In the mid-afternoon sun, the crosswalks are busy, and the way back from lunch is a tricky one. We’ve got more lectures this afternoon, and no-one really wants to go back and sit in that damn conference room.

After the first few days, some of the middle-row people have warmed up to Adam and Errol. Even Abby, the girl who tried to sell us the suits, has become friendlier. It turns out she’s been studying for an MBA part-time, and attempting to sell us discount businesswear was part of an assignment.

* * *

“Yeah, look, they were a really good deal, honestly. I kinda couldn’t understand the supplier so well, because it was a lousy line; apparently the phone system in Kansas, or Kazakhstan, or wherever they are, is not so good. But he did assure me they’ll be great. And the price! Boy, the price!”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, even though I am convinced this is a terrible deal. I like Abby, but I have gently steered Adam and Errol away from purchasing any form of clothing product from her. Beside us, Adam walks, head down, talking to Errol. I catch slight fragments of conversation from them.

“…machine learning…optimization problems in polynomial time…” Before I can poke my nose in, Abby grabs my shoulder. She only comes up to my shoulder, so this is a pretty good effort for her, especially while we’re dodging people on the street.

“Hey Ron,” flicking the hair out of her face while she’s hanging on to me, “Whaddya think about when Tom Macaulay came to talk to us? Do you think he’ll be back?”

I think for a minute. If he does, he won’t want to talk to me much. Abby plunges on.

“Whoo-ee, he could lecture me. Any. Time. He. Wants.” Somehow she manages to make the word ‘lecture’ sound more salacious than I could ever have believed it could be. “Cute, huh?”

I try to look noncommittal. “Yeah, I guess.” He’s red-hot, but now is really not the time to be lusting after senior management. I need to be focused on getting a job offer, like Momma says.

Adam looks up, just in time to avoid walking into a fire hydrant. “Oh, Dr. Macaulay? Yeah, really interesting. Super-cool guy. His Twitter feed is worth subscribing to. You know he did a lot of work on conditional mutual information networks? When he moved into finance, he applied all of that network stuff to finding relationships between asset prices, in ways that nobody had ever thought of. His team is super, super-cool too. They’ve got their own space, and they can just basically work on whatever they want.”

Abby snorts. “I’d like him to work on MY mutual—” I try to cut this euphemism off before it gets started.

“Abby, come on. We’re supposed to be learning from these people, not ogling them.” I’d really like to see what he looks like out of that suit—stop it, Ronnie.

“Honey, we can do both at the same time. It’s called multitasking, and it’s an essential skill for survival in the modern workplace. Ogle while you learn, that’s what I always say.”

I give up. “Right. I don’t seriously think he’s going to want to teach me much after what I said to him at the end of the class.”

All three of them stop and look at me. “You talked to Tom Macaulay?”

“Yeah, briefly.” It’s hard to remember details apart from those eyes, and that voice, but I remember it was really embarrassing.

Errol looks as envious as it’s possible to look behind those glasses. “What did you talk about?”

Oh, you know, I insulted his intelligence. Just the usual things you do to a hot guy who has the power to make or break your future, really.

“Well,” I start, and then, blessedly, my phone rings. “Sorry, guys, I have to take this. It’s my Mom. Look, you go on, and I’ll catch you up, okay?”

The three of them walk off, falling into a discussion about data processing. At least that will protect Adam and Errol from errant suit purchases. I stare at my phone again, and steel myself.

“Hello, Momma.”

“Veronica? Is that you?” I swear Momma has been in this country since she was a little girl, and she still sounds as Dutch as can be.

“Yes, Momma, it’s me. You called my phone, so of course it’s me.“

“Okay, okay. How did your first week go? Are you paying attention?”

“Yeah, I’m paying attention. It’s a lot more like college than I thought it would be, to be honest.”

“Are you going to have exams and things? I know you like exams, even though we used to have to push you to study for them. When you were a little girl, you always wanted to take things apart and put them back together, not read textbooks.”

“I know, Momma. I still like taking things apart and putting them back together. You know that.”

“This is a really ‘portant opportunity for you and for the family, Veronica. You know that, don’t you?”

I try not to sigh audibly. “Yes, Momma. I know it’s important. I’ll do my best.” Getver, why is this the same as when I was in school? In college?

“We only say this, your father and I, because we love you and we want you to succeed. You’re so smart, you can do anything, and those finance people, they need you.”

Trying to change the subject, I seize on the one thing that might distract her. “How’s Poppa? Is his breathing better?”

My mother’s tone changes, and for a minute I remember how worried she always is. “Yeah, he’s better. He can talk. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, I’m handing the phone over. Don’t hang up after you’ve finished talking to him, okay? I want to talk to you again.”

“Okay, Momma, okay. Just let me talk to Poppa, alright?”

“Okay, I’m handing the phone over now. Here I am, I’m handing it to him.” There’s a rustle and a cough.

“Hello, little one.” My father’s deep, reassuring drawl sounds through the phone, as if he’s straight from Utrecht, and I feel a wave of relief.

“Hi Poppa. How are you feeling?” I know he’s been worse than usual this week, and this is the first time he’s been able to talk since he came out of the hospital.

There’s a rumble of a cough, but he stifles it. “Better, better. Your moeder is in your ear about the job, huh?” A squawk in the background suggests that Momma can hear one side of this conversation, and I smile to myself.

“Well, yeah. But it’s okay. The job is fine, Poppa, really. We don’t know what we’re doing yet, and it’s a whole lot of sitting in rooms listening to stuff, but it’ll work out.”

“Good. I’m really proud of you for getting this far. Whatever you do, just follow your nose, and it’ll work out okay.” His breathing rasps, and even now I wonder if he should be talking this much.

“I know, Poppa. Are you in bed?”

“Uh-uh. She’s got me out in the garden on the bench seat. It’s a lovely day here; you should come back soon for dinner.” I wonder about how the house has changed since I moved out, and whether my room is the same. Is it inevitable that places change to fit the people who live in them?

“I will, Poppa, I promise. You shouldn’t talk too much; all that coughing is no good for you.”

Another rasp. “Yeah, I know. Dammit. Okay, I should give you back to your moeder now. Take care, little one.”

“Bye Poppa. You take care too, and I’ll see you soon.” Every time we speak, he sounds older. There’s another rustle, and I hear the clink of my mother’s earrings against the phone.

“Hello? It’s me again. It’s your mother.” Her voice sounds far-off.

“Yes, Momma, I know it’s you.”

“You sound very faint, Veronica. What’s wrong?” I bite my lip.

“Momma, are you holding the phone the right way round? Is the writing on it right-side up? We have talked about this before, you know.”

“What? Oh.” More rustling, and she comes back much clearer. “Is that better?”

“Yes, that’s much better.”

“Okay, good. Now, you know how important this job is, don’t you? You know that you need to do everything you can to make a good impression, huh?”

I take a very deep breath. “Yes, Momma. You’ve said this a lot of times before. You said it to me when I left college. You said it to me when I took the exam. You said it to me when I passed the exam. You said it to me before I went to Walters Capital on the first day. I get it, Momma.”

My mother sounds slightly affronted. “We want you to do well, that’s all, and you know how you get sometimes, being irresponsible and—” My phone beeps, and I interrupt, partly because I have another call, and mostly because I really don’t want another lecture about needing to be responsible.

“Momma, I’m sorry, but I have a call from the office, okay? I have to take this. Okay? I’ll come and see you and Poppa very soon. Maybe next week. I don’t know. Okay, I’m hanging up now. Okay. Goodbye, Momma.”

Deep breath. “Hello, this is, uh, Veronica Haas.”

“Ms. Haas?” It’s Clipboard Lady, who, it turns out, has a name. Barbara. You’ll always be Clipboard Lady to me, honey. “You are to report to the twelfth floor reception tomorrow morning at 8am. You have been assigned to the Macaulay team. You will miss out on lectures, but,” a sniff, “you will just have to make up the gap in your own time.”

“Assigned?” Anything that gets me out of those lectures has got to be good.

“Yes, assigned. Don’t be late.” She rings off before I can ask any questions. I think briefly about calling her back, but then decide it would be perceived as a terrible faux pas, or something equally nuts. Dodging the foot traffic, I’m nearly back at the Walters Capital building now. I stop and look up at the twelfth floor from the street.

Assigned to whom? Assigned for what?