Steel World Inc. Chapter Three

 

James hadn’t been kidding when he said it would be a long working week. Each day began at eight in the morning and rarely finished before eight at night. I was thrown right in at the deep end, assigned to writing translatable code for some foreign programmes that seemed to be navigational systems for an airship, though it was hard to tell exactly what I was working on as the code only came through to us in packets. 

 

“Is this a military contract?” I asked James on my third day. “It’s just, this isn’t what I expected.”

 

“How so?” He sat on the edge of my desk drinking coffee from the coffee franchise on the ground floor. The coffee was top quality and free, like most things here. 

 

“I’m obviously working on an interface for existing code, and someone else has designed the bridge that connects to the existing code, but it all seems to be a weird way of working. Normally I’d get to run test to see if my interface works with the existing code.”

 

“Someone else will be running those tests,” said James. “There are teams in the US. Probably them.”

 

“Okay, sure. But shouldn’t I be talking to them?”

 

James shrugged. “Normally, yeah. Who cares? They want us to work this way, let’s just take their money and party.”

 

I sat back in my chair and sighed. “I know. It’s just frustrating, that’s all. I feel like I’m only getting a small bit of the picture.”

 

“I’m sure you are.” James grinned as he changed the subject. “But are you getting anything else?”

 

I blushed a little. “It’s not like that.”

 

“Come on, you’ve been texting her for three days now. You must have asked her out.”

“It’s not like that. Miss Whitlock is special.”

 

“Fuck’s sake. Give me your phone. I want to see what you’re writing to her.”

 

“No. We just have a moment during the day. Several moments. It’s nice. We share our days.”

 

“Nice? You fucking need to get laid, man. Do you want your dick to shrivel up and die?” He drank some coffee and then added. “Have you got a picture of her?”

 

“Um, no.”

 

“No?” He seemed incredulous. “You haven’t even asked her for a picture? Three fucking days, Rogers!”

 

“I should ask her for a picture,” I said, nodding.

 

“You should ask her for a drink. Your life is flashing by.”

 

Later that day I got a ping, alerting me to another text. Miss Whitlock tended to text me at ten, or just after. She called it coffee break time.

 

‘Hello IT boy. Just between meetings, but wanted to send you a morning emoji. Hope you’re having a super great day?’

 

There was a kiss after each text now. We’d really moved on.

 

I took a deep breath and typed ‘Hey, did you know you can add a photo to the contacts list on your phone? Any chance you could send me a picture? Hope that’s not too cheeky.’ I added a kiss. I wanted to add two, but felt it was too soon.

 

The minutes ticked by and I waited, unable to concentrate on the data base I was working on, until I heard back from her. I hoped I hadn’t sent out alarm bells by asking for a photo. Was that too much? Too… intimate?

 

‘Someone is getting needy. LOL. A photo? Really? Really?’ came the reply. But it had some fun emojis with it and another kiss. 

 

‘It would be nice to see your face when a text appears,’ I typed back.

 

‘I shouldn’t. You’re being such a bad boy. But okay.’ And then there was another ping, and there was a photo of Miss Whitlock, smiling, innocently, and perhaps a little awkwardly self-aware at me, from her desk. She had obviously just taken it, as I could see her office window in the background. I noticed that Miss Whitlock now had her hair tied back high in a floppy pony-tail, much like Miss Madison did. It was the popular middle management look at Steel World, encouraged, apparently, by the Senior Partners, but I hadn’t realised that Miss Whitlock would adopt it too. 

 

But did that mean…

 

I studied the photo carefully. I could only see Miss Whitlock’s shoulders, but it seemed like she was wearing a similar ‘50s style blouse as the other managers were encouraged to do. Did this mean she might be wearing the same support garments? The dress code for the middle managers seemed to stipulate very old fashioned corsetry and girdles from the silhouette of the women’s figures, the way they moved, and their uncompromising posture during the day. I hadn’t considered that Miss Whitlock, as a Junior Manager, might have to dress that way too. In this day and age it seemed unthinkable that women might be coerced by a company to dress in such an uncomfortable fashion! In fact I didn’t think it would even be legal for the company to insist. You can’t force women to dress like that. Steel World could easily get sued. 

 

What would the company do if Miss Whitlock complained? Then they’d be in trouble. 

 

I moved uncomfortably in my chair as I felt myself grow hard at the thought of Miss Whitlock having to secure herself into those old fashioned support garments each morning, then fastening, one by one, the fiddly little clips of a garter belt to her seamed stocking tops, sliding her feet into those glossy high heels and before I knew it I was rubbing myself in the privacy of my cubicle, imagining how she might look, just in her underwear and corset girdle. 

 

Not too much. I didn’t want to lose control in the office, but it was a pleasant sensation as I sat there fantasising about her. 

 

By the end of the working week, well, by midday, Friday, I was looking forward to a break, and it came when Miss Madison told us all to down tools and head over to a local wine bar for lunch.

 

“There’ll be no work this afternoon,” said James as we sloped into the stylish bar, two streets away from the office. “The Madison is in a fine mood, so the fizz will be flowing freely this afternoon.” James ordered seven bottles of champagne to be sent to our table as lunch menus were handed round. 

 

“Nice work so far on the guidance systems code, Simon,” said Miss Madison as she spoke to me for the first time since our introductory meeting on Monday. She touched my arm casually as she said that. Casually, perhaps even a trace possessively, for she often touched the men who worked for her. 

 

“Is that what it is? It does seem to be an aviation system. It’s just not clear. What is the original code? I can’t imagine any code so alien that we have to completely build an interface from scratch?”

 

“You’d be surprised, Simon.” She regarded me with a trace of amusement as she stood there, perfectly postured, with one hand on her hourglass hip. I still couldn’t believe she was forty-three. “Did you go to your suit fitting?” She played with my tie.

 

“Yes. The suits and shirts will be ready to collect next week.”

 

“Good. I like my men to reflect well when I take them out in public.”

 

But I was sorely distracted now, for we weren’t the only department leaving work for lunch this Friday. I held my breath as my hopes had been realised: Miss Whitlock walked in through the main door with her own team.

 

Miss Whitlock!

 

I couldn’t help staring as she wiggle-walked across the floor in glossy high heels, her posture straight, and her figure now unmistakeably shaped by strict corseting and girdle, under her over the knee pencil skirt, and soft peach blouse. 

 

If I was impressed with her before when she sat so awkwardly in her nylon trouser suit, that Monday morning, I was in awe of her now that she looked so elegant and sophisticated and, well, desirable. Her team were a mixture of men and women, and they, unlike the middle managers, wore typical office attire. A Middle Manager always stood out from the crowd.

 

I think Miss Madison caught me staring as she laughed softly. “You look like you’ve seen something you like, Simon. That’s Miss Whitlock.”

 

“I know,” I said, gasping for air, as Miss Whitlock took short quick steps across the floor to hand her credit card over behind the bar.  

 

“She started the same morning as you, didn’t she?”

 

I swallowed and nodded.

 

“Go and talk to her if you like, but remember, you’re one of my team.” She patted my bottom in a way that really wasn’t appropriate for management to do. 

 

“Miss Whitlock,” I said, as she turned round at the bar.

 

“Oh! Super Star IT boy!” There was that lovely smile. She seemed surprised to see me. “You’re let out for good behaviour on a Friday?”

 

“It seems so.” I glanced at her team – three men and six women. All the women were very pretty and young. “It’s good to see you again.” My eyes must have been staring at her body, for she was suddenly acutely embarrassed.

 

“Oh no, you’re seeing me like this for the first time!” She blushed, looking mortified. 

 

“You look lovely.”

 

“It’s… the senior partners… we’re expected to…”

 

“Very professional. Elegant, I meant to say. Very managerial.” I stumbled for the right words.

 

“You can tell, can’t you? I mean, it’s obvious…” She blushed again. Her posture was perfect in the support corset. It had to be. There was no possibility of anything other than perfect posture and poise. 

 

“Miss Madison dresses the same way. The, uh…”

“You can say it.” Her face was a rose shade of red now. “Corset. Girdle. The senior managers encourage the look.” She was gazing at the floor, unable to look at me.

 

“Is it…?”

 

“Uncomfortable? Oh, God, yes. You have no idea. I’m always aware of what I’m wearing under my blouse and skirt. And it’s such a struggle to squirm into it all in the mornings.”

 

“So, why?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s just the Steel World way. Have you heard of New Feminism?”

 

I hadn’t. I shook my head. I was a feminist, of course, but I hadn’t heard of ‘New’ feminism.

 

“It’s a new thing, in America at least. Not mainstream, but popular with men in positions of power. A return to feminine values for women. Women being women. Women looking like women. That sort of thing.”

 

“How is that feminism?”

 

“I know. It sounds silly. It is silly. Oh, Gosh, what must you think of me right now? I can hardly walk in these heels. They’re three and a half inches high!”

 

“They’re lovely.”

“Oh, you say the nicest things.” She smiled up at me. I was much taller than Miss Whitlock, and it made me feel protective of her, which of course is very wrong. A woman doesn’t need the protection of a man, and it is wrong for a man to feel he needs to protect her, but Miss Whitlock was only five feet three inches tall in her stocking feet, and built with a slender figure, so it was difficult to think of her as my absolute equal, even though she so obviously was. 

 

“At least the management look differentiates you clearly from girls like Kissy,” I suggested.

 

Miss Whitlock sniffed at the mention of the receptionist’s name. “I should hope so. That girl… she…” she sniffed again in critical disapproval. “To think she’s the first thing a client sees when he enters the building! What sort of image does that project for the company!”

 

“Your skirt falls just over your knees. A lovely modest touch.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“And the blouse is both feminine, yet modest.”

 

“You shouldn’t think of me as feminine. It’s wrong. I do not wish to be perceived in those terms. I am a person.”

 

“Of course.” I quickly apologised, for a man should not think of a woman in terms of her sex, but rather relate to her as a person. “Even the most enlightened man has a lot to learn,” I said quickly. “We are all learning, still. Please be patient with us.”

 

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” she said, again. “You think of me as a person?”

 

“Of course, Miss Whitlock.”

 

“I feel safe with men like you,” she said.

 

“I’m pleased to hear it. That is so kind of you to say that.”

 

I grew aware that the bar was beginning to fill up as more and more office workers descended on it for Friday lunch time. Men and women, not just the ones working for Steel World, began to take up position at the bar area, talking loudly, filling the space, so naturally enough the delightful Miss Whitlock and myself were gradually pushed closer together in the crush of people ordering drinks.

 

“I didn’t realise it would be so crowded on a Friday,” she said as she stood only inches away from me. I could smell her perfume that lingered on her throat and behind her ears. 

 

“It’s something of a tradition, I think, unwinding after a busy week. What do they have you working on?”

 

“Oh, managing my team,” she said, sweetly. “They’re all hard workers.”

 

“And what does your team do?”

 

“I think they work in acquisitions and recruitment. There’s a lot of arranging collections, co-ordinating sales teams, pick-ups, shipments, that sort of thing. “I’ve been so busy. Did you know we have active sales teams all over the world, looking for suitable supply chains and talent?”

 

“I didn’t know that, no. How fascinating. We seem to have fingers in a lot of pies.”

“Oh, yes. It’s jolly hard work, but rewarding. I suppose putting up with the dress code is a small price to pay for such a good job. I… shouldn’t really talk salary, but, well, it’s really good.”

 

“I’m so pleased for you. You are so talented. You really are going to hit the top.”

“You think so? Oh, Simon, I do so love talking to you.”

 

“I mean it. You’re the most brilliant, wonderful person I’ve ever met. I could recognise your talent and ambition the moment we met. You’re going to leave me trailing behind when you start to climb the ladder.”

 

“I…” she gazed up into my eyes. “I should really get back to my team. It’s supposed to be a getting to know them lunch.” She gazed wistfully back towards the three men and six women who had taken up space on a reserved table. “I wish we had time to talk longer.”

 

“Perhaps we can?” I suddenly said, daring to be bold. “Are you doing anything this weekend? We could…” I blushed now. “I’m sorry, am I being too forward?”

 

She looked a little scared.

 

“What… what do you mean? You want to…”

 

“See you again. Away from work?”

 

“I’m… I’m not sure… that would be…” she looked nervous.

 

“As friends, of course. I love talking to you, Miss Whitlock.”

 

“And I love talking to you, Simon. I’m sorry, it’s just, the other managers might think I’m..”

 

“You’re what?”

 

“Well, there’s an office code and I have to report any outside liaisons I may have with men. I know, it’s silly. Even innocent ones with friends.” She touched my hand briefly and then quickly pulled away. “The senior partners have these rules in place for Junior Mangers. It’s ever so strict. You wouldn’t believe.”

 

“Can they do that?” I looked shocked. “Ask about your private life away from work?”

“It’s something to do with the way our behaviour outside work might reflect on the firm. Oh, I must seem so ditzy! I can’t remember what he said exactly.”

 

“You’ve met the Senior Partners?”

 

“Um.” Now Miss Whitlock looked anxious. “Just… just the one. Briefly. He was…” she swallowed. “A man.”

 

“A man? What does that mean? I’m a man. Three of your team are men.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t understand. I’m not sure I even understand. I must sound foolish, babbling like this. Anyway, he was very firm on the standard of relationship behaviour he expected from his Junior Managers. I didn’t like him.” She said that last bit in a soft whisper. “He scared me a little.”

 

“What? How dare he?! What did he say?”

 

“It’s not what he said, but… oh, it’s so hard for me to explain. He had this way of looking at me. I don’t like men like that. I like men like you.” Her cheeks flushed again. “Oh, gosh, I didn’t mean to say that! What must you think of me?”

 

“Miss Whitlock, I think the world of you, and I’m so glad you prefer men like me, and feel safer with men like me. This Senior Partner sounds like an ugly brute. Please, perhaps we can at least meet during the day this weekend? Perhaps a few hours at a museum or an art gallery? That would be innocent enough? And then a coffee, before going our separate ways? An afternoon, perhaps?”

She nodded quickly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

As she turned away, I suddenly remembered a question I had for her.

 

“Oh, Miss Whitlock, I’ve been meaning to ask. Where is your office located?”

 

“Recruitment and Acquisitions. The second floor,” she said, as she then gave me a soft smile, a little wiggly wave with the fingers of her left hand, before departing through the crowd to reach her table.