Partner! shoots through my mind, like a glittering firework. PARTNER!
Stop it, I instruct myself sternly. Concentrate on the task at hand. As I pull out an old copy of The Lawyer and wonder why on earth I’m keeping it, some paper-clipped documents fall to the floor. I reach for them and run my gaze down the front page, already reaching for the next thing. It’s a memo from Arnold.
Re Third Union Bank.
Please find attached debenture for Glazerbrooks Ltd. Please attend to registration at Companies House.
I peer at it without great interest. Third Union Bank is Arnold’s client, and I’ve only dealt with them once. The bank has agreed to loan £50 million to Glazerbrooks, a big building-materials company, and all I have to do is register the security document within twenty-one days at Companies House. It’s just another of the mundane jobs that partners are always dumping on my desk. Well, not anymore, I think with a surge of determination. In fact, I think I’ll delegate this to someone else, right now. I glance automatically at the date.
Then I look again. The security document is dated May 26th.
Five weeks ago? That can’t be right.
Puzzled, I flip quickly through the papers, looking to see if there’s been a typo. There must be a typo—but the date is consistent throughout. May 26th.
May 26th?
I sit, frozen, staring at the document. Has this thing been on my desk for five weeks?
But … it can’t. I mean … it couldn’t. That would mean—
It would mean I’ve missed the deadline.
I can’t have made such a basic mistake. I cannot possibly have failed to register a charge before the deadline. I always register charges before the deadline.
I close my eyes and try to remain calm. It’s the excitement of being partner. It’s addled my brain. OK. Let’s look at this again, carefully.
But the memo says exactly the same thing as before. Attend to registration. Dated May 26th. Which would mean I’ve exposed Third Union Bank to an unsecured loan. Which would mean I’ve made about the most elementary mistake a lawyer can make.
There’s a kind of iciness about my spine. I’m trying desperately to remember if Arnold said anything about the deal to me. I can’t even remember him mentioning it. But then—why would he mention a simple loan agreement? We do loan agreements in our sleep. He would have assumed I’d carried out his instructions. He would have trusted me.
Oh, Jesus.
I leaf through the pages again, searching desperately for some loophole. Some miracle clause that will have me exclaiming “Oh, of course!” in relief. But of course it’s not there.
How could this have happened? Did I even notice this? Did I sweep it aside, meaning to do it later?
What am I going to do? A wall of panic hits me as I take in the consequences. Third Union Bank has lent Glazerbrooks £50 million. Without the charge being registered, this loan—this multimillion-pound loan—is unsecured. If Glazerbrooks went bust tomorrow, Third Union Bank would go to the back of the queue of creditors. And probably end up with nothing.
“Samantha!” says Maggie at the door. Instinctively I plant my hand over the memo even though she wouldn’t realize the significance, anyway.
“I just heard!” she says in a stage whisper. “Guy let it slip! Congratulations!”
“Um … thanks!” Somehow I force my mouth into a smile.
“I’m just getting a cup of tea. D’you want one?”
“That’d be … great. Thanks.”
Maggie disappears and I bury my head in my hands. I’m trying to keep calm, but inside is a great well of terror. I have to face it. I’ve made a mistake.
I have made a mistake.
What am I going to do? I can’t think straight—
Then suddenly Guy’s words from yesterday ring in my ears, and I feel an almost painful flood of relief. A mistake isn’t a mistake unless it can’t be put right.
Yes. The point is, I can put this right. I can still register a charge.
The process will be excruciating. I’ll have to tell the bank what I’ve done—and Glazerbrooks—and Arnold—and Ketterman. I’ll have to have new documentation drawn up. And, worst of all, live with everyone knowing I’ve made the kind of stupid, thoughtless error a trainee would make.
It might mean an end to my partnership. I feel sick—but there’s no other option. I have to put the situation right.
Quickly I log on to the Companies House Web site and enter a search for Glazerbrooks. As long as no other charges have been registered against Glazerbrooks in the meantime, it will all come to the same thing.…
I stare at the page in disbelief.
No.
It can’t be.
There’s a new debenture in Glazerbrooks’ charge register, securing £50 million owed to some company called BLLC Holdings. It was registered last week. Third Union Bank has been bumped down the creditors’ queue.
My mind is helter-skeltering. This isn’t good. It’s not good. I have to talk to someone quickly. I have to do something about this now, before any more charges are made. I have to … to tell Arnold.
Just the thought paralyzes me with horror.
I can’t do it. I just can’t go out and announce I’ve made the most basic, elementary error and put £50 million of our client’s money at risk. What I’ll do is … is start sorting out the mess first, before I tell anyone here. Have the damage limitation under way. Yes. I’ll call the bank first. The sooner they know, the better—
“Samantha?”
“What?” I practically leap out of my chair.
“You’re nervy today!” Maggie laughs and comes toward the desk with a cup of tea. “Feeling on top of the world?”
For an instant I honestly have no idea what she’s talking about. My world has been reduced to me and my mistake and what I’m going to do about it.
“Oh! Right. Yes!” I try to grin back and surreptitiously wipe my damp hands on a tissue.
“I bet you haven’t come down off your high yet!” She leans against the filing cabinet. “I’ve got some champagne in the fridge, all ready.…”
“Er … great! Actually, Maggie, I’ve really got to get on.…”
“Oh.” She looks hurt. “Well, OK. I’ll leave you.”
As she walks out I can see indignation in the set of her shoulders. She probably thinks I’m a total cow. But every minute is another minute of risk. I have to call the bank. Immediately.
I search through the attached contact sheet and find the name and number of our contact at Third Union. Charles Conway.
This is the man I have to call. This is the man whose day I have to disturb and admit that I’ve totally messed up. With trembling hands I pick up the phone. I feel as though I’m psyching myself up to dive into a noxious swamp.
For a few moments I just sit there, staring at the keypad, willing myself to punch in the number. At last, I reach out and dial. As it rings, my heart begins to pound.
“Charles Conway.”
“Hi!” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s Samantha Sweeting from Carter Spink. I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Hi, Samantha.” He sounds friendly enough. “How can I help?”
“I was phoning on a … a technical matter. It’s about …” I can hardly bear to say it. “Glazerbrooks.”
“Oh, you’ve heard about that,” says Charles Conway. “News travels fast.”
The room seems to shrink.
“Heard … what?” My voice is higher than I’d like. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Oh! I assumed that’s why you were calling. Yes, they called in the receivers today. That last-ditch attempt to save themselves obviously didn’t work.…”
I feel light-headed. Black spots are dancing in front of my eyes. Glazerbrooks is going bust. They’ll never draw up the new documentation now. Not in a million years.
I won’t be able to register the charge. I can’t put it right. I’ve lost Third Union Bank £50 million.
I feel like I’m hallucinating. I want to gibber in panic. I want to thrust down the phone and run.
“It’s a good thing you phoned, as it happens,” Charles Conway is saying. I can hear him tapping at a keyboard in the background, totally unconcerned. “You might want to double-check that loan security.”
For a few moments I can’t speak.
“Yes,” I say at last, my voice hoarse. “Thank you.” I put down the receiver, shaking all over.
I’ve fucked up.
I have fucked up so big, I can’t even …
Barely knowing what I’m doing, I push back my chair. I have to get out.
Five
I walk through reception on autopilot. Out onto the sunny lunchtime street, one foot in front of the other, just another office worker among the midday crowds.
Except I’m different. I’ve just lost my client £50 million.
Fifty million. The amount is like a drumbeat in my head.
I don’t understand how it happened. I don’t understand. My mind keeps turning it over. Over and over, obsessively. How could I have not seen … how could I have overlooked … It must have been put on my desk, then covered up with something else. A file, a pile of contracts, a cup of coffee.
One mistake. The only mistake I’ve ever made. I want to wake up and this will all be a bad dream, it happened to someone else, it’s a story I’m listening to in the pub, agog, thanking my lucky stars it wasn’t me.… But it is me.
My career is over. The last person at Carter Spink who made a mistake like this was Ted Stephens, who lost a client £10 million in 1983. He was fired on the spot. And I’ve lost five times that.
My chest feels tight; I feel like I’m being smothered. I think I could be having a panic attack. I sit down on a bench set against some railings and wait to feel better.
OK, I’m not feeling better. I’m feeling worse.
Suddenly I jump in terror as my mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the caller ID. It’s Guy.
I can’t talk to him. I can’t talk to anybody. Not right now.
A moment later, the phone tells me a message has been left. I lift the phone to my ear and press 1 to listen.
“Samantha!” Guy sounds cheery. “Where are you? We’re all waiting with the champagne to make the big partnership announcement!”
Partnership. I want to burst into tears. But … I can’t. This mistake is too big for tears. I thrust my phone in my pocket and get to my feet again. I begin to walk faster and faster, weaving through the pedestrians. My head is pounding and I have no idea where I’m going.
I walk for what seems like hours, my head in a daze, my feet moving blindly. The sun is beating down, and the pavements are dusty, and after a while my head starts to throb. At some point my mobile starts to vibrate again, but I ignore it.
At last, when my legs are starting to ache, I slow down and come to a halt. My mouth is dry; I’m totally dehydrated. I need some water. I look up, trying to get my bearings. Somehow I seem to have reached Paddington Station, of all places.
Numbly, I turn my steps toward the entrance and walk inside. The place is noisy and crowded with travelers. The fluo-rescent lights and air-conditioning and the blaring announcements make me flinch. As I’m making my way to a kiosk selling bottled water, my mobile vibrates again. I pull it out and look at the display. I have fifteen missed calls and another message from Guy. He left it about twenty minutes ago.
I hesitate, my heart beating with nerves, then press 1 to listen to it.
“Jesus Christ, Samantha, what happened?”
He doesn’t sound cheery anymore, he sounds totally stressed. I feel prickles of dread all over my body.
“We know,” he’s saying. “OK? We know about Third Union Bank. Charles Conway called up. Then Ketterman found the paperwork on your desk. You have to come back to the office. Now. Call me back.”
He rings off but I don’t move. I’m paralyzed with fright.
They know. They all know.
The black spots are dancing in front of my eyes again. Nausea is rising up inside me. The entire staff of Carter Spink knows I messed up. People will be calling each other. E-mailing the news in horrified glee. Did you hear …
As I’m standing there, something catches the corner of my eye. A familiar face is just visible through the crowd. I turn my head and squint at the man, trying to place him—then feel a fresh jolt of horror.
It’s Greg Parker, one of the senior partners. He’s been in the States, I remember. He’ll have just got in on the Heathrow Express. Now he’s striding along the concourse in his expensive suit, holding his mobile phone. His brows are knitted together and he looks concerned.
“So where is she?” His voice travels across the concourse.
Panic hits me like a lightning bolt. I have to get out of his line of vision. I have to hide. Now. I edge behind a vast woman in a beige mac and try to cower down so I’m hidden. But she keeps wandering about, and I keep having to shuffle along with her.
“Did you want something?” She suddenly turns.
“No!” I say, flustered. “I’m … er …”
“Well, leave me alone!” She scowls and stalks off toward Costa Coffee. I’m totally exposed in the middle of the concourse. Greg Parker is about fifty yards away, still talking on his mobile phone.
If I move, he’ll see me. If I stay still … he’ll see me.
Suddenly the electronic Departures display board renews itself with fresh train information. A crowd of waiting travelers grab their bags and newspapers and head toward platform 9.
Without thinking twice, I join the throng, hidden in their midst as we sweep through the open barriers and onto the train. It pulls out of the station and I sink into a seat, opposite a family all wearing London Zoo T-shirts. They smile at me—and somehow I manage to smile back.
“Refreshments?” A wizened man pushing a trolley appears in the carriage and beams at me. “Hot and cold sandwiches, teas and coffees, soft drinks, alcoholic beverages?”
“The last, please.” I try not to sound too desperate. “A double. Of … anything.”
No one comes to check my ticket. No one bothers me. The train seems to be some sort of express. Suburbs turn into fields, and the train is still rattling along. I’ve drunk three small bottles of gin, mixed with orange juice, tomato juice, and a chocolate yogurt drink. The chunk of icy fright in my stomach has thawed and I feel weirdly distanced from everything around me.
I have made the biggest mistake of my career. I will have lost my job. I will never be a partner.
One stupid mistake.
The London Zoo family have opened packets of crisps and offered me one and invited me to join in their game of Travel Scrabble. The mother even asked me if I was traveling for business or fun?
I couldn’t bring myself to answer.
My heart rate has gradually subsided, but I have a bad, throbbing headache. I’m sitting with a hand over one eye, trying to block out the light.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The conductor is crackling over the loudspeaker. “Unfortunately … rail works … alternative transport …”
I can’t follow what he’s saying. I don’t even know where I’m headed. I’ll just wait for the next stop, get out of the train, and take it from there.
“That’s not how you spell raisin,” London Zoo mother is saying to one of the children, when the train suddenly starts to slow down. I look up to see that we’re pulling into a station. Lower Ebury. People are gathering up their bags and getting off.
Like an automaton I get up too. I follow the London Zoo family off the train and out of a tiny, twee country station. There’s a pub called The Bell across the road, which bends round in both directions, and I can glimpse fields in the distance. There’s a coach waiting, and all the passengers from the train are boarding.
London Zoo mother has turned round and is gesturing at me. “You need to come this way,” she says helpfully. “If you want the bus to Gloucester??
??
The thought of getting on a coach makes me want to heave. I don’t want the bus to anywhere. I just want an aspirin. My head feels like it’s about to split open.
“Er … no, thanks. I’m fine here.” Before she can say anything else, I start walking down the road.
I have no idea where I am. None.
Inside my pocket, my phone suddenly vibrates. It’s Guy. Again. This must be the thirtieth time he’s rung. And every time he’s left a message telling me to call him back, asking if I’ve got his e-mails.
I haven’t got any of his e-mails. I was so freaked out, I left my BlackBerry on my desk. My phone is all I have. It vibrates again and I stare at it for a few moments. I can’t ignore him forever. My stomach clenched with nerves, I lift it to my ear and press talk.
“Hi.” My voice is scratchy. “It’s … it’s me.”
“Samantha?” His incredulous voice blasts down the line. “Is that you? Where are you?”
“I don’t know. I had to get away. I … I went into shock.…”
“Samantha, I don’t know if you got my messages. But …” He hesitates. “Everyone knows.”
“I know.” I lean against an old crumbling wall and squeeze my eyes shut.
“How did it happen?” He sounds as shocked as I feel. “How the hell did you make a simple error like that? I mean, Christ, Samantha—”
“I don’t know,” I say numbly.
“You never make mistakes!”
“Well, I do now!” I feel tears rising and fiercely blink them down. “What’s … what’s happened?”
“It’s not good.” He exhales. “Ketterman’s been having damage limitation talks with Glazerbrooks’ lawyers and talking to the bank—and the insurers, of course.”
The insurers. The firm’s professional indemnity insurance. I’m suddenly gripped by an almost exhilarating hope. If the insurers pay up without making a fuss, maybe things won’t be as bad as I thought.…
But even as I feel my spirits lift I know I’m like some traveler seeing the mirage through the haze. Insurers never cough up the whole amount. Sometimes they don’t cough up anything. Sometimes they pay up but raise their premiums to unfeasible levels.