Covent Garden in the Snow: The most gorgeous and heartwarming Christmas romance of the year!. Jules Wake
worst.’
Screw the lovely green eyes, he was horrible.
‘That’s because we don’t really need computers.’ My voice rose in indignation. We’d managed perfectly well without his interference or without stupid computers for the last … well for ever. Could they apply make-up, pin a wig, placate an unhappy singer? No. Unless I’d missed some incredible technological breakthrough which surely would have been broadcast by every paper on the planet. And even I couldn’t have missed that.
‘Of course, you do. Everyone does these days.’
‘Rubbish, we’re dealing with art.’ I shot him a disdainful look. Clearly, he had no soul. ‘Not numbers and widgets. There isn’t a right way or a wrong way to play Don Giovanni, there isn’t a definitive costume for him, or a prescriptive make-up design. It’s all open to interpretation. Not that I’d expect someone like you to understand that.’
His jaw clenched and I felt a bit guilty. Him and his attitude just reminded me too much of my parents. They didn’t approve of my job at all.
‘As I said, I’ve got a job to do here and you people need to understand that technology is here to stay.’
Did he just say you people?
‘Have you any idea how many of the disparate parts of this building are held together by computer equipment and software?’
I shook my head and shrugged. Like I cared. A computer could not put on a show. We’d managed for hundreds of years without them. Yes, I’m sure for some industries they were essential tools of the trade but we didn’t need them.
He leant forward, planting both elbows on the table, steepling his hands together. Again, I noticed they were lovely. Long fingers. Quite artistic looking. Nice nails.
‘Miss Hunter? Are you listening to me?’
‘Yes,’ I lied and focused on the grim set of his jawline. Gosh he was handsome.
I tried hard not to look at the dark hair peeking out of the top of his white shirt.
‘Every part of the operation in this building, and I mean every part, is dependent on technology.’
He paused, looking expectantly at me.
‘Sorry?’
Oh heck, I could feel myself blushing.
I put on my ‘interested’ face. Concentrate Tilly. Operation. Building. Technology. Yes, got it.
I nodded at him, with no idea what he was banging on about.
He had one view, I had another. It was all very well giving me this lecture but what did he hope to achieve? Tell me off. Tell me not to pull the plug out or open any more attachments. Blah. Blah. I knew all that, now.
I realised he was still talking and I’d tuned out.
‘… So, it is vital that everyone can use computers without potentially causing a problem elsewhere.’
I nodded anyway. Again. I’d been doing that a lot since he’d started. Hopefully he’d wind it up soon. Honestly, he could have given Wagner’s Ring Cycle a run for its money.
Suddenly he threw himself back in his chair, finding something interesting up on the ceiling. I followed his gaze and then realised he’d turned his thunderous expression on me.
‘None of this is getting through, is it?’ His tone was mild but there was a pulse just under his jawline which tipped forward, just erring on the side of pugnacious.
When he rose to his feet, for a second, I thought he might be about to strangle me. He strode around the desk.
‘Come with me.’
With a hand under my elbow he ushered me to my feet. Wow, he smelled good in an understated, subtle aftershave, sort of way. I tried not to sniff too obviously. And since when had I liked that masterful touch? Rather than shake his hand off, I let him lead me out of his office and over the corridor to a large glossy black door.
Bluebeard’s den? The IT prison cell?
Inside the room, a steady hum emanated and in the dark lots of green lights flickered and blinked in and out with synced regularity.
‘No point in asking if you know what this is,’ he said, snapping on the light. His eyes glinted as they roved across the back wall. I turned to look, which wasn’t a great move. There wasn’t much space and I was conscious of him standing right behind me, his toned thighs almost touching the back of mine.
The room had a bank of cabinets on one side filled with grey and black boxes, all of which had lots of grey wiring leading out of them along the wall and disappearing through the ceiling and away.
‘This is the main server. Every computer in this building is linked to it. If that goes down, nothing happens. La Bohème doesn’t go on stage. Every computer is networked through this. If something goes wrong on one computer in your department, such as it being infected with a virus…’ He paused expectantly. I turned around and gave him a weak grimace.
He responded with a very serious look to underline his very important point, but it just had my heart doing a ridiculous cartwheel. Who knew that stern and serious could be sexy? Except he wasn’t sexy and I was spoken for.
‘It can impact on the whole network. This server manages a whole host of systems throughout the building. Systems that every production going on stage is totally reliant on. There’s the system which manages the ticket sales in the box office. Another one which programmes the lighting desk. No server, no stage lights. Everything in the music library is catalogued on a computer. There are thousands of scores stored here, finding the right one for the woodwind section for La Bohème could take months, without that catalogue. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.’
Now when he stared down at me, I shuffled and swallowed. The blood pounding quite hard in my veins. Fear, obviously at how close I’d come to messing things up. Who knew that a little box with all those wires could have such significance?
‘When you happily downloaded your little virus, it slowed the whole network down. Every computer in the building was busy sending out emails to every contact on every email account in the building. To stop it we had to shut down most of the network, in order to ensure that the vital systems could carry on. Luckily for you the real damage only started after the opera had finished for the night. Otherwise the show would not have gone on.’
Shit. That would have been serious. We’d weathered storms, riots outside, transport strikes, but we’d never missed a show.
‘But I thought we had virus protection things and isn’t that your job to install those things?’
His jaw tensed and I could see his throat working. I got the distinct impression he was holding something in. ‘They work just fine, as long as idiots don’t open suspect attachments.’
He leaned back against the door with his arms folded. ‘Can I ask that you never, ever, ever open another attachment if you don’t know where it’s come from or who has sent it to you? In fact, don’t answer or respond to any email unless you know who has sent it or you ascertain that it has come from a bona fide contact. Do you have any concept of e-safety?’
‘Erm, sort of.’ My half-hearted smile elicited another narrow-eyed stare.
‘It’s about keeping yourself safe on-line. Protecting your personal information. Privacy settings on Facebook. Limiting the information you share on-line. In emails. Twitter, etcetera.’
‘You can rest easy there. I have a habit of frying my phones, so I don’t tend to do much on-line stuff.’
‘Frying your phones?’ The patient tone radiated scepticism.
‘Yes. Phones. Watches. Those Fitbit things. Anything electrical seems to be allergic to me.’
‘Really?’
I