I shove the file away from me—and a landslide of papers falls on the floor on the other side. As I gather them up I find myself looking anew at the disorderly heap of papers and files, at the teetering pile of books on my computer terminal.
Ketterman’s right. It is a bit of a disgrace. It doesn’t look like a partner’s desk.
I’ll tidy it up. This is the perfect way to spend an hour. 12:06–1:06: office administration. We even have a code for it on the computer time sheet.
I had forgotten how much I detest tidying.
All sorts of things are turning up as I sift through the mess on my desk. Company letters … contracts that should have gone to Maggie for filing … old invitations … memos … a Pilates pamphlet … a CD that I bought three months ago and thought I’d lost … last year’s Christmas card from Arnold, which depicts him in a woolly reindeer costume … I smile at the sight, and put it into the things to find a place for pile.
There are tombstones too—the engraved, mounted pieces of Lucite we get at the end of a big deal. And … oh, God, half a Snickers bar I obviously didn’t finish eating at one time or another. I dump it in the bin and turn with a sigh to another pile of papers.
They shouldn’t give us such big desks. I can’t believe how much stuff is on here.
Partner! shoots through my mind, like a glittering firework. PARTNER!
Stop it, I instruct myself sternly. Concentrate on the task at hand. As I pull out an old copy of The Lawyer and wonder why on earth I’m keeping it, some paper-clipped documents fall to the floor. I reach for them and run my gaze down the front page, already reaching for the next thing. It’s a memo from Arnold.
Re Third Union Bank.
Please find attached debenture for Glazerbrooks Ltd. 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. Attend 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.