the darkness of night pouring into her study through its old-fashioned sash window
her face bathed in the blue light of her hypnotically addictive 24-inch iMac
the computer screen where she alone, it seems, ignores the parallel universe of social media and what she considers its time-suck temptations
at least her addiction to the electronic motherboard is productive, she tries to convince herself, clicking on the never-ending monetary websites of cyberspace that pop up, NASDAQ, Wall Street Journal, London Stock Exchange
while also monitoring the international news that affects market conditions, the weather conditions that affect crops, the terrorism that destabilizes countries, the elections that affect trading agreements, the natural disasters that can wipe out whole industries, agricultures and communities
and if it isn’t related to work, it’s not worth reading
but with the news now available on the minute every minute, she can’t ever keep up and can’t stop the hyperactive habit of clicking on just another hyperlink
even when she can’t take anything in any more, can’t remember the last website she visited, doesn’t know why on earth she doesn’t just call it a day when she knows she’ll fall asleep at her desk, usually in the post-midnight hours, only to awaken hours later and drag herself bleary-eyed to bed
the terror of the Gods of Theta and Delta
who rob her of the consciousness that protects her
sleep
when bad things happen
to bad little girls
who
ask
for
it.
2
Carole steps on to the silver steps of the escalators with the rest of the commuting populace in their sombre office palettes as it elevates them skywards from below ground to the street level of Bishopsgate
she’s headed for an early morning meeting with a new client based in Hong Kong, whose net worth is multiple times the GDP of the world’s poorest countries
she’s thinking he’d better not do a double-take when she enters the executive meeting room
one long glass wall looking out on to the City
the other bearing a massive splash of tax-deductible artwork that cost the price of a Zone 2 town house
she’s thinking he’d better not look at her as if she should be attached to a trolley bearing flasks of coffee, assortments of teas (herbal, green, grey, Ceylon) and those individually packaged corporate biscuits
she’s used to clients and new colleagues looking past her to the person they are clearly expecting to meet
she will stride up to the client, shake his hand firmly (yet femininely), while looking him warmly (yet confidently) in the eye and smiling innocently, and delivering her name unto him with perfectly clipped Received Pronunciation, showing off her pretty (thank-god-they’re-not-too-thick) lips coated in a discreet shade of pink, baring her perfect teeth as he adjusts to the collision between reality and expectation, and tries not to show it while she assumes control of the situation and the conversation
it’s all about having the upper hand with Carole, who takes these little conquests, as she imagines them, when she can
perhaps he’ll find himself unexpectedly attracted to her, which the more sophisticated try to hide, unlike the Nigerian petrochemical billionaire a few years ago who wanted to expand his investment portfolio into copper
who invited her to a working lunch at the Savoy, only for her to discover it was in his private dining room in the Royal Suite
where he gave her a tour of its eight rooms designed with stately home largesse: Greco-Roman colonnades, Lalique chandeliers, antique busts on plinths, silk papered walls and pastoral English paintings
he pointed out that the mattress in the master boudoir was hand-sprung with each spring wrapped in cashmere
it’s like sleeping on air, Miss Williams, he said as he showed her the suite’s ‘menu of pillows’ on a silver-embossed card
as if she was the kind of woman who’d amputate her aspirations to become one of his decorative appendages
she had to politely extricate herself from his intentions without jeopardizing the business
letting him know she was engaged, to Frederick Marchmont, she said for emphasis
furious that he wanted to undermine her hard-won professionalism
today she will force herself to project a positive approach to her meeting, after all, her shelves are stacked with motivational books ordered from America telling her to visualize the future you want to create, believe you can and you’re halfway there, and if you project a powerful person, you will attract respect
so what will her meeting be?
fan-bloody-tastic!
except she can’t help remembering all the little hurts, the business associates who compliment her on being so articulate, unable to hide the surprise in their voices, so that she has to pretend not to be offended and to smile graciously, as if the compliment is indeed just that
she can’t help thinking about the customs officers who pull her over when she’s jetting the world looking as brief-cased and be-suited as all the other business people sailing through customs – un-harassed
oh to be one of the privileged of this world who take it for granted that it’s their right to surf the globe unhindered, unsuspected, respected
damn, damn, damn, as the escalator goes up, up, up
c’mon, delete all negative thoughts, Carole, release the past and look to the future with positivity and the lightness of a child unencumbered by emotional baggage
life is an adventure to be embraced with an open mind and loving heart
but there was that one time, at the start of her career, in a country known for its terrible record on human rights, even though she’d told them she was there to meet a team from their national bank, and presented the documentation to show them, which they refused to look at
even her body was
invaded
as if she were an impoverished mule with half a kilo of white powder stuffed up her fanny, or waiting to be evacuated out of her bowels in the little plastic bags she obviously must have had for breakfast that morning
the invasion of alien hands in a window-less, dungeon-like room cut off from the flow of the airport, while another grubby immigration official in a sweat-stained blue uniform
looked on
it brought back such memories
such memories she’d locked away, it was all she could do not to collapse on the floor of the interrogation room
that had lain dormant for years after it happened, when Carole was thirteen and a half and at her first party with no adults hovering like prison warders ruining the fun for everyone
at LaTisha’s place, whose mum was on a special training weekend for work and whose older sister, Jayla, had abandoned her ‘babysitting’ duties to spend the night at her boyfriend’s
not before ordering LaTisha to be-have and not have no mates round upon pain of death or we’ll both get busted
so what did LaTisha do now she had the place to herself for like the first time in her life? texted her crew to bring a bottle and galdem bring mandem to even things out, only those wiv a six pack, lol, and they better be buff or you won’t be allowed in, ya gets?
Carole hadn’t hitherto been interested in boys, was labelled the Super Geek of Year 9, preferred the mind-bending pleasures of mathematical problem-solving, inspired by her mother, Bummi, who was raising her alone after her father died
it is the night before LaTisha’s party and Carole and her mother are sitting at the washed-out Formica kitchen table, Carole’s homework piled up on one side
Carole wears flannelette shorts and her favourite vest with a teddy bear on it
dinner of pounded yam and bitter-leaf soup steams in a shared wooden bowl
they are perched thirty-two floors up in a tower block among hundreds of others packed together like rows of crates spread wide and stacked high