Pacific Oldtown Trade

On Monday, at eight fifty-seven in the morning, Hannah Stevenson stands in front of a black glass door in Oldtown district and has the feeling she has come to the wrong place.

Above the door is a discreet sign: PACIFIC OLDTOWN TRADE. Below it, in smaller letters, ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES. No giant screens or futuristic corridors. The premises occupy part of an old building, its bricks darkened by rain, between a truck-parts warehouse and a small café with tables right against the window.

At the far end of the street, between two buildings, Hannah can make out a strip of sea. She checks the address in Denise’s message again, and it matches. She checks the time. Three minutes to go.

“I’m here,” she tells her phone, as though it ought to congratulate her.

No congratulations come. She pushes the door open. The lobby smells of freshly made coffee and damp paper. There is a Frost dispenser in front of a wall of advertising photographs: a group of young people on the beach, a couple on a motorbike parked beside the coast, a party under red lights. Hannah recognises a campaign she saw at the Eastown stop. She pauses to read it with a certain satisfaction. One day she could do something like that.

“Can I help you?” a voice asks.

A young woman with her hair pinned up with several metal clips is behind a desk with two screens. She wears a dark blouse and earrings that shine when she barely raises her head. Her eyes return to the screen immediately.

“I’m looking for Denise.”

“Name?”

“Hannah Stevenson.”

The young woman types without looking at her.

“One moment.”

Hannah waits. Columns of numbers appear on one screen; on the other, documents open and close. The woman checks a receipt, changes a figure and answers a call, the receiver pressed to her ear.

“No, Thursday’s delivery note, not Friday’s. Thursday’s. Yes, I’ll hold.”

Hannah wonders whether she still remembers she is there.

“May I sit down?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Another twenty seconds pass.

“What’s your name?”

“Ellie.”

“Hello, Ellie.”

“Hello, Hannah.”

Hannah smiles with her mouth alone. Ellie goes on working, as though they have just completed a ritual of politeness meant to last exactly three seconds. A theatrical voice comes from the far end of the corridor.

“Ellie! Tell me we’re not sending this invoice with that date, because you’ll ruin my reputation!”

A tall person with exaggerated movements and clothes that seem to have escaped from a party approaches, papers in hand. A striking yellow accessory adorns their hair, and they stop when they see Hannah.

“Oh. Sorry. We have visitors and nobody tells me.”

Ellie points to a tray.

“The date is correct. You’re reading the previous issue date.”

“Don’t destroy me in front of a stranger.”

Hannah laughs before she can stop herself. The person with the papers gives her a bow of the head so exaggerated that they almost lose their balance.

“Tamara, at your service. Administrative errors and the day’s gossip, all for the same price.”

“Hannah.”

“What a lovely name. Let’s see if this place can manage not to take it away from you.”

“Tamara,” Ellie says, without looking up.

“It’s a warm welcome.”

“The invoice.”

“Yes, madam of the invoices.”

Tamara puts the papers in their proper place, gives Hannah a wink and disappears down the corridor, humming. Hannah is still laughing when Denise appears.

“You’re here!”

Her voice sounds different in that world of keyboards and receipts. She wears a plain, light-coloured suit and has a tablet under her arm. She walks quickly, but when she reaches Hannah she stops completely.

“Three minutes early,” she says.

“You’re going to remind me of that for ever, aren’t you?”

“Depends how the rest of your day goes.”

They hug. Hannah hears Tamara whistle from some office and feels her ears grow hot.

“Come on,” Denise says. “I’ll show you everything.”

The office takes up less space than Hannah imagined for the company that makes one of Stormport’s best-known drinks. There is a corridor with windows overlooking a narrow courtyard, a meeting room, three offices and several workstations separated by low partitions. A map of the city hangs on one wall, with marks over Oldtown, Portown and other districts. On another wall, an enormous photograph shows a shipment of Frost freshly stacked in a logistics centre.

“Is the factory here?” Hannah asks.

“A few streets away. This is the administrative side. The main distribution goes out through Portown.”

“I imagined something bigger.”

“We have other facilities. Here we try to fit everything in without anyone wasting time walking from one end to the other.”

Denise introduces her to two employees whose names Hannah forgets immediately. One talks to her about invoices; the other, suppliers. She smiles and nods, trying to look as though she can tell them apart. Ellie passes with a folder and leaves a document on Denise’s desk without interrupting the explanation.

“She does the work of three people,” Denise whispers.

“I thought she was an artificial intelligence.”

Denise suppresses a laugh.

“Don’t tell her that. She isn’t very fond of them.”

“Neither am I.”

In a room at the far end, Denise opens a door and switches on the light. There is a desk, two monitors still switched off, a swivel chair and a window overlooking a rooftop with aerials. A can of Frost Frutilla waits on the desk. Hannah stops walking.

“What is this?”

“Your place, if you like it.”

“My place?”

“Digital communications is growing. For now it’ll be you and everything you know how to do.”

Hannah goes in slowly. She sits down. Spins a little in the chair, her face radiant, then stops again because Denise is watching her.

“Can I touch things?”

“It would be complicated to hire you not to touch them.”

Hannah opens the can. The drink makes a familiar, reassuring sound.

“I can’t believe it.”

Denise leans against the doorframe.

“Before you decide to marry the desk, we need to talk about work.”

“I knew there was a catch.”

Denise takes her to the meeting room. Nobody else is there. She sets a job offer and another sheet listing the initial tasks on the table. Six thousand two hundred eCoins appear on a clear line, together with performance conditions.

“You’ll be handling posts, replies, chat moderation and maintenance of our websites,” she explains. “The big campaigns are already planned. I want you to improve what we do between campaigns. No improvising that compromises the brand: everything goes through me before it’s published.”

Hannah scans the pages and looks up.

“Replies to every message?”

“Every message that deserves a reply. If someone complains, we listen. If they insult us, we don’t insult them back.”

“That sounds unfair.”

“It’s the price of selling drinks.”

“And if someone asks what’s in Frost that makes it taste so good?”

“We give them the public product information.”

“And if someone says it’s addictive?”

Denise’s expression does not change.

“We refer them to consumer care. There are protocols for health complaints and regulatory enquiries. I’ll show you.”

Hannah nods. The answer seems reasonable to her. She makes a note in the margin: PROTOCOLS. Denise looks at her handwriting and smiles.

“What?”

“Nothing. I like that you take notes.”

“If I don’t, I get distracted.”

“We’ll find out.”

“You already have.”

They sign after Hannah asks three questions about holidays and one about whether she can use headphones. Denise answers them all patiently. Once the contract is complete, Hannah looks at her name written there and has to resist the urge to photograph it.

“Now, then,” Denise says. “Welcome to Pacific Oldtown Trade.”

“Can I call my mother?”

“Of course.”

“She’s going to go mad.”

“After the call, we have a meeting at ten.”

Hannah looks at the clock. It is nine fifty-two.

“A meeting with me?”

“For you. It’ll be short.”

“In my family a short meeting lasts two hours.”

“Here we try hard to make it one.”

Hannah lets out an exclamation of horror. Denise laughs and leaves so she can make her call.

Her mother answers before the second ring.

“Hannah? Is everything all right?”

“Mum! They hired me!”

There is the sound of scissors on a table.

“Really?”

“Yes! At Frost!”

“Oh, my darling!”

Hannah hears someone in the background ask for some green thread. Her mother tells her to wait, serves the customer in the haberdashery and comes back, excited.

“Your father is going to be so happy.”

“He’ll have a fit when I tell him how much I earn.”

“How much?”

Hannah tells her. Her mother falls silent.

“Mum?”

“I’m listening.”

“It doesn’t sound like it.”

“That’s a lot of money, Hannah.”

“I know.”

“I want you to be careful. Don’t spend it all straight away.”

Hannah looks at the can of Frost Frutilla on her desk.

“I’m not going to spend it all.”

“Hannah, I know you.”

“Well, I’ll try.”

Her mother laughs and reminds her to eat something at lunchtime. When they hang up, Hannah sits gazing at the monitors. Then she switches one of them on. A social media management interface asks her for temporary login details.

And for the first time in months she is not looking for a job. She is in one.

At ten sharp she sits beside Denise at a table where Ellie has already laid out reports. Tamara comes in with two cups, leaves one in the wrong place and makes a small ceremony of moving it, complete with theatrical gestures. Hannah tries not to laugh. Four other people are there. Denise introduces Hannah as the new head of digital communications and asks that every request to publish something go through her.

“And if we want her to publish something funny?” Tamara asks.

“We review it first,” Denise replies.

“The end of spontaneity. A minute’s silence.”

Ellie turns to the next page. The meeting moves through sales figures, shipping dates and billing adjustments. Hannah understands a good deal of it, though not all. She gets distracted by the raindrops running down the window and draws a tiny umbrella in the margin of her notebook. When Denise asks whether she can review the comments on a Shoretown campaign, she answers at once.

“Yes. They’re using the same reply too much. People notice.”

Everyone turns to look at her. Hannah blushes.

“Sorry. I saw it last night.”

Denise folds her arms.

“Don’t apologise. That is exactly the kind of observation we need.”

Ellie writes something down. Tamara raises a hand.

“I vote we hire more people who looked at things last night.”

“We’re not voting,” Ellie says.

“Another injustice.”

At midday, Hannah meets a woman named Úrsula. She finds her in front of a coffee machine in the corridor, a folder under her arm and silver earrings in her ears. Her hair is very short and as dark as her skin, and her tired expression partly disappears when Denise makes the introductions.

“Úrsula, Hannah. Hannah, Úrsula. She runs the accounting department.”

Úrsula looks Hannah over quickly, making no attempt to hide it.

“The social media girl.”

“That’s me,” Hannah replies.

“You’d better get along with Ellie. Otherwise this company doesn’t function.”

“I suspected as much.”

Úrsula barely smiles.

“Good. Then you’re learning.”

Denise asks about some figures, and the two of them talk for a few seconds about something Hannah does not understand. Úrsula promises to send a report that afternoon and leaves without ceremony.

“She’s serious,” Hannah murmurs.

“Depends on the day.”

“Did she dislike me?”

“She doesn’t know you yet.”

Hannah thinks about that answer for a moment. Then she asks Denise whether they have a favourite café for lunch.

When they return, a man is sitting on the edge of a desk that is not his.

Hannah first sees him from behind: black shirt, slim build, dark hair combed to one side. He is talking to Tamara, who seems to be recounting some magnificently comic misfortune. The man laughs so openly that Ellie, at her workstation, looks up for the first time all morning.

“That’s what happens when you only read half,” he says.

“I read the right half,” Tamara replies.

“Of course. The half where you’re always right.”

Denise stops when she sees him. There is no surprise on her face.

“Weren’t you supposed to be at the factory?”

“I’ve already been. I came to get coffee and check whether you’re still trying to rule the world from this corridor.”

“Somebody has to.”

He straightens up, still smiling. His eyes are very light. He looks at Hannah, then at Denise; it takes him less than a second to return his gaze to the young woman.

“And who is this vision?”

“Hannah Stevenson,” Denise says. “She starts today in digital communications.”

“Ah. The expert.”

Hannah is surprised that he already knows about her.

“Well... I’m learning.”

“Learn quickly, then. Denise has little patience with modest geniuses.”

“That’s a lie,” Denise says.

“The modesty is, yes.”

Tamara lets out a theatrically charged laugh. So does Hannah, though it takes her a moment to work out whether the man is joking with her or with Denise. He offers her his hand.

“They call me Speex.”

“Hannah.”

“I know that. They’ve just told you.”

Hannah laughs, embarrassed.

“Right.”

His hand is firm, but the greeting lasts no longer than necessary. Speex does not ask what she studies or want to see campaigns or make observations about the digital department. He picks up a can of Frost from a tray, reads the label as though he has never seen it and puts it back unopened.

“Don’t you like it?” Hannah asks, pointing to it.

“I like selling it.”

Denise lets out a short laugh.

“Speex has other tastes.”

“A beer, for example,” he says. “But don’t tell the advertising people.”

Hannah smiles. Now she understands why people in the office talk about Speex with a mixture of respect and familiarity she cannot quite decipher.

“And do you work here?” she asks.

Tamara presses a hand to their chest as though they have just heard something outrageous. Ellie goes on typing as though she is deaf. Speex bursts out laughing.

“From time to time.”

“It’s complicated to explain,” Denise puts in.

“Oh, I know that answer,” Hannah says. “You gave it to me before telling me you ran the company.”

Denise looks at her with an expression Hannah interprets as an amused warning. Speex looks from one to the other and smiles even more broadly.

“I like her,” he says.

“Don’t distract her,” Denise replies. “She has work to do.”

“Then that makes two of us.”

“Speex.”

“All right. I’ll disappear.”

He heads down the corridor, talking to an employee who has just arrived from the factory. Hannah follows his figure until he turns a corner.

“He’s very nice,” she says.

Denise picks up a folder.

“When he wants to be.”

“Is he the owner?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you need anything, ask me. All right?”

Hannah nods. It seems logical. Denise is the Managing Director and she has just signed a contract with the company. The rest of the hierarchy can wait for another day.

As the working day draws to a close, Ellie explains how to organise a campaign’s receipts; Tamara shows her where not to leave cups if she wants to stay friends with Ellie; Denise reviews three social media replies with her and approves two. The third needs fewer exclamation marks.

“I only put four,” Hannah protests.

“You put four in a row.”

“They convey enthusiasm.”

“And desperation.”

Hannah corrects the reply. She publishes it when Denise gives her approval and watches the first reaction from a customer come in. Someone asks where they can find Frost Frutilla in Eastown. Hannah starts typing before the system can suggest an automatic response. She checks the store locator and replies with an address near her home. Then she adds a friendly sentence that did not appear in any template. The customer answers with a heart.

“Look!” Hannah exclaims.

Denise comes over to the monitor.

“I saw it.”

“It worked!”

“I hope so. It’s your job.”

Hannah bursts out laughing. Denise rests a hand on the back of her chair, close enough to see the screen and far enough away not to brush against her.

When the clock marks the end of the day, Hannah puts her notebook, jacket and contract into her bag. From the window, Oldtown looks older in the rain. In the distance, a siren crosses the avenue; someone shuts a metal shutter with a clatter. Hannah looks again at the desk that now belongs to her, the empty Frost can and the two glowing screens.

“Everything all right?” Denise asks from the doorway.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Hannah draws a breath, as though she needs to check that the answer is true.

“I loved it.”

Denise smiles.

“There’s plenty to do tomorrow.”

“We’ll see tomorrow,” Hannah replies.

“No. Tomorrow you come in at nine.”

Hannah laughs and goes over to hug her.

“All right. Tomorrow at nine.”

They go out into the corridor together. Tamara is still commenting on something at the top of their voice from the far end, Ellie never takes her eyes off her screens and, somewhere in the building, someone has just opened another can of Frost. Hannah thinks about the message she will send her mother, about some shoes she saw last week and about how good it will feel when her first salary arrives.

She has no reason to think about anything else; she feels very happy.