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And so it was that Mary tripped up a step and stumbled into a room of finery and grace, nods and winks, favours and effortless action. The room she’d emerged from – the lower room of her life, her parents and everyone she knew – was one of toil and obedience to laws imposed from above; of watching the rich and famous as though through a window, unreachable and slightly unreal. Now she’d found herself on the other side of the window, in this upper room, where laws didn’t restrict but provided opportunities. Here there were no application forms, uncertainty or queues – just discrete chats, snap decisions and instant action.
Mary was appalled, initially, and argued with the implacable Sam, who took on the role of a patient and wise teacher with a reluctant but quick student. Unapologetic and defenceless, he simply explained the ways of life in this upper room and allowed her objections and protestations of injustice to float past him, knowing she would eventually come to acceptance, which she did, haltingly, defiantly.
From what she saw, he wasn’t involved in drugs or arms dealing or anything else unwholesome. He was simply helping those who had been dealt savage blows by life. What he got in return for his interventions she could not discern – perhaps he got his lawn mown for nothing or something – but it certainly didn’t seem to be for fame or riches. Many of the people he helped had neither money nor influence (though some obviously had much of both) and she wondered if he got perverse satisfaction in finding interesting ways through the ass of the law, as he called it. She didn’t have the courage to ask what he got for his efforts or how he’d come to acquire his influence and chumhood. One day she’d find out. As she observed carefully, she learned nothing of this but the mantle of indignation and injustice slowly fell from her shoulders and she grew to respect this man in her life.
She also came to realise that the people in this upper room, who seemed to glide through life with such grace and ease, also left it for the lower room, at times, to their dismay. They, like other people, had arguments with spouses, fears with health, problems with children and all the stresses of those who inhabited the lower room permanently. These people, however, were able to pop back up to their natural abode, the quieter and more plush room, for their money and influence would get them the best lawyers for their divorces, doctors for their illnesses and holidays and toys for their diversions.
Sam split his time between the central office and her branch office with frustrating irregularity. He was right – she was effectively in charge of the two hundred people on seven floors and, initially, leaned on Stephen Lawrence, Finance Director, and Ahmed Khan, Chief Assessor, an Asian with an Oxford accent and Oxford suits. Both were men of numbers and were refreshingly free of emotion. They gave her the facts and stayed above the office politics brewing below her.
Without Sam to rely on for guidance she was forced to dive in, learn things she’d never learned about insurance before and to make decisions with minimal information. It frightened and thrilled her. With Stephen’s and Ahmed’s help, she drew up a plan for educating herself. Chunking down the branch office functions into logical pieces, she systematically spent time with every section (every person, in fact), learning exactly what they did, why they did it and how each piece fitted into the whole. This, of course, enamoured her to the people she commanded and they came to her, more and more, for advice. This she welcomed for, as she got to know them, she was able to formulate succession and promotion plans – some were clearly unsuited to the work they were doing and some had ambitions and talents beyond their current roles. She stared shuffling and sifting and, as productivity grew, less people were needed and branch profits rose.
Sam was impressed and thanked Mary with many lunches and dinners, not always at the Executors Club but always at equally plush establishments. Out of the office she got to know him a little better.
In the office, they dealt with work. Out of the office they still talked work but she did start to penetrate the wall round his private life. She discovered he’d had a wife but didn’t have one now and that he had a daughter and granddaughter he doted over. He visited them every Thursday evening. He enjoyed folk music and that was a surprise – she expected his tastes to be in classical music. He didn’t explain but Mary surmised that part of the attraction was the raw, amateurish feel of it – a welcome change from his otherwise polished and perfect life.
He never invited her to his folk music escapes and she yearned, patiently, for such an invitation. At times he’d reach out and touch her shoulder, pat her hand and then, as if remembering himself, pull back. She felt (hoped?) he was feeling what she was, which was a great companionship, comfort and caring. She wasn’t falling in love with this chameleon of a man (no, not really) but she hoped he was falling in love with her.
Though he came and went from the office at irregular times, he did commit, at Mary’s insistence, to two regular meetings a week so they could, at least, guarantee a flow of information between them. Monday at 4.00 p.m. and Friday at 9.00 a.m. were agreed for these hourly meetings. These reliable spots in her frenetic schedule were cherished and the Monday afternoon meeting sometimes evolved into dinner and the Friday morning meeting into lunch out together. Sometimes Sam might bring her a little gift for something she’d done well – chocolates, a pen, a brooch or something else small enough to conceal in her bag, from the suspicious eyes of her staff. She was hesitant about buying him anything – perhaps it was fear of rejection – but she did, eventually and with great trepidation, buy him whisky liqueur chocolates, a tie pin and cuff links at various times. He was obviously touched by these and, rather than his enthusiastic and ebullient self, he would go quiet and seem to be on the verge of tears before he collected himself and thanked her quietly for her generosity.
Friday, 9th March 2012, 9.13 a.m.
And so it was that Sam failed to turn up for their regular Friday morning meeting, something he had not missed for two years now. She immediately knew something was wrong and talked to her secretary and to his. She sent them off to ask anyone and everyone if they knew where he might be, while she rang some of his colleagues at the head office. No one knew anything there. Some were surprised at his absence and two of them were dismissive of her fears, telling her not to worry. Their reaction caused her to worry more. These two also told her, most strongly, not to contact the police, while Stephen and Ahmed advised her strongly to alert the police.
Knowing the police could be either helpful or obstructive, depending on who was pulling the strings, she faltered indecisively.
Then she received a text from Sam. A terse text telling her he would contact her as soon as he could. His lack of further information caused her more worry than the previous lack of communication.
In the same way that tragedy survivors take on the blame for the tragedy, rather than accepting that life is out of their control, Mary took on the blame for Sam’s disappearance. Had there been an obvious reason for his going or an indication of where he went, the guilt would have been less. However, like the survivor syndrome scenario, the more out of control things seem, the greater the guilt she chose to carry. She wondered if she would be happy inhabiting the building with Sam out of it – she wasn’t sure.
With a troubled heart and heavy shoulders she was phoned by Terry Jones, CEO of City Investments Ltd, holding company of Allied Insurance Ltd., that afternoon. She was offered Sam’s position, in the interim. Terry had received a similar text from Sam – brief and unhelpful, to say he would be back soon but was unavoidably detained at the moment. Mary was unable to provide any further elucidation.
She had no idea of the salary Sam had been on but, judging by his lifestyle, she was sure she was offered a whole lot less. Maybe he’d had other sources of income or maybe he was the sort of person who always looked wealthy, despite their real circumstances. Either way she felt insulted by the offer and she also felt a deep disloyalty in stepping into a missing man’s shoes, the shoes of a man she admired.
The first part of her grieving emerged as anger as she stormed from Terry’s office, leaving behind two bewildered-looking insurance executives. Thankfully she’d had the weekend to stew on it and cool down a little. By the Monday, her anger had subsided just enough to let a peek of logic in. Not trusting her acid tongue on the phone, she crafted a conciliatory email to Terry Jones, saying she was prepared to stay on until they had found a permanent replacement for Sam. This would, she thought, give her enough time to find another position. Last time it had been easy and she imagined the same this time.
She did, of course, feel like walking out and trusting the universe would provide her with something but that small, practical girl inside counselled against it, successfully, each time.
