Art Pact 51
Carla found the paper tucked underneath her keyboard, one white corner poking out from beneath the number pad, only visible when she sat down in her cubicle. She assumed that it was some receipt or other, some piece of paper she'd dropped herself weeks ago that had somehow avoided her frequent tidy-ups by escaping under the keyboard, but when she opened it up to double-check before tossing it in the recycling bin she saw that it was a hand-written note - red ink joined in a smooth looping hand into the words: THERE IS A MOLE IN YOUR OFFICE. BE CAREFUL.
She looked around, then folded the paper up and tucked it back where it had come from. It looked innocuous enough there. She opened up outlook, began to type a nonsense email to herself, stopped suddenly in the middle of a sentence and listened for laughter. Nothing. Just typing from the other cubicles and the muted sound of telephones warbling for attention over in the technical sales section. She pulled out the note and looked at it again.
The handwriting was unfamiliar - neater than anything she was used to dealing with (the angular scrawls of the sales staff or the elegant, flat, but erratic script of her supervisor-mentor). Perhaps too neat, she thought to herself, it had the sense of someone who had forced themselves to write smoothly against their normal inclinations. She wondered if she would find eight or nine previous iterations of the letter in a bin or shredder somewhere around the building, discarded as practise runs before this perfect specimen had been created.
"Carla."
She jumped at the voice, quickly dragging the keyboard forward and shifting her right hand over the numpad.
"Joan," she smiled, turning her chair slightly and looking up. Her supervisor was leaning on the corner of her cubicle divider, elbow immediately above the motivational poster that had been left over from the desk's previous occupant: TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, below an Anne Geddes photograph of a muscled young man holding a tiny baby. I have to get rid of that, Carla thought for the sixth time that day. "How are you - I mean, how can I help you?"
"It's to do with the Brigham sale," Joan said. As she talked, she leant forwards into the cubicle. Every few words her eyes would flick away from Carla's face and onto the pecs of the man on the poster. "I was checking with Terry in accounts receivable, and..."
Carla let herself go onto autopilot, nodding along with the rhythm of Joan's voice to simulate interest. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether or not you had to pay attention to what Joan was saying, but the serendipitous mention of Terry from accounts receivable had instantly clued her in that the following five to ten minutes was likely to be a content-free discursion on the likelihood of Brigham paying on time, exacerbated by Terry's paranoia about delinquent customers and the bizarre religion he seemed to have built around the idea that a 60-day payment window was likely to affect everyone's (read: his) pension. Brigham Auto Dealership had never paid them in a longer period than fourteen weeks, so the chance of their relatively modest bill being the straw that broke the company's financial back seemed remote at best. Perhaps Terry's got something against Brigham himself, she thought - then: perhaps Terry's the mole.
She clamped down on the thought immediately, hoping that she hadn't given Joan any sign that she was thinking when she should be listening. She turned a quarter-turn to the right, letting her left hand slide over the keyboard to take the place the right hand had been hiding a moment ago, then teased the slip of paper into her palm with her left thumb, crumpled it slowly, and flicked it into the bin when Joan's eyes next glanced at the man in the poster.
"Mole." Joan said suddenly.
"I'm sorry?"
Joan looked at her, her eyebrows descending in a sort of slow-motion frown that she did when she was particularly displeased.
"I mean, I'm sorry, I was just trying to remember the mandated and actual payment dates for Brigham in the past. I do apologise. You were saying?"
Joan leant forward, peering at Carla over the top of her glasses.
"I was saying that Terry wanted to send Brigham a letter reminding them of the payment date and that the overdue account would have to be paid in full."
Carla, who had been expecting something that sounded like "Mole" but which was perfectly innocuous, was somewhat surprised.
"Uh, good idea," she said, realising as she said it that it was nothing of the sort.
She looked around, then folded the paper up and tucked it back where it had come from. It looked innocuous enough there. She opened up outlook, began to type a nonsense email to herself, stopped suddenly in the middle of a sentence and listened for laughter. Nothing. Just typing from the other cubicles and the muted sound of telephones warbling for attention over in the technical sales section. She pulled out the note and looked at it again.
The handwriting was unfamiliar - neater than anything she was used to dealing with (the angular scrawls of the sales staff or the elegant, flat, but erratic script of her supervisor-mentor). Perhaps too neat, she thought to herself, it had the sense of someone who had forced themselves to write smoothly against their normal inclinations. She wondered if she would find eight or nine previous iterations of the letter in a bin or shredder somewhere around the building, discarded as practise runs before this perfect specimen had been created.
"Carla."
She jumped at the voice, quickly dragging the keyboard forward and shifting her right hand over the numpad.
"Joan," she smiled, turning her chair slightly and looking up. Her supervisor was leaning on the corner of her cubicle divider, elbow immediately above the motivational poster that had been left over from the desk's previous occupant: TODAY IS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, below an Anne Geddes photograph of a muscled young man holding a tiny baby. I have to get rid of that, Carla thought for the sixth time that day. "How are you - I mean, how can I help you?"
"It's to do with the Brigham sale," Joan said. As she talked, she leant forwards into the cubicle. Every few words her eyes would flick away from Carla's face and onto the pecs of the man on the poster. "I was checking with Terry in accounts receivable, and..."
Carla let herself go onto autopilot, nodding along with the rhythm of Joan's voice to simulate interest. Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether or not you had to pay attention to what Joan was saying, but the serendipitous mention of Terry from accounts receivable had instantly clued her in that the following five to ten minutes was likely to be a content-free discursion on the likelihood of Brigham paying on time, exacerbated by Terry's paranoia about delinquent customers and the bizarre religion he seemed to have built around the idea that a 60-day payment window was likely to affect everyone's (read: his) pension. Brigham Auto Dealership had never paid them in a longer period than fourteen weeks, so the chance of their relatively modest bill being the straw that broke the company's financial back seemed remote at best. Perhaps Terry's got something against Brigham himself, she thought - then: perhaps Terry's the mole.
She clamped down on the thought immediately, hoping that she hadn't given Joan any sign that she was thinking when she should be listening. She turned a quarter-turn to the right, letting her left hand slide over the keyboard to take the place the right hand had been hiding a moment ago, then teased the slip of paper into her palm with her left thumb, crumpled it slowly, and flicked it into the bin when Joan's eyes next glanced at the man in the poster.
"Mole." Joan said suddenly.
"I'm sorry?"
Joan looked at her, her eyebrows descending in a sort of slow-motion frown that she did when she was particularly displeased.
"I mean, I'm sorry, I was just trying to remember the mandated and actual payment dates for Brigham in the past. I do apologise. You were saying?"
Joan leant forward, peering at Carla over the top of her glasses.
"I was saying that Terry wanted to send Brigham a letter reminding them of the payment date and that the overdue account would have to be paid in full."
Carla, who had been expecting something that sounded like "Mole" but which was perfectly innocuous, was somewhat surprised.
"Uh, good idea," she said, realising as she said it that it was nothing of the sort.
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