Alberta Clipper Read online

  ALBERTA CLIPPER

  Sheena Lambert

  ALBERTA CLIPPER

  by Sheena Lambert

  ISBN:

  Kindle Edition | Copyright 2012 Sheena Lambert

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

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  Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at @shewithonee

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my lovely family, friends and readers; to Vanessa O’Loughlin, Catherine Ryan Howard and Ankit AJ Jain; and to Helen Bovaird Ryan and all the Thursday night Pen to Paper writers.

  PrologueChristine couldn't remember walking home, but here she was, at her apartment door, her legs tired and her eyes raw. It must have been around three-thirty when she had made the decision to leave the office. She'd been ensconced on a closed toilet seat in the ladies' washroom for probably forty minutes or so, when in a moment of clarity she had advised herself to get up and leave. There was little point in hiding at her desk pretending to work, and there was certainly no value in sitting on the loo for the rest of the afternoon.

  Once inside her apartment, she let her bag fall to the ground and went to pull the blinds across the veranda windows. The light was fading outside, so the room was almost dark as she dropped onto her sofa. The sandwich she had forced down during the lunchtime briefing was still lodged in her stomach, undigested. She sat, staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed on a silver framed photograph on a bookshelf across the room. A picture taken years before, of a mother and her two daughters, squeezed together, the frame barely able to contain the three wide grins. Christine could remember it being taken, her mother’s birthday, she could remember the little party for four at the kitchen table, the cake, the candles. She could remember that hug, the squeeze so tight that she and her sister could barely breathe, enveloped in their mother’s arms, squealing with joy as her father had captured the moment on film. The memory of a mother’s absolute and total love, saved forever inside a silver frame.

  An hour later, Christine was still sitting there, her trench-coat still on. Two muffled voices passed along the corridor outside her front door. Happy, laughing voices. The gas boiler ticked and chugged to life. A minute later, the phone in her bag rang. It took a moment for her to register the sound. She had no intention of answering it. It was most likely her father checking up on her. Or maybe Emily. Emily would be wondering. Worrying. Emily, whose friendship had saved Christine more than once over the past few years, who had probably been phoning her office all afternoon, and getting no answer. Christine didn’t even have it in her to talk to Emily. But the ringing stirred her, and she got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen. She stood in front of the kettle for a moment, staring at it. Then her legs walked her into the bathroom, where she leaned over the tub and turned the taps. She opened an expensive bottle of bubble bath Emily had given her for Christmas and sniffed at it. The citrus smell roused her a little. She inhaled deeply, and poured almost half of the bottle onto the running water.

  Standing at the washbasin, she watched her reflection as it slowly disappeared in the mirror above. She looked ghastly. Hardly a trace of the make-up that she had applied that morning remained, even the streaks of smudged mascara had been washed away by tears. When she could see herself no more she stripped, leaving her clothes where they fell, and got into the bath. She lay back into the hot water, glad of the sensation as it almost scalded her skin. Her hair floating around her, she stayed as still as she could, the water filling her ears. With her eyes closed, she tried to focus on the silence, the darkness. The only sound was her own heart beating in the water. Nothing more.

  After a moment, the water got too hot, and she sat up suddenly. She slowly breathed in the rising steam, fragrant with expensive oils. But as she breathed out, she heard a guttural sob echo back from the tiled wall. And she sat there in the water, filling the bath with her tears, until she was simply too exhausted to cry anymore, and the water was cold.

  It was January 20th.

  OneThirty-three point three degrees celsius. That was the highest ever air temperature recorded in Ireland. Christine would always remember that little bit of trivia. A Valentine's Day card she had once got from a fellow student in her climate modelling class had read For Sexy Christine - Hotter than Dublin in June 1887. Meteorologist humour.

  While it wasn’t quite thirty-three point three degrees, even at seven forty-five AM one Monday morning the following June, Christine could tell the day was going to be hot. The sky above was hazy, almost lilac as she walked from the train station past College Green to Clarendon Square, where the modern building occupied by the Dublin branch of CarltonWachs International Investment Bank stood guiltily in the middle of an otherwise beautiful Georgian terrace.

  Inside, she nodded at the security guard seated at his post in reception, and took the lift to the fourth floor. The place was deserted. There would usually be someone in by now, keeping an eye on the Asian market, but the rows of cubicles that made up the dealing desk were all empty. Christine knew it wouldn’t be long before they were populated by mostly young, well-groomed men, talking loudly on two phones at once, surrounded by the hum of multiple monitors flashing red and green, each screen churning out ever-changing information on prices and yields and spreads. But for now, the space was still, the Bloomberg screens dark. She passed by her own glass-walled office, one of five around the floor’s perimeter, and walked straight to the coffee room.

  She needed a coffee.

  Whereas staff in all the other CarltonWachs departments had only a kettle and a jar of instant to hand during the day, those on the fourth floor had the use of a shiny Italian coffee maker and an endless supply of Arabica beans. Christine pressed a button and watched the coffee beans disappear down the hopper to a muffled whirring sound. The machine was there because Shay McAvoy, head of the institutional trading desk, was a coffee fanatic. Working with him on the fourth floor meant access to the good coffee, and this morning Christine was glad of it. It hadn’t been a particularly bad night, but she'd had trouble getting to sleep, as usual. She pressed another button and closed her eyes, breathing in the aroma as the coffee trickled out and into her cup.

  “Oh, hi there. I thought I was the first in.”

  A saccharine voice from behind Christine startled her. She turned to see a petite brunette teetering at the door to the coffee room in a tight short skirt and tighter short-sleeved sweater, a huge and expensive-looking leather bag hanging from one shoulder. She must be from marketing. And lost.

  “I’m Mark Harrington’s new PA. It’s my first day. I thought I’d met all the girls last week.” She pointed her cashmere bosom at Christine. “Are you temping? I’m Petra.”

  “Eh, hi there Petra.” Christine shook the girl’s hand. It felt warm and limp in her own. “Christine. I’m the meteorologist. I was over in the London office most of last week.”

  Petra stared blankly at her. “A meteorologist? Like, a weather girl?”

  “Eh, no.” Christine couldn’t tell if she was being mocked or not. “I’m part of the analytical team.”

  “Oh right.” Petra looked at her, managing to
smile with only her mouth but no other part of her face. She rested the bag on a table, took out a couple of tupperware boxes and stooped to put them into the small fridge. Christine had to marvel at how she could make the manoeuvre in the skirt.

  “So you report into?” she asked as she reappeared from the fridge.

  Christine suddenly felt lanky and awkward. She wished she had made up her face before leaving for work that morning. “Mark,” she said. “Mark’s my boss too.”

  “Right.” Petra flicked her hair back over her shoulder. “And have you been here long? With CarltonWachs?”

  “A year and a half,” Christine said. The conversation was beginning to feel like a job interview. “I was with a Dutch bank before that. In London.”

  Petra crossed her arms. “I was PA for one of the top managers in Lloyds until I moved back home. Didn’t you like London?”

  Christine turned back to the coffee machine. “It was okay.”

  Petra hoisted the bag back up on her tiny shoulder. The interview was apparently over. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you around,” she said, leaning on the long strap like she need it for stability.

  “Great.” Christine racked her brain for something nice to say. “Good luck in your new job.”

  With another mouth-only smile, Petra stalked off towards the door of the coffee room. As she exited, she passed a jacket and tie-less guy with dark curly hair, who gallantly stepped back, allowing her through.

  “Good morning, new girl.” His lustful grin appeared to restore Petra’s confidence. She smiled at him over her shoulder, walking off through the open-plan workspace like she owned it once more.

  Christine turned back to the coffee machine. She shook her head. “She’s not here five minutes, Craig.”

  “Aw Jugs, don’t be jealous.” Craig hoisted himself up onto the counter-top beside her. “You’re in early. Make me one of those, would you?”

  Christine sighed. She handed her coffee to him, and set about making herself another. “Try to be nice to me today, okay?” she said.

  “What's wrong with you?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just tired.” She glanced up at Craig who had taken a crumpled tie out from his trouser pocket and was trying to knot it around his collar. “I fear I have gotten off to a bad start with Mark’s new PA.” She nodded towards the door through which Petra had exited. “I can sense trouble.”

  Craig gave her an exaggerated look of sympathy, and slurped his coffee.

  “So how was your weekend?” she asked.

  “Great.” His face lit up. “Pulled twice, and that was only Friday.”

  Christine shook her head.

  “What?” Craig laughed at her. “I'm a young, virile man. In my prime.” He pouted. “Are you jealous Chrissy? You know you are my princess.”

  “Yeah, right.” Christine propped herself against a table and blew on her coffee. “Is that what you tell Rachel? I don't suppose she was one of your Friday night conquests?”

  “Nah.” Craig pushed at the knot of his tie. “She had some family thing Friday. I was over at her place Saturday night. It's really something else. Her father took me through his special collection of whiskeys. He had one there he was given by the Duke of Edinburgh in the sixties. How cool is that?” For all his swagger, Craig could still look like an excited child when he wanted to. “No business done last night. Had to rest myself, you know? Protect the assets.”

  Christine raised an eyebrow. “Someday this is all gonna bite you in the ass Craigey. And if you upset Rachel, Daddy’s not going to be happy.”

  “Christine!” Craig feigned hurt. “Would I?”

  “Shame he’s your biggest client.”

  Craig drained his mug. “Don’t you worry, sweet-cheeks. I know what I’m doing.”

  But Craig’s demeanour suddenly changed, and he jumped down onto the floor. Christine turned to see Shay walk through the coffee room door.

  “Good morning, Craig. Christine.” A jovial Shay walked over to the coffee machine. Christine moved to allow him full access. In one fluid motion, Craig rinsed his coffee cup at the sink, and floated from the room in silence with just a nod in his boss’s direction. Shay nodded back. He had already started lifting lids, checking filters and bean levels, wiping the shining chrome clean of steam residue. With his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows he appeared more like a forty-year-old barista than a senior manager in an international investment bank. He looked at Christine’s mug. “You need a refill?”

  “Why not.” She drained her mug and handed it to him.

  “Looks like another beautiful day,” Shay nodded towards the cloudless sky out the window.

  “Yeah,” Christine followed his gaze. “It’s been some summer so far. Off the charts.”

  “You have holidays planned?”

  It was an innocuous question, but Christine couldn’t help feeling defensive. “Eh, no. Not yet. No need to go abroad when the weather is like this at home. How about you?”

  “Nothing booked yet.” Shay inhaled over his steaming coffee. “We’ll see. It’s more like work and less like a holiday when you have to pack for three small kids too.”

  Christine just smiled and nodded. “I’d better get going. I’ll see you at the briefing Shay.”

  “Sure Christine. See you then.”

  ~

  Each morning on the CarltonWachs fourth floor began with what was fondly called the Brief Briefing. Attended by representatives from the company’s team of analysts and the dealing desk, the briefing was supposed to facilitate the exchange of up-to-date information on the markets and various sectors, enabling the analysts to apprise those involved in the actual purchase and sale of shares and commodities. Unofficially, the meeting was also known as the Briefs Briefing, especially on a Monday morning, when a good portion of the half hour was spent discussing the previous weekend’s conquests. As the only girl in attendance, Christine was generally left out of this part of the discussion. Eighteen months working in the bank had dulled any sensitivity she might have felt when she first had to sit and listen to her colleagues’ boarding school banter. Now she hardly noticed when the conversation turned bawdy.

  Having hurriedly applied some make-up in the ladies’ room, Christine made her way to the meeting room for the first briefing of the week, which was also to include a presentation on a significant client. Inside, Craig was already sitting at the large oval table with one of the analysts, a bespectacled guy who looked so much like a thirty-year-old Harry Potter that he was known by everyone in the office as Harry, although that wasn’t his real name at all. Harry was standing over a laptop, with a worried expression on his face.

  “Do you need me to get someone from IT?” Craig asked him.

  “No. I can sort it.” Harry pressed a few buttons. Then he stood upright and put his hands on his hips. “Okay, maybe you should.”

  Craig rolled his eyes at Christine and left the room. Harry kept fiddling with the computer. Christine sat watching him. Usually she relished these meetings. She loved being the only scientist in a building of financiers. They had to listen to her. To take her seriously. Not like if she had taken a job at the MET office. There she would have been one of many. Here, she was special. They needed her.

  But this morning, not even a second cup of Shay’s good coffee could lift the tiredness from her body. She was considering making herself a third, when Craig reappeared followed by a hassled-looking bearded guy, who nodded at Christine before dropping to his knees at the end of the table where the wires were. After a moment, the screen on the wall at the end of the room turned a shady blue.

  “There.” The guy slowly put one foot on the floor under him, and hoisted himself up with the help of the table. “That should be it.”

  “You're the man, Freddie,” Harry said, as he scrolled through slides detailing the client’s proposal for a pricing contract. Graphs of oil and gas prices decorated the walls when Craig dimmed the lights in the room. “Beautiful. See?” He turned to Christine. �
�I designed a new presentation format for the department. It will give even a bad news presentation a feel-good factor. It -”

  He stopped abruptly as a suited man entered the room accompanied by Petra. The atmosphere seemed to change almost immediately, and everyone sat a little straighter in their seats. As the chief executive of the CartlonWachs Irish office, Mark Harrington had no need to attend the daily briefings, but nonetheless he regularly did, which his staff both appreciated and dreaded. Christine watched Petra smiling and flirting with him as he quietly outlined the routine of the morning meetings to her. She didn’t rate Petra’s chances at making Mark smile. His photo on the corporate website might have been of an attractive, successful executive, but the embodiment was more often than not shaded by a grey cloud of melancholy. Although he was generally liked as a boss. He expected a lot of his staff, but he was fair, and the CarltonWachs employees were well looked after. Christine just sometimes wondered why Mark didn’t smile more. But then again, who was she to judge.

  “Guys.” Mark nodded to Harry. “I hope everything is ready? Is that thing working okay?” His eyes tracked Freddie who was making as inconspicuous an exit from the room as possible.

  “Sure Mark. It’s all ready to go. Happy days.” Harry’s cheeks reddened.

  “I have a conference call at nine-thirty, so let’s get cracking. Oh, guys, this is Petra. She’s just joined us.” Mark gestured at Petra, who had been standing behind him with a dazzling smile fixed on her face. She shook Harry’s and Craig’s hands with gushing hellos. When it came to Christine, her dazzle dimmed noticeably.

  “Oh, we’ve met.”

  Third plastic smile of the day, thought Christine, a little intimidated.

  “Right. Here’s the agenda and some additional stuff I want to go through.” Mark indicated to the stack in Petra’s arm. As she dutifully passed around the table, placing papers in front of each chair, two more analysts rushed into the room, glancing apologies in Mark’s direction.