Fatal Error (7 page)

I powered up my computer and, with my cup of coffee already drunk, got down to work. Work was a huge spreadsheet, a computer model of all the flows of gas, steam, electricity and money in and out of a proposed electric cogeneration plant in Colombia. It was a gigantic beast, literally thousands of numbers all linked together that attempted to recreate all the variables involved in building,
financing and operating the plant. I had started the model on my laptop computer six months before when Giles and I had visited the Swiss offices of the firm that was bidding to construct the plant. The thing had grown since then; grown, but still remained under my control. If you wanted to change the dollar–peso exchange rate in 2002, I could do it. Oil prices falling in 2005? No problem. Borrowing in fixed-rate Swiss francs rather than floating-rate dollars? Give me a minute and I’ll print off six pages analysing the results.

Working on a computer model like that for as long as I had, I had developed a good feel for the key variables of the project: those risks that mattered and those that didn’t. Giles and I had come up with what we thought was an ingenious financial structure that would allow our client to put in the lowest bid for the contract.

Giles came in, pink shirt, loud tie and sharp pinstriped suit beneath a dull brain.

‘Morning,’ I said.

‘Oh, morning, David,’ he said nervously.

I looked up sharply. Bosses shouldn’t be nervous, certainly not at eight-thirty in the morning.

His eyes dodged mine and moved to his own computer.

‘Giles?’

‘Yes?’

‘What’s up?’

Giles looked at me, looked backed at his computer, realized there was no refuge there, and let his shoulders sag.

‘Giles?’

‘They’ve pulled their bid.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the Swiss have pulled their bid. They are convinced they won’t win. Apparently the Americans have the best local partners, and our boys have lost confidence in their own people. You know what Colombia’s like.’

‘No! I don’t believe it.’ I glanced at my spreadsheet. At the box-files stacked three feet high and two feet wide beside my desk. ‘So we just drop it?’

‘I’m afraid so, David. You know how it is. We only get paid if we back a winner.’

‘So I was right. Remember when we first saw them in Basel? I told you they were flaky then. They never were serious about making a bid.’

‘We don’t know that. Look, I know you’ve done a lot of work on this, but you have to get used to these things not coming off.’

‘Oh, I’m getting used to it all right. This is, what, the fifth in a row?’

Giles winced. ‘It will give us a chance to look at that sewage project in Malaysia. We can go to Dusseldorf on Friday and pin the deal down.’

‘Pin the deal down! Face it, Giles, you’ve never pinned a deal down.’

I had gone too far. I was right, of course, but because I was right I shouldn’t have said it. Giles appeared more hurt than angry.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

Giles closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, wincing under the strain. Then he opened them. ‘Get Michelle to book those flights, will you?’

We sat there staring at each other. We’d never get the Malaysian deal. I knew it and Giles knew it. Suddenly everything became very clear.

‘Giles.’

‘Yes?’

‘I resign.’

7

July 1987, Côte D’Azur, France

I awoke about nine, with the worst hangover I had ever experienced in my short drinking career. Guy was still asleep and I tried to stay in bed, but once I had woken up there was no going back. Besides, I needed to do something about my head. I wasn’t sure what – water, coffee, food, pills – but I had to do something.

I pulled on a T-shirt and some shorts and staggered out of the guest cottage. The morning sunshine was absurdly bright, and I stood still for a full minute with my eyes shut, gently swaying. Delicately I opened them, and saw that the table we had eaten at the night before was now laid for breakfast. Ingrid was sitting there, with some coffee and croissants. I stumbled over to her.

‘Morning,’ she said.

‘…’ I opened my mouth and no sound came out. I tried again. ‘Morning.’ It was a hideous croak.

Ingrid tried to suppress a smile. ‘Are you always this sprightly in the morning?’

‘God,’ I said. ‘I’m never going to drink Pimm’s again. How come you look so good?’

And she did. She was wearing a light denim dress. Her skin shone golden in the morning sunlight, and her pale-blue eyes smiled at me. ‘Practice.’

‘Really?’

‘Actually, not really. I think I must have a good head for
it. I got myself in quite a lot of trouble last year over drinking so I try to stay clear of it.’

‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’

‘Big trouble. I got thrown out of Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’

‘You did?’ That explained why she had arrived at Broadhill in the middle of the A-level syllabus. I squinted at her in the strong morning sunlight. ‘You don’t look much like a Cheltenham Lady to me.’

‘I beg your pardon? You haven’t seen me in my uniform.’

‘That’s true.’ Broadhill didn’t have a uniform. Or rather it did, but it was imposed by the pupils and was far too complicated to be written down. I wasn’t even sure I understood it. Guy did, of course. So did Mel. ‘I bet your parents were proud of you.’

‘I think my mother thought it was quite funny. My father was furious, though. And since my mother doesn’t talk to my father her support didn’t help much. It was a bit unfair. It was a first offence and it was my birthday.’

‘And Broadhill didn’t mind?’

‘You know they have an appeal going for a new library?’

‘Yes.’

‘They got quite a large anonymous donation.’

‘Ah.’

The young North African gardener appeared on the other side of the pool and began weeding. Shirtless. Ingrid happily watched him, but I closed my eyes. The sun shone pink through my lids. A grasshopper started up somewhere very close. I winced. ‘Is anyone else up?’

‘Mel’s awake, but she’s still getting herself ready. She’s in a pretty bad way too. I haven’t seen Tony or Dominique. Or Owen. What about Guy?’

‘Asleep. Where did these come from?’ I asked, glancing at the croissants.

‘Miguel. Here he is.’

And he was. ‘Orange juice, monsieur?’ he said, bearing a large jug of the stuff.

‘Yes, please.’

He poured me a glass and I drained it, realizing that it was orange juice I craved. The cold sweet liquid made me feel very slightly better. Miguel understood and refilled the glass.

He noticed Ingrid’s glass was almost empty.
‘A senhorita aceita um pouco mais?’

‘Sim, por favor.’
He filled it.
‘É o suficiente. Obrigada.’

‘De nada.’

‘What the hell was that?’ I asked, as he withdrew.

‘Miguel’s Portuguese,’ she said.

‘Of course. Silly me.’ I sipped some more juice. ‘I can’t get over this place, can you? I mean having someone bringing you your breakfast in the morning.’ Then I paused. I really had no idea what Ingrid’s background was. ‘Sorry. Perhaps you’re used to it. You probably have a dozen places like this.’

She saw my hesitation and laughed. ‘You’re right. This is a nice place.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘That’s quite difficult to answer. And you?’

‘Easy. Northamptonshire. England. How can it be difficult to answer?’

‘It assumes that you have a family. I have several families. And each one has several houses.’

‘Sounds very grand.’

‘Actually, it’s a pain in the arse.’

‘Oh. What kind of name is Ingrid Da Cunha anyway? It sounds like an island off the coast of Sweden.’

Ingrid laughed. A little too loudly for my head. ‘I feel like an island off the coast of Sweden. Perhaps that’s a good
description of me. It’s actually Ingrid Carlson Da Cunha. My mother is Swedish, my father’s Brazilian. I was born in London so I actually have a British passport. I’ve lived in Tokyo, Hong Kong, Frankfurt, Paris, São Paulo and New York. Broadhill is my ninth, and I hope last, school. Believe me, I would love to be able to say that I’d lived in one place for the last eighteen years.’

I didn’t believe her. Her background sounded impossibly glamorous to me. I rubbed my temples. ‘How long does it take for a hangover to go away?’

‘A week, I think,’ said Ingrid.

‘That’s not funny. A week of this and I’ll be dead.’

Ingrid smiled with amusement, tinged with just a little sympathy.

Then I remembered what I had overheard last night. ‘I suppose you speak a lot of languages?’

‘A few.’

‘Is one of them French?’

‘It’s supposed to be. I’ve just done my French A level.’

‘Do you know what
“gosse”
means?’

‘Yes. It’s slang. For a child. Or a kid.’

‘Oh. And just to make sure I haven’t got something wrong,
“baiser”
means “to kiss”, doesn’t it?’

Ingrid laughed. ‘It used to. But not any more.’

‘Not any more?’ Suddenly I remembered the giggling that followed Madame Renard’s explanation of the meaning during that French lesson a couple of years before. ‘Oh, God. It means
fuck
, doesn’t it?’

Ingrid nodded.

‘Ah.’ This was more serious than I had feared.

The smile had disappeared from Ingrid’s face. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I heard it last night.’ Ingrid was looking at me oddly. ‘Did you hear anything?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I think some people were doing more than just saying it.’

‘Yes.’

We sat in silence for a moment.

‘So where did you hear it?’ Ingrid asked.

‘It was the middle of the night. As you can tell, I’d had a bit too much to drink, so I went out into the garden for some air. I heard shouting. It was Dominique. She was screaming at Tony:
“Salaud! Une gosse! Tu as baisé une gosse!”
’ I hesitated. There was really only one conclusion.

I glanced at Ingrid, afraid to voice my thoughts. Did she know? It was hard to tell. Her face was impassive. But she was watching me, too.

‘Tony slept with Mel last night, didn’t he?’ I ventured.

Ingrid nodded slowly.

‘I can’t believe it. What a perv!’ Teenage boys like to think that there is nothing about sex that can shock them. But Tony was somebody’s father, a parent. It seemed unnatural. It seemed wrong. ‘But his wife was right there in the house!’

‘I know,’ said Ingrid. ‘And it sounds like she’s guessed what he was up to. Hold on,’ she whispered. ‘Here’s Mel.’

Mel crept out on to the terrace from the house. She looked dreadful. Her face was a grey shade of off-white and her eyes were red and puffy. She had applied lipstick and some black eye shadow, but that just made her look worse.

‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi.’ She sat down and dived for the coffee. I didn’t know what to say. She didn’t say anything. So the three of us sat in silence.

Feeling a little better for my breakfast, I went for a swim in the pool. The cold water felt wonderful. There was life after alcohol after all. I was joined by an energetic Tony, who did thirty lengths at a disgusting speed. After a few minutes,
Guy appeared. He dived in, keeping up with his father stroke for stroke. It seemed obscene to me to see them both striving to outdo each other in the water after what Tony had done with his son’s girlfriend the night before. It was almost as if the night’s activities had given Tony a shot of unnatural energy. Unlike the dazed and bleary-eyed Mel, who was still nursing a cup of coffee on the terrace.

I left them to get on with it, pulled myself on to a chair by the pool and closed my eyes, letting the sun do its stuff.

Around midday Guy roused me. ‘Come on! Get your clothes. We’re going to a restaurant in Monte Carlo. Then we’re off to the beach in the afternoon.’

I grunted and did as I was told, not quite sure whether I was up to a big lunch and the alcohol that would probably go with it. Everyone was milling around in the large hallway. Dominique had appeared, wearing her sunglasses and acting as though nothing had happened the night before. The only person not present was Owen. Guy said he was plugged in to his portable computer and didn’t want to join us. That bothered nobody.

‘OK, let’s go,’ said Tony. ‘We can all squeeze into the Jeep.’

‘I’ll take my car,’ said Dominique.

‘If you like.’

‘I can take someone with me,’ she turned to me. ‘David?’

I was a little surprised that she had picked me. I would have preferred to go with the others and slump in silence in the back; I wasn’t sure I was up to making conversation with Dominique that morning. But I didn’t want to be impolite. ‘OK,’ I said.

We all trooped outside, Tony pulled up in the Jeep and everyone but me piled in. Dominique had gone back inside for something. Tony waited a few seconds, muttering to himself, and then started the engine.

‘Sorry, David, she’s always late for everything. We should go on ahead. Do you want to come with us?’

I hesitated a moment. ‘No, I’d better wait for her,’ I said eventually, deciding that that was the least rude thing to do.

‘OK. Tell her we’ve gone to the usual place. See you there!’ and the Jeep shot off up the driveway.

I waited a couple of minutes and then went inside myself.

‘David!’

I heard Dominique’s voice calling from the living room. I went in. She was drinking from a large crystal tumbler of clear liquid.

‘Do you want some?’

‘What is it?’

‘Vodka. It’s cold.’

I shook my head. ‘Not after last night.’

She laughed. ‘Do you have a headache?’

I nodded.

‘Well, have some, then. It will do you good. I promise you’ll feel much better.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

She poured a large amount of vodka into a tumbler and handed it to me. ‘Here. Try it.’

I looked at her doubtfully. What the hell, I thought, and took a big slug. The ice-cold liquid turned to fire as it hit the back of my throat, and I scowled.

‘Wait a moment,’ she said, smiling. ‘It won’t take long.’ She watched me, as I held the tumbler awkwardly. ‘Well?’