The Fame Factor

Weeks earlier, the powers that be on the seventeenth floor had enlisted the help of some highly respected consultants, whose job it was to improve efficiency in the company. Following a lengthy period of consultation that included employee surveys and a series of experiments comparing staff productivity under different levels of ambient lighting, the troubleshooters had come to the revolutionary conclusion that auditors worked most efficiently whilst sitting in upright chairs, in silence, in natural light. But the beady-eyed consultants had also spotted another spectacular insight: The best auditors tended to have clear desks. It was this little gem that formed the seed of a new way of thinking at Chase Waterman PLC. They called it, imaginatively, the clear desk policy.

‘Sorry,’ Zoë said wearily. ‘It’s just, I like having everything to hand. It’s all in piles. I know where everything…’

Brian silenced her with a raised eyebrow. ‘ODOM,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘Odom,’ he said again. ‘ODOM. An Organised Desk is an Organised Mind.’

‘Oh, right.’ Zoë nodded.

‘Let’s have it clear by the morning.’

Zoë let her eyes glaze over as her boss strode off to persecute some other employee. She stayed like this for several seconds, waiting for the irritation to pass before she got back to pretending to work.

‘There’s no need for paper these days, anyway,’ the weasel next to her piped up. ‘You can just do everything electronically.’

Zoë’s frustration ramped up a notch as her neighbour’s spiky hair poked into view.

‘Well, maybe I just like having piles of paper,’ she said, wearily.

She jiggled her mouse to see the time. Thankfully, it was twelve minutes to six.

‘What’s that?’ asked Eric.

Zoë quickly minimised the browser, annoyed that the oily-haired rodent had caught her out.

‘The GM audit,’ she replied in a monotone.

‘No, not that. The website.’ He wheeled himself up to her screen.

It was no good, she thought. He had seen it. And with a voice as loud as his, it was likely that most of the office would be seeing it if she didn’t shut him up soon.

‘It’s just a band,’ she shrugged, briefly showing him the page. Nobody at Chase Waterman knew about Dirty Money. It was her secret – her other life. Her colleagues wouldn’t understand if she tried to explain how it felt to strut onto the stage – to belt out her songs to a roomful of strangers.

‘Hold on! Go back.’

Reluctantly, she returned to the page.

Eric let out a low-pitched whistle. ‘Fuck me!’

Zoë cringed.

‘It’s a girl-band!’ Eric went on. He was practically salivating. Zoë could feel her breathing become shallow as she waited for the penny to drop.

‘Look at – oh my God!’ He slapped the desk with his palm. ‘That’s you!’

A couple of heads turned. Zoë rolled her eyes in an attempt to discredit his cry.

‘You’re in a girl-band!’ Eric laughed, peering at the screen and noting the name. ‘Dirty Money? Kinky, eh. What d’you sing? Are you like the Spice Girls? “Spice Up Your Life…”’

He continued to squawk, thrusting his shoulders left and right. ‘“Who Do You Think You Are…” Which one are you? Posh? Sporty?’

Eric was not to know this, but for a serious musician, there was nothing more insulting than being called a boy- or girl-band. There were key differences between the likes of U2 and, say, Westlife, the principle one being that U2 was comprised of people who could play instruments and sing, whereas most of the boy-band magic happened in the recording studio with session musicians and a fancy mixing desk. Being likened to a member of the Spice Girls was, for Zoë, a little bit like Michelangelo being called a plasterer.

‘We’re not a girl-band,’ she spat, closing the browser and angrily shutting everything down. It felt as though a fuse had snapped inside her.

Eric let out a low oooh, gliding back to his desk and muttering something about Scary Spice under his breath.

Zoë marched over to the nearest recycling station and tugged it towards her desk, aware of several pairs of eyes nervously tracking her movements. In one swift action, she swept all the paperwork into the bin and then kicked it back into the gangway. She didn’t care what her colleagues thought. They were a bunch of ladder-climbing executives whose idea of exciting was wearing a brightly-coloured Donald Duck tie to work. She would show them, one day. She’d show them what it was to succeed.

‘A glass of wine,’ she said firmly. ‘A large one.’

‘Good day?’ asked her sister, grinning as she paid for the drinks.

They were perched on high, space-age stools, surrounded by well-cut suits and polished brogues in one of the many identical bars around St Paul’s. Unfortunately for Zoë and Tamsin, their places of work were at opposite ends of the Square Mile, a district that accounted for more than ten per cent of the capital’s GDP and a good proportion of its spending too – as was evident by the hundred-pound round that was going on beside them.

‘It wasn’t the best,’ Zoë admitted, her mouth already watering as she drew the large, dewy glass towards her.

She didn’t feel as furious as she had half an hour ago. The walk had done her good. Listening to angry music always calmed her down.

‘Anything in particular?’

Zoë took her first sip. She thought about telling Tam about the incident with Eric and the MySpace page, but decided against it. On reflection, her reaction to the little imp’s taunting seemed a little melodramatic. ‘Just the usual.’

A collective cheer rose up from the men on their right and the girls shifted sideways on their stools. Padded shoulders jostling for space at the bar, the young men assembled themselves in front of a long line of pints, each one accompanied by a double shot of a viscous, brown liquid.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ Tamsin remarked, rolling her eyes.

Zoë wasn’t sure whether her sister was referring to the city boys or her attitude towards her career. Tam had never really understood Zoë’s take on life. She was sweet and supportive, always there for her little sister, but the fact remained, she couldn’t see why anyone would want more than a stable, well-paying job and a flat with a well-equipped kitchen.

‘It was in here that I first met Jonathan,’ Tam went on, clearing up the doubt. Zoë smiled at the thought of her sweet, sensible sister falling prey to the slick young predators in here tonight.

‘Did he look something like that?’ she asked, nodding towards the beer-drinkers, who were wandering the bar, bleary-eyed, wearing the shot glasses on their heads like small Russian hats.

‘They all look like that when they get together,’ Tam said, shaking her head. ‘Herd instinct.’

Zoë laughed. ‘Speaking of herds, how is life in the “second six” at the Inn?’

Tamsin took a large sip with closed eyes. ‘Fairly similar to the first six, to be honest. I still get mistaken for the secretary, still get told off for walking on the wrong bit of grass, still get no respect from anyone else in the courtroom.’

‘Oh dear.’ Zoë cringed, thanking fate yet again for her abysmal A-level grades. The Inns of Court actually made Chase Waterman seem like a dynamic, forward-thinking place to work.

‘I guess things have improved a little,’ Tamsin conceded. ‘I was invited to the Spring Croquet Tournament the other day, and I’m actually on my feet in the courtroom.’

‘Wow. Really?’ Zoë raised her eyebrows, feeling a rush of pride tinged with just a small hint of envy – about the courtroom, not the croquet. Whilst she knew she could never sit in those stuffy wooden halls, wearing that wig and ridiculous gown, it would still be an incredible thing to know that your words, in some cases, made the difference between freedom and imprisonment.

‘Well, yes…Although typically, when the judge acquits our defendant he makes it very clear that he’s acquitting him for reasons other than those outlined in my defence. I don’t think they like the idea of a woman having influence at the bar.’