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 Another shift in Point of View ...  this time to Debbie's perspective

   I was nervous when I got to the office, I'll admit that.  I'd thought
that using CareSpan's party to resolve some of the stuff I'd left unspoken
would be a good idea ...  and it had worked, after a fashion.  Phil had
liked Dave, Dave had seemed to like Phil ...  and then I'd gone and asked
him about his sex life.  How stupid was that?  And now I have to meet him
the next day.  Meet him with a woman I knew he'd slept with ...  and a
stunningly beautiful one at that.  I felt mousey, insignificant and
incompetent.  In fact, I felt the professional facade I'd maintained for a
decade slipping away.  This was not good.

   I'd left Phil with Karina, his daytime carer, grateful that she'd been
able to come in at short notice on a Saturday, knowing that he knew I was
going to meet Dave.  As adults, we'd had The Conversation, many times.  We
both knew he was dying, would never again be my lover in any physical sense
...  and he'd OK'd my seeking 'solace', as he put it, wherever I found it.
Not that I ever had.  For five grim years I'd watched the fit, athletic man
I'd met lose one function after another until by now ...  he could breath,
for sure, swallow, had some movement in his right hand.  God knows what it
felt like for him ...  but it screwed me up ...  and that made me feel like
a selfish bitch.

   So, when I got to the office and let myself in, I wasn't best pleased to
find Carla already sitting there - at my desk, as it happens, though I
suppose she wouldn't have known that.  Nonetheless, I was professional
enough to greet her amicably, equally to enquire how she got in in the
first place.

   "Come on, Debs," she said - I hate being called Debs - "you know PCW own
this building.  I got them to send some poor fuck on a bike with the keys.
I have to say, though, you'd do better to get some sort of alarm fitted on
this office ...  there's a lot of sensitive data on these hard drives."

   Yes, I thought, a lot of data - and all of it heavily encrypted ... 
very heavily encrypted.  And a fair amount of it replicated on Dave's home
network, I knew, and that probably wasn't protected at all.  So I realised
that I had to retreat from the moral high ground ...  and made time.  We
had a coffee machine in the office, by now, obviously, but I still went
down to the one in reception.  It was a risk - and I wasn't sure how
calculated a one - but, hell, it gave me a chance to calm down.

   Which I did.  Deep breaths, positive thoughts.  I'd survived in the
corporate jungle for a fair while, I'd learnt the techniques.  And I really
didn't want to lose it now.

   * ** *** **** ***** **** *** ** *

   When I got back upstairs, coffees in hand, Carla was no longer sitting
at my desk.  Instead, she was sitting at our coffee machine.  I almost
dropped the mugs I was holding - Dave didn't hold with cups and saucers -
but recovered myself well enough.  I could feel tears in my eyes, knew that
I was sweating.  Go fuck yourself, I thought ...  you might be a mistress
of the universe or whatever ...  but this isn't California, this is my
space ...  I didn't invite you here ...

   Carla took the coffee, took a sip, said it was good.  No mention of the
fact that it could have been as good made on the machine behind her.  No
mention, either, of the obvious fact that I was standing in front of her
almost in tears, looking and feeling like a chastised child.

   * ** *** **** ***** **** *** ** *

   Dave ...  did not appear.  Carla did not speak.  It was strange, I
thought ...  she'd been friendly enough , professional enough ...  when I'd
met her the night before.  Now, I was carrying a whole load of stuff -
needed to explain our security, our forward plans to this woman.  And she
was standing there making appreciative noises about the coffee ...  and I
was feeling that everything I'd worked for was somehow crumbling into dust.

   Dave still didn't appear.  Carla - who'd been apparently admiring the
decor (OK, Dave's post-its) quite suddenly looked me in the eye ...  I
almost jumped, so preoccupied had I been with my thoughts ...

   "Debs," she said (I winced inwardly), "I really liked you when I met you
yesterday ...  I really admire what you've done with the organisation
around here ...  and I don't think I've been unpleasant to you ...  so why
are you being so hostile?"

   Hostile?  Me?  No, I was the compliant one ...  you pat my bum, I grin
and bear it ...  And stuff.  I thought for a second, reviewed the
situation. What I saw was a woman in a smock dress, copious hair tied into
a pony tail, looking at me kindly.

   God, how I hated her.  Hated Dave for not being there.  We kept looking
at each other.  There was no hostility on her part, I began to realise. 
Just from the way she was looking at me, from her body language as she made
an effort to relax.  I recognised a nice woman being nice.  Strangely ...
or maybe not ...  I almost wanted to hug her.

   I wondered, bleakly, what on earth was going on ...  and what had
happened to my ability to ...  deal with ...  things.

   * ** *** **** ***** **** *** ** *

   Dave arrived.  He apologised for being late, although he wasn't, and
looked slightly warily at the pair of us before turning to me.

   "Hi all", he said briskly, "...  Debbie ...  Carla must have invited you
...  though god knows why as its the weekend and I thought we were only
going to go through routine slave/owner stuff ...  I was planning on doing
the actual work on a y'know work day ...  like Monday, for instance. 
Still, nice of you to let the Boss in."

   I couldn't process this, or at least, not fast enough.  Was he saying
that I wasn't welcome?  Or just not necessary?  Which would I prefer? 
Flummoxed, I looked between Dave and Carla.  Carla answered for me.

   "I asked Deborah to come in - I'm not in Europe for long so I thought it
made sense; also I actually let myself in.  Your security is crap, by the
way."

   Dave visibly bristled at that ...  I was still standing there like a
statue, trying vaguely to keep up ...  "Oh ...  and how crap exactly? 
There are five PCs in this office, a printer it took two guys to get up the
stairs, some office furniture and bugger all else.  Unless your rather
attractive sculpture thing would attract a burglar, I'm not sure what we're
risking."

   Carla rolled her eyes.  "The data, Dave, the CastList matrices that are
kind of our raison d'etre?"

   "Are all encrypted to a higher standard than your Department of Defence
uses for its critical stuff.  OK, so some of our potential competitors do
have access to supercomputers but ...  personally I prefer quite a relaxed
working environment, which involves not having to jump through hoops to get
to your desk in the first place."

   So, eat that, Californian, I thought ...  relieved that it had been
said, confused that I hadn't said it.  Carla wasn't satisfied, however.

   "OK, lets leave that for the moment and talk figures ...  there are
things in your business plan that I'm not altogether happy with ..."

   Again, Dave cut in, "We've adjusted the pricing upwards as you
suggested. No problem, we can produce the results - the profits - that you
need."

   "No, I've seen that, I'm more concerned about the personnel side of
things.  Aside from the fact that you've been recruiting pretty much at
random - however good the results may have been to date" She nodded
slightly towards me - patronising shite, I thought.  "I'm not sure about
some of the posts you're proposing.  Legal input, yeah, sure, equally
enhanced IT support, HR capacity, but ...  Community Liaison?Facilities
manager?  I know you guys are planning to relocate to the back end of
nowhere, but are these posts necessary?  You set up the pay structure,
Dave, so you know how much these people will cost."

   I thought, she's got us there ...  this was back of the envelope stuff,
things that Dave and I ...  and Naz and Seff ...  had talked about in
context of the relocation.  I knew, absolutely, on the basis of years of
corporate experience, that we couldn't justify a penny of the expense.  I
realised that I'd been feeling a bit more together since Dave had come in
...  but only because I now felt myself verging towards the edge of a full
blown panic attack.

   I looked at Dave.  I looked at Carla.  He was looking calm, damn him,
she was looking ...  lovely ...  damn her.  With a red hot poker.  We were,
I noticed, all still standing up, leaning against a triangle of desks. 
Dave moved round to stand beside me, actually so close that he was almost
touching me, certainly close enough to feel the tension in me.  I forced
myself to breath calmly as he said, quietly, "Actually, Carla, we do things
our way.  You get your profits - your return on investment, we get to spend
our bit of the dosh on stuff that seems right to us.  On being good
neighbours, in this case."

   She looked nonplussed for just a second - a rare crack in the corporate
visage, I thought - then smiled, seemingly genuinely.  I sighed with
relief, and Dave gently touched my arm in reassurance.  I wasn't certain
how we'd got into the battle, but I knew for sure we'd won.

   * ** *** **** ***** **** *** ** *

   After that, it turned out that there actually wasn't much to say.  We
went into the contacts we'd had with some of the big banks in the City,
agreed priorities with Carla as to which we should chase, which to hold,
also agreed that we'd host some of her American staff for "orientation" as
soon as we'd got the new office sorted.  We talked through progress on the
move - leads we'd been following up with PCW's relocation experts and the
Regional Development Agency in North West England - and agreed financial
stuff around the capital expenditure involved.  Actually, we didn't really
do any of that - it was purely Dave and Carla, even when the subject was
one I'd been leading on.  Oh, I contributed the odd fact, found the odd
file on the network, but try as I might I couldn't re motivate myself.  The
exhaustion I'd been feeling for weeks seemed to well up within me after my
clash with Carla, earlier - if a clash is what it had been - and the weird
non confrontation that appeared to have assured us our independence.  I
think I could quite happily have fallen asleep if I'd let myself: As it
was, I stayed vertical, but very much as a silent partner in the
conversation that flowed around me.

   Which Dave, of course, picked up on.

   * ** *** **** ***** **** *** ** *

   We finally finished about noon, which was a bit early for Dave and Carla
to go for lunch as they'd apparently arranged.  Instead, Carla went off to
stare at the queen, or whatever it is that Americans in London do with
their spare time, while Dave muttered something about needing to dig out
some information on something or the other and buried himself in his PC.  I
sort of slumped against my desk, too tired even to think of making myself a
coffee, going home ...  anything, really.

   Instead, a cup of coffee appeared in front of me, followed immediately
by Dave, sitting on my desk and looking concerned.  I wondered if he and
Carla had somehow agreed this, to leave the two of us alone, but I wasn't
sure ...  sure if it mattered or even sure if I cared.  I looked up
properly when he began to say that I looked tired - well, no surprises
there - and apologising for dragging me in on a Saturday.  Which, of
course, he hadn't ...  and in fact I'd have been mightily pissed off if I
hadn't been there.  I started to say as much, but he cut me off.

   "Actually, Debbie, I think you need to take a break.  You know we've got
the back of this thing broken, really, we have Carla more or less on board,
Naz is doing brilliantly with the code, the move is in hand ...  OK, in
planning ...  we have clients waiting.  And I think this could just be
about the only time in the foreseeable future when we could actually
survive for a while without you ..."

   He sounded so timid in saying this that I almost laughed.  "What?  You,
a permanently stoned programmer and a punk with attitude ...  negotiating
with High Finance.  I'd give you a week."

   He snorted ...  there's no other word for it.  "Good.  A glimmer of
recognition of your own worth."

   "Debbie, this is a job.  OK, its a fun job which pays well and has
interesting prospects.  Equally OK, we can't do it without you.  But for it
to happen at all we need you firing on all cylinders ...  and that means
you have to look after yourself.  And I think that means - for you - that
you need to look after Phil, too.  So take a break.  We'll cope - or, at
least, we probably won't screw up too badly" I smiled at that one, too. 
"So what do you say to buggering off for a week or three?"

   Phil was dying.  I knew that, Dave knew that, Phil knew that ...  and,
yes, I wanted to spend time with him when I could.  Knew also that I'd been
neglecting him since I started getting involved with this operation.  I
realised that this was not some corporate bullshit - of course you can have
maternity leave, Ms Jensen, I'm sure we'll have some filing to do when you
get back - just a nice guy trying to do the right thing.  Everything got a
bit blurry as my eyes filled with tears, but I kind of kept it together
long enough to nod at him.  Ten years of experience of PCW screamed that I
was blowing everything for mere personal stuff but eventually I said, "Yes
...  I think I will ...  I really think that I need to get away ..."

   Dave simply hugged me, really tight, murmured something about how it was
nice to see me coping and organising, again, and smiled down at me.  I
thought, bizarrely ...  he's really pleased ...  not that I'm going away
... but that I'll be coming back.

   And the tears I'd been holding back all morning arrived with a
vengeance.

   ooo+++ooo+++ooo+++ooo

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