“I mean, what happens afterward. What happens to the companies.”

Well, obviously, that’s what I thought he meant.

Nigel and I sit at his desk going back through the last twenty years of publishing mergers. I had no idea there were so many publishing firms. Nor did I know how many publishers are owned by one company. Like, take theFinancial Times . Did you know that they are owned by Pearson, who used to own London Weekend Television? No? Well, neither did I. We put together a big list, focusing on cross-border mergers, then we highlight all the U.K.-U.S. ones.

I take my half of our final list back to my desk, and I’m about to do a search on the Internet, when I suddenly notice something. On the screen from my original search on HG, a name on one of the documents rings a bell.

“Nigel.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Nigel reluctantly gets up and walks over to my desk. I am looking at a news report on a previous merger—HG and a French book publisher.

“Isn’t this the same company that was involved in the Brightman-Glover merger?”

Nigel looks closely at my machine.

“Scroll down,” he orders.

We search through old news reports looking for information on all the U.S.-Europe mergers in the past ten years. Sure enough, in nearly all of them the same name keeps appearing: Tryton.

“Not a company I’ve heard of,” admits Nigel. I haven’t either, but that doesn’t mean much. I mean, I haven’t heard of any of these companies.

Nigel doesn’t say any more about it, so I assume it isn’t really that interesting after all, and I carry on noting down share prices and collecting information.

By twelve, I’m starving from all this hard work so I go out to get some lunch. When I come back Nigel’s in exactly the same position, hunched over his computer.

I guess it’s because he thinks his job is on the line and he’s trying to demonstrate how hard he works and how essential he is. Personally I prefer theque sera sera approach. If I’m going to lose my job, then there isn’t much I can do about it, so I may as well make the most of it while I’m here. I sit down at my desk and take out my new copy ofMarie Claire to flick through while eating a tuna sandwich.

There’s an article about people who have slept with their boyfriend’s/husband’s/wife’s/girlfriend’s best friends. One girl slept with her boyfriend’s best friend and is now married to him with three kids; one girl slept with her best friend’s husband and is now miserable and on her own. I look at the pictures and can’t understand why anyone would want to sleep with any of them, but it does make me wonder. If I go to Rome with Mike, could I get carried away and end up sleeping with him? The thought has crossed my mind. And as David hasn’t even called or anything, I may not have a boyfriend anymore, so sleeping with Mike wouldn’t even be wrong. But if I did sleep with Mike would I be the happy-ever-after one, or the miserable-on-her-own one? There’s a counselor giving advice in the article, and she suggests looking deep inside yourself to discover whether you are happy, and to see if there’s something else that needs fixing before you sleep with someone else. Well, my curtains still haven’t been put up, but I’m not sure that will have much of an impact on my Mike/David dilemma.

“Got it!”

I look up startled. Nigel has just punched the air. You know, like a footballer or something.

Believe me, Nigel is not the sort to punch the air.

“Nigel?”

He looks round quickly. Everyone except Angela, the telesales team leader, is out at lunch, and she’s taking a call—she’s got her headphones on so she won’t have heard his celebratory cry.

He motions for me to come and look at his computer screen. Reluctantly I put down a rather interesting article on plastic surgery and wander over.

“Stand behind me,” orders Nigel.

“What?”

“Just do it. I don’t want anyone seeing what I’m going to show you.”

“Nigel, you haven’t just downloaded some porn, have you?”

“Look!”

Proudly, Nigel shows me what he’s got. All I can see is lists and lists of names and details. He opens another screen and there are loads of figures.

“Wow, Nigel, that’s amazing!” I’m bluffing, of course. I have no idea what any of it means.

“You don’t know what it means, do you?” Nigel asks.

“Of course I do,” I reply hotly. “It’s, well, it’s really important information on the merger!”

Nigel is breathless. I’ve never seen him this excited. “Not exactly, but close,” he says. “In front of you are the personnel and financial records of every HG company around the world.”

I’m still not sure why this is so exciting, but I’m pretty certain Nigel shouldn’t have that sort of information. He could find out how much everyone is paid, and that’s definitely not allowed.

“Find out how much their researchers are paid,” I beg.

Nigel shakes his head.

“Not relevant,” he says firmly. “What I want to know is what happened to employees from companies that HG has merged with in the past.”

“Ooh, yes, find out about that, too,” I gush. I never knew work could be so exciting. “So how did you find this information anyway?”

“We have our ways.” Nigel’s eyes are glinting.

“We? Who’s we? Nigel, isn’t that like really illegal or something?”

“Only if you get caught.”

“Nigel, you’re scaring me now. Tell me how you did this!”

Nigel’s hands are trembling. “It’s something I learned from one of the people at the Security Convention,” he tells me. “All networks have weaknesses. You just figure out what they are, and wham, you’re in.”

“And in this case?”

“A chink in their firewall. This information is on their network, and I got in through the Boston office. You just send an e-mail to the right person, they respond, and bingo, you’re in.”

“And will they find out?”

“Not if I’m quick enough. Go to the printer.”

My heart is beating faster as I race over. Reams of names and figures are coming out of the printer. I’m just picking the first lot up when suddenly Guy appears out of nowhere and I jump.

“So, how did you think it went this morning?” He’s standing right in front of me. I can’t let him see what Nigel and I are doing.

“Oh, great, you know, um, really interesting.” I turn round quickly, clutching the papers to my chest. I’m standing in front of the printer, but pages and pages are coming out, straight onto the floor.

I need to create a diversion. If Guy sees what we’re printing out, or what Nigel is downloading, we won’t be waiting for the merger before we lose our jobs.

“Your, um, hair looks nice today,” I say.

Guy looks at me uncertainly. He has a receding hairline and has cut his hair to within an inch of its life to make it less obvious that he’s going bald. Why couldn’t I have complimented him on his suit?

“It’s a bit like the Mitchell brothers in ‘EastEnders,’ ” I say. Why? Why? Say something nice, I beg myself.

“Although, you know, a lot more professional. In that suit, I mean. That suit is more godfather than East End gangster, isn’t it? I mean Italians always dress better than the English and—”

Nigel intervenes just in time. “The presentation this morning was most enlightening,” he says, getting up and herding Guy toward the coffee machine. “The strategic alignment does seem to be exceptionally favorable, and . . .”

As soon as they have turned their backs on me, I grab all the printouts and take them back to my desk, hiding them under myMarie Claire .

Denise comes back from lunch. “Bloody Nigel,” she mutters to me. “We could all be about to lose our jobs, and all he can do is smarm up to Guy and talk about business process reengineering or what have you. They’re standing by the coffee machine now, talking about downsizing like it’s not human beings who’ll be affected. He’s got no emotion, that man.”

I nod sympathetically and put a few more files on top of myMarie Claire , just for good measure.

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Nigel doesn’t come back as expected five minutes later. I try to get on with some work, but keep wondering if Guy saw what I was printing out. Maybe he’s issuing my termination notice right now. Maybe he’s keeping Nigel busy while he calls the police and we’re both going to prison and . . .

The phone rings. It’ll be them! Oh God! The police are calling me and I haven’t thought up any excuse!

I pick up the phone tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Hello?”

“Hello, who is this please?”

My voice is faltering and my palms are sweating.

“Georgie?”

Oh, thank God, I recognize the voice.

“Mike,” I say with relief.

“I knew you’d be pleased to hear from me.”

“No, it’s not that . . . I thought you were someone else.”

“My, your life is full of little intrigues, isn’t it. So, who am I up against? What’s his name? I’ll have him.”

“No, you idiot. It’s a work thing.”

“Right.” Mike has never been interested in what I do at work. I wish I’d let him think it was another man now.

“So, anyway, about Rome.”

I hold my breath. For a moment I think he’s going to say it’s all off, that it was a mistake, that he’s taking someone else and no hard feelings. To my astonishment I’m almost relieved. I suppose it’ll be one less thing to worry about.

“What about Rome?” I say, trying to sound cool.

“Well, how do you fancy meeting me there on Friday instead of us going together? I’ve got some business stuff to do first, so I thought rather than you having to hang around on your own, I could get it all done on Thursday and Friday, and then meet you in the evening.”

Well, that’s okay then. Actually I’m really pleased we’re still going. Obviously I wasn’treally relieved when I thought Mike might be calling it off. This trip is going to be the best.

“Sounds good to me,” I say enthusiastically.

“So, I could meet you at the station at nine-thirtyP.M . Italian time. There’s a Eurostar at five and you change at Paris. Sound all right to you?”

“Okay, I’ll just book the tickets shall I?”

“You’re gorgeous. Oh, one other thing. Would you mind taking a bag for me? I have to go straight from the airport to a meeting and I don’t want to be lugging loads of stuff with me. I thought you could maybe pop round to my offices later and pick it up.”

“But . . .” I’m about to tell him that I’ve got enough luggage to bring myself and won’t have room for any of his stupid papers, but then decide against it. I mean, one bag—it’s not that much to ask, is it?

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“You’re a star, thanks Georgie. I’ll see you later then? I’ll e-mail you the address of my office.

Bye, honey.”

And he’s gone. I am sufficiently buoyed up by the prospect of a weekend in the city of romance to ignore the fact that now, apparently, I am buying my own ticket, which isn’t quite what I had in mind when Mike said he’d “take me.”

As I put the phone down, Nigel reappears. He walks over to my desk and bends down so his face is at the same level as mine. I meet his eyes, but, as always, my attention is drawn by a large red protuberance just to the right of his nose. What a nightmare to still get loads of spots at Nigel’s age. I mean, I get the odd one or two every so often, but Nigel’s skin is truly adolescent.

I wonder if he’ll have really young-looking skin when he’s older—you know, because of all the natural oils. It occurs to me that I have no idea how old Nigel is. Somewhere in thirty to forty territory I would imagine, but who knows?

“Georgie,” he says in a loud, jovial voice, “Guy was very impressed with your report on Pensions Bulletin. Do you have another copy you could give me?

“Pensions Bulletin?” I look blankly at him. I’ve already e-mailed the report to Guy, and who knows where I saved it to on my computer. Me and filing don’t really go too well together.

“Um, couldn’t you just use Guy’s copy?”

“No. Could you just give it to me now?”

Nigel is looking at me strangely. Why does he want it? I thought we’d finished with all that mundane sort of work now. And anyway, doesn’t he know that I totally ripped off his report?

“Nigel, could you, um, just give me a while to dig it out, and then I could e-mail it to you?”

“I want thehard copy.”

He wants me to give it to him now, and he wants the hard copy. Is Nigel flirting with me? Is this his idea of office banter?

“Nigel, really, I had no idea . . .” I grin at him. But he doesn’t grin back.

“The report that we were working on earlier,” he hisses, and I suddenly twig.