Thinking about his father, his mind harked back to a time when they’d sat in the house together dismantling a Dell. Ben was away at camp and Oliver had planned to be out playing football but a deluge of rain had put paid to that. Instead, he and Richard had taken out the screwdrivers and taken apart the computer. He’d watched his father, saw the excitement in his eyes, the concentration on his brow as each section was carefully disassembled and inspected. Richard had encouraged him, advising him on each component, telling him how each one worked and their relationship to each other in the overall operation of the machine. It had been more than a lesson in electronics that day; it had taught him everything about his father’s vision and passion. The insurmountable drive Oliver struggled with on a daily basis. Why couldn’t he commit like his father had? Because he didn’t have a long future ahead of him? His father had known that too and he’d carried on regardless, fearless to the end. Or maybe because it wasn’t that first dream. The football career at his feet. The path he’d chosen not the one that had been given to him. He swallowed. At least hehada path. How short it was going to be was anyone’s guess.
As if sensing his thoughts, his body reacted, his chest tightening, forcing him to stand taller to iron it out. Oliver put his hand on the door and pushed it open.
All conversation stopped the second his shoes hit the carpet of the room and he made his way to the seat at the head of the chrome and glass table. It was time to get some respect back.
‘Good morning everyone,’ he greeted, putting a folder on the table and keeping his eyes there.
‘Good morning,’ came the mumbled reply from the dozen individuals present.
He flicked open the folder then looked up, his eyes glossing over all the team members. ‘So, the Globe.’
He could sense the tension in the air. It was as if it was electrically charged, just waiting to crackle apart if he dismissed this prototype again. He had been harsh over this, he knew, but it had been necessary. You didn’t just mock up a product to rival one of the world’s biggest companies in five minutes. It had to be right. More than that, it had to be perfect. And even perfect didn’t mean they stood a chance. It was a cut-throat business. It would be scrutinised by the best in the industry, compared to its counterparts. There was no way it was going to fall short on his watch.
He picked up the controller on the table and pointed it at the flat-screen panel behind him. Displayed for the whole room to see was a graphic he’d prepared earlier. There was the seven point nine inch, smooth-lined, rectangular tablet moving around in a slow circle, showing off its curves as well as a beauty pageant contestant. One by one, the features and specifications began to appear next to the rotating piece of technology. 32 mb as standard, Wi-Fi and free 3G, a camera to rival the best on the market, Spotify free for six months, free unlimited cloud storage, apps from a large online partner site.
Oliver clicked the controller again and stopped the spinning tablet and held the specifications where they were.
‘I know you’ve spent a great deal of time on this product. And I also know how many setbacks there have been.’
He could almost hear the collective groan, even though there was nothing but silence. They were looking at him, their faces blank, not giving away any of their feelings. But he knew. He knew his holding back of this product had caused conflict within the company. He also knew this team had spent hours, days, weekends and family time trying to get this project completed. But he hadpushed hard because Drummond Global and Oliver himself couldn’t afford to produce anything less than acme.
‘But setbacks are all part and parcel of creating something like this. Something revolutionary.’ He spread his hands out. ‘So, who thinks this product is ready for market?’
He put the question out there but he knew no one would answer. After the months of toing and froing, they were all too concerned about losing face to risk putting themselves out there.
But then a hand went up. A dark-haired man seated at the middle of the table had raised his hand in the air. This was unexpected. But not necessarily unwelcome. The man looked vaguely familiar. Had he worked with him closely before? If he had, he didn’t remember his name.
‘Please, stand up. Tell everyone here why you think the Globe is ready to go into production,’ Oliver invited.
The employee got to his feet, pushing his chair back a little as he created more space. ‘This latest model incorporates all the great concepts of Apple’s iPad but with more. We’ve made it 32 mb as standard with the fastest processor on the market driving it. We haven’t compromised on style, design or functionality. There’s really nothing else we can do to make it better without having to increase the price points we’ve fixed on. Sure, in six months, we might be able to come up with a faster processor but, right now, this is as good as we can make it.’ The man paused for a second. ‘Plus, I’ve been using one of the models for a week now and there’s no way I’d go back to my other tablet.’
Oliver watched as the employee’s face took on a glow as he came to the end of his speech. The man put his hands into the pockets of his trousers and looked slightly awkward, as if not knowing whether to keep standing or to sit down.
‘What’s your name?’ Oliver asked.
The twitching of his comrades, the turning heads and shiftingin chairs told him they were expecting harsh words not a ‘what’s your name’.
‘Dean Walker, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Good.’ He pushed a button on the controller and revealed the final wording on the screen behind him.
The Globe – launching March 2016
‘Dean Walker, you’re in charge of making this happen.’ He picked his file up from the desk. ‘I’ll get a date set for the next briefing.’
He nodded at the team sat before him then headed from the room. The door hadn’t even closed when the collective cheer went up. Oliver smiled. Back in the game.
14
NEW YORK LIFE GALLERY, UPPER EAST SIDE, MANHATTAN
Hayley felt sick. Here they were standing in front of a gallery she had heard about ten years ago from the lips of Angel’s father. Holding hands with the product of that union, her precious daughter, she took in the red-brick exterior. The United States flag hung from a white pole at its centre, and an inch-thick covering of snow blanketed the frames and sills of the windows. A small brass sign declared it was the New York Life Gallery.
‘This doesn’t look as impressive as the Guggenheim,’ Angel said, folding her arms across her chest.
‘Don’t judge a book by its cover. A grand exterior doesn’t mean the finest exhibitions. Usually the ugliest-looking kebab vans make the best kebabs.’
‘Have you been here before? The last time you came to New York?’ Angel asked.
