letting in light.
He walked across the room, sat gently on the edge of Oscar’s bed and looked at his sleeping son. He leant over and gave him a kiss on his cheek, taking in the smell of sleeping boy, then pulled the duvet up to cover his shoulders.
He watched how Oscar’s breathing made the duvet rise and fall steadily. When Oscar made a small grunt and turned over, he smiled. It was always worth waiting. Eventually, he got up, put Oscar’s book and torch on the bedside table, picked up the plate, crisp packet and clothes, and took them downstairs. Ten minutes later, he was in bed, setting his alarm clock for the morning.
3
FOUR HOURS LATER, at half past five in the morning, a besuited Mark Samuels was back in Oscar’s bedroom. He felt lots of emotions watching his son sleep, but the most visceral one was envy. Holding his tie against his chest so that it wouldn’t drop on to Oscar’s face, he leant over and softly ran his hand through the boy’s growing curls – his mother’s curls, nothing like Mark’s own hair – then moved the duvet up to cover his shoulders again. Then he kissed his cheek, wondered how his son could look so much like a baby in his sleep while his body filled up so much of the bed, and traced the delicious curve where the back of his head joined his neck. Then he left the pitch-black house.
The roads and tube were always empty this early and he made it into the office in a record twenty-five minutes. He glanced at the clock as he paced into the office. 6 a.m. Half an hour before the rest of the team would start coming in. In a matter of weeks they would be doing all-nighters. It was always like this during a Due Diligence – the massive, secretive project of checking a firm’s entire accounts and reporting back to their client before their client bought the firm. And, as one of the newest partners at the City’s secondbiggest firm of accountants – and in fact the partner who had brought in this huge amount of work – Mark Samuels was for the first time in his fifteen-year career, answerable only to himself and the client. And the other hundred partners, of course. His days of drawing pretty graphics or ticking tidy sums might be over, but the stresses of meeting deadlines and keeping the client sweet were now all his. It never got easier, it just got different.
His office had yet to be moved to the partners’ rooms, so it – and he – were still attached to his department. So far, it was working well. He walked through the empty office, carrying a coffee that he hoped would see him through to 11 a.m. in one hand and flicking on light switches as he went with the other. He passed the desk of his personal assistant, Caroline, and opened his office door. He kept it open and pulled up the blinds to the window between him and his department so that he could get a good view of his team throughout the morning, until they got their cabs to the firm on the other side of London. The room they were assigned to there was stuffy and badly lit. He opened his window, sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. He managed to get a full twenty minutes of work done before his team came in.
Matt was the first.
‘Yo, boss!’ he called out loudly.
Mark smiled a bitter smile. It was so nice to be respected. He would have got up to chat, but that would have meant moving his bones.
‘See the football last night?’ called out Matt, stuffing half a croissant in his mouth as he shrugged out of his jacket.
‘Nope,’ said Mark. I was here till midnight, you arse, he thought.
Matt shook his head. ‘Referee should be fucking shot.’
Danny entered and Matt made a sort of war-like noise.
‘Two-one, two-one!’ chanted Danny, arms in the air, legs akimbo.
‘That was never a penalty!’ cried Matt.
‘The better team won, my man. The better team won.’
Anna-Marie came in and the room went quiet for a moment. ‘Morning,’ she said, smiling. Matt and Danny said hello. She’d announced her
He walked across the room, sat gently on the edge of Oscar’s bed and looked at his sleeping son. He leant over and gave him a kiss on his cheek, taking in the smell of sleeping boy, then pulled the duvet up to cover his shoulders.
He watched how Oscar’s breathing made the duvet rise and fall steadily. When Oscar made a small grunt and turned over, he smiled. It was always worth waiting. Eventually, he got up, put Oscar’s book and torch on the bedside table, picked up the plate, crisp packet and clothes, and took them downstairs. Ten minutes later, he was in bed, setting his alarm clock for the morning.
3
FOUR HOURS LATER, at half past five in the morning, a besuited Mark Samuels was back in Oscar’s bedroom. He felt lots of emotions watching his son sleep, but the most visceral one was envy. Holding his tie against his chest so that it wouldn’t drop on to Oscar’s face, he leant over and softly ran his hand through the boy’s growing curls – his mother’s curls, nothing like Mark’s own hair – then moved the duvet up to cover his shoulders again. Then he kissed his cheek, wondered how his son could look so much like a baby in his sleep while his body filled up so much of the bed, and traced the delicious curve where the back of his head joined his neck. Then he left the pitch-black house.
The roads and tube were always empty this early and he made it into the office in a record twenty-five minutes. He glanced at the clock as he paced into the office. 6 a.m. Half an hour before the rest of the team would start coming in. In a matter of weeks they would be doing all-nighters. It was always like this during a Due Diligence – the massive, secretive project of checking a firm’s entire accounts and reporting back to their client before their client bought the firm. And, as one of the newest partners at the City’s secondbiggest firm of accountants – and in fact the partner who had brought in this huge amount of work – Mark Samuels was for the first time in his fifteen-year career, answerable only to himself and the client. And the other hundred partners, of course. His days of drawing pretty graphics or ticking tidy sums might be over, but the stresses of meeting deadlines and keeping the client sweet were now all his. It never got easier, it just got different.
His office had yet to be moved to the partners’ rooms, so it – and he – were still attached to his department. So far, it was working well. He walked through the empty office, carrying a coffee that he hoped would see him through to 11 a.m. in one hand and flicking on light switches as he went with the other. He passed the desk of his personal assistant, Caroline, and opened his office door. He kept it open and pulled up the blinds to the window between him and his department so that he could get a good view of his team throughout the morning, until they got their cabs to the firm on the other side of London. The room they were assigned to there was stuffy and badly lit. He opened his window, sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. He managed to get a full twenty minutes of work done before his team came in.
Matt was the first.
‘Yo, boss!’ he called out loudly.
Mark smiled a bitter smile. It was so nice to be respected. He would have got up to chat, but that would have meant moving his bones.
‘See the football last night?’ called out Matt, stuffing half a croissant in his mouth as he shrugged out of his jacket.
‘Nope,’ said Mark. I was here till midnight, you arse, he thought.
Matt shook his head. ‘Referee should be fucking shot.’
Danny entered and Matt made a sort of war-like noise.
‘Two-one, two-one!’ chanted Danny, arms in the air, legs akimbo.
‘That was never a penalty!’ cried Matt.
‘The better team won, my man. The better team won.’
Anna-Marie came in and the room went quiet for a moment. ‘Morning,’ she said, smiling. Matt and Danny said hello. She’d announced her
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