David Szalay - London and the South-East

Paul is always one of the first onto the sales floor in the morning. Murray is usually the last to arrive.

‘Murray,’ Paul says, when he does, ‘is it just me, or was Eddy Jaw in the Penderel’s on Friday?’

Murray looks surprised. ‘Eddy Jaw?’ he says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘I’m sure I saw him.’

A few uninterested heads turn to see what Murray will say.

He shrugs. ‘Might have been, yeah,’ he says. With an unlit cigarette in his hand, he stands up. The double-breasted front of his suit, especially when unbuttoned, seems too big for him, there seems to be too much blue cloth — masses of it, a dismantled marquee.

‘I’m sure he was …’ Paul says.

And suddenly, on the point of leaving, Murray says, ‘Yeah, he was. I saw you talking to him.’

‘Me? I was? What were we talking about?’

Murray leaves without answering.

It is, Paul thinks, as if he’s offended — as if I’ve offended him somehow. And he sifts his scant memories of Friday night, looking for something that might account for this moodiness. Nothing that he can remember. Perhaps something happened to Murray over the weekend. What Murray does at the weekend is a mystery to Paul — the two of them operate an informal, unspoken don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy on the subject, and in fact hardly speak of their lives outside the office at all. (They are always hearing about Andy’s life, though. Every Monday he has a new story about some Annabel or Alexandra he’s lusting after, who’s always ‘gorgeous’ — all the girls in Andy’s stories are ‘gorgeous’, if they’re not ‘mooses’ — and whom he met at Jezza’s or Josh’s party on Saturday night.) About Murray’s life, however, only the occasional slight snippet filters out. Every summer he has a barbecue in his small suburban garden but only people from the office are there, and not many of them — typically the Pig and Neil and Simona and one or two others — a few of the transients who happen to be on the team at the time — as well as Paul. It is a long-standing tradition now, Murray’s office barbecue. So Paul knows where Murray lives, and what his house is like — two-up, two-down, not unlike his own minus the extension. He also knows that before he knew him, Murray was married, and divorced, and thinks he may have a brother somewhere — all in all surprisingly little, given that they have worked together, on and off, for over fifteen years. These days, particularly, Paul finds Murray’s life quite depressing to think about — in the intensity of its seeming loneliness, no woman, a desperate financial situation — so he seldom does. When he does, it is with pity, and mild horror.

The morning is unexceptional. Paul reads The Times , and does what he can of the quick crossword. Tony Peters holds a team meeting — which Paul watches, sneeringly, over the top of his paper. He dislikes everything about Tony Peters’ team — the tidy desks, the smart, well-behaved salespeople, the way they laugh at Tony’s jokes, the strict timekeeping, the team meetings … Later, the slow clock nearing eleven, he listens in to one of Andy’s wooden, underpowered pitches. ‘Yes, many of our readers are in the chemical industry,’ Andy is saying when Paul activates the earpiece and, shaking loose the tangled coils of the cord, puts it to his ear. ‘Would they be potential clients?’

‘We have clients in the chemical industry.’ It’s another German. ‘And also, of course, in other industries.’

‘Like what other industries?’

‘For example, the food industry.’ The German is civil, but sounds bored.

‘That’s very interesting,’ Andy says. ‘We have readers in the food industry as well. Such as Nestlé.’

‘Do you have something you could send me? A fax?’

‘Of course. But if I could just ask you whether you’d like new business from Europe’s leading multinational companies?’

Obligingly, the German says, ‘Yes, I would. Of course.’

‘That’s good, because as I’ve said, our readership includes the purchasing directors of Europe’s thousand leading multinational companies, such as Philips, Hoechst and BMW.’

‘But if you could send me something.’ The German is more insistent now. ‘Let me give you my fax number. It is forty-nine for Germany.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then …’ There is no hope for poor Andy, Paul thinks. He replaces the earpiece and returns to his desk. No hope at all. He leafs through some old leads — the dead catalogues of international industry fairs, obscure publications full of advertorial, directories. Listlessly, he taps in a number. A company called Sunny Industries, in Mumbai — though the lead is so old it is still down as Bombay. It is in an ancient directory of Indian companies, and he chooses it because it presents him with the MD’s name and direct-line number. He watches Murray while it rings. All morning, Murray has managed to pretend not to have noticed that Marlon is there — which is not easy because Marlon’s desk is directly opposite his own, and Marlon is there. Paul notices that Murray’s eyes take on a strange, empty, defocused quality whenever they pan across it, as they often must. Yes, he has been very quiet this morning, Murray. Uncharacteristically subdued …

Earlier, Paul had heard separately from several people what had happened on Friday. Murray, it seems, had waited in the Gents, sitting bored in the locked stall, until he thought that Marlon, who usually left the office early for the gym, would be gone. For some reason, however, Marlon was not gone. What’s more, there was a strange atmosphere of eerie stillness on the sales floor — something must have happened. Sitting at his desk, Marlon had his back to the entrance. Murray had hesitated, and then — after momentarily making eye contact with a smiling Andy — had turned to leave. And it was then that he heard Marlon’s voice. ‘Oi, Murray!’ Involuntarily quickening his stride, he had pretended not to hear. When Marlon shouted again, though, it had been impossible to keep up the pretence with any sort of plausibility. So he had stopped, and turned, and seen Marlon stalking towards him, saying, ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you, Murray.’

This was the situation, more than any other, that he had wanted to avoid.

‘That was my repeat,’ Marlon said.

‘What? Was it?’ A half-hearted show of ignorance that only seemed to infuriate Marlon further. ‘You fucking know it was,’ he shouted, staring up at Murray, who quickly said, ‘If it was, I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t care if you’re sorry.’ Not knowing what to say, Murray had looked at the floor — had tucked his strong chin into his neck and looked at the worn grey carpet and the dark blue tassels of his loafers. ‘What are you going to do about it, Murray?’ He found it hard to believe that this was actually happening, that he was being dressed down by Marlon on the sales floor, in front of everybody. He could not look up from the carpet. He has had dreams like this — nightmares in which he is publicly humiliated by little men like Marlon, and in which his father, a short man, often figures. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ Murray seemed unable to speak. He had had to force the words out. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’

‘I want you to give me the commission next time you get a deal in. If you ever get another deal in.’ An obviously preposterous demand, and Murray had looked up, finally, just to make sure that Marlon was joking. He did not seem to be. ‘You lost me the commission on my repeat by fucking it up,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have even been calling them, and you fucked it up.’

In mute protest, Murray shook his head.

‘You shouldn’t have even been calling them …’