I did try to open the window and reach out to the nest, but there’s so much triple-glazing you can’t budge any of the panels: there was nothing for it, I would have to climb out. So now, on hands and knees, I edge my collection of big books along the ledge. The volumes have been carefully chosen for size and durability:
The Square Meaclass="underline" A Guide to the City’s
Restaurants
Brokers’ Predictions for 2000
CFBC’s Global Directions for 1997, 1998, and 1999
A Review of the Pharmaceutical Industry
A Linguarama book for the Italian course I started and never finished
The Warren Buffett Way
The Ten Natural Laws of Successful Time and Life Management: Proven Strategies for Increased Productivity and Inner Peace
The birds can definitely have that last one. Just in case these are not up to the task, I have included A Handbook of Financial Futures, a manual with all the depth and interest of a breeze block. The idea is to build a protective wall around the pigeon and her nest. On the way back from Jill’s funeral, I got a call from Guy. Good news, he said. A man from the Corporation had returned his call and told him the falconer would be along tomorrow. It was me who insisted that the hawk show up and now I very urgently want him to stay away.
Down in the piazza, thirteen floors below, I’m attracting a bit of a crowd — the first commuters pointing up at the woman on the ledge. Probably wondering if I’m a casualty of the recession or of the heart. A broker threw himself under a train at Moorgate the other morning and he missed: fell into the pit under the rails instead and got pulled out by an emergency team. Everyone kept saying what a miracle it was, but I wondered what it would be like to feel so bad you try to end it all and then fail at that too. Would it feel like rebirth or a living death?
Behind me, from inside the office, floats the voice of Candy, droll as ever but streaked with anxiety.
“Kate, don’t do it, get back in here.”
“I can’t.”
“Honey, these things are often a cry for help. We all love you.”
“I am not crying for help, I am trying to hide the pigeon.”
“Kate?”
“I’ve got to help her.”
“Why?”
“There’s a hawk coming.”
I actually hear Candy’s snort. “There’s always a fucking hawk coming. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation about some stupid bird. Get in here this minute, Kate Reddy, or I’m gonna call security.”
Through the glass, a group of EMF colleagues are monitoring my progress, giving an ironic little cheer as another volume is shunted into position. As I pick up Warren Buffett, I catch sight of my hand, its wedding ring glinting, the ridge of eczema across the knuckle, and I think of what would happen to it if I fell — bones, skin, blood. No, don’t think about it, let’s just finish the fortification with The Ten Natural Laws of Successful Time and Life Management. Edging back along the ledge, I can see Candy leaning out of the window and Guy hovering behind her. My assistant’s face is touched not by fear but something that looks ominously like hope.
To: Kate Reddy
From: Debra Richardson
Jim is away for second weekend in a row. Not sure if I’ll murder the kids before they murder me. Has left me to organize his fortieth birthday party — told me to invite “the usual suspects.” How come he can clear his head of everything to do with home when he has a big deal on and I can’t?
As I think you will have gathered, am just a teensy bit fucking pissed off with him.
Know any gorgeous single men. . NO DON’T ANSWER THAT QUESTION.
To: Debra Richardson
From: Kate Reddy
Q: What should you do if you see your ex-husband rolling around on the ground in pain?
A: Shoot him again just to make sure.
You have got to take Tough Line with Jim — tell him your job is not a hobby, must do his share, etc. Mind you, Richard is very helpful, but I end up having to do everything again after he’s done it. . So maybe better to do it yourself in first place???Am worried about you.
Am worried about Candy too. Did I tell you she’s pregnant? Won’t even talk about it. Pretends it’s not happening to her. Also worried about me. Been feeling pretty crazy since Jill’s funeral. Have just consolidated reputation as Office Madwoman by climbing out on window ledge to save baby pigeon.
What is Meaning of Life? Please Advise Soonest
12:17 P.M. So Momo and I did it. Rod got the news late last night. We won the New Jersey final. Momo is so excited that her feet leave the ground — like Emily, she literally jumps for joy.
“You did it, Kate, you did it!”
“No, we did it. We. You and me together.”
Rod takes the whole team out to lunch to celebrate at a place in Leadenhall Market. It’s changed a lot since I was here before. Limestone was clearly last year’s material; now it’s all opaque glass forming faux Japanese bridges over streams full of gaping carp, who can’t decide whether they’re art or lunch.
Rod hauls himself onto the stool next to me; Chris Bunce is opposite Momo. I don’t like the look he gives her — avid, sly, lip-moistening — but she seems to be enjoying herself flirting with him, trying out the power that her new confidence brings. I find myself mentioning the Salinger Foundation several times, just for the pleasure of saying Jack’s name aloud. I love hearing and seeing his name — on the side of vans, over the front of shops. Jack Nicholson, Jack in the Beanstalk, Jack of Hearts. Even the Foreign Secretary has become a more attractive man since he was called Jack.
“Katie, what’s with the fucking pigeon?” demands Rod, as the lobster arrives. “You gonna race it or roast it?”
“Oh, it’s a kind of affirmative action. Part of my new brief to be friendlier to the environment.”
“Jeez,” my boss says, tearing a granary roll in half, “taking things a bit far, aren’t you?”
By the way, Rod says he has some business he wants Momo and me to pitch for. Stone something. “One Stone with two birds, geddit?”
I say fine, but we will need more resources.
“Can’t increase the head count, Katie,” says Rod. “You just gotta get out there and kick the fucking tires, kid.”
28 What the Mother Saw
SO I RUSH HOME FROM WORK and when I get through the door I call out, but there’s no reply. There are squeals coming from the sitting room and my first thought is pain — they’re in pain — and my heart flubs over and I go in and there’s Paula on the sofa with Emily and Ben, all snuggled up together with Toy Story on the TV and giggling uncontrollably.
“What’s so funny?” I say, but they’re laughing too much to answer. Emily’s laughing so much she’s crying. And seeing the way they are, so snug and happy there, I suddenly think, You’re paying for this, Kate. You’re literally paying for this. For another woman to sit on your sofa and cuddle your children.