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“Derek!” I called across now, to the security guard standing behind the front desk. He looked up, his expression inquiring and helpful. “Derek, I’m so sorry—I don’t know what’s happened. My pass isn’t working. Can you beep me through?”
I held it up, deliberately not moving from the turnstile. Don’t let him get too close.
“It’s… Keeley?” I said, putting just the smallest touch of chagrin that he hadn’t recognized me into my voice. “Keeley Winston, from the call center?”
Derek peered closer, squinting at the ID from his position behind the desk, and then up at my face. I felt my heart quicken. Now was the moment. If he did actually know Keeley, I was utterly, utterly screwed.
And then he grinned.
“Sorry about that, Keeley,” he said, and pressed something under the desk. “Don’t keep it too close to your credit cards, yeah?”
“Oh, shoot. I didn’t know that.” I made a face, miming regret at my own stupidity. “Thanks, Derek.”
And then the turnstile unlocked, and I was through.
* * *
I WALKED CONFIDENTLY FOR THE first few minutes, following the crowd of people, and then allowed myself to fall back from the cohort who had come through reception with me, waiting for a new group of lunchtime returnees to catch up. When I was satisfied that no one near me was part of the cohort I had come through the turnstiles with, I tapped a nice-looking girl on the arm.
“I’m so sorry, I’m an IT contractor and I’m supposed to be working on someone’s machine in the call center, but I’ve got totally lost. Can you point me in the right direction? The person I’m looking for is Keeley Winston.”
The girl laughed, but not unkindly.
“Oh God, yeah, it’s a bit of a maze, isn’t it? The call center is third floor, over in C wing. Take that lift over there. I’m afraid I’m not sure where her desk is, but someone up there will be able to point you in the right direction.”
I nodded my thanks and hurried away up the corridor to the lift. But when I stepped inside and pressed the button for the third floor, nothing happened, and I realized to my dismay that it was swipe-card protected.
I stepped out of the lift and stood for a moment, considering my options. I had my rucksack with me, more for want of a place to leave it than because I’d particularly wanted to bring it—it was a little too big to look right as a commuter bag, but I’d had no choice. Now I was extremely glad.
Ducking behind a convenient potted plant, I dug in the pack and pulled out the sling I kept balled at the bottom for emergencies like these, then looped it over my head and put one arm, my right, into it. In my left, I held the rucksack, since I now couldn’t wear it on both shoulders. Then I straightened up and pressed the lift button again, praying that it wouldn’t arrive empty this time. My luck held. A kindly-looking guy in his late forties was already inside.
“Going up?” he asked as I stepped inside, and I smiled and nodded, and then began patting my pockets, miming hunting for my pass, almost dropping the rucksack as I did, and wincing as if the jolt had jarred a sprained wrist.
“Let me,” the man said swiftly, and reached forward with his employee pass, touching it to the card reader. “Which floor?”
“Three. Thank you so much. I am so fed up of this wrist. I’m never ice skating again.”
“I sprained my shoulder playing squash last year,” the man said conversationally as the lift began to rise. “Absolute pain in the… well, I was going to say arse, but that’s the wrong end, ha ha!”
I laughed, and the lift stopped at the second floor.
“Well, this is me,” he said. “Hope the wrist is better soon.” And he stepped out.
“Nice to meet you,” I said with a grateful smile that was considerably more real than my sprained wrist. And then, as the lift door closed behind him, I shrugged hastily out of the sling, straightened my shoulders, and prepared for the final hurdle.
* * *
WHEN I STEPPED OUT OF the lift doors on the third floor, my first impression was that the Sunsmile call center was like every other office I’d ever pen tested, but louder and larger. A small labyrinth of desks and pods stretched away in a complex hierarchy that encompassed hot-deskers, people with little glassed-in booths, and the favored elite few with access to a door that shut and a window with real daylight.
The level of chatter was insane, and I fought the urge to put my hands over my ears as I wove my way among the booths, looking for someone kind to ask. At last I picked a girl who’d just put down her phone and was midway through the act of dialing someone else. Busy people were always the best—too distracted to ask the right questions.
“I’m so sorry,” I said apologetically. “I can see you’re tied up, but can you point me in the direction of Keeley Winston?”
“Keeley?” the girl said vaguely. “Think she’s off sick, but her desk’s over there.” She pointed towards the corner of the floor. “Can’t miss it, it’s plastered with gonks.”
For a minute I thought I’d misheard.
“Sorry, did you say… gonks?”
