David Szalay - London and the South-East

‘It’s normal, you know,’ he says, after a few moments. ‘You shouldn’t give up on it so easily. I think you could be very good. I honestly do,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t just say that. And this new place we’re going to, it’s much better. Much better publications. Much better leads. It’ll seem easy after the stuff we’ve been working on here.’ She does not say anything. He can see that she does not want to be persuaded, is set against it, and when he goes on it is without vehemence — ‘This would be the worst time to stop.’

‘It’s not just that.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t really enjoy it.’

‘You’re not supposed to enjoy it!’ he says jokingly. ‘We’re not doing it for a laugh. Do you think I enjoy it?’

‘No, I know.’

They smoke in silence for a few moments. ‘Anyway,’ he says softly, ‘think about it.’

‘I have thought about it,’ she says. ‘I can’t do this. I’ve tried, but I can’t.’ She pauses. ‘I’m sorry.’

He laughs. ‘Sorry for what, why?’

‘I don’t know. I feel I’ve let you down.’

‘Not at all. Don’t be silly.’

‘I’ve been wanting to tell you for a couple of weeks. I don’t know why I’ve kept putting it off.’ Her latest plan, formulated that very afternoon, had been to stay until Christmas, and then simply slip away in the new year. And instead she will slip away now. Today, it turns out, has been her last day, as he understands. He had not meant to precipitate this . ‘I gave it a try,’ she says, with a smile.

‘Yes.’

They leave together, ride down in the lift, slightly uncomfortable in its dim, confined space. Together, they wait at the lights, and cross Kingsway. ‘Okay,’ she says, halting at the entrance to the tube.

‘Okay. Well …’

‘Good luck in your new job.’

‘Yeah, thanks. And good luck with whatever you do.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Okay …’ There is a moment of slight confusion. ‘Well, don’t be a stranger, Claire.’

‘I won’t,’ she says, though they both know that they will never see each other again, and for a moment they wonder, both of them, whether a peck on the cheek would be appropriate here. In the end they shake hands quickly, and she turns and goes through the grey barriers.

Wearing a pair of frameless glasses that do not suit his big face, Eddy Jaw looks over the list of names — Wolé Ogunyemi, Marlon Smith, Elvezia Buonarroti, Dave Shelley, Li Zhang, Justin Fellowes . It is Thursday again, and they are again in the deep red interior of the Cardinal in Victoria. Paul is drinking Ayingerbrau. ‘All right,’ Eddy says, putting the list down on the table’s dark mahogany. ‘Well done, Paul.’

‘No problemo,’ Paul mutters, and feeling pleased with himself — though also prickly at receiving such a condescending pat on the head from his old co-equal — he lights a cigarette. He has not yet really come to terms with the fact that Eddy is now — there is no ambiguity about it — his boss.

‘Tell me something about these people,’ Eddy says.

Paul indicates the list. ‘About them ?’

Eddy nods. ‘Yeah.’ Taking his time, Paul sips lager while he looks through the names. ‘What do you want to know?’ he says. Eddy laughs. ‘Something about them. Who the fuck are they?’

‘All right. Um. Wolé, yeah, fucking brilliant. Really top salesman. Marlon too. Um. Elvezia — she pitches in Italian. She’s good. Reliable. Li pitches in Chinese. Mandarin, I think. Or Cantonese. The same — good, reliable …’

‘What about, you missed out …

Dave Shelley?’ ‘Dave? Yeah, he’s good. Not as experienced as the others. But good. Yeah …’

‘And Justin Fellowes?’

Paul wonders whether Eddy has had an equivalent list from the Pig, also featuring Justin Fellowes. Something about his smile, almost imperceptible — perhaps imagined — suggests that he might have. ‘I recruited him from another team,’ Paul says.

‘Oh?’ Eddy nods, apparently impressed. ‘Great.’

‘Yeah, there was nobody else good on my team.’

‘That’s great, Paul. Well done. So this Justin Fellowes is good, is he?’

‘Yeah, pretty good,’ Paul says.

Eddy takes a pull of alcopop. The liquid — WKD Original — is a strange, fluorescent blue, and at this trigger, like some programmed Sirhan Sirhan, the strapline of an advert pops into Paul’s head: Have you got a WKD side?

‘So,’ Eddy says, ‘they’re all ready to go?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m ready. Of course.’ Paul stubs out his cigarette. He is not sure, suddenly, that he wants to work for Eddy Jaw — he has not until now, until this meeting, thought about it in precisely those terms. He has thought about it in terms of what he is leaving . Now he starts to think — in more specific, solid detail — about what he is going to . And he finds he is not sure about it.

‘And it’s all been kept quiet?’ Eddy says. ‘No one knows who’s not involved?’

Paul shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘Not Murray?’

‘Definitely not Murray.’ He lights another cigarette. Eddy, sitting on the other side of the table, studies him almost sympathetically. ‘I know it’s a bit of a shit thing to do to a mate,’ he says.

Paul says, ‘Well …’ Then stops, and shrugs, and looks Eddy in the face. The face is long, and despite some flab on the jowls, still quite youthful — narrow-mouthed, small-eyed, with fair brows and lashes. Eddy is smiling. ‘It’s business,’ he says. ‘That’s all.’ Paul says nothing. ‘He’ll understand that. Wouldn’t you?’

‘I suppose.’ Though Paul does not think he would understand. Not in the sense that Eddy means, anyway — a sense which seemingly sought to isolate ‘business’ from everything else in life, as though it were an entirely separate sphere — as though, in each sphere, we were not the same person.

‘I want to make the move on Monday,’ Eddy says.

Paul is stunned. ‘Monday?’

‘Yeh.’

‘ This Monday?’

‘Yes.’

‘But it’s Thursday …’

‘It is, yes.’

‘It’s just … I thought we were going after Christmas.’

‘No.’

Paul shakes his head, as if trying to wake himself up. ‘Why?’ he says.

‘If everything’s ready, why wait?’ Eddy smiles. ‘Tomorrow’s your last day at PLP, mate. I thought you’d be pleased.’ Paul is speechless. While it was safely on the far side of Christmas, of the new year, it all seemed somehow hypothetical. Now it is Monday . And suddenly it is something that is actually happening. He is aware, in an entirely literal sense, of his feet turning cold under the table. In a sterner tone, Eddy says, ‘You said you were ready.’

‘Yeah, I am.’ He has had no time to prepare himself psychologically though.

‘Then what’s the problem?’ Eddy seems impatient.

‘There isn’t a problem.’

‘Fine.’

‘So,’ Paul says hoarsely, ‘so what do we do?’

THREE THIRTY, AND Paul is standing in his cotton boxers outside the bedroom door — that centrally heated inky cave, smelling of human breath — having left the bed in protest at his brain’s obstinate refusal to close down. Aware of the carpet’s nap under the slightly sweaty soles of his feet, he stands there, in the sleepless stare of the street light, the window’s shadow on him like a cross hair, knowing that there is nothing for him to do. Nothing. He is itchy-eyed and headachy with fatigue. He has been standing on the same spot for several minutes, and it seems that he has more chance of falling asleep standing there — his head occasionally nods involuntarily — than in the hot darkness of the bed. This is always the way. He is not angry any more. That was an hour ago. The tears, too, have been shed. Poor, imploring tears. He moves silently down the stairs, and turns on the light in the lounge. It assaults his eyes, and he squints — and when that is not enough, covers them with his hand. He has not got his contacts in, and the room, when he can look at it, is soft-focused. It seems desolate, dishevelled. Sad. Especially the dour, coniferous shape of the unilluminated Christmas tree. Crouching on his white hams, he plugs in the coloured lights. (They bought the tree on Saturday. It was too tall for the room — as he had said it would be — and he had had to labour in the garden for an hour with a saw.) He snaps off the oppressive overhead light and sitting on the sofa wearily starts to make a spliff. His fingers are swollen. It is Monday morning.