Close to the Edge

by Toby Faber

  Talk about an overreaction! One little coincidence and Dad turned into a Victorian patriarch. He hadn’t been this emphatic with her since he dragged her down from Cambridge to Somerset. If only she had remembered to call him first thing this morning. Then he would never have spoken to Jess and things would have been fine. It was just as well she’d never told Jess about her trip underground the week before. Imagine if he’d heard about that! As it was, Laurie faced the problem of keeping Dad entertained in London for however long he chose to stay. It couldn’t be for long, could it, not in high summer? In the meantime, however, any prospect of meeting Paul again receded into the distance.

  Meet Paul? Could she even call him? If she hadn’t lost her laptop, of course, she could have found his number there; it synced with her phone automatically whenever they were in Bluetooth range.

  Hang on! Surely that meant it would have backed up into the cloud with all her other data?

  Her heart pumping with excitement, Laurie logged on to her Gmail account to check. Yes: there was the contacts.pst file, but she’d need a computer with Outlook to open it. With any luck, Dad wouldn’t have left home yet. She caught him just in time. ‘Yes, I was bringing it anyway. See you later, darling. Bye.’

  And now to phone Jess and ask why on earth she’d told Dad about the break-in, not to mention ensure they were singing from the same hymn sheet when it came to describing what had happened over the weekend: there really was no point in letting Dad become any more agitated than he already was.

  The moment Laurie spoke, Jess launched into her apology. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea David would go off the deep end like that. He’s always seemed quite relaxed about things to me. I was just trying to explain why you hadn’t called him last night. I guess he was just already worried and the idea that we’d had a break-in didn’t help.’

  ‘What did you tell him about it?’

  ‘Just that we’d been burgled, that they’d taken the obvious stuff, but nothing that couldn’t be replaced.’

  ‘Did he ask if you’d called the police?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t seem that bothered once I’d told him we didn’t have any insurance.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound like Dad. Though I’m sure you’re not complaining. You’re obviously better at calming him down than I am. How about the mattress and everything else? Have you sorted all of that?’

  Now Jess sounded pleased with herself. ‘New mattress bought at John Lewis this morning, brought back in a taxi. Sheets etc washed and dry. And if by “everything else” you mean the contents of my bedside table, well let’s just say they’ve been edited slightly. I’m not sure I could bear to look at some of them again.’

  ‘Jess—’ Laurie began, and then stopped. Anything she’d say could only sound either censorious or prurient. ‘Jess, are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘I’ve been better, to be honest, but I’ll be all right. It’s been good for me doing all this stuff. Actually I’m quite glad David’s coming down. I’m not sure I can face work tomorrow, but it will be good to have company.’

  Was Jess really all right? Should Laurie be doing something more to help her? Dad, would know of course, but if she asked him then she’d have to tell him what had happened, and there was no way she was doing that. There was something very calculating about the idea of tying someone up, stripping them and then leaving them, with no apparent care for whether they would ever be found. What kind of a person did something like that?

  On the desk in front of her, Laurie’s computer went back into hibernation. There was Paul looking back at her and it made her feel so happy. This evening, she would be speaking to him. More than that, Laurie realised. This was the only photo on the phone that would not have been backed up onto her computer, but, quite by chance, she had saved this one too. It only took a moment to send a copy to her Gmail address, access it from her new handset, and set it as the background image on that too.

  It was with the feeling of a job well done that Laurie returned to Henry’s dictation. She could already see that she’d be leaving the office after Dad was due to arrive at the flat. As ever, the overtime could only come in useful.

  Tuesday, 4 August – 7.30 p.m.

  The real benefit of a visit from Dad became apparent the moment Laurie walked through the door. It was amazing how delicious fried onions could smell. He was cooking one of his special omelettes using entirely homegrown ingredients, and had only been waiting for Laurie’s arrival to add the eggs to the pan. Within minutes, they were sitting down with Jess around the little kitchen table in a threesome that was immediately very comfortable.

  Jess certainly seemed to have benefited from having Dad around, unless it was all a front she was putting on for his benefit. Of course they’d always got on well; that was why Jess had kept in touch after Mum’s death, and why she’d invited Laurie to come to live with her. In any case, it was good to see someone else enjoying the dry way in which Dad told his stories of village doings. Afterwards, he let ‘you girls’ clear up, while he did the crossword. Guiltily, Laurie noticed that he’d already emptied the fridge: no chance of hiding from him that she’d never used half the provisions he’d sent down with her ten days earlier.

  Only then could Laurie snatch a few moments with Dad’s laptop. There was her user account, its password unchanged for five years. Laurie logged on, entered the Wi-Fi code, logged onto Gmail and downloaded the contacts file she’d spotted that afternoon, saving it onto her account as ‘old laptop’. Then she started up Outlook and opened the file. Yes! There were all her old contacts and there was Paul, filed under ‘P’; she’d never got around to adding his surname. Laurie keyed the number into her new handset.

  ‘I’m just popping out for a walk.’ Laurie might as well have been talking to an empty room for the reaction she got. Dad nodded vaguely while Jess didn’t even look up from her own newly acquired iPhone.

  Laurie was dialling Paul’s number as she walked down the stairs. He picked up after three rings: ‘Laurie?’

  Laurie could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and her heart skipped: ‘Paul. It’s great to hear your voice. I’m so sorry you haven’t been able to get me, but I lost my phone. And then, would you believe it? My computer was stolen.’

  Laurie added a little laugh to this last statement, as if to emphasise the triviality of the occurrence, but it was clear she wasn’t fooling Paul in the slightest.

  ‘Stolen? What, like you were mugged? Are you OK?’

  On this point at least, Laurie could be reassuring. ‘Oh no, nothing like that. We just had a break-in. The computer was all I had that was worth stealing; my flatmate lost a bit more. Anyway, it took me a while to track down your number, but I eventually found it in the cloud, so to speak.’

  Laurie paused to give Paul a chance to reply, but she heard him take a couple of breaths before he did: ‘The cloud? You mean you’ve got everything backed up?’

  ‘Yes, Dad set it up for me on my Gmail account when I came to London. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to meet up soon?’

  ‘Laurie, it would be great to see you, but I’m afraid this is a kids week again. During the holidays we alternate. Can I call you back next Monday, when I’m a free agent?’

  Laurie tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. In any case, she reminded herself, she’d probably be tied up most of the week with Dad. ‘Oh, OK, I’ll call you next Monday. See you soon. Bye.’ Determined to keep it casual, Laurie disconnected without waiting to hear Paul’s reply.

  All in all, it had not been a terribly satisfactory conversation. And it would be days before she could have another go. What was she thinking of? Laurie was walking round the block, brooding, when a ping announced the arrival of a text from Paul: Text me when you get the chance. Px.

  Hmm, only one x? Laurie laughed at herself for what she recognised was a different kind of worry. Still, she could show him: Xoxoxoxoxoxox. When had she last done that? On a get-well card for Mum? Laurie found she could e
ntertain the thought without wincing. It was good to be childish occasionally.

  Back in the flat, Dad was sitting alone, waiting for her. ‘So tell me what’s been going on since we last saw each other.’

  Laurie didn’t tell him everything – it was just as well Jess wasn’t there to catch her eye when she skated over some of the details – but she told him enough: about finding the key (which she described as being close to the platform; again there was no point in worrying Dad unnecessarily with the details of her night underground), about how the locker it fitted at the British Library was empty, about work, about the jogger who crashed into her two mornings before, about the breakin. She said nothing, of course, about going to the police, but was half-expecting Dad not to let her off the subject as lightly as he had Jess. Instead, he asked an entirely unrelated question. ‘What do you know about the man that fell under the train?’

  ‘Nothing except what the key told me: that he liked to hang out at the British Library. I don’t even know his name. I’ve tried looking on the internet, but that got me nowhere. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I need something to do while you’re at work; thought I might have a go at following that up, since you seem to have lost interest.’

  Laurie was vaguely irritated, partly by the perception Dad had shown in guessing that she had lost interest, and partly by the implication that he thought he could succeed where she had failed. She decided to let some of her feelings show. ‘I’ve always thought I was pretty good at finding things out. I’d hate for you to waste your time.’

  ‘I have to admit, darling, that you saying that only spurs me on even more. Let’s just say I recognise the challenge you have just issued, and accept.’

  Laurie had to laugh. She watched Dad as he rooted around in the kitbag he’d brought up from Somerset, eventually bringing out a much-patched air mattress that she remembered from family camping holidays. Somehow the sight brought home the realisation that had been building all evening: despite all the annoyances, it was good to have him here.

  Wednesday, 5 August – 7.30 a.m.

  So many of Laurie’s childhood memories involved Dad urging her awake, carrying her downstairs, practically forcing food into her mouth as he tried to get her ready for school, it was strange having to tiptoe round him in the morning. She could hardly remember seeing him asleep before. All of a sudden, she felt unexpectedly grown-up, flashing forward to a future when she really would be the one in charge, the one looking after him. She took extra care to shut the door to the flat as quietly as possible.

  At the office, things had settled back into the usual routine. Michael was his usual monosyllabic self, head down as he got on with implementing the trading strategy she’d helped him model. And Henry was – well – the same as he’d always been, entirely capable of generating enough work to keep a person busy with mundane tasks requiring little or no thought. A few weeks ago, Laurie had really believed that she preferred it this way: a job that she could leave behind each day, a life unhampered by ambition. Now, however, she had to admit she was bored.

  So it felt like a welcome break when Henry came over to Laurie’s desk and asked if she could ‘come in for a word’. Unusually, the glass partition that separated his office from the rest of the floor was opaque. Clearly, this was ‘a word’ that required some privacy. Nevertheless, Laurie was taken aback when she entered the office to find Tom Spencer there too. As Fitzalan’s director of administration, he was nominally Laurie’s boss, although she had worked out within a few days of arrival that it was the partners like Henry who really ran the show.

  Tom didn’t waste time on niceties. ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Laurie. You know the rule that we send no files out of the office.’ He didn’t wait for her nod. As far as he was concerned this was a straightforward case. ‘Well, our email records show that a large attachment was sent from your terminal to your Gmail address at two thirty-four yesterday afternoon. I assume you’re not going to say it wasn’t you? We can always check the CCTV footage.’

  Laurie shook her head and looked at Henry. He was avoiding her eye.

  ‘In that case you are suspended without pay while we investigate the security breach. I will accompany you to your desk while you collect your things. I’d remind you that you remain under a duty of confidentiality under the terms of the employment contract you signed when you joined us. If you attempt to discuss your case with anyone outside this room then we will regard it as a breach of contract and pursue you for it.’

  Laurie could feel herself flushing with the shock. She was to be treated like some sort of criminal? Where was the justice in that? When she finally spoke, it came out almost as a shout. ‘But it was only a photograph!’

  This time she did catch Henry’s eye, but she could detect no response or answering empathy. An air of disdain hung about him. Mentally, he was already moving on.

  Laurie was angry now. She deserved better treatment than this. She raised her voice, conscious that she could probably be heard outside, but too far gone to care, ‘Henry, I’ve just worked all weekend for you. The least you can do is talk to me.’

  But it was Tom who replied. ‘You’ll be paid any overtime due to you.’ Then he stood up, and took hold of Laurie’s elbow, attempting to steer her out of Henry’s office. Shaking herself free with a muttered, ‘Watch it, you pervert,’ Laurie stalked over to her desk, gathered her phone and cycling bag and left the office, followed by Tom and what felt like a hundred pairs of eyes.

  Laurie stood in the street, dressed in her cycling gear, holding her bicycle. Her immediate anger had just about subsided, to be replaced with low-level resentment at the injustice of it all. Even that was hard to maintain as she stood in the summer sun, acknowledging the pleasure that came from being outside in the middle of the day. What was she going to do now? Phone the agency? Not for a day or so, at least. The flat would harldy be a refuge at the moment – she couldn’t face having to explain what had happened to Dad - but London was no place to cycle round aimlessly without a destination. She had got as far as wheeling her bike in the direction of Oxford Street, looking for a stand where she could pick up a copy of Time Out, when she remembered the hour she’d spent in the British Library. She’d felt at home there. How hard would it be to get a reader’s card and have access to all the world’s knowledge, or at least such of it as had been published in Britain since 1852 or whenever it was?

  In just over ten minutes Laurie had arrived at the Euston Road entrance. Once there, she followed signs to bike racks that were so full that she could only stand there, uncertain of what to do. It was another cyclist who unconsciously led the way, wheeling his bike up and round the back of the permanent racks to a set of temporary stands close to the main entrance, where some space at least remained. The two of them locked up their bikes next door to each other and walked into the library together, never exchanging a glance or a word.

  Laurie was feeling more confident than she had on her first visit. No one here knew her background. Here she could be the Laurie who’d been predicted a set of straight A stars for GCSE s, who had imagined herself following her father and mother to Cambridge, not the Laurie for whom school had suddenly ceased to hold any interest, who had been heading for God knew what kind of future before her father removed her to Somerset. The feeling bore her on and past the information desk, into the office for reader registration.

  Laurie had prepared herself for some kind of grilling: why she wanted access to the library’s collections, where else she had tried, what were her qualifications? So, remembering something she’d heard Michael say to Henry, she volunteered that she was researching interest-rate movements and the effect on the yield curve. The man who interviewed her might have been impressed, or might just have been in a hurry. At any rate, his only comment was, ‘So you’ll be wanting the Business and IT Centre, then.’ All he demanded from Laurie was some ID. Her driving licence – the one real qualification she had to show for the Somerset years but almost irr
elevant in London – was good enough for that. Two minutes later, she had her newly minted reader’s card, complete with photograph, valid for one month. The whole experience had been uplifting: confirmation that she had some worth, some rights, despite the way she had been kicked out of the office only an hour before. Laurie had a spring in her step as she went to leave her things in the locker room, which even the need to queue for a locker did little to dispel.

  That brief conversation in reader registration had decided Laurie on one thing: she would not be basing herself in the Business and IT Centre. She could just imagine what that was like: full of people like Michael huddled over computer screens. But where should she go? Rare Books and Music? She wasn’t sure she was ready for that yet. Most of the people her age were heading for a door marked Humanities I; she followed them.

  Well, there certainly wasn’t a party going on inside. Even here, Laurie realised, laptops were almost essential. The room was vast. There must have been two hundred people, each with their own desk, but she could hear only a few low voices, and those came from the enquiry desk in front of her. It made Laurie ache to see it; if she hadn’t fucked things up so badly after Mum died, would she have ended up somewhere like this? Then she noticed something else: a tension underlying the overall air of studiousness. Heads had risen at her entrance; some eyes attempted to meet hers; others seemed almost too determined not to break away from the page. The sense of being on show, of judgements being formed, was both flattering and unnerving. Laurie did her best to ignore it. She found an unoccupied computer terminal and started to surf her way around the library catalogue. The complete works of Georgette Heyer were there and at her disposal; which ones hadn’t she read? Two minutes later, she found herself looking up, keen to check out the Reading Room’s latest arrival.