My autumns are always like this: that almost forgotten suburb of my birth, just a
blur of dampish twilit streets for the last twenty-five Octobers, shifts into focus
suddenly – a mental or concrete atmosphere infallibly timed to undermine my walk
from the station to my office. There is a gust of burnished orange leaves, a freight
that having left the trees, and swirling across the streets and squares, marks the
anniversary of one of those tedious family dramas, which I’d rather not dredge up.
In the breeze of that one instant I consider a simple call to my secretary, cancelling
all appointments, a park bench appealing to me more, where having turned up my collar
the hum of business melts away, bringing time, at last, to reflect. That decision
is never made. Invariably, at a few minutes to nine, the glassy motif etched in the
atrium door seals my world of moving capital from the cold exhilarating eddies outside.
A marble-faced security man, paid to scrutinise a bank of TV screens, signals our
exclusive fraternity – I am emperor, and this is my empire – and with usual deliberation
avoids my second glance. These are delicate times, I say, and insist on showing ID.
I summon a lift, and wait there in the foyer, just watching for its clock to run
down. Then strike those two demotic notes of its chime, so that now, as I cross hands
several times over my document case, I leave all sentiment to the bluster outside,
the whole day before me measured in a womb of padded walls, as I rise to the heights
of my penthouse. Already a dozen overseas investors have wished me good morning,
leaving messages, all wanting me to phone.
On this particular Monday, shaking off those snares of my past wasn’t quite as straightforward.
Gladys, as usual ironic, had dusted Father’s bust, a bronze head and shoulders done
shamelessly Churchillian-style, and was waiting for me aimlessly as our coffee strained
through its filter. I sat down, my back to the window, still unbuttoning my coat.
I switched on my computer. I bathed my cheeks in the hues that filled its screen.
Then, having hung my coat, I began my day with the first of my monthly reports –
shares, mortgages, insurance. There was one list I always insisted on, because it
plotted, according to turnover, small companies seeking new investments. I scrolled
through it, checking any names I hadn’t seen before, then backtracked suddenly, to
confirm an address I knew, an old rambling house called (curiously) Aitkin Aspires,
a place tucked away behind a terrace of small business properties and private dwellings
edging Ealing Common. Its owner was Marisa Rae, or rather still Marisa Rae – there
after a lifetime aeon of twenty-five years.
