The I.T. Girl by Fiona Pearse

walking, both of us looking at my leg.
    ‘So where are you from?’ she asked.
    ‘Dublin.’
    ‘And what do you do?’ she fired at me.
    ‘I’m a software developer. I work for CouperDaye ?’
    ‘ CouperDaye !’ Her eyes widened. ‘That must be high-pressure. I’m in finance too. I’m an events
coordinator for an Exchange. Because of me, middle-aged men get to play Scalextric on a boardroom table and then go to a strip bar.’
    I was thinking of her ducking into the bushes. ‘What’s this club
like?’
    ‘Well, I think it’s probably pretty good. But I hate running.
I’m just here because I like one of the men.’ She waved her hand down the path.
‘He put up a notice for this place in work so now I run around here once a week
looking like an idiot.’
    ‘Well, it’s proactive of you at least. Do you think he likes
you too?’
    ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I do think there’s a spark. It’s a bit
ridiculous though. I have to avoid him when we’re actually running. I dishevel quickly.’
She pulled at a loose strand of hair.
    ‘Trying to flirt in a tracksuit, now that’s high-pressure.’
    ‘Isn’t it? But, my main obstacle is Jenna Buckman . She’s tall.’ She indicated spreading her hands apart. ‘And sort of swooshe’s . And,
I have noticed, her group always takes off first but often she and George arrive
back together.’
    ‘I wonder if she's one of the gazelles. What does she look like?’
    ‘Gazelles?’ Deelie gave me a sideways look. ‘That sounds right. She has a long ponytail. She and George
joined on the same day.’ She said it as if it meant they'd be married. I remembered
Jenna standing with a man below the tree, laughing at Deelie ,
when she lost her belt.
    ‘Well, at least if nothing happens you’ll get fit in the process.’
    ‘Oh, I like that spin on it. Thank you.’
    We finished the route with a morning breeze nipping around our
legs. Deelie , short for Delia, quizzed me about Dublin
and IT and filled me in on her conversations with George so far.

 
    The flat did it’s best to absorb my thoughts for the rest of
the day. Through the smell of dust and fresh paint, I heaved boxes with out-stretched
arms, shoving them into corners to be unpacked. I deliberately banged anything that
wasn’t fragile, ignoring the twinge, an angry lightning flash, growing through my
neck and down my back.
    When all the boxes were cleared I sat on the floor where the
mound had been and watched dust dance in a cloud of light. My homeless belongings
lined the walls: piles of CDs and books and pictures to be hung. I felt trapped.
This was the first time in my life I couldn’t see a way out of something.
    The evening brought darkness through the windows. I sipped wine
and stared at the tree tops covered in smoky light whispering up from street lamps.
    The thought of the next few months tightened around my throat.
Making a mistake would be like stepping on a landmine. ‘ Disciplinary action ’ I kept seeing the formal black print. It seemed
so extreme – wasn’t anyone allowed to make a mistake and simply learn from it? Was
this programme really just a heavy-handed way of helping me? I had heard once that
if you wanted to fire someone you had to demonstrate you had put in steps to help
them do their job first. So, was this really an aid? Or was it a step? Either way,
the fact that I’d been put on the programme would always be a mark on my record.
That’s why I couldn’t stay. My career in CouperDaye was
over. But I couldn’t leave either. And for the rest of my time, I was going to have
this axe hanging over my head, waiting for an excuse to fall. I smoothed a hand
around my neck. Somehow, I was going to have to find a way to survive it.
    The window frames should be re-painted, I noticed. The paint
was chipped and uneven. And there were flecks of white paint on the surrounding
walls. They might even be stuck, I realised, putting down my glass. I tried to move
the top windows. One was