Chapter 2: Management Event

I went back to working on the customer fault report. I had discovered how to reproduce the problem but I was having trouble diagnosing the cause, being so distracted with worry about having to visit customers. Even so, I jumped when my telephone rang.

“Hello. Michael Turner? I’m Jenny Valverde, Mr Moravcec’s Personal Assistant. Mr Moravcec said you’d told him you’d be attending the party tomorrow and I understand you will need transport.”

“Party? Mr Moravcec said it’s a management event.” If it was a party, I even more didn’t want to be there.

“There will be a short management meeting at the start, but that’s mainly to make the event tax-deductible. So, do you need transport?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Will you need picking up from your home address?”

“I live close to this office. I could be picked up here if that would be easier.”

Jenny laughed. “It makes no difference either way, whichever is easier for you.”

I had intended to sneak into work first to work on more fault reports, but I supposed it made sense to travel from home so I could have a shower first.”

“Perhaps home would be better,” I admitted.

“Fine,” said Jenny. “The company we use is called Handsome Cabs and we have a corporate account with them so everything’s paid for. I’ll book you a pickup for forty five minutes before the event’s start time because Mr Moravcec’s mansion is some way out in the country. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Something did come to mind. “Is there a dress code? I’ve never been to one of these events before?”

“It’s quite informal although board members like to wear suits. However Mr Moravcec definitely won’t. What do you usually wear to work?”

“Jeans and a t-shirt.”

“Hmmm. A t-shirt would be okay provided it’s relatively bland - no loud colours and definitely no slogans. I’d recommend something a bit smarter than jeans. A pair of smart casual trousers or safari shorts. Definitely not a suit.”

“Okay.” I could see I’d have to dash out and get a new pair of trousers Saturday morning.

“Don’t have a big meal beforehand. There will be an all-you-can-eat buffet available as soon as the management meeting is concluded.”

“Okay.”

“See you tomorrow then,” Jenny signed off.

I took a coffee break and noticed Ms Altropolina in her office with the door open, as it usually was unless she had a meeting. I knocked on her door anyway.

Ms Altropolina looked up. “Oh, hi Michael, please come in and take a seat. I just need a minute to finish this.”

I noticed a couple of carrier bags advertising womens’ clothing shops behind her desk, indicating how she’d spent her Friday lunch break that week.

Ms Altropolina looked up again. “There, all done. Now what can I help you with?”

“Mr Moravcec came by my cubicle earlier. He said that anyone not attending the management event tomorrow wouldn’t get a bonus.”

Christina Altropolina laughed. “Yes, that sounds like something Ludo would say. He wasn’t serious. If you think about it, the company has management grade employees in several offices across the country and I doubt many of them will show up. You should think about attending. I don’t think it will be as bad as you might think: it’s all very informal and relaxed.”

“Jenny Valverde has already booked me a taxi,” I said.

“That’s sorted then. Don’t worry, I’ll be there and I’ll watch over you.”

“Mr Moravcec also said I’ll need to visit customer sites to get myself noticed.”

Ms Altropolina thought for a few moments. “That’s not a bad idea. You’ve done good work here and it would improve the company’s image if customers could meet the person responsible.”

She must have seen me noticeably shrinking because she continued, “Don’t worry, I’d never send you to a customer site on your own, at least not unless I was sure you could handle it.”

I could feel the weight falling from my mind at that assertion, and Ms Altropolina smiled. “Is there anything else you’re worried about?” she asked.

“No.”

“Look, don’t take anything Ludo Moravcec says too literally. He fancies himself as a bit of a comedian.”

Then, as I got up to leave, Ms Altropolina said, “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon then. And Ludo Moravcec has a pool so if you fancy a swim, take your swimwear along. You might even get to see me in a bikini,” and she winked at me.

I dashed from her office, hoping she hadn’t seen my burning face.

The next morning, I hurried to the shops to buy a pair of smart casual trousers to wear at that afternoon’s event. My Asperger’s made clothes shopping an ordeal because my purchase had to be just right. First I visited the shop where I habitually bought my jeans. I didn’t like their smart casual trousers. And that sent me into a mild panic. Intellectually I knew that they didn’t have to be perfect, ‘just good enough’ would be fine, but I wasn’t accustomed to settling for ‘just good enough’. It felt strange and alien.

I actually felt relieved when I left the shop, having not found anything remotely acceptable in my size.

Shop after shop I experienced the same feelings: panic on first entering, then relief when I left without buying anything. I passed a couple of clothing shops that I didn’t even enter because they were playing unbearably loud popular music.

They say you find something you’re looking for in the last place you look because you stop looking after you find it. That proved to be true in my case.

I entered a relatively up-market chain clothing store, somewhere I wouldn’t normally be seen dead. When I got to the men’s trousers section, one of the store assistants, a kind-looking older woman, approached me and said, “Good morning, can I help you?”

I stood there in a silent panic.

“My son’s autistic,” she admitted. “I’ve seen the same look on his face just before he shuts down when he’s getting overwhelmed. Would you like to sit down somewhere quiet for a bit, and you can tell me what you need when you’re ready?”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

She led me over to some seats near the changing cubicles. “Would you like some water?”

“Yes.”

The woman fetched me a plastic cup of chilled water. “I’ll leave you for a little while,” she said. “I can see another customer needing my help. I’ll keep an eye on you to see when you’re ready. If anyone asks any questions, tell them you’re waiting for Mrs Robins.”

While I was composing myself and sipping the water, I watched as Mrs Robins served another man who was accompanied by a woman I guessed was his wife. Mrs Robins was patience personified as she served the customer, all the time with a smile on her face, while his wife seemed to disagree with all the man’s choices. Eventually they bought a couple of items the wife chose for him then left.

Mrs Robins came back over to me. “Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes. That looked challenging.”

“Not really, they were very polite. Now, what can I help you with?”

“I’m attending a company management meeting this afternoon and I need a pair of smart casual trousers.”

“Management! Oh my goodness, I’ll have to tell my son about you. You’re such a positive role model. Which company do you work for if you don’t mind my asking?”

“CornerStone Systems. Only I’m not really a manager, I don’t manage anything.” Why had I volunteered that information? I didn’t know Mrs Robins but she had me talking like an old friend.

“I’m sure you’ve earned your position. My daughter temped there for a while and said it’s a good company. Unfortunately they didn’t have a permanent vacancy at the time or I think she would have taken it.” Mrs Robins smiled wryly. “Now, what size are you?”

I gave Mrs Robins my measurements.

“Oh dear, I wish you’d come here sooner. We don’t keep a lot of stock in your size, but if you found a style you liked we could have ordered a pair in your size for you. Still, let’s see what we do have.”

Mrs Robins led me over to the confusing melee of racks of trousers, but she knew exactly which ones to target. “Here, these are in your size,” she said, holding up a pair of trousers. “And khaki is a neutral colour. It goes with just about anything.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you know where the changing cubicles are. They’re unisex. And while you’re trying them on, I’ll continue looking for others in your size.”

I took the trousers and headed to the changing cubicles. Naturally I chose the one at the end. The khaki trousers fitted me well, and I nearly let out a cheer. Then I checked the labels. Machine washable, cool iron, and then the price, double what I paid for my jeans. But I didn’t care, I had made up my mind to buy them. I switched back to my jeans and headed back to Mrs Robins.

She smiled when she saw me. “What do you think of that pair?” she asked.

“I like them and they fit. I’ll take them please.” Then I had another thought. “Do you have another pair the same?”

“Not in that colour. Would you like me to order another pair in khaki?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine, but first I’d like to show you these - I found two similar pairs in your size but in different colours, a mid blue and a very dark green.” Mrs Robins held up the trousers for me to see.

“I like the dark green,” I admitted. “Could I buy them too?” I didn’t like the mid blue. The colour would have been okay for a pair of jeans but it just looked wrong for trousers.

“Of course you can,” said Mrs Robins, putting down the mid blue trousers but taking the khaki trousers from me. “I imagine you’ve had a testing morning and I’m sure you’re dying to get out of here, but are you planning to wear a t-shirt with the trousers, like the one you’ve got on?”

“Yes.”

“That’s okay, but you might like to wear something a little smarter. We’ve got some quite smart polo shirts that would pair up nicely with the trousers.”

Quite frankly I would have bought the Eiffel Tower if Mrs Robins had offered to sell it to me. But I liked the polo shirts she showed me and I bought a couple. So I left the shop with two pairs of trousers and two polo shirts, plus a receipt for a pair of trousers on order.

Back home, I had a quick snack, showered and changed and was ready for the taxi with forty five minutes to spare. So I worked on diagnosing the fault that had defeated me when I was so distracted the afternoon before. It seemed ridiculously easy to find the problem and I was scribbling down code changes to fix it when my doorbell rang.

“Mr Turner?” asked the uniformed man.

I suddenly realised I’d forgotten about the taxi. And that made me want to miss the party even more so I could stay home and finish fixing the fault.

“Yes,” I reluctantly admitted. I had been ready forty five minutes ago so all I had to do was pick up a couple of things I was taking with me and lock up.

The taxi ride was made in silence, at least on my part. The taxi driver made enough conversation for both of us, and it was quite entertaining as he reeled off anecdotes about his experiences as a taxi driver.

Mrs Valverde had mentioned Mr Moravcec’s home as being a mansion, and she wasn’t wrong. It was a very imposing three-storey building secreted at the end of a long arcing tree-lined driveway, accessed via an electronic gate. The taxi driver had obviously been here before because he stuck his head out of the window so the security cameras could get a good view of his face, and the electronic gate swung open.

The driveway made a loop at the end so that vehicles could drop off their passengers near the mansion’s front door before circling back and leaving, or alternatively follow the sign saying ‘Parking’, leading to a branch of the driveway that disappeared round the side of the mansion.

The taxi driver made a point of opening my door from the outside. “Thank you for choosing Handsome Cabs. Everything is paid for by your company but you’re welcome to use us privately if you need. He handed me a Handsome Cabs business card with his name handwritten on the bottom, ‘Lucas Churchill’. Then Lucas Churchill got back in his vehicle and departed.

The front door of the mansion was already open. As I made my way up the flight of steps, two people just inside the doorway noticed me and came out to greet me. Mr Moravcec was wearing a very loud and eye-hurting Hawaiian shirt and shorts combination, the woman a very demure floral dress. Mr Moravcec was obviously rich and I had expected his wife, if he had one, to be a blonde, statuesque trophy wife. But the woman standing next to him and holding his hand was quite girl-next-door, reminding me of Jardine, only twenty years older and with a few extra pounds.