know?'
This time I do hit him. In the face. Full on.
Lerato
I get to work to discover that Mpho has turned stalker boy. There is an outrageous bouquet of flowers on my desk, complete with miniature butterflies, the kind gen-modded to stay within a hand's-length radius of the scent of the assigned homing flower and guaranteed to live seventy-two hours, if you believe the advertising. Until now, I've never met anyone cheesy enough to fall for it.
Seed has paired us on the MetroBabe Stroller audio job, designing an interface that works for both toddlers and parents. At the touch of a button, it has to be able to play back rockabyes, current hits packaged as instrumental lullabies for baby, or MetroBabe's private info station, simply jam-packed with useful information to help guide new parents through the very special hell they've signed up for. The things already come with two cup-holders, one for baby's bottle, one for mom's moccachino or, more realistically, mom's whisky flask.
I wave away the butterflies that are hovering near my screen, attracted to the light, and shove the bouquet to the edge of my desk, which will hopefully limit the little bastards' range. There's no sign of Mpho, which is savagely annoying.
There is a MetroBabe audio file in my jobs folder, so I can get some idea of the content we're dealing with. I ignore it and kill time waiting for Mpho by checking my mail, updating my dating profile on Seed and prowling the responses. There're three pre-approved potential matches, all within Communique or affiliated companies (which means no lengthy mutual non disclosure contracts to sign before you can move on to the sex), one civilian, which I delete without even looking at (at least I admit I'm biased), and a man of real interest from a rival corp, which Seed has tagged as questionable, meaning a potential headhunter.
Considering how I got here, to this twentythird floor office, to this desk with its views of the seaboard, you'd think the system might trust me to spot one all on my own. Or maybe they're letting me know that they know. Heads up, girl, we're paying attention. Hopefully not too closely.
The guy's profile looks sony, as Toby might say. Stefan Thuys. Forty-one, which is ten years older than my ideal, but hey, I'm open to trying new things. He's a development exec on gamesoft, reasonably attractive apart from the craggy nose that looks as though it may have been broken at some stage, which is unreasonably hot. He claims an interesting selection of media, although his choices are suspiciously hip. But who doesn't paint themselves in a prettier light? And I've always been interested in development. I msg him. He msgs back, and we hook up a date for later in the week.
At last I'm prepared to get round to the MetroBabe audio file. I drag it into my player and crank up the volume. I'll be damned if I have to suffer through the incessant infant-stuff alone.
'…surrogate breast milk is a risk, Noeleen, but it's a qualified risk if you go through the correct channels, and get a certified provider who can provide you with a full medical history. You can get cocktails specially made to order, get your provider to take vitamins and nutrients tailored to the very specific needs of your baby's gene map.'
Across the office, a couple of people raise their heads. Genevieve mouths at me, 'Can you privacy that?' but I ignore her.
And finally Mpho materialises at my desk, pushing a stroller, the dull grey of the plastic marking it as a prototype fresh off the printer. 'Hey, L. Hope you haven't been waiting too long. I thought I'd get a demo model from product development so we can really nail this thing. Oops, nearly forgot!' He produces two lattes with a flourish from the cup-holders. 'Mamzelle.' In four days of getting room service together, you'd think he would have picked up that I take my coffee black.
'But couldn't you just add
This time I do hit him. In the face. Full on.
Lerato
I get to work to discover that Mpho has turned stalker boy. There is an outrageous bouquet of flowers on my desk, complete with miniature butterflies, the kind gen-modded to stay within a hand's-length radius of the scent of the assigned homing flower and guaranteed to live seventy-two hours, if you believe the advertising. Until now, I've never met anyone cheesy enough to fall for it.
Seed has paired us on the MetroBabe Stroller audio job, designing an interface that works for both toddlers and parents. At the touch of a button, it has to be able to play back rockabyes, current hits packaged as instrumental lullabies for baby, or MetroBabe's private info station, simply jam-packed with useful information to help guide new parents through the very special hell they've signed up for. The things already come with two cup-holders, one for baby's bottle, one for mom's moccachino or, more realistically, mom's whisky flask.
I wave away the butterflies that are hovering near my screen, attracted to the light, and shove the bouquet to the edge of my desk, which will hopefully limit the little bastards' range. There's no sign of Mpho, which is savagely annoying.
There is a MetroBabe audio file in my jobs folder, so I can get some idea of the content we're dealing with. I ignore it and kill time waiting for Mpho by checking my mail, updating my dating profile on Seed and prowling the responses. There're three pre-approved potential matches, all within Communique or affiliated companies (which means no lengthy mutual non disclosure contracts to sign before you can move on to the sex), one civilian, which I delete without even looking at (at least I admit I'm biased), and a man of real interest from a rival corp, which Seed has tagged as questionable, meaning a potential headhunter.
Considering how I got here, to this twentythird floor office, to this desk with its views of the seaboard, you'd think the system might trust me to spot one all on my own. Or maybe they're letting me know that they know. Heads up, girl, we're paying attention. Hopefully not too closely.
The guy's profile looks sony, as Toby might say. Stefan Thuys. Forty-one, which is ten years older than my ideal, but hey, I'm open to trying new things. He's a development exec on gamesoft, reasonably attractive apart from the craggy nose that looks as though it may have been broken at some stage, which is unreasonably hot. He claims an interesting selection of media, although his choices are suspiciously hip. But who doesn't paint themselves in a prettier light? And I've always been interested in development. I msg him. He msgs back, and we hook up a date for later in the week.
At last I'm prepared to get round to the MetroBabe audio file. I drag it into my player and crank up the volume. I'll be damned if I have to suffer through the incessant infant-stuff alone.
'…surrogate breast milk is a risk, Noeleen, but it's a qualified risk if you go through the correct channels, and get a certified provider who can provide you with a full medical history. You can get cocktails specially made to order, get your provider to take vitamins and nutrients tailored to the very specific needs of your baby's gene map.'
Across the office, a couple of people raise their heads. Genevieve mouths at me, 'Can you privacy that?' but I ignore her.
And finally Mpho materialises at my desk, pushing a stroller, the dull grey of the plastic marking it as a prototype fresh off the printer. 'Hey, L. Hope you haven't been waiting too long. I thought I'd get a demo model from product development so we can really nail this thing. Oops, nearly forgot!' He produces two lattes with a flourish from the cup-holders. 'Mamzelle.' In four days of getting room service together, you'd think he would have picked up that I take my coffee black.
'But couldn't you just add
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