Agency

In Which Allegra Considers a Companion

a week or so later

Allegra's condo, chosen and rented for her by the Agency, was disconcertingly quiet. Decorated in cool gray tones, each wall (there aren't many) got progressively darker as one travelled from the entranceway to the open kitchen/living area to the tiny washroom, which adjoined the only slightly larger bedroom.

Waking up inside the deep, muffled, charcoal of those bedroom walls had an isolating effect. The heavy blackout drapes blocked any evidence of a world outside. The shag area rug kept her footsteps from disturbing the tenants below. The down pillows, especially when balled up between her knees in the night, reminded her that she was alone.

The room was too dark, too quiet, too unbearably sad. If she lay in it too long, she was overcome with a terrible instinct to pick up the phone. To dial that old number. To curl into the receiver like it was his lap and ask for the thousandth time to be forgiven. Although there was nothing to forgive, not really. Just a chasm the size of the Atlantic, which he would be quick to point out, she had put there between them. Across that chasm, the echo of their last argument. She was being transferred. He wouldn't come. Of course, he wouldn't. He had his family to consider. Her pride was still smarting.

She pulled her chicly rumpled Egyptian cotton robe around her (139£ at M&S), grateful that it still smelled just slightly of home, and escaped her room as quickly as possible. The kitchen, at least, had a soundscape about it. Cups that clattered against polished granite. Gas that clicked loudly before igniting under a kettle that whistled. She could make companionable sounds appear in the kitchen that she couldn't get from the bedroom. In here, she was (just slightly) less inclined to do something stupid like pick up the phone.

As she waited for her tea to steep, she plucked the newspaper from where it waited, roundly bound and expecting her, just outside her condo door. As she bent down to retrieve it, she clutched her robe closed modestly. Not that anyone would be likely to see her. She'd been waking up at 4:30 am since she arrived in Toronto, unable to adjust to the new time zone. Her daily routine has formed around the goal of spending as little time in her condo as possible. She arrived in the office by 6 am and usually didn't leave it until 8 pm - by which time she was ready to sleep again. As she ate all of her meals at the office, she'd been able to avoid the domestic concerns of grocery shopping. The small shop on the ground floor carried the necessities -- tea, milk, chocolate -- although what she wouldn't give for a proper Cadbury selection box or a ready-made Waitrose fish pie on some of those short, lonely evenings.

She spread the newspaper across the breakfast bar, looking for the Business section but pausing at a large photograph featuring an elderly woman pressing a terrified looking kitten to her wrinkled face. The headline read, accusingly, LONELY WOMEN FOUND TO LIVE LONGER WITH FRIENDSHIP OF COMPANION ANIMALS.

She stopped for a moment to consider this. Could she be killing herself with self-imposed loneliness? Would her body wither and shut down early if it didn't have the sense it was going to be required for anything more exciting than sitting behind a desk? Should she consider getting a cat? Something to prowl around her gray condo when she wasn't there? And to make noises when she was there, reminding her not to make phone calls that she would only regret? Cats don't need too terribly much, she reasoned. It would be happy with some mouse-shaped toys and a bowl of kibbles. It would, possibly, curl against her while she slept and (if she were lucky enough to get an amicable one) purr contentedly to remind her that a simple life could indeed be a pleasurable one. It would help her live longer, like this old woman on the news page she was tracing with a contemplative finger.

Then again, her brain asked mean-spiritedly, why should a lonely woman WANT to live longer?

***

Her office was a converted conference room. Being short on offices, they'd pushed the boardroom table to one end so that it looked like an oversized buffet table and added a desk and credenza for her. There was a large, leafy, potted plant standing gloomily at the window which, she assumed, was brought in to make the enormous room feel homier. They'd left the conference room's old nameplate on the door, however, and so Allegra's office was still referred to as "Scarberia." Its long wall was covered in a panoramic print of the Scarborough Bluffs, which looked to her like cliffs a heroine might chuck herself off of when things got too much. She liked it, actually.

Because it was Friday, her executive team had gathered in Scarberia for their week-end review. This weekly meeting was Allegra's way of putting an end to the "work from home Fridays" to which the Canadians appeared to feel entitled. Attendance (in person) was mandatory, and that had a trickle-down effect -- if the heads were in the office, their reports also felt the need to come in.

Samara, Head of Production, had just finished her exhaustive review of work in progress against forecast.

"Overall," Samara summarized, "We are not even close on budget allocations. We've gone over on diaper research," she arched her plucked eyebrow at Denton, "and need to go back to the client for partnership commitments based on the strategic choices the team has made."

"Well, that's fine as long as the client agrees to put the money in. Otherwise, I hope there's a backup plan," replied Allegra.

"But it's the correct strategy," repealed Denton, whose strategy it was. "This is an award winner. Get Uber to agree, and we've got a campaign -- no, a program -- that'll make headlines in the industry news."

Allegra held up a hand to stop him. "Which is marvellous if our goal is to make other agencies jealous. However, if our goal is to get this sinking ship to bob back up to the surface, it doesn't matter how many awards we win. What matters is that we keep spending down and billings up. I'm not willing to invest our money to float your strategy. Hopefully, the client can forgive the overage on research and foots the partnership bill. If not, we can consider that a loss and hold you accountable."

Denton shifted in his seat and looked at Fraser, who, as Head of Accounts, had some say in how budgets were spent.

Fraser cleared his throat and offered, "We were clear about budget from the start. Research went over. Doesn't research report into you, Samara?"

Samara glared at him. "The team found it difficult to nail down an insight that was--" she paused "--insightful enough."

Niall, who was sitting back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head and his elbows reaching out into the personal space of those beside him, chuckled.

"Did you have something to add, Niall?" Allegra asked.

"Only what we're all thinking. All the research in the world wasn't going to change the lad's strategy in the end. I don't know why we go around pretending otherwise."

Denton looked offended, but Allegra diffused the moment by moving the agenda ahead to New Business.

"Fortunately, we've had some good news back from Janus-Klein, who have decided to move forward with us. I should say we're all very lucky - especially Niall - that the merit of our ideas outweighed the mass of our ego, and we've been forgiven creative's outrageous behaviour at the pitch. If the news had been otherwise, we'd be looking at more empty seats across the floor today." She looked pointedly at Niall's chair.

"I think," she continued with uncharacteristic generosity, "We should celebrate this win with a little party for the staff. A few bottles of champagne, some sushi, that sort of idea."

There was a moment of stunned silence around the table. An invitation to spend money?

Allegra continued, "Samara, would you please get someone on your team to arrange that for next week?"

Samara nodded with pursed lips. She was in charge of project management, not party planning, she thought, but the offer of free champagne was exciting. It had been quiet and serious as a coroner's office around the floor lately. She jotted down in her book, "- get Shanti to organize party."

With the agenda being exhausted, Allegra made a show of closing her notebook and recapping her pen. As everyone began to collect their things and move toward the door, she asked casually, "Does anyone have a dog or a cat they might be interested in bringing into the office? We should have animals around, don't you think? Let's look into that."