Sophie Kinsella - The Undomestic Goddess

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. At-tend 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-skelter ing. 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 lightheaded. 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.”