The Edge

by Jamie Collinson

  ‘Have it quickly then.’

  Adam felt a little shiver of anticipation. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because after you’ve had a line of the potent gear I’ve got on me, there’ll be no more eating for a while,’ he said.

  Adam forced down a taco, swigging a beer as he did so, and the pair of them took the stairs down to the office.

  ‘Shit,’ Adam said as they did so, looking at his watch. ‘It’s a bit early.’ In his head, little red warning lights blinked among the fog of excitement.

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ Craig said.

  At Adam’s desk, Craig carefully ground up and carved out a couple of thin, absurdly long lines of cocaine.

  ‘Race you,’ he said. They lowered their rolled-up notes, like two mosquitoes alighting on skin, and hoovered the lines up hungrily.

  ‘Shit, those were big,’ Adam said, grinning and sniffing.

  ‘I don’t wanna be coming down here every twenty minutes,’ Craig said.

  ‘How much have you got?’

  ‘I might have anticipated that question.’ Craig fished a baggie out of his pocket. ‘This one’s yours. Eighty bucks please.’

  Adam forked over the cash, feeling a warm wave of something approximating love for his friend. This awful behaviour was something he had largely left behind him, in London, in the bad old days. But not entirely.

  As they walked back across the office, his brain felt softer, lighter. Confidence lit in him like the power being turned on, and tiny fireworks went off in his head.

  ‘Hell yes,’ he said, slapping Craig’s back.

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, the roof was almost full. Adam was pleasantly surprised, and wondered if he might have miscalculated the band’s appeal. There was still no sign of Angelina, but she was not known as an early arriver.

  Craig was gabbing with a female music supervisor whom Adam had met briefly before. She’d seemed to him a forbiddingly high achiever who’d taken only a cursory interest in their brief conversation. In Craig’s presence, though, she was already touching her long, dark hair, and smiling through bright red painted lips as he gesticulated, telling her something funny.

  Benji appeared. ‘This is great, man,’ he said, looking around, his expression a touch manic.

  ‘I know!’ Adam said. He felt a druggy rush of warmth towards the manager, and slapped him, too, on the back. There was a large, soggy patch of sweat there, Adam noted happily.

  Benji grinned. ‘What time’s sunset?’

  Adam glanced at his watch. ‘Starts in earnest in forty minutes. Let’s get ’em on at 7.45.’

  The elevator pinged in its tower, and disgorged another large group of people.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Benji said. ‘What’s the capacity?’

  ‘I think it’s forty or something,’ Adam said. ‘According to the permit.’

  ‘Got to be more than forty up here already…’ Benji said.

  ‘It’s a great turnout,’ Adam replied, smiling broadly, slapping him on the back again. ‘More the merrier, eh!’

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, delighted to see Angelina’s name on the screen.

  ‘Hi!’ she said when he answered. ‘We’re outside.’

  ‘Great,’ he said, quelling the annoyance that she, as usual, hadn’t come alone. ‘I’ll come down.’

  When he emerged into the bright fluorescent light of the corridor at the bottom of the building, Adam realized he was really quite high. Must be careful, he thought to himself as he pushed open the door. Pace yourself.

  To his relief, Angelina was with another girl, who peered up at him from beneath a wide-brimmed black hat. He kissed Angelina delicately on the cheek – knowing she didn’t like public displays – and shook the other girl’s hand. She didn’t smile as he did so, he noted. Also, he’d instantly forgotten her name. He had become terrible at remembering names. It was something to do with the heat of the moment of meeting new people.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ he said, feeling expansive and welcoming. ‘You’re just in time.’

  Angelina paused at the bottom of the stairs, glancing meaningfully at her towering heels.

  ‘Please tell me there’s an elevator,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Adam nodded. ‘Of course, sorry.’

  He led them through to a hot little sunlit room into which the elevator opened, and pressed the button to call it.

  ‘Do you, like, live here?’ Angelina’s friend asked, once they were on their way. She had very silky, straight blonde hair. Her expression was a curious one, which he’d noted on a few young women in LA: a sort of slack-faced, lifeless pout that actually looked – presumably accidentally – like permanent disgust.

  ‘No, just work,’ he told her, smiling.

  Angelina’s heels were patent black platforms, which ended in straps around her ankles and gave her an additional five inches of height. Even so, she was still six inches shorter than Adam. Above the shoes were sheer black tights and a black leather one-piece thing that he thought she’d once called a romper. Her Asian-American skin was smooth, and her face sparkled a little from something in the makeup she had on.

  He placed a hand on the small of her back, but she moved away from it fractionally as the doors opened.

  ‘Drinks!’ he said.

  ‘Wow…’ The blonde girl surveyed the scene, mouth hanging open. ‘It’s, like, really intense up here.’

  ‘It’s a good turnout.’

  ‘This is awesome,’ Angelina said, carefully eyeing the crowd of chattering industry types.

  ‘Drinks?’ Adam said again.

  After a brief discussion, they agreed on vodka tonics.

  Adam squeezed his way to the drinks trolley and mixed the cocktails, procuring himself another whisky while he was at it. Craig winked at him from where he stood with the music supervisor. She was now the one doing the talking, Adam noted.

  ‘Here we go,’ Adam said, passing the drinks.

  ‘Uh, where’s the restroom?’ Angelina asked.

  ‘Back the way we came.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take you.’

  Adam guided her through the growing crowd, Angelina tottering on her shoes. The elevator spewed out another six or seven people before they could get back into it.

  Somewhere, distantly, a brighter warning light blinked more urgently in his head. This one, too, he ignored.

  Inside the office, Angelina gave him a kiss on the lips. He slipped his tongue into her mouth briefly before she pulled away.

  ‘I’m celebrating tonight,’ she said, smiling at him.

  ‘That’s great! What happened?’

  ‘That guy Striker, at CAA? He wants to rep me for my poems.’

  Angelina had just over half a million followers on Instagram, where she regularly posted pictures of herself, fashionably dressed and in an enviable location – usually looking dreamily and/or moodily at a landscape – accompanied by a couple of lines of poetry, and at least a dozen hashtags. Whenever someone asked what she did, she would compose a very serious face and say: ‘I’m an Instagram poet?’

  ‘That’s awesome,’ Adam told her, trying not to sound brittle. ‘Well done. We can celebrate together.’

  ‘So this is where you, like, work?’ she said, looking at the office.

  ‘Yes. Do you really need the restroom?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me come in with you.’

  ‘Ew! No way.’

  ‘Come on, I won’t look.’

  ‘I have to take this thing off to pee,’ she said, glancing at the leather one-piece as though it had somehow colonized her against her will. Playsuit, he remembered. That’s what Sofia had called hers. It had been made out of a sort of towelling material, and she’d only worn it in their flat.

  He shook the memory away.

  ‘Great. You can do that while I make you a line of coke,’ he said, grinning back at Angelina.

  ‘You have coke?’ she asked
, her eyes widening. ‘Oh my God. You’re actually crazy.’

  Inside the bathroom, he leaned against the wall as she slipped the romper off, pulled down her panties as she sat, and peed. A pleasant tinkling sound emerged from between her legs.

  ‘I can’t believe I let you in here. Stop watching me!’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Adam replied, grinning.

  When she stood up again he moved over to her, putting his hands on her hips.

  ‘Hold your horses, buddy,’ she said. ‘It’s a little early.’

  ‘Read me some of your poetry,’ he said.

  ‘Like, now?’

  He felt her tense slightly in anticipation, and took a step back.

  ‘Yes, now. That’s what we’re celebrating, isn’t it?’

  With a dainty shuffle, Angelina stepped away from the toilet and composed herself. Her smooth brow reshaped into the hint of a frown, below which she widened her eyes to imply an elemental innocence.

  ‘Sadness is like a bright star,’ she said. ‘… Swallowed, by a black hole.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ he said, moving over to her again and kissing her. He lowered his lips to her neck and kissed her there, too, then bit gently at her shoulder. She grunted, and her hand slipped into the rear pocket of his jeans, squeezing his right buttock.

  For some amazing, bizarre reason, Angelina could be aroused – despite herself – due to her Pavlovian response to biting.

  There was a wide, granite surface around the sink, and Adam lifted Angelina up and sat her on it, biting harder at her neck. She pushed him away and leaned back on her hands.

  ‘So, you want a line?’ he said.

  ‘Oh God,’ she moaned. ‘You’re a bad influence. Shouldn’t we be getting back up there? Aren’t you, like, working right now?’

  ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I’m taking a regulation break.’

  He made her a line, and as she leaned over to snort it, he kissed and bit her neck again, and she groaned in a way that made him hopeful. When she sat up, he crouched and attempted to pull her bra down to kiss her breasts. She moved one hand to them, preventing him, and the other to the back of his head.

  Less hopeful now, Adam reached her stomach, kneeling, and sucked the taut flesh. It was too taut to bite. He was like a dog nipping at a beach ball.

  She pulled him away by the hair, looking down at him, unimpressed.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I think it’s time to get out of the bathroom.’

  ‘Baby…’ he said, but his phone rang out loudly from his pocket, cutting him off. He glanced down at it, all hope abandoned. Angelina was standing, turning, pulling up the romper and checking her nose.

  He let the call go to voicemail, but it rang out again while Angelina was reapplying her lipstick. It was Scott.

  ‘What’s up?’ Adam asked.

  ‘Are you, like, around?’ Scott said.

  ‘In the office. Bathroom.’

  ‘Ah, OK. Cool,’ Scott replied.

  ‘What’s up?’ Adam repeated. Fucking spit it out for once in your life, you…

  ‘Just wanted to tell you they’re about to start. It’s pretty crazy up here!’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Adam said. Angelina was still carefully applying the makeup, her back to him. He pulled the wrap of coke out of his pocket and tipped a little onto the granite, his phone tucked between shoulder and chin. ‘Any problems?’

  ‘There’s a lot of people. We might have gone overboard with the invites a little?’

  ‘Should be fine though, right?’ Adam said.

  ‘I guess?’ Scott said.

  ‘See you in two.’ Adam hung up.

  Angelina had turned around. She smoothed her clothing, then looked down at him and glared.

  For a brief, horrifying moment, he saw himself through her eyes. A man in the wrong half of his thirties, on his knees in a toilet, half crazed with drugs and thwarted desire.

  ‘Bump?’ he suggested.

  * * *

  Back on the roof, they were confronted with a tight wall of backs. Adam tapped shoulders, doing his best Hugh Grantish apologies and making gaps to slip between them, Angelina’s hand in his. Her friend reappeared, her displeasure at Angelina having been gone so long apparent even through her permanent look of revulsion. They found Craig by the drinks trolley.

  ‘This is a bloody smash,’ he said, grinning. ‘You know Philippa?’ He gestured to the music supervisor, who was now apparently attached to him.

  ‘Yes, I think we met at your office, when I first moved out,’ Adam said.

  ‘That’s right. Good to see you again.’ She was swaying slightly – with happiness rather than drunkenness, Adam thought – moving her shoulders as she spoke. Her olive skin glowed as if lit from inside. Adam had the impression she’d have liked to throw an arm around Craig. Not for the first time, he wondered what his friend’s secret was. He was able not only to sleep with successful, intelligent women in the music industry, apparently at will, but also to leave them saying nice things about him in his wake.

  ‘You remember Angelina?’ Adam asked Craig.

  ‘Ah yes, how you doing?’ Craig dipped his head, held out his hands and smiled broadly, as though confronted with one of his favourite people in all the world. He kissed Angelina on the cheeks. Thankfully, she introduced her friend herself. This time, Adam held firm to her name – Charlie.

  ‘We’re celebrating tonight,’ Adam said.

  ‘Excellent news,’ Craig said. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I found an agent, for my poems?’ Angelina told him.

  ‘Sick,’ Craig replied.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Philippa said.

  Angelina, sensing status, took the chance to start working on Philippa.

  ‘Have you ever thought about writing poems yourself?’ Craig asked Adam. ‘You have that poet sort of vibe actually. A bit sad. All alone in the world.’ He grinned evilly.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ Adam told him, pleased that a Craig-shaped joke had materialized for him, ‘there’s nothing that can’t be best expressed in a dick pic. Happy dick, excited dick, angry dick… And of course, crying dick is easy.’

  ‘Fucking touché!’ Craig said, delighted, and slapped Adam on the back.

  The first notes of music resonated from the far side of the roof – just loud enough to shock everyone into silence. Pure, metallic spears from a synthesizer that stabbed and darted through the gathered crowd. The guitarist joined in with a simple, chiming riff from his Gibson 355, the two sounds weaving into an ominous melody that seemed to freeze everything. Taking the opportunity, Adam poured a vodka tonic and handed it to Charlie with a smile – his best guess at how to make some sort of connection with her.

  Pouring himself a large whisky, he turned to face the band. Angelina had stepped forward, ahead of him and to his right, and he placed his hand on the small of her back. She turned her head, smiled quickly, and didn’t move away.

  Christ, he thought, whisky and cocaine merging warmly. This is golden. And golden was right. Tonight’s particular blend of smog and fading sunlight lit the rooftop in a yellowy glow.

  What have I been worried about? Adam thought. Here he was, after all, older maybe, but running his own office, throwing events, sleeping – or, at least, trying to – with a beautiful woman. High. Drunk. Happy. This, surely, was what he’d dreamed of? This was rock ’n’ goddamn roll. Maybe, just maybe, he needed to allow himself to enjoy it.

  Scott appeared at his side. ‘Yooooo,’ he said.

  Adam’s happiness dipped slightly, but he rallied it and slapped Scott on the back.

  Scott glanced past him, towards the music supervisor.

  ‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Philippa came. She’s great.’

  ‘She sure is,’ Adam said.

  ‘I like her,’ Scott said. His blue eyes blinked, once, as he watched her.

  ‘I think you might have missed your chance there, mate,’ Adam told him.

  Scott’s head clicked left a notch, and he frown
ed, his upper lip curling as he saw Craig.

  Someone bumped Adam from behind. The roof really was quite full. ‘Where’s the security guard?’ Adam asked Scott, remembering they’d agreed to hire one.

  ‘He’s down at street level,’ Scott said. ‘I thought it might look kinda cool. Like a more legit event.’

  Adam frowned. ‘And where’s Ernesto, and Beau?’ he asked. ‘I think we might need some more help up here.’

  ‘They’re Instagramming people arriving. Walking past the guard and shit.’

  Adam took a deep breath. ‘OK. Would you mind asking one of them to come up?’ He scanned the roof for Camille, but couldn’t see her.

  The pang of worry was interrupted by the singer starting up. His tenuous falsetto merged perfectly with the synths and guitar, flowing around them, three streams of sound intertwined. Beneath it all, a slow, chugging house beat kicked in. Adam sniffed, pulling more coke down into his throat, stoking up the euphoria again as the bitter chemical taste spread into his mouth. He sipped the whisky. Shit, maybe even the band weren’t as bad as he’d thought.

  He moved his hand down to Angelina’s ass, and stroked her left buttock. The fact she didn’t move it away was surely another sign. This was going to be a great night after all!

  As the band reached the end of the first song – a sort of electronic blues that seemed made for this moment, there and then, on a rooftop in Los Angeles as the sun dipped behind the mountains and stroked the gathered people with the warm farewell of its final rays – a round of applause broke out.

  As it faded, Adam heard the elevator ping.

  What happened next would be much debated over the subsequent days. Despite the drink and the drugs, Adam remembered it painfully clearly. There was a sense of pushing from behind. Craig actually stumbled forward, spilling his drink and laughing.

  ‘What the fuck?’ he said.

  Someone shouted, ‘Look out.’ There was another push, harder this time. Adam described it later, to the fire department, as a surge. More people asked ‘What the fuck?’ more angrily than Craig had. Philippa had turned around, and Adam saw that she suddenly looked afraid.

  There didn’t seem to be any space between them any more. Angelina was pressed up against his front – not, in itself, unpleasant – and Scott and Craig either side of him. Someone large and unseen was jammed up behind him. A chilly wave of panic spread through the crowd and reached the band, who paused on the verge of playing their second song, glancing at Benji, trapped in a corner behind them.