Page 13 of Double or Nothing

Canary Wharf isn’t far, I’ll be twenty minutes late tops, but twenty minutes is a long time when the big boys are waiting.

I’m cursing under my breath as I reach the revolving doors of Parker Capital and zip across the foyer to the elevator. I press the button over and over until the lift arrives, then use the ascent to calm myself down.

I’m seventeen minutes late.

It defies my comprehension.

I’m never late for anything. My morning routine usually starts two hours before I have to leave the house. This morning has got to be the quickest get ready and go I’ve ever done in my life, and I feel like an utter prick as I stride to the meeting room. I lost count of the whiskies I had last night. What a dumbass.

I’m all set with the apologies at hand, but as I step into the room it’s clear I don’t need them. The board members are chatting happily, without a care. Bill and Trevor are belly laughing about a golf buddy of theirs who slipped on fox shit in a bunker, and I barely get so much as a glance from them as I take my position and prepare my laptop.

I’m always the first one to arrive for meetings. I’m always set up and ready to go when the attendees arrive, and we normally get straight down to it.

It feels like a parallel dimension when Bill raises a hand from across the room and walks on over.

“Nice to see you’re in one piece, Bryce. I was worried you’d been hit by a bus, Mr Punctual.”

“No, I’m good,” I say. “I have everything ready to go. I was just… running late.”

He slaps a hand on my back and lets out a laugh.

“Jesus above, I should voice record that for posterity. You, running late. My God.”

He gestures the others over, and they take their seats. I dish out the paperwork, then share my screen to the projector.

I talk the gathered board members through the final market value of the merger, but it’s all just technicalities. I realise that with a thump of certainty as I survey the faces before me. Yes, they’re nodding and soaking in the information, some of them flicking through the printed documents as I talk, but they all know the merger is going ahead regardless – just like I do. We’ve known it for weeks, and my reports are valuable, yes, but they are purely tick boxes to a decision already pre-ordained. Tomorrow is all about signatures and handshakes, my job here today is purely for last-minute assurances.

Run, rabbit, run.

I hear Jack’s voice in my head before I bailed in a whirlwind, and I could laugh at the irony, because I’m the one more frantic than any of the men in this room, with their multi-millions on the line.

I’m graced by a host of thank you, great job comments and handshakes, and more back slaps when my presentation is over, and it feels good. The praise and recognition is normally the buzz that keeps me alight inside, and it would be today, if it wasn’t for the naked guy back home.

I check the time on my phone. Half one, and the guys are planning a late lunch at the Italian restaurant by the river.

“You joining us?” Bill asks, and the question is usually redundant, met with a nod of my head and an absolutely. But not today.

I need home, and more paracetamols, and maybe even a few hours without my laptop for once. And there’s a tickle in me… just a tiny hope that Jack will still be there. My palms are sweaty at the thought.

“No, I won’t be coming today,” I tell Bill. “I’m busy this afternoon, unfortunately.”

Bill raises his eyebrows. “Oh, I see. Busy. Well, congratulations.”

“Congratulations?”

He laughs. “Must be something impressive to have you busy this afternoon, Bryce.”

And he’s right.

I’m normally a puppy at his side without question. He’s the man who brought me into finance, embracing me closer and closer, to the point that he now entrusts me to evaluate his business affairs. It’s an honour.

Our professional relationship has far surpassed the family connection we’ve shared since I was a boy in the playground. My dad is the man who slipped on fox shit in the golf bunker, actually. He messaged me about it on Friday. They’ve been friends through the generations.

“I just want to wrap up the figures,” I say to him. “It’s been a big project.”

“Indeed, and as of next week, there will be another one.” He fake shoots me. “Landia are testing out the waters for a deal with us. I’m meeting with Adrian Whitmore in Haversham next Thursday for an official discussion.”

Once upon a time, I’d be elated, since Landia has been an associate of ours for years. A business relationship I’d be extremely enthusiastic to get involved with developing. But for once I feel the opposite. It’ll be another year-long project on top of my daily reporting that has me working from morning until night.