The Longest Day of the Year

It’s been twenty five years, Leonard. A quarter of a century. A third of a life.

I raise a glass to that!

We were both twenty one, straight out of college, in our first jobs. “Juniors”, they called us, the lowliest members of the team. We fixed meetings, spell-checked documents, scouted venues for the listing day event. We got the odd grown-up job, too. Like that time Harry asked us to comment on the press release. We stayed up all night and changed one sentence. Just to show we had our use. Harry thanked us profusely, then changed the sentence straight back.

He was a good guy, Harry: fair, didn’t make much fuss about mistakes. But he would’ve made a fuss about that one. That one would’ve killed the deal. The press release he gave us, next morning, you sent it to Business Today. You “took initiative”, as they say, you were “proactive”. You expected a pat on the back. Adib was elated, this was a massive scoop. The story was already in the mock-up, front page, to run that night. With all the wrong numbers! The press release wasn’t final, it was an early draft. You didn’t know this, of course, junior that you were. The deal was on the line – and so was your job. So I stepped in. I knew Adib, I knew him well. I did what I had to do.

Twenty five years, Leonard, a quarter of a century, a third of a life. I raise a glass to that. I raise a glass as I look out to the sea, flat and grey and austere, a swathe of faded steel under a light blue sky. A northern sea. Imperious. Forbidding.

The terrace looks exactly like that day. They still arrange the tables in diagonal rows, with an aisle in the middle. I’m in the last row, third table on the left, my back to the plate glass foyer. By the cocktail station, a waiter stands listlessly, gawping at his feet. Other than that, there is no one.

Just like then.

***

June 21^st, 1997.

We were alone on this terrace, sitting side by side at a round black table, our glasses pitched on leather coasters with the crest of the Grand Hotel Den Haag. Before us, in a heaving, murmuring mass, sprawled the North Sea. From east to west, in a string of glittering diamonds, stretched the horizon. It was nine in the evening, but the sun, blazing with all its midday force, bounced cheerily off the gilded railings and the white granite slabs of the floor.

June 21^st, the longest day of the year, when nature rears its head and shows us her frightening might. The next day, she will start to withdraw: slowly at first, imperceptibly, then faster, faster, picking up the pace; days will get shorter, light will wane, night will fall. Winter will come, darkness will reign until, next year, she will awaken again. And so she will the year after, and a thousand years from now. And a thousand years from now, on June 21^st, the sun will send its mighty rays to the terrace of the Grand Hotel Den Haag, illuminating the white granite floor, the gilded rails, the round black table – and another Leonard and Charlotte sitting side by side, gazing at the abyss of the sea.

“My father abused me.”

My voice cut through the evening air. Then silence fell. Out of the corner of my eye, through a seam of sunlit dust, I saw your silhouette, tall, boyishly thin, sitting very straight in your chair.

“Badly… He broke my finger when I was twelve.”

You bridled, drew back, hit your head on the plate glass foyer. You must’ve been in pain, but you didn’t seem to notice. Teeth clenched, fists squeezing the armrests, your light grey eyes glared dead ahead.

After a long pause:

“Did they call the police?”

“Who?”

“Your family.”

“They didn’t know… I was too ashamed to tell them… I thought I deserved what I got.”

A powerful light-ray burst under the low-hanging awning and, making its way to our table, played on the rim of your glass. What I’d just told you, Leonard, I’d never told anyone before. Just you. I knew you wouldn’t betray. I knew I could trust you with my life.

“Do it now! Tell your mother, friends, everyone… People should know what he’s like.”

“No point, Leonard, no point. My father died five years ago. Suddenly, in his sleep. Like a Saint.”

***

Last week, I decided to look you up. At first, I was terrified. Twenty five years… What if your skin turned sallow, what if your jaws hung loose, what if, where there was once a mane of fawny hair, a bald patch gaped? What if your eyes lost their gleam? What if a haggard old man stared at me from the screen?

I faltered, my thumb hovered over the keyboard… Then I took a deep breath and pressed “ENTER.” A gasp of joy! You had hardly changed, Leonard, you had hardly changed at all: cherubic features, open smile, the light grey eyes look at the world in wonder. In wonder, and a sort of blind trust.

As if the world were a safe place to be.

***

The listing day was a blast. Cathcart’s share price shot up 17 per cent on the opening, the Stock Exchange monitor flickered with festive green lights; bankers, their faces shining in glee, called their wives. “Put the offer in now! My bonus will cover the house in cash.”

In the evening, there was a party by the pier: fireworks, champagne on tap, merriment all around. Even the lawyers came. When, at three in the morning, the band played the last song and the girl with the sax grabbed the mic and yodelled “Party over!”, the atmosphere abruptly changed. Faces grew solemn, voices died out.

It was over. We were well and truly done.

Nine months… For the past nine months, this group of forty-odd eclectic souls saw each other for twelve hours a day. Sometimes longer, sometimes whole nights. So we grew attached. We were only human. But now it was time to say good-bye. For good. On Monday, we will go our separate ways, to our next deal, the next group of people with whom we’ll spend the next nine months. And then another, and another. That’s just how things worked in our world.

But not us, Leonard! For us, it wasn’t over: we knew it, we were sure of it. Because ours wasn’t just the camaraderie of a deal. It was friendship, it was real, and it would last.

And it did last. We emailed, we called, you came to London to see me. For a whole year. Then, slowly but surely, life took over: I got promoted, you got married, I lived in London, you in The Hague. Emails got scarcer, calls stopped, reality took its toll. You were gone.

You were gone, Leonard, but your memory never waned. The memory of the man whose eyes looked at the world in endless wonder, and with endless trust. The man who would never betray. The man I could trust with my life.

***

In 2008, I lost my job. I wasn’t too worried, I thought I’d find another within weeks. But the financial crisis raged, and weeks turned into months, and months became a year. I sent out CVs, I went to interviews. I followed every lead. I even toyed with the idea of moving to Brisbane. Once or twice, I came very close, I thought the job was in the bag. But the offer never came, and, by the autumn, I became despondent. I stopped going out, I let myself go, I lolled in bed till afternoon.

And then came the call. Out of the blue, the headhunter panting down the line in feverish excitement. “A Dutch bank wants to see you! Urgently! Can you go tomorrow morning, 6.40 from Gatwick, lands in Rotterdam at nine? Take the taxi to The Hague, keep the receipts. It’s Silenus N.V., one of our main clients. The job’s Vice President, Corporate Finance.”

The flight took off at 6.47, and, thirty minutes later, we started our descent. I pressed my face to the window. Through a nacreous haze of cirrus clouds, glittered the North Sea; a lone white ship blazed in the sun like a sizzling ember; it melted away, the coastline came into view; then the City itself, golden stone rising in noble relief against the azure of the sky. The Hague lay before me in all its aristocratic splendour.

No, I wouldn’t mind moving here. I wouldn’t mind moving here at all.

On the way back to the airport, the taxi drove past the esplanade, and, as we rounded the bend, I stuck my head out, craned my neck, and peeked at the marble colonnade of the Grand Hotel Den Haag. Oh, how I will surprise you, Leonard, how glad you will be! We’ll pick our friendship right where we left it, more than a decade ago.

But I won’t tell you, not just yet, not before I get the formal offer, not before the headhunter calls.

***

The headhunter called on Friday, at exactly 9:00 a.m. She must’ve been watching the clock. Such impatience, it can only be good news.

“Hello, Charlotte. This is Malaica Karelia from Langford Stephens.”

The voice on the other end of the line was low and formal, a dramatic change from her usual chatty twang. My body tensed in caution.

“I’m afraid it’s not good news. Silenus will not be making you an offer.”

That feeling, as if someone punched you in the solar plexus. Hard. The room around me began to swirl, I clutched at a sideboard to keep the balance.

“But…why? This was one of my best interviews.”

“Yes, the interview went well. Silenus sent me your contract the next day.”

“So what happened!”

On the other end of the line, some vigorous coughing.

“I’m sorry… Must be the dust… I have an allergy…”

I didn’t reply. I wasn’t going to make it easy for her.

“Silenus revoked your offer, Charlotte. I got an email from HR last night.”

She paused, waiting for my reaction. Again, I didn’t reply.

 “Some information came out. Apparently, early in your career, you had committed serious professional misconduct.”

“Oh rubbish! I have a spotless CV.”

She hum-hum-ed, as if to say: “Don’t play dumb, something like this won’t be on a CV.”

“Silenus has it on good authority that you used threats and intimidation against a member of the press to stop him publishing a damaging article.”

So Adib talked. The bastard.

“This is a baseless accusation, Malaica. Someone is spreading rumours about me to settle a score.”

I made a pause. Then delivered the punchline.

“It may be even considered libellous.”

A terrified apology and assurances that this was all a big mistake is what I expected. A burst of hollow laughter is what I got instead.

“Libellous? Are you threatening lawyers, Charlotte? Then I assume you’re prepared to stand in front of the judge and testify that, in 1997, when you were a junior banker on the Cathcart listing, you didn’t blackmail a journalist called Adib Rammal into pulling a story?”

I wrenched the phone away from my mouth so she couldn’t here me gasp for air. I counted to three. Then, trying to sound as blithe and cheery as I could:

“Look, Malaica. With all due respect, the Cathcart listing was over a decade ago. I’ve worked on dozens of deals since, talked to hundreds of journalists. Adib Rammal, yes, I remember the name. I don’t remember much else.”

“Oh I think you do, Charlotte, I think you do. You knew Adib way before the deal, you were at Northwestern together.”

Now it was my turn to give a burst of laughter. Except mine came out all high-pitched and phoney.

“Do you seriously expect me to remember everyone I went to college with?”

‘No. But I expect you to remember Adib. And whatever dirt you had on him from your time at Northwestern, you threatened to expose.”

A pause.

“You abused your position, Charlotte, you broke all the rules. You probably broke the law. Just to save your job.”

Wrong, Malaica! I abused my position all right, and I probably broke the law. But it wasn’t my job I was saving. It was another’s. My best friend’s.

She made another pause, then, in a voice that sounded more relaxed, more human, almost kind:

“Silenus considered reporting you, but then decided it wasn’t worth the mess. You got off lightly. You’re very lucky.”

I gave a deep sigh. Of disappointment, but also of relief. The fight was over. I had lost hands down.

Oh Leonard, Leonard, Leonard… I guess we were not meant to be.

And Adib. He waited twelve years. Why now? How very odd.

“Well, I guess it’s a good-bye, Malaica.”

Awkward mutter. She wasn’t enjoying this any more than me.

 “Just one last thing… Who got the job?”

“You know I can’t tell you that!”

“Oh come on, Malaica, indulge me one last time. After what just happened, I deserve some light relief.”

She hesitated a moment, then gave in.

“OK. But please keep this confidential.”

I burst out laughing, this time genuinely.

“Who will I tell? I haven’t worked in the markets for a year.”

She gulped. It sounded like regret. Regret, or maybe guilt.

“It’s an internal hire, Silenus promoted someone from within the team. Apparently, the guy was after this job for years, applied many times. Now he finally got it.”

With a dismissive chuckle, she added:

“More by default than merit, really.”

“What’s his name?”

“Schaers, I think.”

“Schaers?”

“Yes. Leonard Schaers.”

***

June 21^st, 2022.

It’s been twenty five years, Leonard. A quarter of a century. A third of a life.

I raise a glass to that!

Under a translucent sky, the North Sea heaves and ripples, sending pearly foam across the sand. A gust of wind sweeps under the awning, blowing salt and water in my face. On the deserted beach, a red flag flitters. A seagull sits on top, keeling to the left, then right, cocking its head, as if in contemplation, until, with one powerful blast of wings, it soars into the shimmering air and flies out to the sea. I watch it for a while.

So it wasn’t Adib who ratted. It was you, Leonard! It was you.

You did a lot of damage. Langford Stephens dropped me, I couldn’t find a job for eighteen months. When money ran out, I sold my house, the one you called “my London home.” The guest room was always ready, in case you came. I had it painted olive, just for you.

You did a lot of damage, Leonard. But can I really blame you? Your livelihood was threatened, you needed to survive. You did what you had to do.

“I will be chief executive by the time I’m forty,” you told me once, and I believed you. You showed promise at twenty one. Alas, it was never fulfilled. “Vice President, Corporate Finance, Silenus N.V.”, your LinkedIn profile says. You’re still in the same job. The one you stole from me.

***

“My father died five years ago, no point.”

“You should still tell everyone, Charlotte! People deserve to know who he really was.”

“I won’t do it.”

You shrugged, uncomprehending.

“Why are you protecting an abuser?”

I looked away, towards a listless waiter gawping at his feet by the cocktail stand; a desolate beach with a red flag flittering and flapping; and a clear blue sky with a silver cloud drifting languorously from east to west.

“Because I love him.”

You froze. Slowly, you rose from your chair, walked from under the low-hanging awning and stepped into the sunlight, casting a long, floating shadow on the floor. You were about to leave, but, just before you opened the plate glass door of the foyer, you half-turned and gave me a small, barely perceptible nod.

You understood.

***

Last night, I dialled your number, to tell you I was staying at The Grand Hotel den Hague. But as soon as it started ringing, I hung up.

I hung up to keep the memory.

Illusion is so much better than life.

 

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