news. Here you go, just rip it open. Don’t be shy!” Kerryn handed Joe a yellow envelope.

  Joe opened the letter.

  He glanced briefly at the fattest payslip he’d ever received. Then he noticed a handwritten note from the National Sales Manager. Joe unfolded the note and read it silently:

  Dear Joe,

  Congratulations on a job well done with the Cardiac Society meeting and the Zemtril conference. It isn't often we receive a personal letter from a major specialist like Dr Jefferson, praising the professionalism of one of our representatives. It's a pity you won't be available for promotion but please accept our congratulations on a job well done. We hope you will remain with Biopharm for the long term. I'll see you at the national conference.

  Regards, JJ.

  Kerryn noticed the surprised look on Joe’s face. "Actually, Joe, maybe you could buy us another round of drinks. With that raise, you can afford it!"

  "Okay," said Carlos, with a shrug. "But if I draw one wing bigger than the other on the jet plans tomorrow, it’s not my fault.”

  "How about some champagne, then?" Joe asked.

  "Sounds good,” said Carlos.

  Kerryn hugged her husband. "Me, too."

  Joe waved to catch the attention of a waiter. He had to look twice before he could believe his eyes; the waiter who responded was a huge man who looked exactly like the manager of the jazz club in Joe’s dream. On the pocket of the waiter’s bulging blue T-shirt was the black silhouette of a grand piano and the words Hot Jazz at the Blues Cafe. Joe spoke nervously. "Three champagnes please, Orson."

  The big man looked at him. "Hey, how did you know my name?"

  Joe couldn’t help feeling uneasy with the huge waiter towering over him. "Oh, just a lucky guess. Have you ... worked here long?"

  "No. This is my first night, man. And you know what? I’ll tell you something. One day I'm going to own a club just like this one." He looked determined.

  "I believe it.”

  The waiter left to fill the order.

  "Well," said Joe, before Kerryn could ask any awkward questions, "I'd better get back to the stage. The band’s waiting."

  “Okay, Joe,” said Kerryn. “See you after the second set.”

  “Play something Latin,” said Carlos. “Jou promise, now!”

  “Sure. But first, our new singer wants to do her favourite tune.” Joe got up and walked to the stage.

  As he sat down at the piano, Joe reflected that things were going well, at
last. Life wasn’t half bad.

  Nancy stood by her microphone. The drummer and the bass player waited for Joe to count them in, and waited for him to play the first chord, which would start My Funny Valentine.

  Joe snapped his fingers. “Two ... three ... four!”

  He played a C minor sixth. Nancy began to sing, seductively.

  Her voice was as smooth as satin.

  The next day, Friday afternoon, Joe was sitting at his desk in the reps room, doing some very boring paperwork. Everyone else was out on the road, except Michelle, who was doing her expense reports, and Kerryn, who was walking briskly down the corridor to speak to the two studious employees.

  Kerryn entered the room. "Michelle, can I see you in about ten minutes? We need to talk about the management course you'll be taking next month."

  Michelle looked up from her desk. "Sure, Kerryn."

  Kerryn turned to Joe. "Joe, I've had an e-mail from head office. The College of Physicians heard about what a big success the Cardiac Society meeting was; they're looking for sponsorship for their monthly chapter meetings. It's a big opportunity for Zemtril. I'd like you to handle it. Could you see Dr Zimmerman this afternoon?"

  "No problem. I'll be there at three," said Joe.

  "Great." Karen turned and made her way back to her office.

  "I need a break from this paperwork," Joe said to Michelle. “Don’t you?”

  “You bet.”

  "So, anyway, congratulations. You’re going to be a manager, now."

  "Thanks, Joe. I never thought I'd get the chance, with you around! Now that you've decided to stay in the field-force, it gives me a bite at the Big Apple. I was always second. Are you sure you don't have any regrets?"

  "Not me,” said Joe. “I'm happy with the way it's gone. What about you? Are you sure the office is your style?"