Page 18 of Van Cort
I’ve googled him, done a little snooping and pulled up the financials that his company has filed over the last year. He is rich. But the company isn’t where the wealth sits. I’d love to get my hands on his records and the others, which I assume will be linked to his listed company, and run a full analysis, but I’m betting it’s easier for me to put my hands back on him rather than his filings.
And I shouldn’t waste any more of my time on him.
“Andie, have you got a minute? There’s a meeting on the Swanson account, and we have some questions.” Antony’s face is blank, but his hands are in his pockets, and his eyes skip over me, avoiding eye contact.
“Sure,” I reply politely, already feeling the drop of my stomach.
He escorts me in, and I see it’s a bigger meeting than he’s let on, with the head of section and Mr Whitham, who oversees this office, also in the room.
My hands brush the front of my skirt as Antony shows me to a seat.
“Thank you, Miss Anderson. Now, we have a few questions based on the report that was resubmitted. Antony.”
“Right, thanks. Yes, Miss Anderson. Can you explain what the cause of the discrepancies is on the two reports here?” He slides two folders over, but I already know what will be in them. My report that I ran. And the one that he asked me to look over.
“Um, I’m not sure.”
“Your name is on both,” the head of section states.
“I don’t believe the initial report was mine.” I close the file and sit back, my stomach churning and my heart racing.
“But it is your work? Excuse me, Miss Anderson, but I’d expect a financial analyst at this company to be more diligent than this,” Mr Whitham joins in my criticism.
“May I ask who submitted the final filing? And may I also ask to review the investment portfolio against this? It may be able to highlight the discrepancies you’re concerned with.”
“The investments have nothing to do with this report, Miss Anderson,” Antony states. I know why he doesn’t want to look there, and I will not take the fall for him.
“I disagree.” I shoot daggers at him. It’s enough of a pushback to have the others at the table looking to Antony for a response.
I should never have agreed to help him. But I always do because if you work hard, you should be rewarded. That was ground into me as a child. Always strive for more, push myself for more, and it worked. I was rewarded with a full-ride scholarship. But in the real world, I’m realising, frustratingly slowly, that isn’t always the case, and the nicest don’t finish first.
I still don’t throw Antony under the bus. Not completely.
“You do have a point, Miss Anderson. Lines 67 through 89 are the ones in question. They have the biggest variable, and against the income line. Antony?”
“I can certainly pull that for you for review,” he snivels.
“Thank you, Miss Anderson.” The section head seems less interested in me now.
“Am I free to go?” I look around at the men at the table, determined to steel my spine.
“You are.” Mr Whitham waves me off.
I stand and leave without looking back.
Never again will I say yes under duress, I vow, as I leave the conference room.
I head straight for my desk, pack up and leave the office, not caring that it’s early. I’m fuming. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier at work. How dare he? How dare he pass off his sub-par work and mistake, and put my name to it after I told him explicitly not to?
This week really is not working out.
***
My head feels thick, as if it’s stuffed with cotton wool, as I come round.
There was wine.
Most of the bottle, if I remember rightly.
