Close to the Edge

by Toby Faber

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ And then, by way of explanation: ‘He wants to take it to investment committee on Monday.’

  The investment committee? That was a sign Henry liked it, wasn’t it? Laurie looked over to Paul, waiting with every appearance of patience. She could say no, she was busy, but something was stirring within her, something she hadn’t felt for a while. Was it ambition? This was her chance to show off in front of Henry. And she couldn’t ignore the overtime either. ‘OK,’ she heard herself replying, ‘I can be there in about half an hour.’

  ‘Great. See you then.’

  On impulse, Laurie didn’t put the phone away immediately. Instead she used it to take a picture of Paul leaning on his bike, the sun full on his face. He started when he heard the click of the camera, put up a hand like a celebrity avoiding the paparazzi. Then she broke the news. ‘I’m sorry. It seems like we’re fated. I’ve got to go into the office. I’ll call you when I get the chance. Are you around for the rest of the weekend?’

  Paul looked rather put out. ‘Yes, well, if I’m not you can always leave me a message. You still haven’t told me what you found with that key. What do they want you for anyway? Is this normal? Do they pay you enough?’

  That last question was a bit odd. Was Laurie’s pay any of Paul’s business? Was he implying she wasn’t important enough to be needed at the weekend? Somehow it made the parting easier.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I’ll call you tonight.’ Then she turned her bicycle round and headed back west. Following the gentle curve, she looked back to see Paul still where she had left him, holding his bike, apparently lost in indecision. He responded to her wave with his own half-hearted salute. Then she set off again. A wind seemed to have come out of nowhere, channelled into her face as she rode into the gloom under every bridge.

  Saturday, 1 August – 1 p.m.

  Laurie had never thought of Michael as young before, but now, seeing him dressed in something other than a suit, she realised he couldn’t be much older than she was. Not that casual clothes did much more for him than that. The short sleeves of the polo shirt, in particular, emphasised the scrawniness of his arms. The contrast with Paul was all too striking.

  He was happy to see her. That much was clear from his greeting. ‘Laurie, hi. Thanks for coming so quickly. Henry called me this morning wanting to make a few changes to the model. I’ve done them but now I can’t get your macros to run. He’s coming in later this afternoon.’

  So it began. They worked together for four hours until Henry arrived, dressed in chinos and a polo shirt remarkably similar to Michael’s. Was it some sort of uniform? Laurie was briefly glad that she’d worn a dress for her bike ride with Paul, not her usual Lycra. Unlike Michael, however, Henry had a tan. It extended up his arms and stopped on a line with the shirtsleeve, under which pale luminescent skin became visible when he reached over for the sheaf of papers that Michael was offering him. The two of them went into Henry’s office. Laurie could see them through the glass screen, bent over the papers on the desk, Henry talking, and Michael replying. Once they both looked across to her. Laurie immediately bent back to her computer, embarrassed at being caught out in relative idleness. It had reverted to her usual screensaver: the picture she had taken of Dad and Roxanne before coming up to London. On impulse, she replaced it with the one she’d just taken of Paul. That was making some sort of statement, she realised. Well, why not?

  Henry’s office door opened. He was speaking. ‘OK. Why don’t you model it for weekly trades as well as daily. I just get the feeling you won’t lose too much, and it will be so much simpler to run. Good stuff. I’ll be back in a couple of hours, once the children are in bed.’

  Laurie risked a glance up from her computer and immediately caught Henry’s eye. He was looking at her quizzically: ‘Michael tells me you’ve been very helpful. Good stuff.’ Then he was gone.

  When Henry returned, it was with a couple more orders expressed as questions, but also with a suggestion that it was time they ate. It was Laurie’s job of course, first to phone in the order to the Gates of Peking, and then to pop round the corner to pick it up.

  The food wasn’t ready yet. Laurie accepted the offer of a Diet Coke while she waited at the bar. There were two other women there, perched on high stools but both looking impossibly elegant. One got off her stool as Laurie approached and sashayed off to the other side of the room, hips wiggling beneath the silk of her dress, feet perfectly poised on heels that would have left marks in a softer floor. Laurie watched her, fascinated, and then looked away to realise that the other woman was watching her in turn, a look of amusement – or was it scorn? – playing about her face. Laurie was glad to take receipt of two heavy carrier bags shortly afterwards and escape.

  There was an awful lot of food for three people. They ate together in one of the conference rooms, Henry and Michael shovelling from their plates to their mouths, wielding chopsticks like they were born to it, while Laurie, struggling with the unfamiliar implements, was significantly slower. That was probably just as well, even though it had been twelve hours since that croissant. How did Michael manage to stay so thin?

  Henry eventually broke the silence. ‘Right. I’m going to start writing the executive summary. We can fill in the blanks tomorrow. It’s good you’re here, Laurie. I should be able to give you some dictation in an hour or so.

  ‘An hour or so’, turned out to be two and a half, largely spent in discussion with Michael, who emerged to start working furiously at his computer while Henry spoke into a Dictaphone. He soon handed Laurie a tape with two commands, apparently meant for Michael: ‘Use that as a rough outline. Let’s meet again at ten tomorrow.’ Then he addressed himself to Laurie directly. ‘Do you think you could call me a cab, and book one for tomorrow morning as well?’ Five minutes later, he left the office.

  Michael looked at Laurie: ‘I’m afraid that if Henry’s here at ten, we’ll have to be here by eight. Not much sleep tonight.’

  It was nearly three when Laurie got home. She’d had a good chat with her cab driver about Arsenal’s prospects in the coming season, and he gave her a cheery good night before waiting to make sure she got in safely. Within five minutes she was in bed.

  Sunday, 2 August – 6.30 a.m.

  Laurie cursed the diligence with which she’d set the alarm. The cab wasn’t even due for an hour. She used the time to shower and breakfast. Jess had clearly been home – her bag was dumped in the hall and there were books lying around the sitting room – but there was no sign of her now. Well, tidying up would give Laurie something else to do before the taxi arrived.

  It was her own fault really. She saw the cab waiting by the kerb and headed straight for it. Laurie would never have crossed a road without checking for traffic, and, as she reflected afterwards, much the same could be said of London pavements. The runner ran straight into her, knocking her bag off her shoulder and sending its contents flying. But he shrugged off her apologies with a mumble before setting off again, head down in his hood, at a speed that Laurie recognised as something more energetic than mere jogging; perhaps she wasn’t entirely to blame after all.

  The cab driver certainly didn’t think so. ‘Came out of nowhere, he did. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes.’ Laurie replied. ‘Just surprised more than anything.’ It was true, she realised. The shock had left her faintly breathless. She needed to calm back down again. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just close my eyes for a moment. You know where I’m going?’

  ‘Here we are, then.’ Woken by the cabbie, Laurie was confused for a moment. She felt drained rather than refreshed, as though her nap had been long enough to remind her of how tired she was, but nothing more. Today, she realised, would be a coffee day.

  Michael was just settling down at his desk when she walked in. ‘Morning. I’ve been thinking. It might help if we presented some of our results graphically. Is that something you could look at?’

  Well
, it beat trying to decipher Henry’s dictation. Laurie googled onto the Excel manual and got to work.

  There was no doubt that Michael’s idea was a good one, but it inevitably meant they had a bit of a panic getting everything ready for Henry’s arrival. In the end, they kept the tables in the presentation, where they had been before, with the graphs as an appendix. It looked good; Laurie was pleased with the role she’d played in its creation.

  This time, when Henry took the presentation into his office, Michael suggested that Laurie come too: ‘She’s really helped a lot,’ he insisted. ‘She’s done stuff with Excel that – well – it’s really impressive.’

  So Laurie was there to hear Henry say ‘Good stuff!’ several times as he read through the reworked document, but she did not contribute much to the subsequent conversation, leaving Michael to answer the machine-gun fire of questions. Finally Henry said, ‘Right, I’m just going to make a few changes. Why don’t you both take the chance for a bit of fresh air. Come back at twelve.’

  Michael looked at his watch as they returned to their desks. ‘That gives us an hour. I’m going to head to the gym. I’ll eat there, and I’d suggest you grab something too. We’re likely to be busy when we get back.’

  The sun outside was an instant, aching reminder of how many better ways there were for Laurie to spend her weekend. Why on earth did the investment committee sit on a Monday? Was that something she could ask Michael? He probably didn’t know either.

  Laurie walked the couple of hundred yards to Berkeley Square. It was beautiful, she supposed. She loved the way the trees seemed taller than the surrounding buildings – green tufts over London’s rooftops, visible to any passing bird. But it also felt alien, part of a world where Laurie had no place. No one real lived here. Even Henry, who could surely afford Mayfair if he wanted it, needed a cab to get home.

  Lunch was all very well, but before eating she would call Paul. She couldn’t wait to hear his voice. He’d be wondering what on earth had happened to her. She reached for her handbag.

  The phone wasn’t there, at least, not in its usual pocket. Laurie peered inside: keys, purse, Kleenex, lipstick, compact, a couple of tampons, but no phone. With a gathering sense of panic she tipped the contents onto the ground, checked the bag was empty and then refilled it item by item. With the exception of her Oyster card, she could add nothing to the original list.

  Laurie thought frantically. Could she have left it at the flat? No. She’d got it out as she was coming down the stairs to get in the cab. She’d been looking for a message from Paul but then had that collision with the runner. Of course! Why hadn’t she checked then that nothing was missing? Christ, it was easy to be wise after the event. Might it still be lying on the pavement? She couldn’t go back to look for it now. In any case, now she thought of it, that man had run off awfully fast. Shit!

  Laurie scanned her memory but came quickly to the realisation that there was no chance Paul’s number was lodged anywhere within it. She’d never even had to dial it. The number only existed on her mobile. How had she left things with him? Surely he’d phone when he didn’t hear from her? What good would that be if she couldn’t receive his calls? She had to get a replacement handset – and SIM card – as soon as possible. And that was only one of several calls she’d have to make. Lunch forgotten, Laurie headed back to the office.

  Once at her desk, Laurie started off by calling her own number, only to go straight through to voicemail. That was no help. Next Jess: if she was at the flat then she’d certainly be happy to step outside and look for the handset. That was a number Laurie knew by heart, but calling it had a similar result: ‘Hi. Thanks for calling. Leave a message; you know you want to.’ Laurie obeyed, telling her what had happened and asking her to call back at the office. Then she tried the flat’s landline, and ended up shouting into the answermachine – ‘Jess, it’s me. If you’re there, please pick up’ – but with no response.

  Next Dad: he just needed to be told so he didn’t worry, although that was a fairly vain hope. It was with some difficulty that Laurie persuaded him that no, she hadn’t been mugged, that she certainly hadn’t been hurt, and that there was really no point in reporting the loss to the police. The handset had a resale value of £20 at best. It was, Laurie agreed, just as well she’d never got around to acquiring an iPhone.

  Finally O2: it might be Sunday, but their lost phones hotline was able to reassure her that no, the robber had not spent the last two hours calling South America. In fact, the phone hadn’t been used at all. Laurie started to worry again; perhaps she really had just mislaid it? Another search of her bag and of the space around her desk yielded no dividends, however. So Laurie bit the bullet and cancelled both handset and SIM card, ordering replacements that should arrive at work by 2 p.m. on Tuesday.

  Michael was back by the time she finished that last call. He’d clearly had a shower, but the flush on his face and sweat on his forehead showed that his body had not yet cooled down from whatever workout he’d put it through. He carried a McDonald’s bag – rather sheepishly, Laurie thought, although just the thought of chips made her stomach rumble. She wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when he opened the bag to draw out a drink container and a salad.

  ‘You know those contain as many calories as a Big Mac?’

  ‘Yes.’ Michael produced one of his rare smiles. ‘And I don’t care.’

  That was the extent of their small talk for the rest of the afternoon. Just as Michael was chasing the last scrap of lettuce around the plastic container, Henry came out of his office. He bore their presentation, and even from a distance, Laurie could see that it was covered with scrawls.

  It was midnight before Henry finally declared himself satisfied with a, ‘Good stuff. Eight o’clock tomorrow, then.’

  Laurie was glad of the taxi home, but too tired to chat to the driver. God, her bed was welcoming.

  Monday, 3 August, – 7 a.m.

  Now there was no doubt that Jess was back. That much was clear to Laurie the moment the alarm woke her. Unfortunately, the moans that Laurie could hear through the wall indicated that her flatmate would be otherwise engaged for some time, and not much good as any sort of companion to Laurie for the next few weeks at least. It was just as well she had met Paul – not that she could do anything until after her phone arrived tomorrow. In the meantime, and with her bike still at the office, she would have to get the Tube into work: no time to lie in bed thinking nice thoughts. Reluctantly, Laurie hauled herself into the shower. As she left the flat, muffled noises through Jess’s bedroom door indicated that she and – what was his name? Nigel? – were still going strong. The man clearly had stamina.

  Getting into the lift at Tufnell Park reminded Laurie that she still hadn’t finished Sylvester. Where had she left it? Dad wouldn’t be pleased if it was lost. The Tube journey itself was as unpleasant as ever – a good reminder of why she’d taken up cycling. Well, she should get away in time to cycle back this evening.

  It was five past eight when Laurie got to her desk, but Michael was already in Henry’s office. He looked up from the document they were reading together – presumably the presentation – and caught Laurie’s eye, but made no indication that she should join them.

  The investment committee met at eight-thirty, an immoveable fortnightly ritual even in the middle of the summer holidays. It was held in the conference room where the three of them had eaten Chinese two evenings before. Henry and Michael went into the meeting together, along with the four other partners of Fitzalan Capital who were still in the office. After about thirty minutes, Michael emerged. He came over. ‘I think it went well, but it’s hard to tell; they’re always so poker-faced.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Laurie wondered, aware that this was the first time she’d felt any sort of interest in what went on behind those walls.

  ‘They discuss it. Decide whether or not to give it the goahead. We were the only agenda item today, so it shouldn’t take long.’


  Michael was right. The meeting broke up only ten minutes later. Henry beckoned Michael, who looked at Laurie questioningly, his eyebrows raised. Was that an invitation to follow him into Henry’s office? Laurie remembered how useless she’d felt the last time she’d tagged along and shook her head. Michael didn’t press the point and in any case didn’t take long to return. He was smiling, but seemed curiously flat as he passed on what Henry had just told him: ‘Two hundred million, with a review after the first quarter.’

  ‘Is that good?’ It sounded it, but Michael’s manner somehow introduced an element of doubt.

  ‘It’s the maximum they’ll do as a first investment. So yes. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all. Henry’s sent me home for the day. He wants to see you now.’ Michael was shutting down his computer as he spoke, preparing to leave. Now that he had said it, Laurie could see that Michael had a washed-out look to him, as if he’d been surviving on adrenaline alone for the last few days. It was interesting that Henry had spotted it too. Did she look the same, after her weekend in the office? Would Henry be telling her to go home as well?

  Henry looked up from his desk as Laurie came in, but it was not to scrutinise her complexion for signs of pallor. ‘Laurie. Thanks for your help yesterday. Have you got my diary with you? Let’s go through the rest of the week.’

  Monday, 3 August – 5.30 p.m.

  Laurie left the office and looked towards her bike, still chained to the railings where she had left it two days before. In almost any other part of London, she reflected, it would have lost its front wheel by now. There were some benefits to working in Mayfair, for all its soullessness. Was she up to riding it home? It was either that or the Tube. Yes, it was time to get back in the saddle. It didn’t matter that she was in her work clothes; the dress would cope with the journey, as long as she sat on it so it didn’t flap all over the place. She’d just have to take it slowly.