Less Than Perfect (30 page)

Jeanie can't contain herself for long, though. ‘You think every family is perfect but your own,' she declares as she chews on a mouthful of toast.

‘I never said that.'

‘Not in so many words. But it's apparent in your lack of regard for your own upbringing and in how you glorify everything about mine.'

‘
What?
Don't be so ridiculous!'

Jeanie swallows and her voice becomes clearer, harsh even. ‘You have no real concept of what it's like to grow up in a big family, Caitlin. It was chaos in our house. Every Saturday morning I went to netball and when I got back my mother would look at me puzzled and ask, “Where have you been all this time?”
Every week
we had the same exchange – and she still didn't remember that I had netball on Saturday mornings! She didn't know where we were half the time.'

‘Interesting anecdote, but what's that got to do with anything?' I ask, replying to her harshness with sarcasm of my own.

‘I bet your mother and father knew where
you
were all the time.' Under the soft bed-tousled hair, Jeanie's expression is uncharacteristically hard. ‘I bet they came to watch your netball matches –'

‘Netball? I don't think so!'

‘You know what I mean – the netball equivalent in Ireland, whatever sport teenage girls play over there. I bet your parents were there, cheering you on. I bet they came to watch and clap every time you got an award at your school assembly. I bet they bought you a brand-new bike every other year, a nice shiny scratch-free model, and well before you had outgrown the last one too. You might think that your mum and dad were too strict, too controlling, but at least you weren't
invisible
to them as I was to mine.'

I get up and throw the rest of my coffee down the sink. ‘You know, I think I'm ready to go to work now.'

‘There's no need to be sarcastic – or to run off to work. I'm just telling you some truths. I'm fed up with this hard-done-by attitude you have –'

‘Oh, shut up, Jeanie,' I burst out as I turn around from the sink.

‘My own grown-up sister stole my phone. How's that for a fucked-up family?'

‘
Leave me alone.
'

‘There's no such thing as a perfect family, a perfect mother or father or sister,' she rants, as though she hasn't heard me. ‘You're childish to even think there is …'

‘I said
leave me alone
, Jeanie. I've had enough!' My shrill voice reverberates in my ears.

I stomp from the kitchen to the bathroom where I brush my teeth so vigorously my gums begin to bleed. A few minutes later, shoes jammed on my feet and handbag strap pulled tight on my shoulder, I leave without saying goodbye, the slam of the apartment door the only contribution I have to make. Despite my bravado, my hands are shaking and my stomach feels really queasy now. What a horrible beginning to the day! I rarely have arguments with Jeanie, I can't even remember the last time we exchanged a cross word. What's wrong with her, picking a fight like this? Just like Matthew and Mum last night. What's wrong with all of them?

‘Harry! Hello, Caitlin here. Just letting you know that everything is on track. The technicians have the networking solution fully worked out … Yes, they say that the system will be a direct image of your own … Yes, amazing technology, isn't it?'

Twirling my pen in my fingers, I gaze out the window as I listen to Harry speak. I'm calm and businesslike on the phone, but the argument with Jeanie keeps replaying in my mind, muddling together with the fights I had with Mum and Matthew to form one screaming voice, and the queasiness in my stomach has not settled down.

‘The training manuals are at the printers, Harry – I'll send you some when they come in. They look good. Lots of pictures, nice-sized text, easy on the eye. I should have them to you by Friday.'

I run through more details, practical matters like the
synchronisation of the three rooms, contingency plans for sickness and no shows, and how we'll translate feedback into improvements. After this call with Harry, I must make two other lengthy and detailed phone calls, also related to Net Banc. Then I have a facilities meeting to attend, lunch with a prospective client, and another internal meeting in the afternoon. It promises to be a busy day. Right now I need to be busy, to be distracted with work and things to do. Thank God it isn't like some days of late where I've had too much time to think.

‘Yes, the rooms will be ready the day before, Harry, and you can come for a walk through. Put your mind at ease. No problem … Anything else, just give me a call.'

I put down the phone and take a moment to draw breath. During that tiny fragment of time, my eyes veer to my mobile phone where it lies impassive on my desk. I pick it up, press a button and the screen accommodatingly lights up. No missed messages or calls. Not yet, anyway.

Without stopping to acknowledge the empty lifeless feeling that seems to have transferred from my phone to my insides, I make my next call, to Mike, who releases an exaggerated groan at the mere sound of my voice. Despite his feigned despair, Mike clearly thrives on the size, complexity and technological challenges of the Net Banc job. As he talks, I find myself carried along by his enthusiasm and, once again, offer a quick prayer of thanks that it's a busy day.

‘That was a very nice lunch.' Brent Newson wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin and regards me convivially from
across the table. ‘And this is a very nice restaurant. Overall a pleasant change from the ham sandwich I usually have at my desk!'

Brent is in his late fifties, his hair grey and concentrated on the lower half of his head, his face round and amiable. He wears large glasses, presumably for reading the fine print and small details that underpin his job. I called him and arranged this lunch after reading a quote he made to a journalist about burdensome new regulations in the insurance industry and the ongoing challenge of keeping staff up to date and properly trained.

‘You're welcome, Brent. Actually, this place is one of my favourites, so it's a treat for me too.'

The restaurant, on the banks of the Yarra River, has a panoramic view of the historical shipping wharves and the city beyond, and the food, Japanese with an Australian twist, is always exquisite, though I haven't eaten much of it today. I can't seem to overcome the nausea that's churning in my stomach.

Brent folds his napkin and puts it on the table. ‘You make a really strong case for outsourcing, Caitlin,' his eyes blink behind his glasses, ‘but I know from experience that our management team, and board, believe that such a move would involve more cost and less control.'

I look across at him, hold his gaze. ‘I have an excellent financial model that can work out the real cost of internal training. You'll find that it's not only easier to outsource, it's invariably cheaper too. And there's a very valid argument that you would regain control rather than lose it.'

His lips move into a smile. ‘Well, you're welcome to come onsite next week and show me how your model works. If the
results turn out as you say they will, maybe we'll be in a position to put forward a convincing argument to the board.'

Pleased with the progress we've made, I decide this is a good note on which to end the lunch. ‘Sounds like a plan, Brent. Would you like a coffee?'

He glances to the dessert menu that the waitress put on the table while we were deep in discussion. ‘For some reason, I'm in the mood for a liqueur. Or maybe a port.'

I beckon the waitress. ‘Do you have any ports or liqueurs you'd recommend?'

‘We have a very nice twelve-year-old tawny port,' she replies in a perfunctory tone.

I glance at Brent who nods. ‘We'll have one port, please.'

He looks crestfallen. ‘You're not joining me?'

I hesitate. Liqueurs and ports are generally off limits: too much sugar. ‘I really shouldn't, but make that two!' I say to the waitress.

Her smile seems to hold a hint of disapproval, as though she's aware I'm breaking the rules, taking a risk. She collects the laminated menus and returns a short while later with two glasses of port and the bill.

Raising my glass, I clink it with Brent's. The port is heavy and sweet in my mouth, laden with sugar and guilt, but still it's nice to connect with a client at this level and to round off a successful lunch with something a little decadent for us both. Strictly speaking, Brent isn't a client, he's a prospect. But I feel good about him, about Insurassist. I haven't started to work out all the different components yet, but the basics are there: a profitable cashed-up company, a strong need for change, a decision
maker who's easy to deal with, and an agreed follow-up meeting next week. After a barren few weeks, it's nice to have something substantial to work with again, something I can pour myself into and get lost in.

Already a few minutes late for my afternoon meeting, I hurry through the office and pass by my desk to pick up a notepad and pen. Zoe, talking on the phone, waves me down before I can rush off again.

‘Jarrod has been looking for you,' she says, her hand covering the mouthpiece.

‘He'll have to wait – I'm running late for my meeting.'

‘He's come around twice.'

‘Did he say it was urgent?'

‘Not in so many words,' she admits. ‘But he had that cat-onhot-bricks look about him.'

I laugh. ‘He always looks like that! I'll be back in an hour.'

I set off for the meeting, the notepad clutched to my chest, the pen jutting between my fingers like a cigarette. Light-headed from the port, it takes some effort to refocus my thoughts from the early-day buzz of Insurassist to the more mature, expectation-ridden relationship that Net Banc now is.

‘You're late,' Nicola announces as I slip into the meeting room on the fourth floor.

‘Sorry, I was delayed wooing a prospective client.'

‘Well, lucky for us that you're out there selling hard while we're busy trying to figure out how to deliver on your promises!' Nic's smile softens her sarcasm.

‘What did I miss?'

She glances at the other faces around the table. ‘We're talking about feedback, how we can gather it quickly and effectively on day one, and translate it into tangible improvements by day two. Of course we have our questionnaires, but we also need an earlier gauge of how things are going.'

The meeting goes on for another fifty-five minutes and we discuss a few ways to get a quick view of how the trainees rate the course, but nothing is decided. We finish on the most popular agenda item, food and catering, and as I catch the lift upstairs my thoughts are still preoccupied with avocado chicken tortilla wraps and orange almond mini-tarts. All the talk about food reminds me that I forgot my lunchtime shot of insulin and I pass by my desk again, to get my bag.

‘Jarrod –' Zoe begins.

‘I know. I just have to go to the ladies. Then I'm heading straight for his office.'

In one of the cubicles, I lift up my top and stab the needle randomly in my stomach. I can almost feel the insulin begin to work its way through my system, spreading under my skin, supplying what's lacking, what cannot be produced naturally. Suddenly remembering the batteries for my glucometer, I make a mental note to drop into a pharmacy on the way home.

Opening the door of the cubicle, I pause in front of the mirror, running a hand through my hair. My face looks slightly flushed, my eyes bleary. I'm tired, but in a weird way I'm wired too. Hopefully my work days are starting to regain their momentum. Today I'm busy, legitimately busy: I have lots to tell Jarrod when I stop by his office.

Feeling thirsty, I lower my head and drink water from the tap at the basin. I dab the excess water from the corner of my mouth with a tissue and then coat my lips with thick, shiny gloss. Before leaving the restrooms, I can't help taking a quick peek at my phone. Still nothing from Matthew.

‘Hey, Jarrod.' I breeze into his office. ‘You were looking for me?'

‘Yes, I was. For the last few hours, in fact.'

‘Sorry. Had one of those days.' I help myself to a seat. ‘I don't want to count my chickens, but my lunch with Brent was
very
promising. I'm meeting him again next week.'

‘Good.'

I pause, waiting for Jarrod's usual rapid-fire questions and needless advice on how to further secure the prospect, but nothing's forthcoming. Jarrod seems strangely uninterested.

‘And things are progressing fabulously with Net Banc,' I continue while Jarrod gets up from his desk and walks behind me to close the door. ‘The technicians have some really innovative ideas. I think we'll end up with a great blueprint for other jobs of this scale.'

Jarrod walks back behind his desk but doesn't sit down. ‘Good,' he says again.

I can't ignore his apparent lack of interest. ‘Is something wrong?' I ask a little puzzledly.

Jarrod opens his mouth and closes it with a sigh.

‘What is it?' I press. Is he working his way up to telling me that he has resigned? Is that why he seems so disengaged? I'm surprised to realise that I'll be sorry to see him go. On the whole he's been a decent boss and I've learned something from
his fastidious approach, though I hate to admit it. On the positive side, his departure is an opportunity for me, a chance to put myself forward for his job, a long-awaited step into management.

‘I'm sorry,' he begins, his voice sounding deeper than usual. ‘Because of the global financial crisis, we've had to cut headcount …'

So he isn't resigning, he's being made redundant. I didn't expect that!

‘Unfortunately, your job is one of the ones we've decided to let go.'

I'm not hearing him correctly. This cannot be true. ‘
My
job?'