“Three G&Ts, mate. Double.”
“Sure thing. Paying now, or on a tab?” Marcus looks at James. James shrugs.
“Better put it on a tab,” Marcus says, handing the barman a credit card. “We’ll be having more than one.”
The three men, soaked to the skin having just run over the road in the downpour, sink down into a deep brown leather couch. James takes in his surroundings. Mahogany fixtures, soccer – scrap that, footie – on the TV, sawdust on the floor, real ale pumps standing to attention in a row on the bar. It’s not for a want of trying, but the Yanks are seemingly incapable of capturing the spirit of the good old-fashioned English pub. He glances around at a melting pot of finance guys brokering deals, red-top journalist hacks sourcing scoops, football louts soaking up the game, post house production employees emerging from their basements to grab a quick bite to eat. James considers and it suddenly hits him. What makes a truly authentic British pub? Why, Brits, of course. The barman brings over the drinks and the three men take a grateful sip.
“There’s a legitimate science to it, you know,” James ruminates. “Hair of the dog.” Alex nods in agreement.
“Yeah, mate. Raising blood alcohol levels masks hangover symptoms.” The trio take another sip as if to test the theory.
“No scientific evidence to prove it, is there?” Marcus says, breaking the spell. “Nice thought though.”
“Do we have dinner plans?” James asks, as hunger begins to emerge victorious from the shadows of delirious drowsiness.
“Nobu, seven o’clock,” Marcus answers. “You been to any of them in the States, Jim?”
“Haven’t had the luxury,” James answers. He thinks back to his wedding anniversary trip to New York last year, when he tried to book in at Nobu’s inaugural Tribeca location. Naturally, he waited until two days before to call up on the off chance they’d had a cancellation. Naturally, they hadn’t. He opted instead for a slap-up Italian in Brooklyn. Sarah didn’t seem to mind, and, if she did, she had the good nature not to say.
“So,” Alex says. “What did you make of all that corporate waffle, Jim?” The three finish their drinks; Marcus gestures to the barman for another round. James contemplates lying to his colleagues to keep up the ‘hands across the water’ purpose of the trip, but on this occasion, in this setting, he opts for the truth.
“Corporate waffle. Couldn’t have put it better myself.” Marcus and Alex laugh, relieved to discover that James is as they suspected: one of them. “This culture has infiltrated the entire company, what can I say? New hires everywhere you look with little to no interest in game development. When Virginia starts mentioning Fall Water in the same breath as Google, Microsoft, and Apple, you know things have changed. It’s been happening for a decade, guys.”
“Come off it!” Marcus exclaims. “You can’t compare us to those big dogs. We’re B2C game development. Sure, the projects are getting bigger, but we’re still niche. We ain’t trying to cure cancer here.”
“No,” James agrees. “But Versa is certainly trying to. They’re literally trying to cure cancer. Pharma, boys. Proper shit.” James winces at his own choice of words. Proper shit? He’s been in the UK for fifteen hours and already he’s sounding like one of them. Maybe it’s the gin. Maybe it’s the pub. Maybe it’s Alex’s and Marcus’ contagious energy. Maybe it’s the fact that he subconsciously mirrors people’s accents when he first meets them to mask a raging insecurity. It’s probably all four.
Marcus shakes his head. “I thought Versa is an investor? Where do they get off poisoning us with their top-down bollocks? They shouldn’t be telling us what to develop and how, Jim. It ain’t right.”
“Easy, Marcus. I wouldn’t go that far,” James counters, sensing that this chat is slipping dangerously into a bitching session. “Burrows has integrity. He’s still at the helm. All creative decisions come from him and Simmons.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Marcus says, throwing his hands up in defence.
“Best to try and ignore the business side as best we can,” James says. “Easier said than done, I know, but just try to block it out. My focus is solely on going live on Beta for Cyberside at the end of the year. No room up here for anything else.” James taps his head. He accepts that this statement doesn’t solely apply to work. I should really call Sarah.
“You’re right,” Marcus says. “It is easier said than done.” He and Alex exchange a quick glance. Marcus subtly shakes his head. No.
“Alright, lads. I may be jet lagged, but I’m not blind. Spit it out. We’re all friends here.” Despite what he’s just said, James sits with his arms folded, defences at the ready. The barman arrives with another round. Alex takes a sip.
“Alright. Seen as you ask. I, er …” Marcus senses Alex struggling. He steps in.
“The new dynamic is worrying us, fella. It’s all getting so political. Everyone’s fighting for space in the sandbox.” Marcus is flustered, speaking with an energy that suggests he’s been sitting on this for ages. “Burrows’ intentions are sound, there’s no denying that, but there’s increasing asymmetry in the team. Too many voices, too many conflicting motivations.”
“You’ve heard the phrase ‘too many cooks spoil the broth,’ Jim?” Alex asks. James stares at him, deadpan.
“Yes, Alex. I’ve heard the phrase.” James instantly regrets his patronising tone. He unfolds his arms and looks Alex in the eye. He nods. Go on. I’m all ears.
“It’s a dangerous mindset,” Alex says, finding his voice. “Everything needs nine stamps of fuckin’ approval. Communication is sluggish outside of the dev team. Other departments are chipping in with ill-informed feedback to justify their budgets.” James nods. He’s become adept at keeping outside forces at arm’s length but Marcus is right. It’s not always so easy. Where once a new idea could gestate and be explored with little interference, he now has to submit a proposal up the food chain to get the go-ahead, often having to wait weeks for approval to trickle back down. By that point, the idea could have gone stale or been forgotten entirely, to be replaced by another – at which point the whole excruciating process begins once again.
“I hear you,” James says, relaying a phrase he has heard from one of the many management courses he’s been forced to attend in the last couple of years. “Honestly. I hear you.” It seems to work. When Marcus speaks again, his agitation has subsided significantly.
“We’re all fighting for resources. HR, Sales, and Marketing are constantly sticking their grubby beaks in. I’ve lost count of how many VPs of this, that, and the other we’ve got now.”
“No joke,” Alex says. “I spend four hours a day providing updates to a steadily increasing distribution list of Versa loyalists who wake up each morning and salute the flag. It’s unsustainable.” James can’t help but smile. God, they’re right. He may be separated from these two guys by the Atlantic, but they share the same struggles.
“OK. What can I do?”
Marcus is pleasantly surprised. Here’s this American, come over from the Boston office, Head of Dev on Cyberside no less, asking how he can help. What’s more, he actually seems genuine.
“I know it's a big ask, Jim, but is there a world in which you can make sure we’re not burdened with as many auxiliary requests? If we’re expected to meet deadlines, they need to stop, or at least come from one source. One conflicts the other, which conflicts another.”
Alex eagerly nods. “If we can reduce reporting to even twice a week rather than daily, that would help too.” As a coder, James knows exactly what they’re getting at. Sometimes, it feels like the same people who hired him are determined to make it as hard as possible for him to do his job. Lately, he’s been spending a good chunk of his time playing diplomat, trying to keep the execs out of the Pit and deflecting grievances from down below. A war on two fronts, with him stuck in the middle. It’s a tale as old as time. Creativity versus money. Nothing about this is new. Same shit, different time zone.
“Right,” James says. “How does this sound? I'll talk to Virginia when we’re back in Boston about getting a sole voice in the US to liaise with you. Create a buffer between you and them. Reporting two times a week might be a push, but I’m sure I can convince them of three. Fair compromise?”
“I could live with that,” Alex responds.
“Thanks, Jim. Seriously, this means a lot,” Marcus says. “We were bricking it about bringing this up.”
“I’m glad you did,” James says, enjoying the respect he’s just earned. “It’s what I’m here for.” He’s not wrong. He was flown over to strengthen relationships with the London office and facilitate international workstreams. Five minutes in a pub has been more productive than five hours in a boardroom. Sometimes, people just need to be heard.
Alex gestures to the bar. “What do you say to another?” James pictures Virginia tapping on her watch. He taps on his own.
“Very tempting, but we better get back.”
“You’re probably right,” Marcus agrees, standing and heading to the bar to settle up.
“Nice timepiece, by the way,” Alex says, nodding at James’ watch.
“Thanks, man. Sarah got it for me last year for our fifteenth wedding anniversary. Too slick for me. What is it you guys say? You can’t polish a turd, but you can throw glitter on it?”
“Nah, man. It suits you.” James struggles to decipher whether this is a genuine compliment or a classic case of bootlicking. Either way, he’s uncomfortable. He’s never been good at taking compliments. That said, this one will give him a much-needed confidence boost that will last a few days. He’d mentioned to Sarah in passing that he’d always longed for a nice watch, but could never justify spending that kind of money on himself. It wasn’t a hint, but Sarah had clearly been taking notes. Over a dish of mama’s homemade meatballs in New York, accompanied by the second cheapest bottle of red on the menu, she presented him with the green leather Rolex box. The fact that it was scuffed was a giveaway that it was second-hand, but he hadn’t cared. She’d been putting in overtime at the hospital for months, and now he knew why. And what had he got her in return? Economy seats on a flight from Boston to New York and a cheap-yet-cheerful meal in a spaghetti house. Shit. It hits James like a punch in the gut. He’s been letting things slip with Sarah. When he gets back home, he’s got some serious work to do.
“How is the good lady wife, anyway? All good?” Alex asks.
“Yeah,” James says. “Moved into our new place last year. We actually have a separate kitchen and living room now. The American dream.” Alex slaps him on the back.
“Great, mate! Love that for you! What’s next? Is that the pitter-patter of tiny feet I hear?”
James chuckles, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer weight of the question. “Perhaps. After Beta. Everything after Beta.”
As James pulls on his jacket, Alex goes to the bar to grab Marcus. He finds him, leans in and whispers.
“So, what do you think?”
“He’s a great guy,” Marcus responds. “Clearly means well. But if he thinks he can keep the wolves from our door, he’s as blue-eyed as they come.”
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