“Er … OK,” I say feebly.
She closes the door and I put the tea down. Oh, fuck. What am I going to do?
OK. Prioritize. I need to call the office. Find out exactly how bad the situation is. With a spasm of apprehension I reach inside my bag for my mobile phone.
The display is blank.
I tap it in frustration, but the battery must have run out. I must have been so spaced out yesterday I forgot to charge it. I pull out my charger, plug it into the wall, and attach the phone. At once it starts charging up.
I wait for the signal to appear … but there’s no bloody signal. How am I going to call the office? How am I going to do anything? I cannot exist without my mobile phone.
Suddenly I remember passing a telephone on the landing. It was on a table in a little window bay. Maybe I could use that. I open my bedroom door and look up and down the corridor. No one’s about. Cautiously I creep into the bay and lift the receiver. The dial tone rings in my ear. I take a deep breath—then dial the direct line for Arnold. It isn’t nine yet, but he’ll be in.
“Arnold Saville’s office,” comes the cheerful voice of Lara, his secretary.
“Lara,” I say nervously. “It’s Samantha. Samantha Sweeting.”
“Samantha?” Lara sounds so gobsmacked, I wince. “Oh, my God! What happened? Where are you? Everyone’s been—” She draws herself up.
“I … I’m out of London right now. May I speak with Arnold?”
“Of course. He’s right here.…” She disappears briefly into chirpy Vivaldi, before the line clears again.
“Samantha.” Arnold’s friendly, assured voice booms down the line. “My dear girl. You’ve got yourself in a pickle, haven’t you?”
Only Arnold could describe the loss of a client’s £50 million as a “pickle.” In spite of everything, I feel the beginning of a smile. I can just picture him, in his waistcoat, his woolly eyebrows knitting together.
“I know,” I say, trying to match his understated tones. “It’s … not great.”
“I’m obliged to point out that your hasty departure yesterday did not help matters.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I just … panicked.”
“Understandable. However, you left a bit of a mess behind.”
Beneath Arnold’s jolly veneer I can hear unfamiliar levels of stress. Arnold never gets stressed. Things must be really bad. I want to fall to the floor in a groveling heap, crying, “I’m so sorry!” But that wouldn’t help. I’ve already been unprofessional enough.
“So—what’s the latest situation?” I’m trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Is there anything the receivers can do?”
“I think it unlikely. They say their hands are tied.”
“Right.” His response is like a hammer blow to the stomach. So that’s it. The fifty million is gone for good. “And … the insurers?”
“That is the next step, of course. The money will be recovered eventually, I’m sure. But not without complications. As I think you will appreciate.”
“I know,” I whisper.
There’s no good news. There’s no silver lining. I’ve fucked up.
“Arnold …” I say, my voice quivering. “I have no idea how I could have made such a … a stupid mistake. I don’t understand how it happened. I don’t even remember seeing the memo on my desk—”
“Where are you now?” Arnold breaks in.
“I’m …” I look helplessly out the window at the Geigers’ gravel drive. “To be honest, I don’t even know exactly where I am.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m in the country somewhere. But I can come back right now!” My words tumble out. “I’ll get on the first train … I’ll only be a few hours.…”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” There’s a new edge to Arnold’s voice, which pulls me up short.
“Have I … have I been fired?”
“There have been slightly more pressing matters to consider, Samantha.” He sounds testy.
“Of course.” I feel the blood rush back into my head. “I’m sorry. I just … I’ve been with Carter Spink all my working life. All I ever, ever wanted was …”
I can’t even say it.
“Samantha, I know you’re a very talented lawyer.” Arnold sighs. “No one is in any doubt of that.”
“But I made a mistake.”
I can hear tiny crackles down the line; my own pulse beating in my ears.