38.
Ed
His sister accompanied him to court several weeks later, on a day that woke still and hot, and the traffic crawled as if the heat had slowed the very movement in London’s veins. Ed had told his mother not to come too. By that time they were never sure, day by day, whether it was a good idea to leave Dad for any length of time. As they crawled across London, his sister leant forwards in her taxi seat, her fingers tapping impatiently on her knee, her jaw set in a tight line. She was clearly even tenser than he was. Ed felt strangely, perversely relaxed. The weight of other, future, losses hung over him, making today’s troubles seem trivial.
The courtroom was almost empty. Thanks to the unholy combination of a particularly grisly murder at the Old Bailey, a political love scandal, and the public meltdown of a young British actress, the two-day trial had not registered as a big news story, just enough for an agency court reporter and a trainee from the Financial Times. And Ed had already pleaded guilty, against the advice of his legal team.
Deanna Lewis’s claims of innocence had been somewhat undermined by the evidence of a friend, a banker, who had apparently informed her in no uncertain terms that what she was about to do was indeed insider trading. The friend was able to produce an email she had sent informing Deanna as much, and one in return from Deanna accusing the friend of being ‘picky’, ‘annoying’, and ‘frankly a little too involved in my business. Don’t you want me to have a chance to move forward?’
Ed stood and watched the court reporter scribbling away, and the solicitors leaning in to each other, pointing to bits of paper, and it all felt oddly anti-climactic.
‘I am minded that you confessed your guilt and that, as far as Miss Lewis and yourself are concerned, this appears to be isolated criminal behaviour, motivated by factors other than money. This cannot be said of Michael Lewis.’
The FSA, it turned out, had tracked other ‘suspicious’ trades Deanna’s brother had made, spread bets and options.
‘It is necessary, however, that we send a signal that this kind of behaviour is completely unacceptable, however it may have come about. It destroys investors’ confidence in the honest movement in markets, and it weakens the whole structure of our financial system. For that reason I am bound to ensure that the level of punishment is still a clear deterrent to anyone who may believe this to be a “victimless” crime.’
Ed stood in the dock trying to work out what to do with his face and was fined £750,000 and costs, and given a six-month sentence, suspended for twelve months.
And it was over.
Gemma let out a long, shuddering breath, and dropped her head into her hands. Ed felt curiously numb. ‘That’s it?’ he said quietly, and she looked up at him in disbelief. A clerk opened the door of the dock and ushered him out. Paul Wilkes clapped him on the back as they emerged into the corridor.
‘Thank you,’ Ed said. It seemed like the right thing to say.
He caught sight of Deanna Lewis in the corridor, in animated conversation with a red-headed man. He looked like he was trying to explain something to her and she kept shaking her head, cutting him off. He stood staring for a moment, and then, almost without thinking, he walked through the throng of people and straight up to her. ‘I wanted to say I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If I had thought for one minute –’
She spun round, her eyes widening. ‘Oh, fuck off,’ she said, her face puce with fury, and pushed past him. ‘You fucking loser.’
The faces that had swivelled at the sound of her voice registered Ed, then turned away in embarrassment. Somebody sniggered. As Ed stood there, his hand still half lifted as if to make a point, he heard a voice in his ear.
‘She’s not stupid, you know. She would always have known she shouldn’t have told her brother.’
Ed turned, and there, behind him, stood Ronan. He took in his checked shirt and his thick black glasses, the computer bag slung over his shoulder, and something in him deflated with relief. ‘You … you were here all morning?’
‘Bit bored at the office TBH. I thought I’d come and see what a real-life court case was like.’
Ed couldn’t stop looking at him. ‘Overrated.’
‘Yeah. That’s what I thought.’
His sister had been shaking hands with Paul Wilkes. She appeared at his side, straightening her jacket. ‘Right. Shall we go and ring Mum, give her the good news? She said she’d leave her mobile on. If we’re lucky she’ll have remembered to charge it. Hi, Ronan.’
He leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Nice to see you, Gemma. Been a long time.’
‘Too long! Let’s go to mine,’ she said, turning to Ed. ‘It’s ages since you saw the kids. I’ve got a spag bol in the freezer we can have tonight. Hey, Ronan. You can come too if you like. I’m sure we could bung some extra pasta in the pot.’
Ronan’s gaze slid away, as it had done when he and Ed were eighteen. He kicked at something on the floor. Ed turned to his sister. ‘Um … Gem … would you mind if I left it? Just for today?’ He tried not to register the way her smile fell. ‘I’ll definitely come another time. I just – There’s a few things I’d really like to talk to Ronan about. It’s been …’
Her gaze flickered between them. ‘Sure,’ she said brightly, pushing her fringe from her eyes. ‘Well. Call me.’ She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and began to make her way towards the stairs.
And he yelled across the busy corridor, so that several people looked up from their papers. ‘Hey! Gem!’
She turned, her bag under her arm.
‘Thanks. For everything.’
She stood there, half facing him.
‘Really. I appreciate it.’
She nodded, a ghost of a smile. And then she was gone, lost in the crowds on the stairwell.
‘So. Um. Fancy a drink?’ Ed tried not to sound pleading. He wasn’t sure he was entirely successful. ‘I’m buying.’
Ronan let it hang there. Just for a second. The bastard. ‘Well, in that case …’
It was Ed’s mother who had once told him that real friends were the kind where you pick up where you’d left off, whether it be a week since you’d seen each other or two years. He’d never had enough friends to test it. He and Ronan nursed pints of beer across a wobbling wooden table in the busy pub, a little awkwardly at first, and then increasingly freely, the familiar jokes popping up between them like Whac-A-Moles, targets to be hit, with discreet pleasure. Ed had an almost physical sense of relief at having him nearby, as if he had been untethered for months and someone had finally tugged him in to land. He found himself gazing at his friend surreptitiously, noticing the things he remembered – his laugh, his enormous feet, the way he slumped over, even at a pub table, as if peering into a screen – and those things he hadn’t seen about him before: how he laughed more easily, his new, designer-framed glasses, a kind of quiet confidence. When he opened his wallet to pull out some cash, Ed caught a glimpse of a photograph of a girl, beaming into his credit cards.
‘So … how’s Soup Girl?’
‘Karen? She’s good.’ He smiled, the kind of smile that denotes private happiness, the kind where you have nothing to prove. ‘She’s good. Actually, we’re moving in together.’
‘Wow. Already?’
He looked up almost defiantly. ‘It’s been six months. And with rental prices as they are in London, those not-for-profit soup charities don’t exactly make a fortune.’
‘That’s great,’ Ed stuttered. ‘Fantastic news.’
‘Yeah. Well. It’s good. She’s great. I’m really happy.’
They sat there, silent for a moment. He’d had his hair cut, Ed noticed. And that was a new jacket. ‘I’m really pleased for you, Ronan. I always thought you two would be great together.’
‘Thanks.’
He smiled at him, and Ronan grinned back, pulling a face, like all this happiness stuff was a bit embarrassing.
Ed stared at his pint, trying not to feel left behind. Trying not to think about the fact that his own life was basically a mess while his oldest friend was sailing on to a happier, brighter future. Around them the pub was filling up with end-of-the-day office workers, secretaries in too-high shoes and young men trying to prove they were, actually, men. He suddenly had a sense of limited time, of the importance of laying things out, straight, in front of him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘About everything. About Deanna Lewis. I don’t know why I did it.’ His voice emerged as a croak. ‘I hate how I’ve messed things up. I mean, I’m sad about the job, yes, but mostly I’m just gutted that I messed us up.’ He couldn’t look at him yet it was a relief to say it.
Ronan took a swig of his drink. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve thought about it a lot these past months and, while I kind of don’t want to admit it, there’s a good chance that if Deanna Lewis had come on to me I would have done the same.’ A rueful smile. ‘It was Deanna Lewis.’
‘She’s … really not what we thought she was.’
‘Believe it or not, I get that.’ Ronan grinned.
‘Seriously, though, I’m sorry about all of it. Messing it all up. Our company. Our friendship. If you knew what I’ve been like this last –’
Ronan shrugged, as if Ed should say no more.
They sat in silence. Ronan leant back in his chair. He bent a beer mat into two, and then into four. ‘You know … it’s been kind of interesting with you not being there any more,’ he said finally. ‘It made me understand something. I don’t much like working at Mayfly. I liked it better when it was just you and me. All the suits, the profit-and-loss stuff, shareholders, it’s not me. It’s not what I liked about it. It’s not why we started it.’
‘Me too. I miss you, but I don’t miss them.’
‘I mean the endless meetings … having to run ideas past marketing people even to proceed with basic code. Having to justify every hour’s activity. You know they want to bring in time-sheets for everyone? Actual time-sheets?’
Ed waited.
‘You’re not missing much, I tell you.’ Ronan shook his head, as if he had something more to say but felt he shouldn’t.
It felt momentous. It felt a little like that moment in a date, where you’re about to confess your feelings to the other person, not quite sure how they’re going to respond.
‘Ronan?
‘Yeah?’
‘I had this idea. This last week or two. About a new piece of software. I’ve been fiddling around, working on a piece of predictive software – really simple stuff – that will help people plan their finances. A sort of spreadsheet for people who don’t like spreadsheets. For people who don’t know how to handle money. It would have alerts that pop up whenever the user was about to incur a charge from their bank. It would have an option calculation to show how much different interest charges would add up to over a set period of time. Nothing too complicated. I was thinking it’s the kind of thing they could give away at Citizens’ Advice Bureaux.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It would need to be able to fit cheap computers. Software that might be a few years old. And cheaper mobile phones. I’m not sure it would make much money but it’s just something that I’ve been thinking about. I’ve outlined it. But …’
Ronan was thinking. Ed could see his mind working away, already chewing over the parameters.
‘The thing is, it would need someone who is really good at coding. To build it.’
Ronan watched his pint, his face neutral. ‘You know you can’t come back to Mayfly, right?’ he said.
Ed nodded. His best friend since college. ‘Yeah. I know.’
Ronan met his eyes and suddenly they were grinning.