I leave the kitchen, aware that I haven’t exactly crowned myself in glory. Having asked for their opinions, I now appear to be sulking because I don’t like the answers. Ain’t that the truth?
And then, as if my day can’t get any worse, I can’t find the McMillan file. I took it home with me to have a look at some of the previous statements on Sunday afternoon. I think back. I remember taking it out of the filing cabinet and I’m pretty sure I put it in my briefcase. In the end, I didn’t look at it on Sunday. So, where the hell is it? It should be in my case.
I take another look and a surge of panic wells up inside me. I do not lose files. I am organised. I’ve never lost a file before in my life. I wrack my brains, trying to remember what was in the file. We’ve no doubt got copies of all correspondence on the digital files, but I’m not sure about originals. Shit, I’d have to reapply for certain legal documents. That won’t earn me any Brownie points, and then there’s the costs, not to mention the time delay.
I buzz through to Sandy. ‘Hi, Sandy, how much of the McMillan file do we have on digital?’
‘Probably about eighty per cent. Why, is there a problem?’
I don’t want to admit I’ve lost a file. ‘I’ve left the file at home. Where is the digital file stored?’
‘I’ll send the link through.’
‘Thanks.’ I didn’t miss the note of surprise in Sandy’s voice at my oversight.
The link comes through in less than a minute. I’d be lost without Sandy at times. God help me if she ever decides to look for a new job. I click on the link and open the yellow folder icon. I’m greeted with a blank screen and a message, which reads ‘this folder is empty’. That’s odd. I return to the link and go through the whole process again, only to receive the same message. I buzz Sandy again.
‘I’m getting an empty folder. Is that the right link?’
‘Er, it should be. Let me check.’ I can hear her tapping at the keyboard. ‘Right, here’s the file … open … oh, that’s odd. Let me try again.’ A sinking feeling drags from my chest to my stomach. ‘I’m sorry, Clare, I don’t know what’s wrong. The file’s empty. It shouldn’t be. I updated it last week.’
‘What about the office back-up?’
‘It’s a weekly back-up. I’ll ask Nina. She does that on a Friday.’
I sit patiently and when, some five minutes later, Sandy hasn’t got back to me, I get up and go out to find her. She’s at Nina’s desk. Both look up and I can tell instantly, by the looks on their faces, that it’s not good news. ‘What’s the verdict?’ I ask needlessly.
Sandy steps forwards. Nina had to go home early on Friday. She wasn’t well.’
‘Sorry,’ says Nina, her voice barely audible.
‘So who’s supposed to do the weekly back-up when Nina’s not here?’ I ask.
Sandy’s gaze drops to the ground. ‘Either me or one of the other secretaries. It’s no one’s fixed job.’
‘What? It’s just left to chance that one of you three will remember?’ That doesn’t sound like Carr, Tennison & Eggar. We’re much more organised than that. ‘What about last week’s back-up? They’re done on a four-weekly rotation aren’t they?’
‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Clare, but I didn’t update the file last week,’ says Sandy.
‘How long are we talking since you updated the file? I mean, what weekly back-up will contain the most up-to-date information?’ I keep my voice calm. Inside I’m a mix of anger and panic. ‘Sandy, how far back are we talking?’ The impatience is surfacing.
‘Three weeks. I do it at the beginning of each month.’
‘Ffffff …’ I stop myself from swearing. Or at least I think I do. ‘For fuck’s sake! What sort of system is that?’ I don’t want an answer and march back down to my office, yelling over my shoulder. ‘The system is shit and needs an overview. We can all stay late tonight to sort it out and get a proper one in place!’
As I slam my office door behind me and slump into my chair, I’m hit with not only the hypocrisy of my rant, but how bloody rude I was too. There’s me criticising them, when, if I’d done my job right in the first place, the sodding file wouldn’t be missing.
‘Shit!’ I kick out at the wastepaper bin in frustration.
My door swings open with such force it bounces back from the rubber stopper that prevents it smashing against the wall. I jump and flinch as the memory of my father slamming open doors makes an unwelcome visit. I half expect to see Patrick Kennedy storming in. Instead, it’s Leonard. He throws the door behind him and it crashes against the doorframe as the latch clicks into the keep.
‘What the fuck is going on, Clare?’ He keeps his voice low, but the anger is apparent. ‘I could hear you ranting at the girls from my office. Good job I didn’t have a client with me. Not sure I can say the same for Tom, though.’
‘The back-up system has failed,’ I say in my defence. ‘The back-up system that isn’t actually a system – more hit and miss, if someone can be bothered to do it.’