Page 17 of Exchange of Heart

At the next door, I creaked it open to a large, bald man at the end of the table. He stopped speaking while I searched for an empty seat, and his bushy eyebrows covered his glare as they knitted together.

‘Good of you to join us, Mr Flemmington.’

‘Traffic,’ I croaked with the confidence of a dying frog.

I reached to play with the ends of my non-existent hair, instead wiggling my fingers through the air above my shoulder. The bald man’s gaze tracked my hand, his eyebrows lowering even further.

‘Well, find a seat,’ he insisted.

My long, oaf legs had me in an empty chair in no time.

‘Did you bring the projected revenue?’ The bald man held my gaze.

The memory of handing my briefcase to Corey’s assistant slapped me with annoyance, and my scalp tingled as I prepared for my incompetent revelation.

‘My apologies, it’s in my briefcase.’

My assertiveness wasn’t going as planned. The bald man’s face reddened as I awaited steam to blow out his ears at any moment.

‘Well, where is it?’

‘In my office.’

‘Then go and get it,’ he roared.

Tall, muscular men don’t cry in meetings, I reminded myself as I blinked furiously and scrambled from the room. My phone buzzed as I walked into Corey’s bland office. There were a few frames on the wall, and his desk was almost bare. Save for the few stacks of paper piled to the left, it could be mistaken for a display office. His office had no personality at all. I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen. A message from Hayley last night, responding to my bus stop problem with, lovers are always a suspect during a murder investigation, and one from Corey.

Corey: Everything going okay?

Could he sense his impending doom from a few blocks away?

Nora: Perfect.

I stared at the locked briefcase with dread, the code in my mind jumbled with the data I’d been analysing for Gerry’s Gym yesterday. Too many numbers, too many problems, nowhere near enough solutions.

Nora: Actually, what was the briefcase code again?

Corey: You should already be in that meeting. 7923.

I twisted the metal numbers until the lock popped open, and instead of wasting time sorting through pages for the revenue report, I tucked the entire briefcase under my arm and raced towards the conference room.

‘What are you doing, man?’ Corey’s assistant looked like he wanted to slap me.

‘I needed my briefcase.’ I lifted it like a kid during show and tell.

‘You’re already walking a thin rope. This is a shitty stunt to pull.’

‘I’m not pulling anything.’ My eyes widened like a sad puppy.

‘You should get back in there.’ He shook his head and refused to meet my gaze.

Finance managers didn’t take orders from their assistant, and I needed to play the part – even if it made me sound like an asshole. I pushed my glasses up my nose and peered through the lens like my grandmother did the first (and only) time she saw me in a midriff. ‘I think we need to organise a meeting later to discuss appropriate workplace conversations.’

He looked like I’d told him I’d injected snake venom into his vein, so I took the opportunity to flee while figuring out my next move.

What would Corey do?

When Corey arrived late to class, he walked neither faster nor slower and simply set himself up as though he’d arrived at exactly the time he should have. He didn’t bump into chairs or fumble with pens. He barely even apologised. Instead, he slipped in with a quick ‘sorry’ and everything continued like normal.