9781529933628 by Smakprov Media AB

ACT I NOAH

With Mirth and Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come

Ellen’s eyes whipped open with a 6.30 a.m. realisation: not only was she now thirty- ve, but she was also up for promotion today from chief actuary to junior partner. She reached out to the bedside table, her ngers like a creeping insect, in search of a hair tie for the wriggling little black zeds falling all over her face. Once her hair was tamed, she stretched her arms forwards, ipping her hands over back and forth to check for sneaky wrinkles.

Ha! Maybe it’s true that Black just doesn’t crack. She allowed herself the birthday treat of ignoring the fact she might be just too young for rumples, especially ones that would have had to appear overnight. She heard Samantha, the woman Ellen hoped she’d be married to next year, clattering up the stairs singing “Happy Birthday” and sat up, put her hands behind her head and bounced it to the beat. The door was kicked open right on the key verse:

“. . . Happy birthday dear junior partner slash accounts manager, bloody hell it’s about time, happy birthday to you!” nished Samantha at excruciating volume.

Ellen spluttered a laugh and clapped in anticipation of what was on the celebratory tray.

“You’re not really going in today, are you?” asked Samantha, tearing the foil from the champagne bottle.

“Hey, at least allow me to open my birthday present before you dismantle my work ethic, plus yes, de nitely going in. There’s a a sign-on bonus that I can only get by being there in person, so hello motivation.”

Ellen understood why her ancée was sceptical, given that in her six years working at Duncan Evan Christy in Assurance and Taxes, Ellen had never, ever worked on her birthday. It was the one day she should not have to worry about being asked to do something by anyone else. But circumstances were di erent this year and now it was the nal push to get things back on track.

When the pandemic hit, Samantha had lost all her interior design contracts. They would have been forced to give up their cute two-and-a-half-bed maisonette, their rented home for over ten years, if it were not for an old university friend, Jasmit, moving in. At last, although they had not quite cleared all of the still-towering rent issues, matters had improved enough for Jasmit to move back into her own studio, and when given the assured upcoming promotion, Ellen and Samantha would return to making wedding plans. Better still, their fantastic landlady Mrs Cooperman was selling the place and had agreed to give them rst refusal if they paid the remainder of the rent this week. They’d already put an o er in based on Ellen’s promotion and the

mortgage-in-principle was pending con rmation. Ellen had fond memories of when they’d rst moved in, hauling boxes up the stairs at the back, past the bespoke jewellers below, and how Mrs Cooperman had called them “decent, wellbehaved girls”.

Ellen was tossed back into the room by Samantha’s admonition: “I told Mrs Cooperman we’d have it sorted today. She’s been waiting a week. She said it had to be today . . .”

Ellen looked up, pouting through her sips. “I know, I know. Like I said, I’m on it. I’m working on my birthday aren’t I?” She handed Samantha back her glass as she swung her feet out of the bed.

Samantha padded slowly round to Ellen’s side of the bed and sat next to her. Ellen brie y looked away. Samantha handed Ellen her birthday card. She tore it open and kissed Samantha’s cheek before even reading the words. Samantha wrapped her arms around Ellen.

“Listen, you were the only one to predict local lockdowns during the pandemic and remember how others laughed when you said Zoom would overtake Skype?” Samantha leaned back and looked directly at Ellen.

“Well, it does have a more user-friendly interface.”

“Yeah, I still don’t know what that means but I do know who got bottles of bubbly from trusted clients when those gures came in,” Samantha said as she held Ellen’s hands.

“True,” Ellen agreed.

“Theo is a pretty good boss but he hasn’t given you what you deserve and you deserve this. You know how stressed we’ve been and we’ve been lucky so far with Mrs Cooperman, but her patience with us is running out.”

“I know, I’ve been here too, Sami.”

“Ok then, well don’t take anything else. Threaten him with leaving, if you must.” Samantha stood up and put her hands on her hips.

Ellen looked down. It’s not that she didn’t know how important this all was, it’s just that she’d been brought up to be respectful above all. Ellen believed that at work her colour was like a massive highlighter pen as it was, without drawing more attention to herself. She should just be excellent at the job, do as she was told, be nice to the boss and the reward would come, whereas Samantha was more of a go-getter.

Ellen looked back up, eyes wide as a new begging puppy hoping to instil assurance, and put her hands over each of Samantha’s.

“I promise there will be a double celebration tonight! One for me obvs, and another because we’ll be on the way to buying this place.” Ellen dropped her hands and added, “Speaking of which, where’s my bloody pressie?”

Samantha laughed. “Yeah, you didn’t read the card properly, did you?”

“What?” said Ellen as she snatched the card from her pillow.

“No! Tonight?! Tickets to see Wet Leg, tonight?” Ellen was waving the card around, edging on a scream.

Samantha waggled her head; her whole body seemed to smile.

“How?” asked Ellen.

“Thank Martin, I couldn’t even get the ticket app to work.” Samantha waved away her lack of IT savvy. Ellen stood up and smashed into Samantha’s lips then pulled back until just their noses touched.

“You’re amazing, this is amazing, thank you so much.”

Samantha touched Ellen’s cheek. “Happy birthday, gorgeous.”

Ellen stepped back and straightened her shoulders. “I’m not going to let you down,” she said.

Samantha pointed at the clock on the wall.

“Ok look, you don’t want to be late today. Go make some co ee and I’ll see to the cats,” she said.

Ellen made another indignant pout.

“Hey, it’s my birthday, you make the co ee.”

Samantha laughed as she left the room, heading for the stairs. “Ok, you get the new job, I’ll get the co ee!”

Ellen snorted a giggle and grabbed her bathrobe as she thought, Today’s the day.

Ellen stepped into the shower and gargled the alcohol fumes out of her mouth. Under the running water, she sang a medley of Happy-Birthday-themed songs in karaoke tones loud enough for both Lando and Morticia to come in and stare. Ellen made much of her live performance to the two cats and held up the loofah with her eyes shut. When she could smell co ee and bacon, she whooshed out of the bathroom, still dripping. She ung a towel round, under her arms, skip-running across the landing until she got to the staircase, where she slipped into cloth ip ops and did little kickball changes down the steps, now singing “New York New York”. Ellen then ta-dahed into their kitchen.

Jasmit was sitting at the kitchen table slurping muesli when she bounced in. Samantha asked her to forgive Ellen’s challenging behaviour, given the occasion, and Jasmit snickered in agreement.

“Happy birthday, you!” said Jasmit, pointing her spoon at an unwrapped tiny box with a card propped against it. Ellen ipped the lid and shrieked, “Posh ear plugs, woohoo! Aw, you.”

“Well, you’re getting old now. You can’t go to any more live music shows without ear protection.” Jasmit grinned and Ellen pursed her lips before replying.

“Oh ha ha and boo, but they’re totally perfect. Thank you, Jas. Are you joining us?”

“No can do, unfortunately. I’m moving the last bits and pieces over to the studio. The two guys I rented it to left yesterday so I wanna nish repairs,” she said with a scrunched smile.

“Oh no, what a shame. How’s it looking anyway?” asked Ellen, reading the side of the shiny black ear-plug box.

“Really good. I should be out by Sunday, maybe before.” She added a triumphant clink on the cereal bowl with her spoon.

“End of an era, you might say,” replied Ellen through giggles.

“Bloody hell, Ellen. You watch too many Friends re-runs.”

“It’s because she thinks she’s Chandler,” Samantha interjected with a lowered eyebrow.

Ellen nodded smugly, then asked Jasmit, “Hey, why don’t you just leave the stu here and we can help on Sunday? Would say tomorrow but Samantha’s got a fancy job on and won’t be back till late.”

Samantha waved her hands in agreement.

“No thanks, I’d rather settle in and then maybe on Sunday you two come over for some pizza and beer?”

“Fantastic! Extend the birthday vibe. Ok, cool.”

Jasmit tilted her head to one side and asked, “So anyway, birthday and promotion, then?”

Ellen gave a sidewards glance at Samantha before sneering her reply, “Oh, bloody hell, Jas. Et tu, Brute ?” Samantha and Jasmit both cackled.

“Shocker,” said Ellen, rolling her eyes.

“Ok, let’s leave Birthday Girl alone,” Samantha crooned as she placed a bacon and cheese sandwich on Ellen’s plate with a sparkling candle in it.

Ellen whooped as next to it another plate arrived with a slice of Bisco sponge, a striped candle buried in the lavish crumble topping.

“Make a wish!” Samantha said as she kissed the top of Ellen’s head.

Ellen closed her eyes and blew out the candle. When she opened them, Jasmit and Samantha were staring at her.

“And what? I’m not telling you, it won’t come true!”

Ellen waited for the sparkle to peter out and discarded the ashy stick. She picked up the sandwich and bit into her double-stacked treat.

After her cake breakfast, Ellen sat on the sofa with one of the cats on her lap. Samantha and Jasmit had headed out on various errands. She picked up her phone and saw an unread text from her mother. Happy Birthday, Ellie X Ellen smirked; she loved that even as a retired nurse her mother’s texts were always neat and professional. She sent a ripple of emojis and a THANK YOU, to which her mother replied: Why do you insist on sending those tiny picture things? Love you. Go away. Ellen laughed in triumph at her teasing, then realised she didn’t have the time to indulge given she was still in

a bathrobe. She gave Morticia a reluctant push and ran round the house, throwing on appropriate workwear. At the mirror in the small hallway, she stopped and stared at herself. She had always liked the colour of her skin, her West African tones made only a touch lighter by her mother’s Irish pastels. She never used to wear make-up, but now newly thirty- ve, she felt a little concealer of a morning was necessary if not to obliterate the dark circles under her eyes then at least fade them to echoes. Mid-dab, with a streak of horror, Ellen realised it was casual Friday and she should make the e ort to dress more e ortlessly than her usual pinstriped smartness. Her quick x was to discard the single-button jacket, remove the white shirt and replace it with a black V neck sweater, so her miniature leather-strung Millennium Falcon necklace could be seen. Finally, she took her bamboo spear-and-shield hair fastener out and smoothed her hair down into a long curly triangle. There.

What is a City but the People?

Ellen grabbed her keys and work-owned laptop backpack, picked up the recycling, said goodbye to the cats and opened the door. She scuttled down the stairs in what proved to be an unsuccessful attempt to avoid the landlady.

“Ellen, Ellen, happy birthday, look at you, oh how I wish I could still wear clothes to make me look like that, you darling, you want cake, I made a cake, you can take it to work . . .” squealed Mrs Cooperman without breathing.

Ellen stopped and spun around.

“Good morning, Mrs Cooperman, thank you but I’ve already had some . . .”

“Oh, you girls! So busy, that’s how you keep your gures. I’d be the size of a house if I had cake for breakfast!”

As Mrs Cooperman continued, Ellen nodded and smiled, directing her eyes to her escape as she quickened her pace towards the exit but was still hit by Mrs Cooperman’s shot.

“You know I’ve allowed nearly four months’ rent to go by now.You were going to get it to me this week and it’s Friday already! I can stretch to Monday but that’s all.”

There it is.

“Yes, Mrs Cooperman, I know, but I’m getting promoted today! We can make a payment to you this week and you know, Samantha cleared an invoice this morning, so together it’ll be two months’ rent in one go, I promise.”

“Well I don’t want to give you girls notice but I will have to if there’s nothing by Monday.”

“It’ll be in your account today! You won’t have to even wait until Monday; we’ll do it today, de nitely. Samantha will call you later to con rm.”

“Oh no rush, but if I could know before six that would be a godsend.”

Ellen understood from visiting her own grandparents that contradiction was one of the perks of belonging to the Boomer generation.

“Asher, don’t put those there . . . Ellen, wish I could stay and talk but my nephew’s trying to destroy my shop . . . Asher!” she said as she looked back over her shoulder and started to close the door.

“Ok, Mrs Cooperman, speak later,” said Ellen as she took advantage of the distraction and ran out of the door.

I’d love to see her face when she gets the money.

As Ellen began her journey, she remembered how she had been excited to sleeplessness years ago when she’d nally left her internship to start a paid job at Duncan Evan Christy. Cycling into work with a wide grin and a packed lunch like it was her rst day at big school. Theo giving the rst-day opening speech to her and all the new starters, promising

promotion to senior actuary within a year, and a senior management programme within two, etc. Those opportunities had passed her by, despite Theo calling her solid and irreplaceable, but today she was nally going to move up.

Ellen dismounted and gave her back a stretch.

She waved at various sta members ling in. Some waved back but most auto-piloted their way towards the underground entrance like stunned victims of the Pied Piper.

An argyle sweater under a leather biker jacket with beige legs and blue suede deck shoes sauntered towards her. She found herself blinking, not noticing at rst that the ensemble chugging sparkling water was speaking to her. It was Martin Grainger from IT.

Martin and Ellen had met at a Dr Who convention when Ellen had stepped on his long rainbow scarf. Later, at the episode marathon, she had discovered he also worked at Duncan Evan Christy. Over the last ve years he had become more than a work buddy; he was now her best friend.

“Morning,” waved Martin.

“Martin, what the fuck?”

“Shut up. My boss said that this Friday I couldn’t cheat by just switching my Oxfords for Vans,” he said, pointing to his feet.

Ellen snorted. Martin reached into his dispatch bag to pull out two envelopes and handed them to Ellen.

“Happy birthday . . . and happy promotion.”

Smiling, Martin took a sip from his bottle like it was champagne. Ellen put the sparkly birthday card envelope in her bag, it would go on her desk later, and ripped open the other one.

“Yes, yes, yes.”

It had a picture of Obi-Wan Kenobi holding a lightsabre and the words “This is the job you’re looking for” in the cinematic lettering from the Star Wars title sequence. Ellen’s whole face beamed as she threw her arms around Martin.

“Oh, you! Thank you, it’s perfect, I can’t wait.”

“I know, no more breakfast meetings.”

“No more overdraft black hole.”

Ellen grabbed her sports bottle from the bike frame and they clinked drinking vessels before sipping a bit of water.

“Are we drinking before the gig later?”

“Come to us, Jasmit has got a new ice crusher,” said Ellen as she changed her mind and opened the birthday card too. “We’re using it before she takes it to her old-new place; you can be our Espresso Martini guinea pig.” She gave him another hug in thanks.

“Are you saying I’m basic?” Martin grinned.

“Yes,” replied Ellen with her nose in the air.

“Good, I’ll see you at seven.” Martin gave a swift nod as he went o , leaving Ellen to lock up her bike.

Better get to my desk too, Ellen thought, just as her work phone buzzed for attention. It was Theo Van Kuyt, her boss. Bloody hell, it’s relentless, she thought. There was some power in ignoring it while she let her bike freewheel down the sta car-park ramp. Then the phone rang again and Ellen thought she had better answer.

“Morning, Theo, yep, on my way in; if I lose you it’s because I’m heading into the car park.” She clicked “end call” and buried her phone deep in her bag.

Her black cycle shoes clanked over the wa ed steel, catching the attention of Clint Beckett, Chief of Security. Ellen gave him the same small wave she had given him every

day since her rst day, when she came to his little cabin to get photographed for her ID badge. Ellen locked the back wheel of her bike and took o her helmet to lock it to the front wheel before disappearing into the small sta bathroom. She never used the toilet; it was too claustrophobic and uncountable in its footfall. No, this was where Ellen could make last-minute adjustments in the minuscule mirror over the tiny white sink. Mmm, helmet hair. She gave her head a shake, and exited. She then gave her pass a knock on the handle of the car-park door, went into a stairwell and up the unassuming polished concrete steps, bare except for a single bronze sign for Trade and Sta . None of this betrayed what awaited in the Duncan Evan Christy building. From the main road, the tower of slightly blue-tinted glass and chrome, with three electronically revolving doors, resembled a fortress. Inside the grand lobby, eleven Scandi-ash balconies capped by a distant ceiling of icy magni cence made it a must-see on architectural open days for the public.

In this building, responsibility came with oors. The further up your oor, the further up the food chain you were, until you were no longer even on the chain; Floor Twelve was hidden and completely inaccessible without a solid ebony-coloured security pass. These were metal, engraved with a single-digit number. Martin had shown Ellen one once when someone had left it at his desk; she still remembered the gasp she had made. Ellen was Floor Eight with Floor Nine privileges for departmental audits. Every one of the men Ellen had started her internship with were now native Nine or Ten and her boss was on Ten with access to Eleven. Martin was based in the IT o ces oating between the ones on Six and Eight.

In the grand lobby you had a choice of lifts to get you to those oors, depending on the job you had, spread out like the courses of a noteworthy meal in a prized restaurant.

To the left the inconsequential sta lift. In the back right corner, near Security, was the service lift which went to all oors but was only accessible by the Claviger and Security, Maintenance, Housekeeping, Post-Room and IT sta , as well as Emergency Services. Martin had sealed their friendship by securing Ellen with a service lift key card to assist her with the long list of oor cruising errands she was expected to make on top of her own actual job as chief actuary, or CA as it said on the sta map in reception on Ellen’s oor.

In the centre of the lobby was the Piet Mondrian lift, often used for international business visitors. A rectangle of transparent Perspex and chrome o ering an unmatched, unrestricted 360° view. It used to be called the Littleton until Theo became the service director of Ellen’s department, and made everything Nordic and Dutch. It occurred to Ellen that Mondrian would have had it lled with dynamite if he’d been alive to see it. Amongst sta , however, it was just called the 3-60. Ellen loved the slow rise allowing her to survey the gamut of employees. It took you to every oor up to Eight. Ellen’s oor.

Twenty-four bland oak veneer desks sat across the turgid plain of the open plan in a feigned playful scatter, giving a facade of creativity and innovation. They were equipped with USB and electrical islands jutting out of their middles, like bored androids. For Ellen, it was the central meeting space that was the pinnacle of her disdain, with its pair of curvy aqua melamine commas as tables, surrounded by peacoloured plastic o ce chairs that had built-in cushions

which made them look like giant, over-ripe avocado halves. No cubist monochrome wool blend here, that was for upper oors; down here it was all heavy-tra c grey or primary and secondary blend e ciency-in-action colours. Except no one actioned it, because it was so completely central and open. Unless they were executives from higher oors, aunting their check-ins every once in a while. In her rst week Ellen had sat there with her lunch and a paper, to the horror of a colleague from Operations. Su ce to say she’d never done so since.

Ellen’s desk was adjacent to the sta room. Although for Ellen this was a disingenuous term, because it had no roof; it was just a sectioned-o cube made with three tall, purple notice boards and a window overlooking the visitors’ car park and smoking area.

It was the place where people set up ad-hoc make-up corners to get ready for corporate events. It was the place where people stored their laptops when they couldn’t cope with taking work home for the weekend. For the most part though, the sta room was used to escape during particularly busy periods, like the auditors’ rampage of earlier that year, or to have scheduled cries when the o ce toilets were full of, well, other people crying. There were lime-green foam sofas set at right angles, three microwaves (meat, vegetarian and drinks only) and a plastic water cooler whose blue cylinder bubbled and glooped with increasing frequency as the day went on. An added bonus was that, because it had no real walls, along with the occasional sti ed sni e of tears came the permanent scent of nuked ready meals and the rotting tang of discarded fruit. If Ellen’s ex-smoker pangs were lucky, on really di cult days there might even

be the hum of a sneaked cinnamon vape making her mouth water. Ellen remembered the time she’d witnessed Célice from desk eighteen having a smelling-salt-worthy meltdown over an exploded chicken pie left to suppurate in the vegetarian microwave. Ellen had o ered to put Célice’s collapsible food tray in the drinks-only one, to the loud, hand-wringing tut of Philip at desk sixteen, who was on a diet of camomile tea and protein shakes. In the end, the whole microwave had to be taken away by Maintenance and Ellen comforted Célice by donating her own lunch, a cheese toastie that Samantha had dropped o as a surprise treat.

Ellen put her bag on the desk and hung her coat on the back of her chair. She’d left her laptop plugged in from the day before, hoping it would update and run a little faster this morning. She clicked to restart and while waiting for it to do what it was supposed to, she opened a box le with the words “Carter-Mason” written in thick black marker on a pale sticky label.

As a card-carrying nerd with a Mac addiction, Ellen resented being locked into a senescent PC laptop. She had no control over the company-assigned software or the business-level security. She was “denied access” to personal settings. Consequently, her desktop was woefully functional. It had the company logo emblazoned across the 15-inch screen which ickered nervously in saver mode. By contrast, the desktop monitor was a state-of-the-art 21inch atscreen. Ellen laughed at least once a week at this tech mis-sync.

Still not booted, but not today, Satan, I don’t care.

Ellen’s mobile buzzed. Samantha. Ellen answered as she

walked over to the scanner-copier with the handout for her presentation later.

“Remember what we said,” Samantha reminded her.

“Yeah yeah, don’t worry, it’s in the bag. Mrs C caught me as I left.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. And I told her what I’m telling you – it’s all good, we can pay her today.”

“It better be all good, Ellen – what will we do if she gives us notice?”

“She won’t need to.”

“You sure?”

“Like I said, promotion has immediate cash welcome. That’s why I came in today. Theo’s done it with everyone he’s made junior partner; the money is as good as in the bank.”

“Ok well, let me know. Call whenever.”

As Samantha hung up, Ellen heard three heightened voices in the sta room, talking about cake. One shrieking and the others gasping praise.

Without warning, someone jumped out, arms outstretched. It was Tessa One of the two Tessas. Both Tessas had agreed on these self-imposed nicknames; no one even dared call them anything else – to Ellen that smacked of true con dence.

“Ellen, Ellen, Happy Birthday Happy Birthday Happy Birthday, come and join us, Tessa Two has made a cake. That IT guy you know told us yesterday and we never get the chance,” she said with a gleeful ourish.

Ellen vowed she’d get Martin for this later, but having so far managed to escape o ce birthdays, it felt churlish to

decline. After all, it was more cake. Although she felt a tight knot high in her chest when she stepped in and saw she was surrounded.

“How lovely, that looks lovely,” Ellen squeaked.

“Yahh we are dividing it all up at co ee break but you will de nitely want the biggest piece of this . . .” Tessa One shrieked again.

“Oh, because it’s my birthday, how kind,” said Ellen.

Tessa Two clasped her arms together and tossed her head back in such a way that Ellen could almost see the pride folded in.

“Well natch, but also because it’s a traditional ginger cake with rum, raisin and molasses. A recipe all the way from Jamaica,” beamed Tessa Two.

Ellen’s eyebrows started to lift as she strapped one of her hands across her mouth; there was no point explaining she was not from the Caribbean, let alone Jamaica. She was from Thornton Heath. Instead Ellen rested her other palm on the counter and rasped through her ngers, “All the way from Jamaica, eh?”

“Yes,” said Tessa One with a wide smile. She tapped the back of Ellen’s hand, adding, “It’s dark and sweet, a bit like you.”

Ellen coughed and blinked her crossing eyes, two of her ngers now inside the collar of her shirt. “Excellent. Yes do save me a big slice.”

Ellen turned to leave the cake party.

Last day last day last day.

The World is Still Deceived With Ornament

It was time for Ellen’s presentation. She took another look at her failing equipment and picked up her yellow notepad instead – lucky she had the PowerPoint on a stick drive.

The rst to arrive in the meeting room, Ellen checked the list of attendees before sitting down. She could see that the only other woman coming was the note-taker, who arrived next and took the presentation from her.

The meeting was with a couple of counterparts from Jovan Gill’s team. Theo and Jovan had decided the pandemic had made meetings stale and had gone all-in for face-to-face when merging projects.

Jovan was the next to arrive. If there was any man who could make Ellen ddle with her hair it was him.

He was tall and shaped like a whippet, with eyes that looked like they’d been hewn out of ancient amber. Today he wore a smart, tight black turban, which matched his daily

work attire of all-matte black shirt and suit, and a gold Kara bracelet on his right wrist. Finishing the ensemble was a pair of black leather Chelsea boots with dangerous-looking points. It was as if Jovan dressed with the direct purpose of surprising everyone with his crackling Scouse accent, which somehow served to make him more attractive.

When Ellen was able to move her eyes from him, she noticed Jovan was anked by a blinking intern whose shaking could be seen like heat shimmers in a spaghetti western. Then came the others: all men who had surpassed Ellen despite starting at the same time or one or two years prior.

Seth Roebuck and Hunter Symmonds-Cole, both white and with their short-back-and-sides hair, were clones of each other; then there was Malachi Wainright, whose thin, manicured dreadlocks stood to attention in a sharp at top and seemed to be the same black as his perfectly round specs.

Seth rounded on Hunter’s shoulders. “Hey, did you hear about Ursula Baye?”

“Is that a place?”

“No, you idiot, it’s that female who complained about Noah to Solutions?”

“Ah yeah, the one who said all that shit about him.”

“Yeah, anyway she’s been demoted.”

“Good, she was clearly lying. Noah Dempsey is awless.”

“I know, right?”

Ellen slew a stare at both of them.

Seth pounced. “What?”

Jovan clapped his hands and bid everyone take a seat. “I know it’s Friday, guys, but let’s get on.”

The men sat down. Jovan continued.

“I’ll chair. So, Ellen, if you could present then we can get

to comments and questions at the end,” said Jovan, smiling at her.

She stood up, nodded at the assistant to open the slides, and began:

“As you can see, there was a sharp spike in the number of people dealing with cryptocurrencies over the pandemic, given the trade troughs in stable coins. Next slide.”

Hunter put his hand up but did not wait to be noticed by Jovan before adding his commentary: “I noted that there was a sharp rise in trade with cryptocurrencies over the pandemic.”

He was quickly interrupted by Seth: “Yeah, I observed that this had happened even though there were dips in stable coins.”

Ellen cleared her throat. “Next slide please. Here we can see that even our blue-chip clients seemed to forgo their obvious risk concerns . . .”

The whole group looked at her in silence. Jovan bade her continue with a wave.

“One set of forces leading to potentially higher demand for cryptocurrencies during a pandemic – next slide – is the fact that cryptocurrencies can be traded from anywhere in the world, which alleviates, to some extent, potential liquidity constraints that can arise if local governments restrict trading activities as part of a lockdown—” But before Ellen could nish, Hunter spoke over her.

“We all know potential liquidity constraints can arise if local governments are restricting trading activities as part of lockdown.” Everyone nodded and Jovan congratulated him for the observation. Wow, I wonder if I should use my cloak of invisibility for good or evil? pondered Ellen. “Yes, exactly – next

so what we didn’t expect is investors to not watch what shares were doing but instead watch how organisations and companies like ours were responding . . .”

At last the nal slide appeared and Ellen reached her conclusion.

Malachi looked at Ellen under a guise of solidarity then made his point anyway. “As Ellen has mentioned, the levels of risk uctuated not with panic as expected but with how investors expected teams like us to respond.”

“Yes, I think we can all agree with Mal,” said Seth, jumping in and nodding at everyone.

Jovan thanked the table for their contributions and sharp insights. “Not bad for a Friday, eh?” then turned to Ellen to ask if she could stay on until around seven or eight tonight, so they could convert the presentation to a report and get this signed o by Theo rst thing on Monday.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Ellen, even though she was planning not to do anything with it at all.

Jovan made nger pistols at her as a response and everyone got up and walked out in single le, clapping each other on the shoulders. Only Jovan stopped to wave and thank Ellen. His movements were swiftly photocopied by the shivering intern as they both left.

Last day last day last day.

Ellen asked the assistant for the notes to be emailed to Jovan, gathered her things and returned to her desk. As she moved through the o ce, she felt like the expensive Swissquartz clock that hung in reception: her level of functional reliability was almost trans xing, yet nothing seemed to make her tick. Since rst o ered a job assessing and analysing nancial data to evaluate risk, she was stuck watching

9781529933628

DG COUTINHO

COUTINHO

The Light and Shade of Ellen Swithin

Preface

ACT I NOAH

With Mirth and Laughter Let Old Wrinkles Come

The World is Still Deceived With Ornament