Chapter 10

I assembled the team in the main office first thing on Monday and found the three buggers (an affectionate term) had already spent hours on Sunday working on it, having the initiative to contact each other and split the programme between them. They deserved every extra penny we’d pay them.

We continued doing more debugging, until a test of the rewritten software seemed to be fault free. We didn’t believe it, so they worked intensively for the rest of the day, eating sandwiches on the hoof.

I invited the whole office to the pub after work the next day to celebrate our success. Perhaps a little premature, but by now I was confident all was well or would be, even by tomorrow.

By five that evening we had run the software a number of times and tested it to destruction, trying to crash it. It seemed perfect. A miracle! I was expecting at least another full day. I contacted Deborah Wheeler and she promised to arrive the next afternoon and to bring Anne Roberts who managed the IT, for a demonstration.

We continued to work for another three hours, obstinately testing and re-testing, especially the bridge work we had added and where we’d ironed the dreadful lumps in the original. We couldn’t make it crash no matter how stupidly we loaded it with trucks crossing to and from the mainland carrying import/export goods.

Cassie texted to say that Rachel did not turn up to collect her mail that lunchtime. I thanked her, and as it was already too late to try to intercept Rachel should she decide to call at her flat on her way from work, I did not bother to make another fruitless journey to check her flat.

I went home satisfied that the job at work had been well done, but with the hollow feeling of loneliness as I went about cooking a meal for one. I had never felt lonely in my flat before, but after those heady days with Rachel with all the expectations she brought, the emptiness of the place yawned at every turn.

I allowed myself a celebratory beer, then decided to add a celebratory dram of scotch, then three more, as I watched some recordings of my favourite satirical panel game, which I had neglected because of Rachel and the job.

Though I laughed out loud at the humour, I still went to bed in far from a mellow mood, but thanks to the alcohol fell sound asleep immediately, and having retired early, felt alive and ready for the day the next morning. Good single malt – no hangover.

Deborah and her IT woman actually arrived mid-morning, and we spent five hours playing with the software, putting it through all its paces. Then Deborah was whisked away by the CEO, leaving me with Anne Roberts, the woman who knew about these things, to talk with me through the rest of the afternoon and to examine the code. She certainly knew what she was talking about, and we got on well. She enthused about the new economy and simplicity of the code.

We made an appointment to institute the new software overnight the following Sunday, and for me to return on Monday to watch its progress in the hands of their staff. She gave the opinion that if anyone could ruin the programme, they could! We bade the pair farewell.

Declan Briggs, our CEO, called me to his office after the pair had left.

“We’re getting a new contract,” he said with a grin, “and this job’s made as much as everything we’ve netted over the whole of the past financial year so far. Your bonus is going to be monumental!”

“Good to know, that we’ve got a contract,” I said sanctimoniously. “Of course you understand the bonus is of little consequence compared with the knowledge of a job well done.”

“Bullshite!” he guffawed. I allowed a smile of agreement.

“What of the team who worked on it?” I asked, after all, they did the work.

“Everyone in the department will see the bonus in their Christmas pay package,” he assured me.

That was good, it would keep morale up as we approached Christmas. He was still talking. “You can tell the kids to look at their pay slips on pay day.”

Needless to say everyone left work on a high that evening and I was authorised by Declan to stand the first round, and any food the staff wanted from the menu of the local pub that our firm always used. Most of the office came and I was glad I had booked the pub’s function room upstairs.

By eight thirty the food was finished and I went downstairs to settle the bill at the main bar.

As I turned away I got a text. My heart leapt – Rachel? No – Gary!

There is no divorce. We are talking about getting back together. Do not try to contact her, she is not interested. Keep out of our lives.

I stared at the text, totally puzzled. What to make of the message? I had thought it was her belief she was a failure or some such idea, but this message implied the divorce now seemed to have been a wake-up call that she could save her marriage. No wonder she cut off all communication with me. I wondered if she would ever face me, tell me herself and explain.

So it was in a deeply depressed state that I climbed the stairs back to the function room.

Here was I, the host at a triumphal celebration where everyone was delighted with success (I included myself in that) and the prospect of a hefty bonus, and now all I wanted to do was to leave. All my satisfaction and delight at our success had been sucked out of me. I had lost Rachel.

Harry Dreckson, the other director on our floor, noticed immediately.

“What’s up, Rod?” he asked. “You look as if we’ve just lost the contract, not gained it!”

“Personal, Harry,” I said. “I’ve just been dumped by the woman I thought was my girlfriend. She’s going back to her husband.”

“Not the bloke who decked you for not fucking his wife?” He still found the idea amusing.

“The same. A week ago she was looking forward to getting her Decree Absolute, and moving in with me. Last Monday she disappeared and the rumour was that she was living ‘with a friend’. Well, I think I now know who the ‘friend’ is.”

“Blood and sand!” he swore. “What a bitch!”

“It’s rather knocked the stuffing out of me, Harry,” I said morosely. “I think I’ll leave before I cast a shadow over the proceedings. Can you see to the rest of the evening?”

“You’ve settled the bill?” he asked.

I nodded.

“No problem,” he assured me. “See you the day after tomorrow.”

I had booked the next day as a ‘working from home day’. Yes, we all know what that means! The joys of directorship!

The rest of the staff were having a whale of a time, and I fleetingly thought there would be a few headaches next day as I made my exit from the room. No one noticed.

If what Gary said was true, I no longer had any interest in Rachel Trowbridge, and that distressed me deeply, but I was also annoyed, nay angry she would not tell me to my face.

A call arrived as I reached the foot of the stairs. Was this she, to tell me it was all over? No, it was Cassie this time.

“Hello!” I growled.

“What’s got up your nose?” came my sister’s response. If she was looking for an apology, she didn’t get one.

“Not a good time!” I snarled. “I’ve just had a text from Gary. She never applied for her bloody Divorce, and they’re getting together again. Would you believe that?“

“Hey, sweetie!” she attempted to soothe me. “Easy boy! Calm down. And no, I don’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s the fucking truth. I can’t believe she’d do this – after that weekend with both sets of parents, after all that longing for the divorce and for moving in with me. It’s ludicrous!”

“God, Roderick, calm down, will you?” she retorted sharply. “I agree with you. If it’s ludicrous, it can’t be true. Now, where are you?”

“The Cock Robin.”

“Stay there, I’m coming. Get me a half of bitter and a pint for yourself. We’ll get this sorted.”

I couldn’t prevent a sigh of relief. She just had that talent for calming me down. It didn’t help with the gaping hole in my life, though. Sometimes I half believe I’m her younger brother, not years older.

“OK,” I said.

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“I’ll have your half ready.”

Now you have to realise that I had already drunk three pints at the company shindig, this would be the fourth. I blessed my foresight in leaving my car at home that day.

She let me rant for a while, while she looked patient, and when I ran out of steam, she bought me another pint. I was not counting, in fact by then I think I thought it was my second instead of my fifth. I was less than sober.

After placing the drinks on the table, she painstakingly began to inject some common sense.

“Roddy, listen to me very carefully. Who sent the text?”

“Gary. I told you that.”

“Who has a vested interest in getting you away from Rachel?”

“But if it’s a lie, he can’t think he can get away with it, can he?”

“Roddy, it might be that he has been talking with her. He’s her ex., so he may well be trying to get her to change her mind, and she might feel an obligation to listen to him. He won’t want you butting in while that’s going on, will he?”

“Well, no.”

“So, don’t start behaving as if it’s true. Wait. Think, Roddy! Knowing her when you were going out, and now more recently, is she the sort of character who would let Gary dump you for her? Gary who attacked you? Without a word from her? Didn’t she tell her father she was talking with someone to try to work it out? That someone may not be Gary, have you thought of that? Could be a girl friend. I’m sure she’ll want to explain things to you.”

“Hmm,” I replied eruditely, and then went to visit the Gents, and on my return thoughtlessly bought another pint and an apple juice for Cassie who was driving. In hindsight, by now I really wasn’t thinking clearly. After six pints? Highly unlikely I’d be thinking at all!

“I don’t think she’s ever coming back,” I moaned. “If she were coming back she’d have told me where she was going, wouldn’t she? How could she do that – just go off without a word? I’ve been good to her, haven’t I?” I was becoming maudlin.

I didn’t wait for a reply but ploughed on in the manner of all drunks. “The ‘someone’ she’s been talking with is Gary. I think he’s got a size advantage. I bet he stretches her–”