Shell / Petricarp
A bead of sweat had appeared on James’ forehead, absentmindedly he wiped it away, thinking little more of it.
The air conditioning in his office had always been a joy. Over the last couple of heatwave summers he’d occasionally felt a trifle bad for the chefs and delivery drivers who’d made and delivered his lunches, but like all triflings he’d paid it no mind.
There was important work to be done; public relations for Petricarp was rarely quiet, there were museum openings to attend, lunches with politicians and a steady stream of press releases to send and react to. The last few years had been quite the rollercoaster for his department. Just Stop Oil inveigling their way into the daily news had initially been a concern however the acquiescence of the government in terms of handing down suitably harsh punishments had prompted one of the better departmental celebrations.
A second droplet had formed and this one ran down the back of James’ ear, dripping onto his neck. This was enough to get his attention. Annoyed, he looked up from his MacBook Pro to get the attention of Jago who worked a couple of desks away. Jago, noise cancelling headphones over his baseball cap, remained focused on his laptop.
James stood up, thinking to pop down to the cafeteria. Clearly the building’s air conditioning was playing up and as such he was more than justified in grabbing himself an iced coffee, or maybe an iced match latte. He’d seen the young interns drinking them and wondered whether they were actually any good, and if so, whether it might be enough of a talking point to initiate conversation over post work drinks.
The lifts on his level weren’t working, some sort of flashing LED light display told him that scheduled maintenance was taking place. James briefly considered taking the stairs but quickly dismissed the idea as firmly beneath his dignity. Resigned to remaining in the dark as to the joys of iced match lattes and the interest of the bright young interns he returned to his desk.
Something about the day was starting to frustrate him.
It was clearly hotter than it ought to be, this was no way to have to be at work. James decided that he ought to call Jonty, his only friend in the operations side of the business. Jonty would surely appreciate the unpleasantness of having to work in an office that seemed to be warming in a worrying fashion.
Frustratingly Jonty wasn’t answering, so James sent a rather sharp whatsApp demanding to know what the fuck was going on with the aircon. Several minutes passed with the message remaining single grey ticked.
James’ shirt was starting to get annoyingly sticky on his back, it was as if he’d been wearing a rucksack on an excessively brisk walk. This riled James more than he wanted to admit, he’d always cultivated an air of easy cool in the office. He certainly didn’t do the run club every Sunday morning to feel sweaty and awkward on a Wednesday afternoon at work. Briefly distracted by the thought of chat/flirting with Jemima round Hackney marshes. James took a moment to admire the view of the Thames out of his window.
The sky outside was a glorious azure blue. There were a couple of lone wispy clouds breaking the skies’ monotonous clarity but nothing to really distract James from his momentary rapture. He wondered who he’d invite to the winemaker take-over at Bambi this coming Friday. Not Jemima, no, he was sure she’d balk at his suggestion of a couple of sly lines in the toilets. Maybe Jess, yeah, Jess, the intern with the asymmetric fringe cut and the lip ring. She’d be all over the fact that he knew the natural wine importer that was hosting the night.
James’ reverie was cut short by his noticing the heat of the sun through the windows, he was actually unpleasantly hot. Standing in front of the window, his trousers were clammy and his shirt was sticking to his back. This was actually starting to make him angry.
James returned to his desk and asked Claude to find out what was happening.
After an uncannily long thinking time, Claude replied to tell him that it was fine. The office aircon was working as per usual, his concerns were unwarranted, and that even if anything was changing it was nothing to worry about and that he really ought to get back to doing what he does best.
James wasn’t entirely comforted by Claude’s dismissal of his concerns, but as usual he deferred to the LLM’s expertise.
Re-centering himself he went back to his task at hand. He was trying to build a consensus that agreed that off-shore wind farms were damaging to grey seal social cohesion, that their vibration frequencies were akin to forcing migraines on the hopeless Pinnipids. He was slyly proud of this particular dig at renewables; the adorable puppies of the sea would, he was sure, tug effectively at the heart strings of the 11 to 13 year old female demographic whom he was certain were a statistical nudge factor with regards to their parents approval of net zero adjacent policies.
James was struggling to focus. It occurred to him that he was both thirsty and noticeably hot under the collar.
The sheen on James’ forehead beaded against his thumb as he wiped it. He was thirsty, he’d had to forgo his iced drink, he figured he needed a bottle of chilled mineral water. There was a fridge in the kitchenette that was always filled with a nice selection of mineral water and softs. James had personally ensured his favourite mineral water, Borjomi, had been included. He low key loved talking about it whenever colleagues expressed an appreciation for Vichy-Catalan, of course not that many people knew Borjom but that wasn’t going to change his cheerleading, indeed, that was rather the point.
The lights were mostly off in the kitchenette, a single spot flickering over the sink gave a slight ominous Warsaw minimal techno club vibe to the corner. Bafflingly the fridge was empty, the door slightly ajar and a sticky stale mustiness emanated from the inside.
James had to stop for a moment, his sense of certainty of self was starting to waver. The run of consecutive failures to achieve his desired outcome was beginning to seem significant.
He dry-swallowed and returned to his desk.
The heat in the room had elevated James’ breathing and he was starting to feel unwell. He considered messaging his partner Jenna but thought better of it. There was no use letting her know there was anything wrong at his work, she might think poorly of his decision to stay on to pursue his promotion. She’d never really understood the potential at Petricarp Public Relations. More fool her thought James.
Knuckling sweat out of his eye James realised he was panting. Remembering something he’d read about wet-bulb temperatures he momentarily thought about asking Claude if he should be worried, before coming back to his senses, he was in a serviced office building on the South Bank for fucks’ sake. He had a Summer holiday booked in the Hebrides, in a couple of weeks he’d be strolling down white sand beaches and casually dropping to Instagram how excellent the cold water langoustines were when eaten straight out of the bay.
James looked down at his desk, there was a dark shadow where his arms had been resting in front of his laptop. Everything seemed sticky and slow. He blew on his hand to try and understand what was hot and what was cold but it only seemed to make things more confusing. Was his hand hotter than his breath or was his breath oddly hot and weak. No-one else seemed to be around any more. Jago wasn’t at his desk and the room just seemed to be humming. His iphone screen was black with a white thermometer symbol at the base, James didn’t know what this meant but he was certain it wasn’t read receipts.
He peeled himself off his chair and lurchingly walked back to the window.
The sun still dominant in the sky, unwavering in its intensity, the glass, now hot to the touch, seemed hostile to James’ hand. He slumped to the floor at the window’s base. How could this be, the window was his throne rooms’ view point, it was where he crowed his success. He could look down on the city and know it was his to enjoy. How was it now so hard and hot to his touch.
James’ temple now resting slick on the glass, his breath shallow and faint. The sweat beading on his arms unwilling to dissipate as the heat and humidity hit in pummelling waves. James’ mouth now just about the only dry place in the room, his tongue stuck awkwardly to the side of his mouth as his eye lids failed to close over his fading eyes, their membranes sticking half closed on his eyeballs as James breathed his last.