The Edge

by Jamie Collinson

  When he’d finished, he considered drawing an immense, erect penis on the edict too, but decided that might be a step too far. After all, it might not be the best time for something like that to get back to the Autodidact.

  For quite a long moment, he felt much better. It was only afterwards, when propping it back up, that he realized how crumpled the previously very uncrumpled, lovingly created sheet of card was.

  Scott, Adam realized with a small tremor of panic, would certainly notice this. He was someone who owned a purpose-made, Plexiglas-covered display board, onto which he’d fastened the ticket and, later, the backstage laminate, for every single gig he’d ever attended. Adam reeled at the psychology of a person who’d begun this project at the age of twelve. As someone who’d destroyed his Guns N’ Roses CDs on discovery of Nirvana, he couldn’t conceive of anyone having a personality so continuous, and so consistent.

  One day, he thought, I will get my hands on that board, and I will draw the biggest, most lovingly crafted cock that has ever been drawn.

  The A & R edict dragged him back into the here and now. Soon, Scott would come to work. It would be glaringly obvious that someone had taken his special notice, done something strange and aggressive with it, and then put it back in place. With a touch of genuine shame, Adam realized that the only person who’d do something like that was him.

  Heat rose up from under his shirt and flushed into his face, the panic coming over him in a wave. He glanced around, and noticed the stack of LPs beside his desk. Picking half of them up, he placed them on his desk, put Scott’s special card on top of them, and placed the other half on top of that. Pressing down on the stack, he felt sweat break out on his back and under his arms.

  He’d just removed the top stack when the door downstairs opened. Shit, he thought. The card was now very flat, but very creased, as opposed to crumpled. It had an aged appearance now, like a flower petal – or a gig ticket – tenderly pressed. Fuck it, he thought. Deny everything.

  Hastily, he put the notice back in its place and sat down in his chair, resting on its arms and sticking his legs out to affect a relaxed, unflustered pose.

  Ernesto, the studious in-house press officer, appeared on the stairs, his hair neatly parted at the side and his shirt as pristine as Scott’s notice had been not so long before. Ernesto was one of the few members of staff who seemed to find Adam’s management style entirely reasonable. In fact, it seemed to Adam that Ernesto actually looked up to him.

  ‘Hey,’ he said as he emerged into the office.

  ‘Good morning!’ Adam replied, more loudly than he’d intended.

  ‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ Ernesto said, smiling. ‘Want me to make coffee?’

  ‘Please,’ Adam said gratefully.

  Ernesto nodded and began to turn back to the staircase, but something had apparently caught his eye. He glanced downwards from Adam’s face, his expression clouding over momentarily.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, as though he’d noticed something he thought it best to mention. He hesitated, and then apparently thought better of it, setting off down the stairs. Adam could have sworn that the young PR’s cheeks had reddened slightly as he did so.

  Ernesto having disappeared, Adam glanced down now too. A bead of sweat ran down his temple as his worst fear was confirmed. His belt and flies were undone.

  He tried to think of conclusions, other than the obvious one – that his boss was an office masturbator – that Ernesto might reach as to what he’d been doing.

  None of them gave him much hope.

  * * *

  Finally, coffee at his side, his face hidden from Ernesto’s glance by his laptop, he saw that an email had come in from Isa, with the subject line LA.

  Seeing it crystallized an oncoming headache. When he put his fingers to his brow, he could feel a small vein in his temple pulsing under his touch.

  His hangover was clearly reverting to the common or garden variety: dread and exhaustion topped off with a dose of persecution mania.

  He opened the email, into which the Autodidact and Serena had both been copied:

  Hi Adam

  It’s been a long time, I hope you’re doing good. I’m really looking forward to rejoining the company and moving out to LA. Jason suggested we have a Skype call to talk about it. I’ve got a fair few questions. Would today work for you?

  I could do it at 5 p.m. my time if that works.

  All best,

  Isa x

  This is really going to happen, Adam thought. Bubble wrap, I’m coming for you.

  A small part of him dying, he replied:

  Yes, it’s great news. 5 p.m. is fine. Call me then.

  A

  He looked at his watch. 5 p.m. in Britain would arrive in ten minutes’ time in Los Angeles.

  Scott appeared just as Adam was awaiting the call.

  ‘Morning,’ Adam said to him.

  ‘Yoooo,’ Scott said.

  ‘Good evening?’ Adam asked.

  ‘It was great. Hung out at Casa Nueva and saw James Blake. That place is so awesome.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Adam said. My evening was lovely too, thanks very much.

  Scott sniffed, loudly, twitching his head upwards as he did so. Adam watched from the corner of his eye. Scott didn’t seem to have noticed anything wrong with his manifesto. He put his headphones in, opened up his Spotify playlist, and began tapping away at a chat window and sniffing every few seconds.

  Adam, who had been raised not to sniff repeatedly – let alone loudly – in public, flinched each time he did so.

  At 9.15, Adam’s Skype rang out, a picture of Isa smiling and squinting on a bright beach appearing on his screen. ‘What fresh hell is this?’ he muttered, and clicked to accept, putting his headphones in.

  Isa’s head materialized on the screen. She didn’t look any older than when he’d last seen her, more than two years previously. Her hair was still straightened, framing her large cheekbones and alert, wary eyes – the face he’d once known so well. He tried to read her expression, looking for the hatred he was sure she felt, but she’d always been good at making herself hard to read.

  He had a vivid flashback to the last time he’d seen her on Skype. They’d been having quite explicit screen sex. Now, the sudden recollection made sweat break out on his brow.

  ‘Hi, Adam,’ she said, flashing a quick smile.

  ‘Hello,’ he replied.

  ‘How’s everything going?’

  ‘Good, thanks. Busy as ever.’

  ‘I’m sure…’ Isa said. Adam was fairly certain he detected a note of sarcasm, emphasized by the short pause.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘How’s life in LA? Do you like it out there?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Most of the time it’s a great place to live.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ she said. ‘I can’t quite picture you in LA.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. You’re so neurotic and English. You don’t really do the whole laid-back thing, do you?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Adam said. ‘But there’s plenty of neurosis in LA. Anyway, it sounds as though you’ll see me out here for yourself soon enough.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘I’m very excited.’

  ‘Me too,’ Adam said. ‘What happened with the degree course? Everyone said you were really pleased to get onto it.’

  ‘It wasn’t for me. Full of posh boys trying to get bigger jobs in finance or whatever.’

  ‘Right…’

  There was silence for a moment, and Adam tried to think of something to say.

  ‘How’s everything else?’ he asked. ‘How’s your brother doing?’

  Isa had been born and raised in east London, by first-generation Jamaican immigrants. She and her older sister were very successful, but she had a younger brother who was troubled. He’d been the cause of many a hushed, urgent telephone call on the office staircase in London.

  A slight frown tightened over her face, and despite the digitization and t
he thousands of miles, Adam felt a distinct chill emanate from her.

  ‘He’s fine.’

  He hadn’t intended the question to injure her, and wished he hadn’t asked it.

  ‘Good,’ he said, glancing away from the screen. ‘So where shall we start?’

  ‘Well,’ Isa said, with a professional smile, ‘Jason tells me you’re in charge of the HR there. I’d like you to run me through it all, please. Health plans, office policy and all that sort of thing.’

  Adam took a deep breath. ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘I’d also like to discuss exactly where I’ll be sitting in the office, and what the layout is, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said.

  ‘And Jason told me you might be able to help with some practical stuff too.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been to LA a couple of times. I know the place a bit. But I’ll need a car, and a place to live obviously. So I’d like some advice about sorting out my social security number and driver’s licence and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Right.’

  Isa had leaned a little closer to the camera. The smile was widening on her lips, and she was looking straight at him, unblinking.

  ‘So if we can talk through all of that,’ she said, ‘that’d be brilliant. And I’d appreciate it if you could send me a follow-up email with all the info you have in writing, too. I’m sure it’s a lot to digest.’

  ‘OK,’ Adam said, unable to hide his annoyance any longer.

  ‘C’mon, mate,’ Isa said. ‘Jason told me you’d be only too happy to help.’

  Unable to stop himself, Adam put his head into his hands and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. In his headphones, Isa gave a low, satisfied chuckle.

  Revenge – it seemed to say – is very sweet indeed.

  * * *

  When the call was finally over, thinking the worst of the day’s horrors behind him, he prepared to enter his own little world – as far as it was possible to do so while sitting in an open-plan office. But what to listen to? With an odd, depressive feeling, he realized he was out of ideas. For a few days previously, he’d been mining the gloomy, metallic thrills of Public Image Limited, but the prospect suddenly seemed too bleak.

  The old favourites? Wu-Tang Clan’s 36 Chambers, or Nirvana’s In Utero? No, something more elemental, something beyond words to take him out of himself, out of the office. Classical music then? Something he’d been trying to learn about, aware that there were, out there in the world, masterpieces of Shakespearian scale with which he was completely unfamiliar. But where to start? Wagner? Schubert? Which recording? Oh God.

  Roger’s phrase regarding Falconz surfaced in his mind. Coldplay. Did Falconz actually sound anything like Coldplay? What did Coldplay actually sound like?

  Fuck it, he thought with a mirthless grin.

  A quick Spotify search revealed many Coldplay albums. A Rush of Blood to the Head was a familiar name, and there, a little way down its running order, was another – ‘The Scientist’. Adam had heard the song over and over again during a spell doing office temping in the early 2000s, but his recollection of it now was murky. He double-clicked on it, and the opening notes rang from his headphones.

  What happened next was very strange. In fact, several things started to happen at once. Firstly, a horrible, creeping, irresistible truth began to make itself clear. Namely, that Adam liked this song. It was simple and beautiful and clever, and he wanted to hear more of it.

  Secondly, a black, black abyss of shame and self-loathing yawned open in his mind. Oh God, he thought. Oh for Christ’s fucking sakes. For fuck’s fucking sakes, I like Coldplay now. I’m old and terrible and pathetic and I fucking like Coldplay!

  Chris Martin’s really quite likeable voice soared with unpretentious earnestness over elemental piano. Drums joined in. Simple, meaningful phrases washed through Adam’s mind. His hangover having reached peak melancholy, they carried the dreadful weight of timeless wisdom. No one had said it was going to be easy – yes, that was right. But equally, nobody had said it would be so hard, either. Adam turned the song up very loud, automatically, burying himself within it.

  As far as he remembered, Chris Martin was only a couple of years older than him. In his early twenties, he’d achieved this song. What had Adam achieved by then? Nothing important. The gloom gushed from the abyss. It was probably too late now to achieve anything!

  Chris Martin was singing about going back to the start, which was exactly where Adam wanted to go. He was being moved quite profoundly by a Coldplay song. His shame was complete. Everything he’d ever believed in was lying in tatters. Oh God, he thought again. Oh God oh God oh God. Why is this happening to me?

  But something else was happening too. Around him in the office, at least two of his colleagues were smirking at each other. They glanced up from their machines, frowning and grinning with faces that seemed to ask ‘what the fuck?’ As he looked up, they glanced at him quickly before looking away.

  Me? Adam thought. Am I the source of some sort of joke? The colleagues were looking back at their screens, doing the rapid sort of focused typing and pausing that could only signify the sending and receipt of instant messages.

  It won’t be about me, Adam told himself. Get over your own ego, for Christ’s sake. Not everything is about you. No one cares. You are not the centre of the universe – not even of this office. You are suffering from persecution mania. And you are listening to Coldplay and enjoying it. Something is very wrong with you, and colleagues’ smirks are the least of your worries.

  But there was another glance from Ernesto, and another from Kristen. Adam risked a glance of his own to his left. Sure enough, Scott was looking at him too. He wasn’t smirking, though. In fact he looked annoyed.

  Whatever, Adam thought, who cares. Whatever they’re waffling on about to each other will be unimportant and tedious. A strummed guitar joined in on the song, broadening its depth and texture, giving it an added layer of emotional urgency.

  He was aware of Scott standing up behind him, and then he felt a tap on his shoulder. The song hadn’t finished. He wanted to listen to Coldplay and escape and now… Absurdly angry, he tore off his headphones and looked up at Scott.

  To his surprise, the same Coldplay song was playing very loudly in the office.

  ‘Dude,’ Scott said, as though addressing someone who’d done an atrocious fart. ‘You’re connected to the Bluetooth. Can you turn that shit off?’

  * * *

  When lunchtime finally arrived, he almost ran from the office, emerging onto the sunny street breathless with relief. Before he’d a chance to decide otherwise, he walked straight to the local pub and drank a pint of IPA.

  Deciding he’d stay for lunch, he had another pint to wash down the burger he’d ordered. Like countless other old-world customs, cars and sports, this style of beer had become stronger and blunter in its American mutation and was thus an efficacious hair of the dog. And an American burger – in its typically stupendous portion – was a reliable way to soak it up. Ever since he’d given up smoking, a big lunch had been one of life’s greatest pleasures, but today he’d only got halfway through the thing before his appetite had gone. Giving up, he stumbled back out into the dazzling light of Sunset Boulevard, feeling slightly euphoric from the beer.

  The call to Alicia – Fischer’s producer – had to be made. It seemed unlikely that the day could get any worse, or more embarrassing, and at least edging off the hangover had a numbing effect on his nerves.

  Back at the office, he enclosed himself in the meeting room and dialled the studio’s number. Calls like this were best made without too much advance planning.

  ‘Alicia Silverman’s office,’ a brisk female voice said.

  ‘This is Adam Fairhead, can I speak to Alicia, please?’

  ‘Can I ask what it’s regarding?’

  ‘Yes. I want to talk to her about a sensitive issue that arose out of The Suffering’s session w
ith Fischer last week. I represent the band’s label.’

  ‘OK, please hold.’ The line instantly switched to hold music. Middle-of-the-road, inoffensive indie rock – music for people who were doing something else while they listened to it.

  After two minutes, he began to feel hot prickles of irritation. It was five minutes before the voice came back.

  ‘Hello?’ it said.

  ‘Hi,’ Adam replied.

  ‘Oh,’ the voice said, as if disappointed that he was still lurking on one of her lines. ‘You wanted Alicia, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘And believe you me, she’s not going to be very happy if you keep me waiting any longer.’

  ‘Hold on,’ the voice said. More hold music chimed blandly out.

  ‘OK,’ the voice said, returning more swiftly this time. ‘I have Alicia.’

  ‘Good,’ Adam said.

  ‘Do you have… ah…’

  ‘Adam Fairhead?’ Adam reminded her.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am Adam Fairhead,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ the voice said, its surprise making a nice change to the practised boredom. ‘OK. Hold on.’

  One day, he might actually have to get an assistant, Adam thought, so that other people’s assistants weren’t so confused by him making his own calls. LA underlings, he well knew, were all drilled to within an inch of their lives to have their counterpart’s boss on the line first. He imagined siccing his future assistant on the owner of this disembodied voice, with a variety of sharpened, bloodied office implements.

  ‘Adam?’ Alicia’s voice was throaty and clipped. Pure New York. A tiny, fearsome woman, she spent her life balancing the deranged whims of musicians against the towering ego of her presenter.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘So this is about that thing last week, with the girl and the photos?’

  Adam took a breath. ‘Yes. Fischer told you then?’

  ‘No, actually someone from your office contacted my production assistant.’

  Adam’s skin prickled, and his vision swam with anger. Scott…

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m calling to lodge an official complaint.’

  ‘OK, well, that’s noted,’ Alicia said.