Close to the Edge Read online

  The sunlight streaming in around the blind lifted Laurie’s spirits. She stretched, rubbed the sleep from her eyes and wandered through to the kitchen in her pyjamas.

  Forty minutes later Laurie was freewheeling down Fortess Road. The lights at the end were red, and she slowed down in case a pedestrian started to cross, but she certainly wasn’t going to bother with stopping. At this point yesterday morning her chain had already come off twice. Now she felt like she was cruising, weaving round cars, exulting that they were now the ones feeling frustration.

  Euston Station merited a second glance as Laurie passed by. Then came the junction with the main road. The traffic here was as heavy as ever. Only a madman would jump these lights. Laurie stopped and rested her left foot on the pavement. Within seconds, however, another bicycle drew up beside her and she heard a familiar voice: ‘So, how was your date?’

  Yes, it was man from the station! Laurie’s heart gave a little jump. Was it just shock? What were the chances of that? Why was she grinning so inanely? She covered up her embarrassment. ‘Do you specialise in creeping up on people?’

  The light was green now. The man moved across to his left to allow the cars behind to move. It also meant that he was blocking Laurie. She didn’t mind. Besides, she owed him an answer. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but it wasn’t really a date. I just had to phone home.’

  As she spoke, Laurie was aware of how feeble the words sounded, but to his credit the man didn’t probe any further. ‘You’re right. I was being nosy. And to answer your question, no, I don’t specialise in creeping up on people, I just recognised your cycling gear.’

  The light was back to red again. Laurie straightened, sitting upright in the saddle, emphasising that she was in no hurry to move off. She felt the man’s eyes on her. Then he spoke again. ‘So, if you won’t drink, how about a coffee?’

  He was called Paul – Paul Collingwood.

  They locked up their bikes where they’d met the evening before and went into the station. She had a cappuccino to his espresso. They shared a chocolate brownie. She said she couldn’t stay long. He said he couldn’t either.

  Laurie looked at the man sitting opposite her – at Paul. Now that his helmet was off she could see his hair: close-cropped, dark – almost black – eminently strokeable. A few flecks of grey somehow emphasised the contrast with the rest of his colouring – hair and eyebrows, of course, but above all, his eyelashes. Why hadn’t she noticed them before? They gave his eyes a gentleness that might almost have been feminine, if it wasn’t for the bone structure of the face beneath. What could a man do with eyes like that? Even the barista had been flustered, blushing slightly as she handed over the change for their coffees. It reminded Laurie of her own mini-crushes – never obviously reciprocated – during the two years she’d drifted between waitressing jobs in Wells.

  They talked about cycling in London, about lorries that turn left without indicating, about tourists who look the wrong way when they cross, about how you never notice the wind until it’s against you.

  ‘So have you always been a cyclist?’ He seemed genuinely curious.

  ‘Well, I was brought up in Cambridge, and everyone cycles there – a combination of poor academics not being able to afford cars, and it being so flat, I suppose.’

  ‘So is that what your Dad is, an academic?’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s semi-retired now. He moved us back to Somerset after Mum died.’ Laurie hadn’t meant to say so much, but now she’d started she didn’t feel like stopping. There was something about Paul that made him easy to talk to: the way he was clearly giving her his full attention, the sense of understanding conveyed in the looks they were sharing. Perhaps it was easier because he was a stranger, except that he didn’t feel like a stranger.

  ‘She’d been ill, but she was getting better, looking forward to getting back to work. She was at Cambridge too, in the MRC – Medical Research Council. She was driving back from outpatients when her foot slipped on the accelerator. Apparently it would have been very quick.’

  Laurie stopped, remembering Dad coming to get her out of school, trying to explain, using exactly the same words with her, attempting to assuage her rage and grief. She didn’t tell Paul about the open verdict, about the suggestion that her depression medication might have been to blame. It was an accident, wasn’t it? Mum would never have done that, however ill she was.

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine something like that. Is it still very raw?’

  ‘Well, it was almost ten years ago, but I still miss her, if that’s what you mean. And I was pretty bad immediately afterwards. That’s why Dad moved us to Somerset, to get me away from Cambridge, and all the memories. God we fought about it, but he was right. I’m so much better now than I was then. He was great. He is great.’

  Paul smiled. ‘That’s good. Dads aren’t always given the credit they deserve.’ He paused, as though considering whether to say more, before taking Laurie by surprise with a change of subject. ‘So what’s your happiest memory of your mother?’

  Startled, Laurie still had to smile in return. It was the perfect question. ‘Just listening to her laugh – before she was ill, you know. She loved those old silent movies. We used to curl up on the sofa together to watch them.’

  That got them onto Buster Keaton versus Charlie Chaplin, then to how many times you had to watch Groundhog Day to appreciate its full genius. They talked about their favourite parts of north London. He said that a walk on Hampstead Heath was as good as anything you could get outside London. She boasted of her explorations along the towpath.

  Paul was looking at her. Why did she have the sense that she was being appraised? Why didn’t she mind? ‘So what is it you do that means you’re cycling past Euston Station at eight-fifteen in the morning?’ he asked.

  The question brought Laurie back to reality. It was now well after nine. She’d be lucky if she got to Mayfair before 9.30. ‘Shit, I’m going to be late for the second day in a row. Look, it’s been lovely, but I’ve really got to go. How about trying to have that drink this evening? Meet by the bike racks – usual place, six-thirty?’

  Paul nodded his agreement with a smile, standing up as Laurie left, before leaning forward to give her a goodbye peck on the cheek. At least that must have been what he intended, Laurie was sure, but for one electric moment the corners of their lips met. Laurie gathered her things together and rushed out. What had just happened?

  It was just as well Laurie didn’t have much work to do that morning. She kept thinking back to the hour she’d spent with Paul, and remembering the feel of his lips on hers. What did that grey in his hair mean? He must be in his thirties at least. Their meeting this evening was, presumably, a date. Might it be the beginning of something? What would it be like to date an older man? Well, she could cross that bridge if they came to it. Right now, it just felt good to have met someone she could talk to.

  And why had she suggested they meet in such a ridiculous place? If this was a date, she couldn’t wear her cycling gear again. And – this would please Jess – she wanted it to be a date. She’d clearly have to leave her bike at work and get up to Euston by public transport.

  That still didn’t solve the problem of what to wear. The dress Laurie had changed into on arrival had done two days in the office. It felt like work clothes and that wasn’t right. A lunchtime trip to Oxford Street was in order.

  A dress in the window of French Connection caught Laurie’s eye. It was black, V-necked, stopping just above the knee, with an air of sophistication that felt right somehow. She took it to the changing room and examined herself in the mirror outside. Did it look like she was trying too hard? If only she’d brought someone along for a second opinion. Someone? Who was she kidding? Apart from Jess – and God knows what she’d say – there was only Lizzie, who would never spend her lunch hour shopping.

  ‘That looks lovely. I wish I had the figure for it.’

  Laurie knew the sales assistan
t was just doing her job, but was grateful all the same. She happily accepted further advice, picking out an embroidered clutch bag to go with the dress.

  Walking back to the office, Laurie eyed her shoes: black flats. They’d looked OK with the dress, but no more than that, and she’d been thinking of buying a pair of sandals for weeks – something strappy, with a hint of heel. Kurt Geiger was right there. Laurie spotted exactly the style she was thinking of, interrupted two sales assistants deep in conversation and got the less grumpy of the two to track down a pair of size sixes. Within a couple of minutes, she was handing over her credit card at the till.

  Back at her desk, Laurie reflected guiltily on the ease with which she’d got through two weeks’ overtime money in an hour. It had all been a good distraction from thinking about the man on the Underground, but Dad would not spend that much on clothes in two years. Well, at least she could phone home, if only to warn him that she wouldn’t be calling again this evening. The news certainly made him curious, but he knew better than to probe further. The next conversation – with Jess – was slightly trickier.

  ‘Well, I suppose I should be pleased that you’ve taken my advice so quickly, but honestly, darling. You’re meeting at Euston Station, of all bloody places. And all you know about him is that he’s called Paul Collingwood, that he lives somewhere in north London, and that he’s a dab hand with cycle maintenance. Have you had a common-sense bypass?’

  ‘Look. I am being sensible. That’s why I’m telling you his name. It’s not as if I’d know any more about him if we’d just met on Tinder. Just don’t forget it, OK?’

  ‘Good point, well made. But at least tell me you’ve googled him.’

  ‘Well, yes. But it didn’t help much. It turns out there’s a cricketer called Paul Collingwood. I guess he must be quite well known, because he’s the only one I could find. Anyway, that’s not him.’

  ‘Fine, fine. Paul Collingwood, but not the famous one. Have a lovely evening. Text me when you’re with him to let me know you’re OK. Make sure you get his phone number this time. And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ This last exhortation came with a raucous laugh that implied it wasn’t much of a limitation. Not for the first time, Laurie wondered what her cousin’s employers at the Barbican made of their senior press officer.

  Laurie put down the phone to realise Michael was watching her. How much had he overheard? What was Fitzalan Capital’s policy on personal phone calls? Laurie had a vague memory from her induction last year of some fairly draconian rules. Michael might, like her, report to Henry, but there was no doubt that, as an analyst, he stood above her in the hierarchy. Anxious not to catch his eye, she looked back down at her desk.

  When Michael spoke, however, he referred only obliquely to what he’d heard. ‘If you’re not particularly busy, perhaps you can give me a hand with this. How familiar are you with Excel?’

  Laurie let her gratitude for his discretion seep through into eagerness. ‘It was a module in my diploma. I use it to do Henry’s expenses. Happy to help if I can.’

  Michael’s sigh conveyed the disappointment that he lacked the tact to hide. Almost to himself, he said, ‘I suppose there’s no harm in trying.’ Then he looked up at Laurie. ‘Right, I need to run a sensitivity analysis on my model. Check how it performs under different assumptions. With me so far?’

  Laurie nodded. Encouraged, Michael continued, ‘I’ve got four variables: one-year bond yields, five-year yields, ten years and twenty years. Where each of them will be in a year’s time has an effect on the success of this trading strategy. I need to test it for point-one per cent increments, from zero to two-point-five per cent.’

  By now, Michael seemed to be talking to himself as much as Laurie, persuading himself that it really was necessary. He seemed slightly surprised when Laurie responded, ‘So that’s twenty-six possibilities for each variable. You’ve got four of them. You’ll need to run your model an awful lot of times.’

  ‘Twenty-six to the power of four,’ Michael responded, with the defeated air of someone who knows that he has no prospect of leaving the office before midnight any time soon. ‘Now you know why I need some help. If you could test all the scenarios from zero to one per cent and I’ll do the rest. You’ll need to tabulate your results somehow.’

  Laurie knew she had no choice, really. ‘OK. I’ll have a go. What’s your deadline? It’s just that I’m going out tonight.’

  ‘I know.’ Was that a hint of a smile? Laurie had never seen one on Michael before. Then he got more businesslike. ‘I need to have something ready for Henry when he comes back from holiday. I’ll email you the model today and talk you through it. You can get cracking in earnest tomorrow.’

  Wednesday, 22 July – 5.30 p.m.

  Changed and ready, Laurie walked to Oxford Circus. There was no doubt that the Tube was the best way for her to get to Euston, but as she’d made her plans earlier in the day, she hadn’t really thought about what it would involve. The familiar sight of crowds descending underground brought back an unbidden image of the man falling, but now he was Mum, pleading, with her hand stretched towards her. Laurie’s palms started prickling; she could feel the blood thudding in her ears. She realised she was trembling; passers-by were looking at her with concern. It was all she could do stagger to the railings around the entrance and lean on them, breathing in great sobs of air.

  Still grasping the railings, Laurie turned around. She had to pull herself together. She tried to concentrate on the familiar sights of Oxford Street: the mannequin wearing underwear whose scarlet hue clashed unapologetically with the pink Sale sign on the window in front of it; the pair of girls talking excitedly into their mobiles; a backpacker oblivious to the traffic jam of pedestrians behind him. Her breathing returned to normal, but her earlier confidence had gone. How long would it be before she could stomach the idea of going underground again? It was little more than a day since she had witnessed the accident. What else should she expect?

  Laurie considered her options. She didn’t fancy the idea of walking the best part of a mile in new shoes; footsore and sweaty was no way to begin a date. There were buses passing regularly, but the traffic on Oxford Street made them a lottery: a ten-minute journey could take half an hour. It went against the grain, but the thought of taking an Uber suddenly seemed awfully attractive.

  ‘Hassan’ was apparently three minutes away; the map on her phone showed him coming down Harley Street. Now he was waiting at the pick-up point she had suggested in Great Castle Street. She started walking towards it. Within a minute, however, Hassan had become mysteriously unavailable. Never mind, another driver could be there in five minutes, although the price had gone up by 20 per cent.

  Laurie pursed her lips, and looked up to a see a solitary orange taxi light approaching from the west. Yes! She started towards it, already imagining the comfort of its wide leather seats, only for the cab to be snaffled by a trio of middle-aged women, laden with shopping. Behind it, however, was a 73 bus. In that moment, Laurie accepted her fate. She would go to Euston on the bus, and she would be late.

  By the time Laurie arrived at Euston she had digested all that Twitter and Facebook had to say, before moving on to read every page of the free newspaper she found on her seat. She’d been grateful for the distraction as the bus inched along first Oxford Street and then Tottenham Court Road. Even so, she must have looked at the clock on her phone a hundred times in the course of the journey, cursing herself for her failure to get Paul’s number. What were the chances he’d still be waiting, half an hour beyond the time she said she’d be there?

  Running to the bike racks as fast as her dress and heels would allow, Laurie scanned every figure she saw for a sign of familiarity. He wasn’t there. She stopped, the hope draining out of her. Now all the emotions she’d been keeping in check on the bus came to the fore. It was shame that she felt most deeply: shame that she hadn’t been able to take the Tube; shame that she’d spent so much money on clothes for nothing; shame
that she’d have to confess it all to Jess; shame at what she imagined she saw in the eyes of the passing commuters who saw her standing there, all dolled up with nowhere to go.

  ‘You certainly know how to keep a man waiting.’

  Laurie turned round. There was Paul, still dressed in the same blue suit: no lunchtime shopping sprees for him. How could she have missed him? She could feel the grin spreading over her face. It was all she could do not to hug him.

  ‘Paul, I am so, so sorry. I will explain, but first give me your phone number. I’d like to make sure it never happens again.’

  ‘Tell you what. Give me yours and I’ll send you a text.’ Paul got out his phone and keyed in the number she gave him. ‘Right, shall we get something to eat? Have you ever eaten south Indian food? There are some great restaurants just round the corner from here.’

  Ordinarily, Laurie would have objected to the way Paul took control, but today she was grateful for the chance to let someone else make the decisions. Within a few minutes he had led her to a place that he clearly knew well, though not to the extent that the waiters showed him any more than the usual deference. They squeezed into a corner table, elbows on Formica, knees touching. Around them uninhibited larger groups, including a couple of families, were shouting cheerfully at the waiters. The smell of curry hung in the air, but it was almost floral, nothing like the takeaways near Tufnell Park. Paul ordered them both beers and something else that Laurie didn’t catch.

  All this time Paul was solicitous, as if he could tell how wound up Laurie was, how close to the edge. He asked no questions and confined his own statements to generalities and directions. It was only when they were fully settled, each holding a glass of Cobra, that he allowed the conversation to move on. ‘It’s going to sound corny I know, and I’m sure it’s the kind of thing you must hear all the time, but can I just say you look fabulous? That dress really suits you.’