David Szalay - London and the South-East

Later, in the seemingly endless reaches of the afternoon (and it is only Monday ), the sky over Kingsway darkening for a downpour, Paul gets Elvezia alone in the smoking room. As he is starting to outline his proposal, the door opens and Dave Shelley walks in, holding a single unlit cigarette. Finding the room occupied, he seems to hesitate for a moment, his long face unsmiling — he knows exactly when the smoking room is most likely to be empty, as he prefers it, and is displeased to find people there. Paul had decided not to include him in the move, now that Justin is involved, but he cannot be bothered to find another opportunity to speak to Elvezia — he has been following her down to the smoking room all day — so he says, ‘Dave, mate, sit down — I wanted a word with you as well actually.’ And quietly, he puts the plan to them. They both seem flattered, and sign up on the spot.

By close of business on Wednesday, and despite several openings, he has still not spoken to Claire. On Tuesday, Marlon had confirmed his interest in the move. And returning from the pub on Wednesday afternoon, Paul had found a letter from Li in his desk drawer (he had asked her to speak to Justin herself) which he read sitting in one of the luxurious stalls in the Gents, and which unexpectedly confirmed his suspicion that the Pig had his own arrangement with Eddy Jaw. The letter said: ‘ Paul, I have spoken to Justin. He said he has already been invited to the other company, Delma Morgan. So that is fine. Kind regards, Li .’ It made Paul feel powerful to have unearthed this information, even inadvertently — made him feel in a position of strength, though there was no obvious practical use that he could make of it. Knowledge is power , he said to himself, stuffing the letter into his pocket and, for the sake of appearances, flushing the toilet. He knew things that others did not know he knew — Eddy, the Pig, Murray. Things that they thought he did not know. So only he, Paul, had all the facts. He stared at himself impassively in the bright mirror. You fucking shrewdie , he thought, and needlessly washed his hands. With two teams defecting — and, who knows, perhaps more — it really would be the end of Park Lane Publications. And this knowledge increased Paul’s sense of Olympian elevation as he walked back to his desk — all these salespeople, and like the sinful inhabitants of some antique city (he thought) about to be smitten by the immortals, overwhelmed by water, and still they toil on the phone and fret and bicker, unaware of what was about to befall them. Lawrence, in particular, presented an image of poor, deluded humanity. He will be swept away in the impending flood, and yet here he is, strutting around, lisping orders — an absurd, doomed king.

He feels so fortified by these thoughts, that when, at the very end of the afternoon, he once more finds himself alone with Claire, he invites her for an after-work drink without hesitation. Except that he visits the smoking room first. She is staying to make a call at five thirty, and as the others leave, he lingers, pretending to have things to do. Slowly the sales floor empties. At twenty past, except for the two of them — and near the exit, Tony Peters, in his coat but still detaining two members of his team with stories that they pretend to find amusing — it is deserted. Claire is reading a newspaper. His heart thumping — Why, he thinks, am I so fucking nervous? This is business — Paul slips off to the smoking room. It is obvious that he will never have a more perfect opportunity than this. If he does not speak to her now, he surely never will. He must ask her to join him for a drink now , today. And if she can’t — or won’t — he must simply put the plan to her on the sales floor. Though he seemed to light it only moments ago, his cigarette is already over. He considers smoking a second, then with a grunt of self-contempt, stands up — slightly unsteadily — and leaves. Slowly he mounts the silent stairs. Tony and his lickspittles have left. She is alone. As he approaches the desks, she looks up from her newspaper for a moment, and they smile shortly at each other. He sits down, and is about to speak, has actually opened his mouth to do so, when she picks up the phone and, consulting an index card, starts to enter the numbers. ‘Yes, hello,’ she says in her polite, husky voice. ‘Is Mr Gross there, please?’ There is a short pause, then she says, ‘Sarah Scotland. I’m calling in association with the International Federation of Procurement Management.’

Paul pretends not to be listening. He slides open one of his desk drawers and looks through the obsolete papers it contains. He does this to be helpful. It is harder to make calls on a silent, vacant sales floor than on a teeming one. The whole exercise can seem unreal, weird. ‘What, he’s left?’ Claire says sharply. ‘But he said I should call at six thirty.’ She is blushing — Paul notices — with irritation. ‘No,’ she says. ‘No, I’ll call back tomorrow morning. Thank you.’ She hangs up and says, primly, ‘For fuck’s sake.’

‘He’s gone?’ Paul asks, sympathetic, still staring into his desk drawer.

‘He specifically said I should call at six thirty, his time.’

‘Yeah, it’s fucking annoying when that happens,’ he says vaguely. ‘When you stay behind for one call, and then that happens.’

She has started to ready herself for leaving, is putting things hurriedly into her bag. She ties her scarf around her neck, pulling her hair from its woolly loop at the back. Now she is pushing her slender arms into the sleeves of her coat. In a few seconds, she will be gone. ‘Um,’ Paul says, sliding his desk drawer shut. ‘I wanted …’ He clears his throat. ‘I wanted to have a word with you, Claire.’ His voice, unintentionally, was heavily ominous, and she stops, a look of worry on her high-cheeked face. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ he adds, seeing this.

‘Okay,’ she says.

‘Do you want to get a drink or something? Maybe you’re in a hurry.’ He rushes these words out, and immediately feels he has made a mistake. She looks uneasy. He must clarify what this is about. ‘Just a quick one. It’d be nicer than talking here. I’ve got a proposal for you. A work proposal.’

‘What proposal?’ she says, still uneasy. Perhaps more so.

‘Um. Well.’ He wavers for a moment, and then, painfully abandoning the idea of a drink, says, in a low voice, ‘The fact is, I’ve been offered another job. At another company. And I’m asking some of the team if they want to join me there. It’s a better company.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Right.’

‘Um. So that’s it. That’s the proposal.’ He smiles. ‘Interested?’

‘Another sales company?’

‘Yeah. A better one.’

She looks uncertain.

‘You don’t have to give me an answer now,’ he says.

She shakes her head and laughs sadly. ‘No, it’s not that. It’s just that I don’t think I’m very good at this.’

‘Good at …?’

‘This. Sales.’

‘I think you are,’ Paul says. And she smiles, pinks, in spite of everything enjoying the praise. ‘But I haven’t sold anything,’ she protests half-heartedly. ‘I’ve been here two months and I haven’t sold anything . It’s embarrassing …’

‘It’s normal.’

‘I just don’t think … it’s really me.’ She smiles apologetically. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it, actually.’

‘About?’

‘About leaving.’ Experiencing a quiet sense of inner disintegration, Paul waits for her to go on. For a week he has been imagining this conversation. Not once did he imagine it like this. She is now saying how helpful he has been, how it’s not his fault … ‘It’s just really not me,’ she says again, looking at him with sincere, uncertain blue eyes. He takes out his cigarettes, offers her one, and lights it for her. ‘Thanks.’ He lights one for himself.