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.”
For a few moments I can’t speak.
“Yes,” I say at last, my voice hoarse. “Thank you.” I put down the receiver, shaking all over.
I’ve fucked up.
I have fucked up so big, I can’t even …
Barely knowing what I’m doing, I push back my chair. I have to get out.
Five
I walk through reception on autopilot. Out onto the sunny lunchtime street, one foot in front of the other, just another office worker among the midday crowds.
Except I’m different. I’ve just lost my client £50 million.
Fifty million. The amount is like a drumbeat in my head.
I don’t understand how it happened. I don’t understand. My mind keeps turning it over. Over and over, obsessively. How could I have not seen … how could I have overlooked … It must have been put on my desk, then covered up with something else. A file, a pile of contracts, a cup of coffee.
One mistake. The only mistake I’ve ever made. I want to wake up and this will all be a bad dream, it happened to someone else, it’s a story I’m listening to in the pub, agog, thanking my lucky stars it wasn’t me.… But it is me.
My career is over. The last person at Carter Spink who made a mistake like this was Ted Stephens, who lost a client £10 million in 1983. He was fired on the spot. And I’ve lost five times that.
My chest feels tight; I feel like I’m being smothered. I think I could be having a panic attack. I sit down on a bench set against some railings and wait to feel better.
OK, I’m not feeling better. I’m feeling worse.
Suddenly I jump in terror as my mobile phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and look at the caller ID. It’s Guy.
I can’t talk to him. I can’t talk to anybody. Not right now.
A moment later, the phone tells me a message has been left. I lift the phone to my ear and press 1 to listen.
“Samantha!” Guy sounds cheery. “Where are you? We’re all waiting with the champagne to make the big partnership announcement!”
Partnership. I want to burst into tears. But … I can’t. This mistake is too big for tears. I thrust my phone in my pocket and get to my feet again. I begin to walk faster and faster, weaving through the pedestrians. My head is pounding and I have no idea where I’m going.
I walk for what seems like hours, my head in a daze, my feet moving blindly. The sun is beating down, and the pavements are dusty, and after a while my head starts to throb. At some point my mobile starts to vibrate again, but I ignore it.
At last, when my legs are starting to ache, I slow down and come to a halt. My mouth is dry; I’m totally dehydrated. I need some water. I look up, trying to get my bearings. Somehow I seem to have reached Paddington Station, of all places.
Numbly, I turn my steps toward the entrance and walk inside. The place is noisy and crowded with travelers. The fluo-rescent lights and air-conditioning and the blaring announcements make me flinch. As I’m making my way to a kiosk selling bottled water, my mobile vibrates again. I pull it out and look at the display. I have fifteen missed calls and another message from Guy. He left it about twenty minutes ago.
I hesitate, my heart beating with nerves, then press 1 to listen to it.
“Jesus Christ, Samantha, what happened?”
He doesn’t sound cheery anymore, he sounds totally stressed. I feel prickles of dread all over my body.
“We know,” he’s saying. “OK? We know about Third Union Bank. Charles Conway called up. Then Ketterman found the paperwork on your desk. You have to come back to the office. Now. Call me back.”
He rings off but I don’t move. I’m paralyzed with fright.
They know. They all know.
The black spots are dancing in front of my eyes again. Nausea is rising up inside me. The entire staff of Carter Spink knows I messed up. People will be calling each other. E-mailing the news in horrified glee. Did you hear …
As I’m standing there, something catches the corner of my eye. A familiar face is just visible through the crowd. I turn my head and squint at the man, trying to place him—then feel a fresh jolt of horror.
It’s Greg Parker, one of the senior partners. He’s been in the States, I remember. He’ll have just got in on the Heathrow Express. Now he’s striding along the concourse in his expensive suit, holding his mobile phone. His brows are knitted together and he looks concerned.