Assignment Seven

... walking and chewing gum at the same time...

Note: I didn't finish this. Due to work and other commitments, I can only work on these projects on Sunday, so I'm posting as far as I got. I did the skeleton first. Unfortunately, I write fiction very slowly.

Level: Beginner

Opening:

"Want coffee, boss? With cream or sugar?"

"With a hypo," Jim muttered, blinking at the flicker-refresh of the computer monitor. His eyeballs throbbed. He closed his eyes, rubbed a hand over the lids.

"Want to mainline the caffeine again this morning?" Matt scooped Jim's cup from the desk, dropped it back two minutes later full of black liquid. A drop spilled onto the oak veneer of the desk.

"What time did you come in anyway?"

"Five a.m." Jim gulped a mouthful of coffee, forced the bitter liquid down his throat. At least it was hot.

"You're sure bucking for finance, aren't you? You can lay off. You've got it sewn up with V-P Paulsen in your pocket."

"Paulsen's not in my pocket. I've worked hard for my promotions. All of them."

"Guess that's a hint that I better getting working on mine." Matt sauntered out, closing the half-glassed office door behind him.

Jim pulled a tissue from his desk, wiped up the drop of coffee. Dust filmed the faux silver frames of the two photographs on his desk. He ran the tissue over the frames. The first displayed a younger version of himself in tuxedo beside a dark-haired woman beautiful in lace and veil, flowers dripping from her hands. "And baby makes three," he mused, smiling into the woman's gray eyes before arranging the photograph a bit further forward on the desk.

The second photograph showed a middle-aged man in work jeans and shirt, hoisting a beer over a battered gray pick-up. Yesterday, senior vice-president Paulsen had remarked on it, gently noting that it didn't fit the corporate image. Perhaps it should be in a drawer, out of sight. Jim picked up the photo, slid open a drawer. You understand, right Dad? The job's the most important thing. You always said so.

He dropped the photo in the drawer, started to close it, hesitated, looked around the office. Not the wall... that already held his diploma. But maybe... He pulled the photograph from the drawer, balanced it carefully on the narrow sill which bordered the sealed window behind his desk.

"You should still get to see this, Dad," he told the image. "Your Jimmy, about to be made vice-president of finance at 34. You'd be proud of me. And I've never been out of work a day in my life."

His intercom chimed. He picked up the handset. "Wilson here."

"Mr. Anderson would like to see you." The president? Why not Paulsen? "I'll be right there." He grinned back at the photo balanced on the window sill. "This is it, Dad. Wish me luck."

Anderson stood as Jim entered the carpeted office, shook his hand with absentminded cordiality. At his gesture, the 30-something woman standing beside his desk stepped forward and held out a slender hand, an imperious smile on her lips.

Jim shook the hand, mentally assessing the woman. Manicured fingers, dressed sleekly enough to be a mistress but not showing quite enough flesh or balanced on quite enough heel. She reeked of money and an easy climb to the top. So who was she?

Anderson answered. "This is Vanessa Cleary. She'll be joining us as a vice-president. You'll be reporting to her."

To her? But I report to Paulsen...

"Unfortunately we've had to let Paulsen go due to some..." Anderson hesitated, then finished, "irregularities. Of course, due to this change, we'll be postponing any promotions..."

Quarter-point

The two e-mails were short. Cleary neither wasted nor minced words. The first, directed to all staff, noted:

"Due to the sensitive nature of our current company negotiations, I am restricting access to relevant financial data. If you need to access a restricted file, please submit a request to me citing your requirements and reasons. All requests will be reviewed and responded to promptly."

The second was directed to Jim and requested a series of in-depth financial reports. Now how am I going to get all that done if she restricts access to the data I need? And how fast will she respond to requests for the files? He scowled at the e-mail displayed on his screen, then erased the scowl and pasted on a smile as he heard the slight squeak of his door being opened. Only Cleary opened his door without knocking.

"Did you get that list of reports, Jim?"

"Yes."

"I'll be away most of this week but I'd like them on my desk first thing Monday." She smiled, briskly, politely and remotely. "Is that possible?"

If I forget about going home...and Meg's birthday party. "It's possible," Jim said. "They'll be done."

"Good." She closed the door behind her.

Jim picked up his wedding picture, looked into the bright face of the bride. "Sorry, Meg," he said. He opened his desk drawer and dropped the photo inside.

Half-point

Jim rubbed his eyes, gulped a mouthful of cold coffee, focused back on the monitor screen. In the lower right-hand corner the clock ticked over to 10:48 p.m. The restructuring analysis was almost finished but he still needed data from the review of the Illinois division six months earlier.

Data that Cleary had locked away. Cleary was away, again, so his request for the data was probably still sitting in the in-box of her e-mail.

But she wanted this report faxed to her first thing in the morning.

The phone rang. He ignored it, let the ringing continue until the caller was directed to the automatic answering service. His message light flashed on. He waited a moment, debating, then punched the keys to play. Meg's voice, underlined with emotion, spilled from the speaker.

"You're not there. You said you were working and you're not. I don't know who she is, who you're seeing, but if you're not home by midnight, I won't be here and neither will the baby."

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