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The paramedics arrived at the reception about twenty minutes after I did. Evelyn had stopped breathing at this point, and I was sure I was going to throw up. I had been working late in my office when the party noises from the boardroom down the hall had finally broken my concentration and started to bother me. The company I worked for, TechniGroup Consulting Inc., or TGC for short, was holding a cocktail party for the latest company it had bought out, Marshton Systems. Marshton was the eighteenth company acquired by TGC in the last twenty-two months and each time an acquisition closed, we held a reception in the main boardroom a few days after the official closing. The acquired employees and select groups of TGC employees would rub shoulders, share war stories and embellish their work experience. Each of these little get-togethers was a command performance if you received an invitation, but I tried at all costs to avoid them. I worked in the legal department at TGC where most of the legal work was done on the acquisitions, so by the time the party rolled around I had usually had my fill of the owners and executives of the acquired companies. When the party sounds finally seeped through my closed office door, I reluctantly turned off my computer, made a weak attempt at tidying up the chaos on my desk and headed down the hall. The boardroom was packed with about sixty people. The bullshit was flying and the smell of cigar smoke and scotch permeated the air. Office buildings in Toronto had been smoke-free for a few years but that didn't deter some of our folks from lighting up. Municipal by-laws didn't apply at TGC after hours. I eased in the door and surveyed the crowd before I tried to make my way through the crowd to the bartender on the far side of the room. "Kate," I heard in my ear. It sounded like a whisper but could have been a bellow because of the noise level. I turned around and looked at Evelyn, whose cheeks were so red, she looked like she had a sunburn. "Ev, what’s wrong?" I asked. I had to raise my voice to be heard over the noise. "I’m fine, it’s just hot in here," she said. She waved her hand back and forth in front of her face and changed the subject. "Another good turnout. Amazing isn’t it, how everyone shows up when there’s free food and booze." We laughed. "I need a soda water. Wait for me here and I’ll be right back." "Evelyn," someone to my left called out. I turned around and watched Tom James dragging an unbelievably handsome man with him. The perfect specimen he was towing behind him was Philip Winston, the Third, Vice-President of Operations of Marshton Systems Corp., the company we had just acquired. Philip "don’t call me Phil" Winston and I had spent a considerable amount of time together over the last couple of weeks and I was less than enamoured with him. I started to push my way through the crowd towards the bar. Ev grabbed the back of my jacket and said, "Don’t leave me Kate." I turned around to her, smiled and said, "They’re all yours, Ev." I felt a wee bit sorry for Evelyn, having to put up with those two peas in a pod. Tom James, Thomas O. James on his business cards, was our resident Vice-President of Human Resources. If his life depended on it, he couldn’t make a decision without forming a committee and I had nicknamed him our "Tower of Jell-O" to go with his initials. Tom was my leading candidate to be the poster boy for the Peter Principle. Philip Winston on the other hand had impressed the powers-that-be in our organization. I was still reserving judgment but was certain no one would ask my opinion. Philip clearly wanted a job with our company so he was still on his best behaviour. Physically Tom and Philip were very similar. Both were tall, dark and handsome, and they both obviously worked-out. I knew Tom didn’t work out for the pleasure of it or because it was good for his health; Tom worked out because it made him look good. Philip on the other hand was rumoured to have had played college football in the U.S. and that could account for his good physique. Personally, I found it hard to believe that Philip would expose himself to something as physical as football because it might have marred his perfect image. Two peas in a pod. Nice suits, nice hair, great skin, great smell. Big deal. Where was the substance? I sighed as I thought about the possibilities of a guy with the looks and physique of Philip or Tom and the personality of, who? I’d have to keep looking. I veered to the left to avoid a group of beancounters who were patting themselves on the back for closing the deal. Right, I thought. Those idiots couldn’t close a door without direction. I lifted my hand to wave to the Chairman’s secretary across the room. Chris Oakes, the Chairman of the Board was flicking cigar ashes on the boardroom rug and I thought we’d be lucky if he didn’t set the place on fire. As I watched in amazement, he casually put the lit cigar on the boardroom table, as if it was a large ashtray, and turned around to grin at one of the Board members. Idiot. Christopher Oakes had very large front teeth and when he smiled, which was rarely, he reminded me of a beaver. There was something dark on one of his front teeth and I wondered if it was a leftover from breakfast or lunch. My stomach turned slightly at the thought. Being anywhere near the man usually made me nauseous because if his last meal wasn’t stuck between his teeth, it was stuck to his face. Or his ear. Or his neck. It went without saying that a goodly portion of his meals became accessories to his wardrobe. Breakfast on his tie, lunch on his breast pocket. Sometimes it wasn’t food on his face or neck. It was toothpaste or shaving cream. I remember as a child watching my father shave and the very last step he took was to wash his face to get the shaving cream off. Dad would fill his hands with water and rub the water all over his face and neck. He did this a couple of times. On the off-chance there were traces of shaving cream left, Dad would get them when he toweled his face dry. This display of male ablutions has stayed with me all these years and I’ve been tempted many times to ask Chris if he’d like a live demonstration in the art of cleaning one’s face after shaving. The man had obviously never had a lesson. Chris comes to the office every day with more than just traces of shaving cream on his face. Globules hang from his earlobes. Patches remain under his nose. Worse than the shaving cream though is the toothpaste which sits on top of the shaving cream. Chris either does not wash his face or he does everything in reverse order. The man was a slob of the first order. I’ve tried to describe this to people but no one believes me. Ask anyone at our office. I finally made my way to the bar and shouldered my way through. "Hey Mark," I said. "Kate." He smiled. "Soda water with lime, right?" I smiled back. Mark worked in the mailroom and was one of the few employees entitled to collect overtime pay. He volunteered to tend bar for these occasions because he could always use the extra money. And the tequila shots he snuck on the side were just an added bonus. I tried my John Wayne imitation and leaned on the bar. It was hard to lean your elbow on anything and look casual about it standing up when you’re only five feet tall. Actually, four feet, eleven inches but I tell everyone five feet. My mother used to tell me my grandmother was a legal midget at four foot ten, so I wasn’t going to push it. I was reaching inside my jacket to tuck my blouse back in when I heard a commotion on the other side of the room. I craned my neck and stood on tiptoes to see what was going on. The conversation level in the room had completely changed and I could now hear panicked voices. I turned to Mark. "They’ve probably just realized they bought a dud of a company and Oakes is trying to sell