Page 78 of The Last Train Home
‘You’re twenty-one,’ I remind him. ‘You’ll be fine.’
He nods.
‘Start applying for other jobs immediately. Start today. Ring around everyone you know, see what openings they’ve got. Do it before everyone else gets in there. Do it before the dust settles. Be proactive, OK?’
He’s too stunned to reply. I put my hand on his shoulder.
‘Yep,’ he replies. It’s all he can say.
‘Good’ is all I can say in return. I’m only just thirty and I’m offering forward operating advice like a wizened troop commander who’s seen it all. I’ve seen nothing. I know nothing about job-hunting in a recession. I’m fucked. We’re all fucked.
Like the captain going down with his ship, I wait for everyone to leave the vessel first. They go at varying paces, some stopping to look around their desk, their office, to say goodbye to others who are busy packing, to wave sadly to friends on the other side of the office. There are two pacesof speed to this floor: frenzied phone calls or silent packing, depending on whether you’ve kept your job or not.
When the last of my team goes, I don’t glance back forlornly at where I worked, one last time. I turn my back on it, bitterness and confusion unravelling in equal measure. I put my rucksack on over my suit jacket, take the escalator down the sleek marble interior, hand my pass over to the security guy, who utters a sympathetic phrase I barely acknowledge, haul my box further up my arms and then walk out into the bright sunshine.
Out in the square in front of me, a few colleagues are walking away, hunched over their boxes as they head towards the Tube station or the bus stop. A BBC News van’s over in the corner; Channel 4, ITV, Sky News and Channel 5 News are setting up cameras. I stare at them all for a while. This is unreal. Reporters are gesturing towards the building and directing their talk to the cameras. It’s as frenzied out here as it was in there. I don’t know where to go. I watchedAlice in Wonderlandwith Teddy last week, and I think of that scene where the broom wipes out the path in front of Alice, moves around her and wipes out the path behind her too. She’s rooted to the spot then, with nowhere to go, exactly as I am now.
My phone rings in my pocket. I put the box down and lift my phone out. It’s Andy.
‘Mate, keep walking,’ he instructs.
‘What?’
‘You’re on TV.’
‘I’ve just been fired,’ I say. The words sound alien to me.I’ve just been fired. ‘We all have.’
‘I know. I’m watching it. Your company’s all over the news. You look really lost, mate. BBC News has zoomed inon your face. Pick up that box and get the hell out of there. Chin up. Head high. Go.’
‘OK,’ I say quickly, doing as I’m instructed. I hang up on Andy without saying goodbye, pick up the box and walk with a purpose that I no longer feel towards the Underground.
Chapter 50
Abbie
Sean bursts into the bedroom, where I’ve got my notes spread out on the bed and I’m propped up against the pillows, working with my laptop on my thighs. He’s working from home today too and he needs the desk space for all his paperwork, so I’ve relocated to the bedroom.
‘Guess who I’ve just seen on TV, getting the sack?’ he says, so quickly it takes me a second to de-jumble his sentence. His eyes are wide with excitement and he’s holding on to the doorframe with one hand, as if to steady himself. As if the electrical current of excitement threatens to unbalance him.
I look up at his sudden entrance. The news has been running all day as Sean’s industry grinds to a crashing halt. As a retail journalist, I’ll be writing about the downfall of various companies as they begin throwing in the towel. We’re heading into a serious recession. Sean’s been warning me about this for months. He’s relatively calm about the whole thing, considering his bank wouldn’t touch subprime and they’ve been invited by numerous banks across the world to dig deep and form a merger. They’re still considering theiroptions, Sean says, based on a number of factors that I don’t even pretend to understand.
‘Someone we know is on TV?’ I ask, rising from the bed. ‘Who?’
‘Come and see.’ He leaps back out the room like Tigger on steroids, crosses his arms over his chest. He’s got a financial news channel on, and an American reporter is analysing facts that have led to a major New York-based bank’s collapse.
‘I don’t think I know anyone in New York,’ I tell Sean.
‘It’s London,’ he says. ‘Just wait.’
‘And someone we know has been fired? That’s awful, Sean.’Oh God, is it Natasha? Please let it not be Natasha.
‘It’s life. Wait, they’ll show it again in a minute. I’ve seen it twice. I didn’t think it was him at first. It’s on some kind of rotation where they keep showing the same footage over and over, people walking out the office, looking all sad and holding— There he is!’
I look at the TV as a man in a suit exits a bank building in London, nearly 7,000 miles away. I don’t have a clue who it is, and I tell Sean as much.
‘Wait for it,’ he says.
And then the camera zooms in on Tom’s face and I breathe in so sharply, my hand flying to my mouth.
