Man on a Ledge (Falling for You) - An Example of My Work

Dedicated to Robin Williams.

I’ve seen a jumper.

No, I’m not talking about that woolly thing you can snuggle into on a cold day.

I’m talking about the other type of jumper.

From over 200 metres high.  It’s the sort of height that makes you squint just to see the top.  The building’s so tall that the sunlight can’t even get past.  So light’s reflected in the windows like mirrors against the backdrop of an opally-blue sky.   

As you watch… that final flight takes shape.  There’s a small part of you that can’t quite believe it is happening.  Your breath is stilted.  Every bone in your body freezes.  Your eyes are fixed to that sight.  In contrast to you, that figure moves; it flails; it flutters. 

And for that moment of crossover, the one that you know has to come, just before your mind starts screaming for the impossible rescue… you don’t look. 

I’ve been coming back to the place where I saw that jumper nearly every night for the last year.  I have a spot now; it’s in the corner of the bar where the 10 foot high windows encase me at a 90 degree angle.  From here, I can gaze at the spattered fiery oranges on the horizon, ebbing into the night.  The last image is always the chalky façade of the Sacré-Cœur.  Or is it the murky shade of Notre Dame?  I can never tell.  It depends on the light, you see.

People have stopped noticing me now.  I am sure they must think that I’m some sort of weirdo, sipping my gin and tonic like it’s got to last me the night.  I can sort of see how they’d think that, though.  I’m nothing special, no one of note, just a guy more at awe with the world outside, than the world inside.

That was until I saw you, of course.

I can always spot the jumpers.  They’re the ones that have been here before, the ones that loiter outside on the balcony, daring to look down for a millisecond.  On another visit, that millisecond transpires into a full second. And from there, it’s a gradual increase of those thoughts, that daring, that realisation.

I noticed you on your three seconds.  You were at that point where the breeze got caught in your throat.  When I saw you, your silhouetted hair was awry around your face, but it was not your hair that made me stare.  It was the tears in your eyes.  The tears that arrived from that moment the wind had taken your breath and made you gasp.

We didn’t speak that time.  What was I supposed to say?  Did you know that I could read your thoughts? That I’d seen people here before, straddled between an existence of life and one tentative step?  

So I waited.  Same gin, same tonic, same chair.  The only thing that changed was the day and the way it ended.  Red smudges uncurling and blossoming into night.  No two days the same.

When I saw you again, I wasn’t sure if it was you.  You had on one of those brown trench coats and the wind was mercilessly flapping it around your thighs, like it was encouraging you to take off.  I could see your hands stuffed tight into the pockets.  I just had to see you.

This time your blue eyes were closed.  Like the daylight, your world was now darkness.  I could see that.   It was in the way your shoulders hunched forward, and the way the strap on your left high heel was frayed round the edges.  You tilted your chin to the sky and breathed.  The noise of the bar is alien out here on the balcony.  Even the wind, ferocious in its attack, seems so distant.  Soundless.  Like that jumper I saw.

For a minute, maybe more, I stood on the other side of the balcony, trying to gauge the right moment to talk to you.  It takes guts you know, for someone like me to approach someone like you.  Someone so troubled.  Someone so beautiful.

So I returned to my spot.  I started to recognise the clicking of your patent shoes on the tiled floor when you entered the bar through the lift.

And I saw your smiles.  The brash, flirtatious grin you doled out to the bartenders when they got you a drink.  That shy smile you’d offer your workmates when trying to participate in work banter.  And that sad, faraway smile, when you thought no one was looking.  I just never saw a real one.

I caught you staring at me once.  You had moved over near my chair.  You only spotted me for a mere second before you caught your reflection in the glass.  You’d looked shocked, and I realised what it was you’d seen.  It had been you.  You hadn’t recognised yourself.  Those dark circles under your eyes had grown, and grown so much, they’d become a permanent fixture on your face. 

It’s so, so sad, isn’t it?

You started to increase your visits to the bar.  As I sipped my gin and tonic, I watched as your laughs grew weary, saturated and obtuse from all the red wine you drank.  A callous man would surely take his chance now on such a vulnerable creature, propped against a shiny metallic stool.  But no, not me.  I thought I had lost my chance.

Until I saw you that evening.  You were on the balcony, unsteady on your feet, in front of androgynous vacant looks from clientele showing that they didn’t care.  Heads swamped in drinks, mobile phones, and private worlds.  And there you were, on the brink of your own.

‘Hi.’

I could not believe this was the first time I had spoken to you.

You nodded.

‘Hi back.’

I watched you take a step to the balcony railing. 

‘My name’s Peter.’

You took another step.  Three inch heels and one more wobble. 

‘You must think I’m a real drunk.’

A breeze lifted the dry ends of your loose hair.

‘No.’

There was a pause.

‘I just think you’re sad.’

You trembled.  I could see that.  Your legs shook with every step.

‘Charlotte…’

I gave you a smile.

‘Hi Charlotte.’

I love your name.

You turned to watch as white spots of shimmery light began to flicker awake across Paris. 

‘It’s so peaceful here, Peter.’

You placed a hand on the railing.  I heard the clink of your bracelet on metal.

‘Charlotte…’

‘Why do you care so much, Peter?’

I didn’t know what to say to that.  You caught me off guard.  I recognised that animal like instinct; the one where the pain is so bad it backs you into a corner and all you can do is lash out.

‘I know how you’re feeling.’

‘You don’t know shit, Peter.’

You teetered so much then that I reached out my hand to catch your elbow before you fell.  As I watched you leave, black hair streaking behind you, I glimpsed your mascara smudged eyes avert mine.

‘Damn.’

I stayed longer at the bar after that.  Kept looking for the day you might return.  I wanted to see you, to reassure myself that you were okay.  But another part of me told me that if you did come back, it might be for the last time.

Weeks passed.  Same gin, same tonic, same chair.  Bartenders switched shifts.  Warm days turned into cold nights.

I missed you.  But some comfort remained.  You left me with a hope.  Hope, that one day, you might never need to come back.

But I was wrong.

It’s seven o’clock at night and despite the throng of bodies, I can tell it is you, Charlotte.  Your hair has changed.  It’s short.  It hangs sharp round the edges of your chin.    

I flitted in-between the clientele, desperately trying to intercept you.  But you got to the balcony before me.

‘Charlotte. Wait.’

You were slow in your response.  Were you waiting for me?

‘Please.  Leave me alone.’

‘I can’t.  I’m here… to…’

‘Make sure I don’t jump?’

You said it.  The words out loud, I mean.  It’s kind of hard, standing there, trying to answer your question.  The one you already know the answer to.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s so tough you know.  After, I saw you here, I thought I’d go home and try again.  Try and make it work.  Get through the Summer.  But look…’

Charlotte held out her hand.  A single snowflake graced your palm.

‘It’s winter now.  And I still feel the same.’

‘What do you feel, Charlotte?’

She looked at me.  Blue eyes shimmering in the snow.

‘….Nothing… I try to feel…  I want to cry… I mean, really cry.  But I can’t.  Nothing touches me. It’s like the pain is waiting around a corner… waiting for me, ready to launch itself… unsuspecting… I can’t grasp it.’

Charlotte curled her bony fingers around the rail.  She stood on tiptoe.  Snowflakes clung to her hair.

‘Walk away, Charlotte.’

She leaned and raised her face to the night sky.  White dust tagged her eyelashes.

‘Why?’

Because I love you, that’s why.

‘Because you have a life to live…’

As if teasing me, she shook her head.  

‘No. I don’t…’

Snow that had settled in her dark hair dropped to the floor.

She lifted herself onto the edge.

I couldn’t watch.

Not again.

Nodding, I turned and started to walk back to the bar and tried not to look at Charlotte’s reflection in the window.  But I couldn’t help it.  She’s leaning over, staring right down at the bottom where I know from up here, the cars look like toys.    

            If I had waited a moment more, I might have seen her look behind one last time.

‘Hey?’

Her question went unanswered.

‘Where’d you go?’

Charlotte stepped down from the ledge, and wiped tendrils of black hair from her cheeks. 

She searched for the man who had just spoken.

Her feet crinkled in the powdery snow.

And then she realised.

There was only one set of footprints.

You see… that jumper I saw.  Well, that jumper… was me.  And as much as I wanted Charlotte to join me, I knew my choice meant that I didn’t deserve her.  There is a life to be lived; she just had to keep looking for it.  Without me.

As I watched, from my chair in the corner, sipping my last gin and tonic, I heard a wonderful sound. 

It was the sound of Charlotte feeling again.

And I knew she’d be okay.   

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Author note: The location is the Montparnasse tower in Paris, not the Eiffel Tower (in case you're wondering!)

Other examples of my short stories include:

The Life and Time of Norma Ennis

Quid Pro Quo

Haunted

Alice in Wonderland (An Icelandic Love Story)

Walking Down the Aisle

A Second Chance at Life

Bought and Paid For

Author update - you can now purchase my debut novel, 'Where Were You When the World Ended?' from the Amazon Kindle store.

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Follow me @JWilbyPalmer