The Broker

Angelo and I had been in business together for twenty years, at least. In a dying industry, men like Angelo were a rarity. The founder and editor of a fashionable design magazine, he was a gentleman, and a hard negotiator, but I mostly liked him for his eccentricities. He fancied himself an intellectual and his magazine had once been the most prestigious in town: architecture, antiques, and interiors, with a touch of modernism about it. He made a small fortune from printing books and catalogs for high-minded brands in the first two decades of the century, but the work had dried up. Now I only received a trickle of emails from him containing odd requests—quotes for unrealistic print jobs in silly time frames, that sort of thing. 

I had a feeling today’s meeting would be the same. The sad thing was that I was also desperate for business, so I would always turn up. I sat in the glass-walled office, fresh lilies on the table, and waited for him.  

“Thomas!” Angelo exclaimed when he eventually appeared. He’d put on weight and wore a strange woven waistcoat that felt incongruous with the rest of his clothing, the classic attire of a man of dwindling influence. “Have you met our Natalie? We’re training her up on the print side of things,” he said, then introduced the young woman who had trailed in after him, holding a laptop to her chest. 

She wore a loose gray dress, made from a coarse fabric, baggy around the waist and even covering the knees. Clumpy black boots that looked the worse for wear. Frizzy hair bundled on top of her head, her teeth chipped and coffee-stained. How old was she? Twenty-eight, I guessed. She looked at me, somewhat startled by my appearance. I had snuck in a quick game of squash before the meeting. I always tried to on my trips to Central London, an impulse I now regretted.

“Sorry, I’m a bit clammy,” I said, shaking her hand. 

“A bit,” she said, politely. 

We sat down and I could tell by Angelo’s animated conversation that he was about to ask me for something absurd. And I was correct: The job was the kind of thing we would have laughed at in the past. A white-label newspaper for a design week in Turin, only ten days to turn the whole thing around, including printing and delivery. The client insisted on all the bells and whistles: high-quality silk stock, stitched binding with gold thread, a gold foil for the cover. They had come to Angelo when they couldn’t find anyone else to take on their demands. I got out my paper samples and fanned them across the desk, politely suggested a lustrous German silk. 

“What do you think?” Angelo said, passing them over to Natalie.

“Yes, that could work,” she said. “I prefer it to the uncoated.”

I watched as she touched the paper. She gripped it between her thumb and forefinger and gave it a little rub, turning her eyes away, as if listening for a faraway sound. That’s what you do if you’re serious about these things, feeling for the paper’s specific weight and finish. I had misjudged her, and I was charmed by the fact that she was taking a genuine interest in my profession. I can always tell when it’s genuine. 

We all shook hands at the end of the meeting. “Natalie will be your point of contact for the job,” Angelo said, and she nodded, efficiently, then went back to her desk. I continued my niceties with Angelo and watched her from the corner of my eye. She wiggled her mouse to wake up the screen, which flashed on with the white light of what must have been a thousand documents. The screen made her eyes look wet and distant, almost supernatural. Smart girl, I thought. Better for a young woman to not question the wild whims of her boss, to not appear exceptional. Angelo is a fantasist, but so am I, I must admit. Her only hope was to forget that the whole thing is useless.

The following weekend I took the family to a newly renovated museum to see an exhibition on the Permian Period. It was a bad day for all of us, drizzling rain, no continuity in the conversation, everyone absorbed in their own unbridled thoughts. I was expecting an exhibition of high standards—something similar to the wonderful Siberia exhibition at the British Museum—but as soon as we entered the doors it was apparent that the target audience was prepubescent. Toddlers ran past as animatronic dinosaurs swayed their heads, snapping their jaws in unrealistically slow motion. What is fascinating about the Permian Period, I tried to explain to my teenage son, is how it was wiped out by the greatest and most violent mass extinction of species that the planet has ever seen. Poof! All gone, from an aggressive lava flow in the deserts of Siberia, I believe.

We walked around the exhibition, each in our own worlds. Rufus filming ludicrous videos to post to his following of fellow teenagers. The wife rooting through her handbag for something—cigarettes, most likely, although she gave up long ago. A day of light rain enhances the cravings and sometimes I can smell the cinders on her when she picks me up from the station. I don’t say anything, of course. We must all have our treats, a momentary refuge from the thoughtful and proper, a little lava flow for the blood. 

The reason I mention this inconsequential museum outing is because it is the only time I saw my wife and Natalie together. At the end of the exhibition was a series of digital artworks of the creatures thought to have survived the mass extinction. Whether via tenacity or luck, they reappeared in the Triassic Period and evolved into the first bipedal mammals. While scanning the display, I was struck by a digital rendering of an ugly beast, a weasel-looking thing called the “cynodont.” It was standing in a barren desert landscape. Whoever was accountable for the artwork had done an awful job—the printing looked cheap, the colors were ghastly. But something inside me, deep beneath my cagoule and weekend jeans, was shaken when I read the accompanying text. The cynodont was described as an egg-laying loner. I took another look—its strange, open mouth, its sleek body covered in fur. Of course a creature like that would have survived extinction. I did something I rarely do and took a photo.

I waited for my wife outside the lavatories after the exhibition. That’s when I saw Natalie, thumbing some hardback books in the gift shop. I doubted she had any real intention of buying anything, of course. Maybe a postcard to tack on the walls of her rented room, something to point out to the interchangeable boys who must litter her bed on infrequent occasions.

I caught her as she walked out. 

“Hello there,” I said, with a big smile, in case she didn’t recognize me in my fisherman’s jumper and cagoule. I needn’t have worried, she knew exactly who I was. I talked gibberish about the exhibition, and she replied with similar gibberish, in the way a museum moves you to do. 

My wife approached, wiping her hands on her jeans to rid them of any moisture the hand dryers had failed to whisk away. She stopped wiping when she saw us. 

“Natalie works for Living magazine,” I said, by way of introduction. “She’s interested in learning more about printing.”

“I am,” she replied and smiled coyly, or perhaps with bemusement. 

To be caught in conversation with a young, strange woman can be humiliating. I felt the same sensation then as when using those dreaded new systems for train toilets, the ones that require you to press a lock button after you’ve shut the door. I can’t tell you how many times I have opened them to find a man with his trousers down, shitting like a dog. That’s how I felt then. 

“Are you here to see the dinosaurs?” my wife asked, kindly. 

We took turns expressing our admiration for the renovation of the building, despite the fact that it looked entirely the same. Who were we all, standing in that overlit reception area, with its pleas for donations? A wife, a husband, and a . . . colleague? And what was Natalie doing in a museum on her own on a Saturday afternoon? I looked at her tote bag, damp from the day’s rain and containing her laptop. Ever diligent, yes she was. 

“I should go,” she said, and patted the laptop. “Deadline.”

I could tell she was worried, like I was, that we might invite her to join us for coffee in the café. I have always admired women who are able to release themselves from social niceties. 

“Good luck,” I said. “Will you be coming for press pass?”

Her face remained unchanged but something in her eyes lit up. “Is that an option?” 

“Of course. It would be good for you to see the machines. They’re some of the best in the country, in my opinion. Particularly the new Heidelberg—although I know you’re not interested in digital.” 

“Angelo isn’t,” she said. “But I’d like to see them. Let me see what he says—he is keen to train me up. He flew me out to the printers in Poland last month.”

“How lovely,” my wife said. 

“Yes it was. I spent most of my time in the factory, and they showed me how to inspect the registration.” 

“I see you’ve picked up some of the lingo,” I said. 

“A little bit.”

“Well then you must come down for press pass,” my wife said. “Thomas loves to show off his machines.” 

There was some semblance of truth in my wife’s goading remarks. The machines are tremendous—the technology makes daring leaps year after year. I read all the brochures but I can hardly keep up. Yet, at the same moment of spectacular innovation, we know that the business is dead. The few remaining magazines pretend not to be, but I know very well their dwindling print runs and bankrupt distributors. In truth, I only print them out of charity, as reflected in the profit margins. 

Afterwards, my wife and I grabbed a coffee at the museum café. Rufus had wandered off somewhere. I like the cardamom buns that they serve, so we added one to our order.

“She seems like an interesting girl,” my wife said.

“Yes, it was funny to bump into her here.”

“Why?”

I paused.

“You’re right, there’s no reason why she wouldn’t be at an exhibition on a Saturday afternoon.”

“An underwhelming exhibition.”

“Oh I’m so glad you said something. I thought it was just me.”

“No, it’s not just you. What was her name . . . Natalie?”

“Yes, Natalie. Of Living magazine.”

My wife paused, and held her pause. 

“I’ve been treating a girl named Natalie lately. She’s having a terrible time. I’ve never met someone so young with absolutely no hope for the future.”

“In what way?” I said. 

“In many ways. She lives in a houseshare where the damp is so bad there are mushrooms growing on the carpet. Can you imagine that?”

“Unbelievable.”

“I dread to think of the effect on her respiratory system.” 

My wife dabbed her finger at the cardamom crumbs and lifted them to her mouth. It was rare for her to share any insights about her clients and she assumed an implicit trust whenever she spoke of them. Despite this, I knew she never gave me the full story. 

“Do you fancy a walk along the river?” she asked.

“Yes please,” I said.

I could tell my wife liked Natalie, in that way older women sometimes recognize themselves in the young—or feel empathy for them and what lies ahead. That night, as we sat up in bed, enjoying our latest reading material under the beautiful downy linen bedcovers, she made one of her suggestions.

“You should poach Natalie, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“As your trainee.”  

“I gave that idea up after that horrible kid, what was his name . . .”

“Martin. Martin the stoner. Natalie seems much more capable. And she’s interested in the business.” 

“A phase, I’m sure.” 

“She also seems diligent.”

“Well yes, that’s the impression I got. Angelo obviously relies on her. But I don’t have time for training.” 

“Suit yourself,” she said. “I’ve made an offer on a camper van by the way.” 

“A camper van?”

“Yes, what’s wrong with that.”

“You never mentioned such a thing.” 

She shrugged her shoulders, flipped the page of her newspaper supplement. 

“It’s for Spain,” she said. “You can travel much more freely in a camper van.”

“I see. It sounds uncomfortable.” 

“Suit yourself.”

“Oh Louisa.”

The next time I dropped by the magazine office, Natalie was out for lunch. A disappointment. The receptionist took the paper samples from me—they were high-quality ones, presentation
kits from the manufacturers. I imagined Natalie would have a good time giving them a little rub. 

I realize it may sound like I was in the throes of an obsession. I was not. Despite her interest in my profession, she had a coarseness that put me off. I would never have imagined her naked. Maybe only her ass. I’ve always been an ass man. My wife has a lovely one, plump and surprising, particularly in jeans. It still gives me great pleasure to watch while we walk the dog on the fields behind our house. She bends over to pick up a stick and I feel the passing warmth of an unsophisticated, familiar love, even if we keep much of our desire to ourselves these days. 

Natalie and I exchanged emails and phone calls throughout the next week, hurtling toward our impossible deadline. Can we insert a two-sided folded poster? Can it be gold? Can it be embossed? “Let me see what I can do,” I would say, and pretend to discuss the matter with my colleagues. I would always get back to her within the hour, explaining in great detail why such a cowboy thing could not be done. 

If she had a personal life, she kept it well hidden. She would get back to me as late as one in the morning, which I found both considerate and exciting. So I was surprised when she didn’t respond to an urgent request over the bank holiday weekend. We had dumped the hand-stitched binding in favor of staples, thank goodness, but had not confirmed if they were to be gold, silver, or copper. And I could not make that decision myself. 

I called five, six times. I found myself caught in a daydream, conjuring the events that may have detached her from her emails. It was an overcast afternoon and I tried to keep myself busy—I cooked a chickpea curry for my wife and watched an episode of Euphoria. Finally, after five and a half hours, there was a response. 

The email had been sent from her personal address, with her work address cc’d. She did not apologize or offer an explanation, but we resolved the issue of the staples—copper to temper      the gold foil on the cover, a pleasant mix. I processed the order on my laptop, which was when I noticed the home address and telephone number on her email signature. A pale gray, italicized font, as if barely there. By that point I was on my third glass of Côtes du Rhône so of course I looked up her address on Google Maps, followed by Google Street View and Google Earth. She lived in a Victorian terrace, with chipped paint on the window frames and a rusty gate. Quite standard. A fair walk from the nearest tube station, however.

We were back to our usual frantic phone calls in the lead-up to press. Decisions were made at lightning speed. Compromises were agreed on amicably. These are the best jobs, when neither party refuses to give up in the face of disaster. I pressed her, a few times, about who would be attending press pass on Friday, but quite rightly this was the least of her worries. A few jobs had rolled in at the same time and the staff were under pressure to deliver on all of them. They were a small team and worked hard, under the false impression that their commitment would lead to some kind of job security or even a pay increase. Unlikely. Only Natalie understood, I felt, that they were exchanging their talent and youth to keep the business propped up, one that was destined to fail, because Angelo would never let go of the past. 

I got an answer about press pass, just as they were uploading the files. 

“The creative director was hoping to come but it will have to be me,” Natalie said reluctantly. 

“Oh brilliant,” I said. “We’ll provide lunch. I’ll send you the sandwich menu.

I don’t know what I expected as I sat behind the steering wheel of my wife’s sedan in the train station car park. I watched her shuffling down the platform, in her sack of a dress. Boots on the verge of falling apart and a tote bag slumped on her shoulder. I thought of a pilgrim, a hardened, pious girl, walking across the fields of Finisterre. 

The journey had not been treacherous, however. “Fine,” she said, when asked, taking a sip of her iced coffee through a paper straw. 

“Oh good,” I said and moved to matters of business. The printing was already underway, although it would take a while for them to deliver the first round of proofs. Natalie nodded agreeably. It was a promising sign, to me, that she did not question why I hadn’t suggested she take a later train. I sensed that she innately understood that the timings of the printers were not performed for anyone’s sole convenience. 

“Welcome to Ink Press. Will you be here for the day?” asked the gaudy blonde receptionist, smiling upon our arrival, entertained by the sight of Natalie. She had repurposed her desk as a waiting room for her upcoming retirement, littered with puzzle magazines and cross-stitches. Her pink lipstick seemed to contain a hint of green. Natalie looked toward me for reassurance. 

“Yes. Full day for press pass,” I said, in an official voice, and the receptionist fiddled around in her desk drawers for a pass while Natalie signed the guest book, somewhat shyly. 

We headed through the automatic doors and along the carpeted corridor, where I pointed out the various offices, a small kitchenette, the bathroom, and fire escape, all of which Natalie noted, clutching the handles of her cotton tote bag. I detected a note of joy in her as we entered the proofs room, occupied by a set of state-of-the-art viewing stations. A silver magnifier had been left out on the table. I gave it to Natalie and she held it to her eye as she looked around the room.  

“How long has this place been here?” she asked.

“Hm, the original building was set up between the wars. Although that’s all been refitted now. They run a very swift, sophisticated operation, always ahead of the curve. In fact, I struggle to keep up.” 

She had removed the magnifier from her eye and looked at me curiously, as if she was trying to work out if I belonged to the old building or the new. When met with her gaze, which I returned politely, I couldn’t be sure myself. 

Derek arrived, his arms abundant with the first round of proofs. “There you are,” he said, sizing up Natalie. He didn’t care much for her, I could tell. In his eyes, the client was an imposter. Here to ask silly questions and make futile suggestions, which he took as a direct attack on his expertise.

So he was as surprised as I was when Natalie spotted a misalignment in the registration. She pointed it out to me first, and then to Derek. He acknowledged the mistake and swiftly removed the proofs from the viewing table, like a spoiled dish on the opening night of a restaurant. The staff would get an earful, I could tell. 

“Well done,” I said.

“Thanks,” she smiled.

What can I tell you about the state of affairs between us then? Our mixture of professional standoffishness and nervous warmth. Her easy trust toward me. Did I feel fatherly towards her? I know what you must be expecting, some breach in decorum. There is perhaps more sense of inevitability in the way I recall this than was tangibly present in real life. I certainly didn’t possess the recklessness to force such a situation into being. Besides, there was still the matter of the repulsion I felt toward her. What she was thinking was also a mystery—the inner life churning away, without a sound.

While Derek was off, we enjoyed a leisurely lunch. She praised the prawn sandwich and I annihilated my panini. Machine-made cappuccinos to follow, plus a brief tour of the press. She seemed to love the printing apparatus in the same way I do. An unspeakable passion, really. It connects you to the physical, forces you to remember that your life will be defined by the technology at your disposal. On the walk back to the proofs room we embarked upon a more candid tone of conversation. She asked about my wife, what she does. Therapy, I said, she’s a psychotherapist. A Jungian, for the most part, although she only carries a hint of that into her practice. City people like that kind of thing but not so much in the home counties, it frightens them off. Natalie said she had often considered becoming a therapist and that she was engaged in therapy herself. Although she had recently purchased a bicycle, which had greatly improved her mood and her relationship to her surroundings for a much lower cost. 

“My wife says therapists are a bit like running shoes. Worn out after a year and the wrong ones will fuck up your posture.” 

“I guess so. My current therapist fell asleep on me.” 

She said this with a laugh so I laughed too. 

“Is that some new trend? Paying people to fall asleep on you?”

“It actually made me feel better,” she said, with the lightest sigh. 

“How so?”

“Well, she’s old. So I thought my problems can’t be that bad or she would have stayed awake. I think I was talking about my brother at the time.” 

As we sat at our laptops in the office and waited for the next round of proofs, I offered to email my wife’s details in case of any upcoming openings at her London clinic, even though she was usually fully booked. In retrospect, I hadn’t thought of the full implications of such a gesture, which was purely in-the-moment: an attempt to keep the mood of our walk going now that we were enclosed in a carpeted room. 

I copied the link for my wife’s clinic from a tab on my browser. Natalie asked if there was somewhere to plug in her power lead and I vaguely watched as she placed the plug into the only available socket, then as she unraveled the lead to see if it would reach her laptop, which it did, just about.
This meant I did not give my full attention to the task of the copied link and the email, which is how I made my great error. I look back on it now in horror at how something so malign could occur from such a small administrative slip.

Natalie sat back down and arranged her sack dress so it fell evenly around the chair legs. I registered a subtle frown on her brow. 

“I think you sent me the wrong link,” she said, almost innocently. 

At that moment, Derek wandered in with the next set of proofs bundled in his arms. 

“Come with me please,” he said. “We’re behind schedule.” 

As I followed them both, I opened the email app on my phone to check the sent box. And there it was. So ordinary and yet so tragic—the grainy image of Natalie’s Victorian terrace and the suggested route from that address to my address, with options by car, train, bike, or foot. Two hours and fifty-two minutes in total, if you chose to go by train.

In the proofs room, one of the assistants—a man in dungarees whom I had never laid eyes on before—had joined Derek. 

“Too much magenta, Bob,” Derek said to the assistant. They were examining the portrait of the CEO, which Natalie had pointed out. It was true, he looked a little puce. Bob stood next to Natalie and bent over to examine the page. I detected some sexual tension between the pair. 

“Not sure we can fix that,” Bob grunted. 

“Ah, don’t worry then,” Natalie said. “I doubt he’ll even see it.”

“Are you sure about that?” I said. “I’m sure there’s a way to bring it down a touch.” 

She ignored my advice. Derek and Bob swept up the pages and carried them off in their arms. Bob peered back over his shoulder at me with a look of satisfaction. 

We were left in the room together. I looked at Natalie with a soft, defeated expression.

“Are the trains once an hour?” she said. 

“They are.”

I followed her to the office. She bent over to unplug the laptop lead from the socket and I could see the thick seam of her tights through the back of her dress. I wondered if she had put the tights on backwards, as my wife does sometimes. 

There was a confusing conversation about asking the receptionist to order a taxi for the station. I had to explain that the local minicab service did not offer the brisk response rates that one might find in London. I mentioned there were still the covers to look at, mock-ups with the gold foil. She smiled tenderly at this. 

“You can send me a photo if you like,” she said. 

When she excused herself for the bathroom, I waited in the corridor. The receptionist walked out from the ladies and gave me, what I felt to be, a look up and down.

“Just waiting for our guest,” I said, and jangled the car keys in my trouser pocket. 

It was agreed that I would drive Natalie to the station. We sat in my wife’s sedan in silence. I wanted the silence to be painful, but it wasn’t. If it had been painful there might have been a reason to offer an explanation for my email. But she appeared nonchalant, I could tell by the way she was humming a song, a melody which had been playing on the radio earlier that day. This hum would haunt me. 

“Thanks,” she said, in a light tone as she got out of the car. She clutched the tote bag and made no eye contact. I watched her walk down the platform, step onto the 15:39 train, and then she was gone. 

Derek had a huff when I informed him of Natalie’s departure. They’d managed to fix the CEO portrait after all. After so many years on the job together, I knew what he was thinking. How her decision to knock off early proved that her enthusiasm had only been temporary, a novelty which had worn off and made fools of us both. 

That evening, I stayed on at the press to approve the covers.
Feeling desperate, or plucky, I emailed the correct link for the clinic to Natalie, then waited unhopefully for a reply that never came. I returned home in a reticent mood. It is easy enough to convince one’s wife that a bad mood after a long working day is only a symptom of the stress of business. And so, we ate our dinner in silence—I cannot remember what we ate, or whether there was a glass of wine or not, but I remember that no questions were asked. 

My wife had once taunted a mistress of mine, my only mistress, by taking photos of her house. I had fallen in love with this mistress, or at least it felt like love. A standard betrayal after fifteen years or so of marriage. My wife’s obsession with the woman gave way to a measure of madness, especially so when she set up an Instagram account with the sole purpose of taunting her. The account followed no one but the mistress and each day she posted photos of the mistress’s home—her front door, her bins, a close-up of the upstairs bedroom window, slightly ajar. The woman freaked out, quite rightly. It was creepy of Louisa but she made herself unforgettable. 

I envied her. What made the incident with Natalie all the more severe, in my mind, is that it wasn’t really something you could “tell” people. It wasn’t like Louisa and the Instagram.
It was no extravagant display of a chaotic heart. To tell the story would be an admission, a finger pointed at something interior, and so I swallowed it down, sorely. 

The print job was completed successfully in the end. The newspapers arrived in Turin on the first morning of the event. Angelo said the client was pleased; Natalie was no longer taking my phone calls and it was hard to tell if this was a slight or if she had moved on to the next of Angelo’s harebrained deadlines. My shame grew. I wondered if Natalie would say anything to Angelo. I’m sure he found me a little creepy. But the weeks passed and there were no comments or repercussions.

What am I really saying? That the slip in propriety meant far more to me that it possibly could have done to Natalie. Therefore I was not surprised when months later my wife mentioned she’d received an email. 

“Why did you do that?” she said. 

“I don’t know. She seemed in need. Her current therapist fell asleep on her.”

“How awful.” 

“The therapist is old.” 

“I see.” 

We were lying in the back of the camper van, swaddled by blankets somewhere in Galicia. Whether my wife took her on as a client I’ll never know, such is the code of professional conduct.

I did see Natalie one more time, on the Southbank at the entrance of the Royal Festival Hall, where there was a performance of Mozart’s Requiem, a predictable choice but an enjoyable one. She was with a man, an obvious boyfriend. One of those bearded men who work in media. I had returned from Spain to oversee a demanding project that required my expertise, or so I liked to think. I was generally happy to be back on the job and had extended my trip by a few days. I’d left my wife in the camper van, cooking mussels on a portable stove and drying towels on tree branches after dips in the river. 

I stood behind a concrete pillar and pretended to leaf through my program, while I watched Natalie look up at the bearded man and adjust his collar. He looked at her affectionately. He seemed nice. I had no idea if she still worked at the magazine. Angelo had not been in touch for a good few months, perhaps a year.

She turned, unexpectedly. Did she see me? I felt as if she did, as if she had looked back from some other place, without judgment. But of course, we tell ourselves these stories. All I really know is what happened next: I queued for some time and ordered a glass of wine from the bar. I returned to my seat in the front stalls. I waited. The dark hush spread over the hall and the bassoons began their old, dismal melodies. I waited for an opportune moment, I waited as long as I possibly could, until the choir rose to its flare, the program fell from my limp hands, and I, because I could not do anything else, found myself crying.