​​Gina Latimer sat comfortably in her immaculately tailored navy suit and even more comfortably in her first-class seat. She nodded to the host confirming her acceptance to pour her a second cup of steaming filter coffee on the small table in front of her as she embarked upon her commute to Canary Wharf in London, the sprawling landscape of the West Sussex countryside outside her window flying past.
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Gina, like many senior executives forced to live outside the M25 to pretend they still enjoyed “balance,” was a seasoned veteran when it came to commuting in.
The rail service in the UK since privatisation was, by most metrics, catastrophic — an ongoing trainwreck of delays, cancellations, and crumpled apologies from faceless private rail operators, all the while looking at what assets and services they could sell off to the highest bidder to generate profits. The service in what was old British Rail Network Southeast area of the 80s was amongst the most congested in the country. That is not to say less busy areas were by any means good, just slightly less shit. Matters were so terrible that a group of commuters would eventually come together, and crowdfund a legal team to bring a Judicial Review against the government for their handling of the contract and failure to hold the rail operators to account. It would be the first Judicial Review of its kind, driven entirely by morning rage, missed school plays and wet umbrellas.
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The 06:45 from Horsham to London Bridge that Gina Latimer enjoyed was a very different beast. The proverbial diamond in the rough. Gina was not a trainspotter by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew the secrets of the 06:45. It had a reputation among seasoned commuters. They called it The Angie Doll Express.
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In a world of trains that skipped stations to meet punctuality stats and avoid fines, this one was sacred. It was the one Angie Doll, the Director of Operations for the rail operator used to commute into her office at London Bridge. And so, by miraculous coincidence, it never once got delayed. Never cancelled. The conductors smiled. The refreshment trolley was actually stocked. The train itself seemed to glide into London with supernatural punctuality. Commuters cynically mused the train itself was powered by the tears of children whose parents had missed their sports day or nativity play, due to being stuck at a points failure at Clapham Junction or left stranded at London Victoria due to a temporary shortage of staff.
The cherry on the top? It was an express service. No stops. No jostling. No shifting seats. As close to an airline service as Britain’s railways could dream of delivering.
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People in the know knew of The Angie Doll Express. Gina was one of them. When you reached a certain rung on the corporate ladder, these things found their way to you — the right trains, the right after-dinner speakers, the right email disclaimers to avoid litigation. The world bent, slightly, to accommodate you. Much like how lifts at Canary Wharf emptied when Gina approached them. How a malfunctioning security pass never needed more than her name to open any door. How her IT issues never lasted more than five minutes — before a brand-new device was delivered to her desk.
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The other passengers on the Angie Doll were part of a quiet executive elite — sharing this secret like members of a private guild. For Gina, the commute was less travel and more ritual. A spa treatment before battle. So when her BlackBerry buzzed halfway through East Croydon, she wasn’t expecting chaos.
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An email from Elliot Rothberg the President of the bank, meant this was serious.
From: Elliot Rothberg
Subject: Major shitstorm yesterday, thanks to Singapore AKA Ostergeddon
Need you to do a PR piece, interview first thing this morning at Canary Wharf with BBC. These are the details. See below.
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Gina thumbed her Blackberry sidewheel scrolling down, raised an immaculately threaded eyebrow, and muttered aloud:
“Who the fuck is this Bob Osterhagen?”
She didn’t know who he was. She didn’t care to find out either, but fate had other plans.
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2010 – Heathrow Business Class Lounge
The boarding call snapped her back to 2010. Gina closed the folder, slipped it neatly into her case, and stood, smoothing down her jacket with the kind of composure that made junior staff nervous.
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Recalling that train journey and memories of drafting that press release had put her back in the moment. She’d refreshed her memories of everything she personally knew. But the next sixty pages were uncharted territory. She’d never bothered to dig into what had actually caused Bob’s email disaster, or the finer details of those two chaotic weeks with Dominion and the transfer. Until now, it hadn’t been her job to care.
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Now it was. And she intended to read every single page, building the story one line at a time. Whatever mess Bob had buried, she was going to exhume it at 38,000 feet. And when she did, there wouldn’t be enough server space in the world to handle what was coming.