The Deal (2 page)

She’d realised that her husband had every intention of talking into the hours past midnight.

While waiting for the drinks at the Polo Bar, Amanda found her mind wandering back to the events of the previous weekend. She and Zach had driven to Stratford-upon-Avon to watch the RSC’s production of Hamlet. She had loved every moment of the production and was remembering some of the speech in which Polonius tells Laertes some home truths.

‘This above all: to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.’

Zach was a successful independent film maker, specialising in social documentaries, several of which had been shown on prime-time television. He was, in many ways, ahead of his time and his analysis of the broken society would be re-shown following the August street riots and the temporary collapse of law and order in many cities across the country.

Amanda enjoyed his conversation. He was serious but fun. He was passionate and loving. And he was also married with two young children. He claimed his wife was having an affair with the headmaster at the school where she taught and he was preparing to leave her. He was putting no pressure on Amanda. He’d told her the situation as it was and said that he wasn’t fighting for custody as his wife was seemingly being reasonable about access. He said that it wasn’t ideal, but he loved Amanda and wanted to spend much more time in her company. He had bought her a ring and become a little emotional when he placed it on her finger.

They’d returned to London on Sunday afternoon and spent the evening reading the papers and listening to music. That night, in bed, their love-making had had an added intensity.

The following morning she’d left Zach sleeping and sat at the kitchen table. She’d taken some time to compose a letter to him. “Why, oh why, must he be married?” she’d mused to herself.

She knew that she was attractive to men. During her long sessions at the gym she often found herself in conversation with various athletic suitors. Over the previous three years she’d been with several decent partners. But somehow the relationships never lasted. There weren’t arguments, nor rows – nor, in fact, much passion. Whenever she’d tried to dig deeper she’d found a void.

She had met Zach at the launch of one of City Fiction’s new titles. He was a friend of a friend and had been persuaded to attend the evening event. He’d met Amanda after being accidentally pushed in the back and spilling his glass of champagne down her blouse. It proved an effective way of breaking the ice and within a week they were involved. Immediately, she’d found him interesting and witty. He spoke passionately about his work and cared about the social issues which his documentaries exposed.

So why was she proposing to end their relationship? She wasn’t completely sure herself. There was just a nagging doubt. To break up a marriage… And she couldn’t understand why Zach wasn’t fighting harder to keep his family together. There were two boys aged five and three to consider. She just didn’t understand – or much like – how he could seemingly walk out on his responsibilities.

She’d placed the letter on the table and walked out of the house. She knew what her brother Alistair would say; he was convinced she was unable to consummate longer term relationships. She knew that he cared for her and wanted her to find some stability. She’d groaned inwardly as she started to plan how to tell him.

She shook her head to clear her mind of these reflections. She paid for their drinks and turned round to carry the glasses over to Oliver.

Charles was now on a roll. He was drinking even more quickly as he explained his business to his wife.

“Bryan White built up the business by never taking up-front fees,” he’d continued. “The reason was that his experience had taught him that the relationship between the client and the adviser was stronger if both parties needed a success before the corporate finance house was paid. I always agreed with him on that principle.”

“That’s like saying a doctor should only be paid if he cures the patient,” Lucy had said.

“Good point. The difference is that the doctor is paid a salary. In our case we earn commission based on a successful transaction. They’re big fees. Our clients are happier if they only pay us for achieving results.”

They’d discussed her husband’s work on many occasions but never before had he spoken with such intensity and energy.

He’d told her that while this strategy had underpinned the growth of White, Harriman and Boyle, he found that he was becoming increasingly exposed as various deals reached their end game. In the space of seven weeks he’d lost three transactions. The first, a speculative new ecology printing process, failed to interest investors and ended with the three directors threatening Charles with litigation and grievous bodily harm.

The second business, a leasing company involved with helicopters, raised the money they wanted but not at the valuation they were willing to accept. Charles had spent nearly a day and a half in meetings and phone calls to the fund managers who were willing to invest. The directors assessed their business at a valuation of one hundred and twenty million pounds and the fund managers were only willing to invest at a valuation of seventy million pounds. He’d experienced a frustration the like of which he’d never known before. At seven o’clock in the morning he’d found a pub in Smithfield market where he’d downed nearly a third of a bottle of scotch.

Lucy had wondered whether she should make a phone call in the morning. The Priory Grange clinic had said, in a private telephone call with her alone, that she could take Charles in at any time. She’d let him continue talking.

He’d described how the third transaction collapsed when the chief executive of a Sunderland-based oil-surveying company fell in love with his finance director. They had always been professionally close and she and her husband, a professional musician, played bridge with the chief executive and his wife. However, several evenings in a London hotel during a series of twenty-three institutional presentations had led to illicit night games. At first they had both fought against temptation and breaching the sanctity of their marriages. The finance director had thought of returning home to the north. However, following one rather tense session with a fund manager who had spent two hours arguing over her financial forecasting model, they had found themselves in Bloomsbury. They’d gone to a champagne bar and ended up in bed. The next day they decided to return to Sunderland and set up home together.

When he had finally stopped talking, Lucy had looked helplessly at her husband. It was rather easier in the surgery. There was a set procedure for dealing with this type of patient, albeit within a ten minute time scale. It was proving rather more challenging with her own partner. She decided that she must check on the girls. Luckily, Charles had abruptly announced that he was going to bed.

The following morning he asked his wife if it was too early for a drink.

She immediately regretted her response, although the moment she suggested he pour vodka over his breakfast cereal proved to be the turning point.

He put down the bottle and looked in turn at Lucy, Scarlett, Lily and Tabitha. He put his hands up to his face.

“Lucy,” he said. “I’ll never go back to that clinic.”

The drinks menu provided for guests at the Polo Bar suggested
“it is a haven for lovers sharing a moment for a romantic cocktail”
.

Amanda placed the glasses on their table, sat down and radiated a smile in Oliver’s direction.

She was at that moment hardly a lover. She was a client. She was the foreign rights editor at City Fiction, a rapidly expanding publishing company founded by her brother, Alistair, five years ago. Oliver was a corporate financier who was hoping to raise two million pounds for their business.

“Did you hear the music being played?” he asked.

“No, Oliver, I was trying to buy you a drink.”

“I heard the same piece on my car radio a few weeks ago. I’m trying to discover what it’s called.” He explained about the bicycle incident and the few clues he’d heard.

“Ascent, mountain, Russian. Good luck with that,” she said.

He would return to The Westbury the following morning to ask the manager if he could trace the CD which had been playing the previous evening. After a few minutes it transpired that it was a track from a disc brought in by a temporary member of the bar staff, who had left the employment of the hotel that evening.

The corporate financier was now concentrating his attention on Amanda. He was enjoying the glass of white wine she’d bought for him.

“That was a good meeting, Oliver. Thank you. Alistair was clearly pleased.”

“So where’s he gone tonight?”

“He travels all the time to meet authors. He’s flying up to Scotland to dine with a retired stockbroker who wants to tell his story.”

“And will that sell?”

“No, probably not,” replied Amanda. “Alistair will want him to pay for the cost of production. We then publish the title and, if it sells, so much the better.”

“Don’t they call that ‘vanity publishing?’”

“It’s an old-fashioned word with a stigma attached to it. We refer to ‘marketing and promotional costs’ but that’s exactly what it is. Alistair spotted the gap in the market. The stockbroker will be filthy rich and will want to tell his stories. Many of them have the same ambition. We produce a lovely book, they pay for it, and occasionally they sell quite well.”

She excused herself and went out of the bar in search of the ladies’ cloakroom. He watched her go. She was blonde and her hair almost touched the collar of her two-piece dark blue suit. She was wearing a white blouse and Oliver could see the sleeves extending beyond the cuffs. She was about five foot eight, not allowing for the high kitten heels on her blue tinted shoes. Her skirt fell just above her knees and her tanned skin shone with health. The calves of her legs were gently muscular and her ankles were toned and narrow. As he lifted his eyes he focused on her buttocks, which were pressing rather alluringly against the tightness of her skirt.

She turned around and smiled at him before disappearing from view.

The subdued lighting in the bar had briefly caught her face in its glow. Her hair was swept across her forehead and her eye-brows were natural. Although Oliver couldn’t see from his seat he remembered that her eyes were blue.

As he waited the waitress appeared and he ordered a second round of drinks. The music playing in the Polo Bar was now the more usual jazz-based themes. He pondered his search further. He was certain the composer was Russian. He hadn’t caught the name but it had sounded full of piano and orchestra and patriotism.

Amanda returned as the drinks were served. She smiled – she liked being taken out of the City into the West End.

“It’s good to meet you,” she said. She explained that she’d been in Europe for the last week and had missed the introduction made by Alistair’s solicitor to Oliver.

They went on to discuss the work of a corporate financier and why this one was interested in trying to raise funds for City Fiction.

“Great name by the way,” he said.

“Alistair at his best,” said Amanda. “He’s really inspirational. He took his idea around the City and raised half a million pounds to get the business going.”

She raised her glass to her lips.

“Alistair and I are close, Oliver. I’ll be so grateful if you’re able to help us. Alistair can see how to expand the company. He just needs the money to do so… and I’m going to help him all I can.”

“I do like the business, but you must understand that conditions are pretty tough at the moment. It won’t be easy to raise the funds you need, please understand that.”

She put her hand over his.

“But, Oliver,” she said. “My instinct is that if anybody can, it’s you, and I’m rarely wrong about men.”

The top two buttons of her white blouse were undone. Her jacket was open and a black belt fitted snugly around her waist, accentuating her figure. She had applied virtually no make-up apart from a little mascara around her eyes and no jewellery apart from a gold crucifix around her neck.

She smiled at Oliver and then became a little more serious.

“Alistair is everything I have,” she continued. She picked up her glass and took a small sip. “He’s the hardest working human being I’ve ever known.”

He reached for his glass of wine and gulped a mouthful.

“He’s building a great business, Amanda, but publishing is...”

“Publishing is about finding winners, Oliver. Alistair just needs to find his J K Rowling.”

“Well, City Fiction is certainly a good company,” he acknowledged. “And you’ve done well to expand beyond just vanity books. Alistair is a gifted publisher. In five years, and almost from nothing, he’s created a serious publishing business with over ninety books on his list. It’s an impressive record. That’s why we’re so interested in trying to work with you.”

“So, you’re going to raise the money he wants?” Amanda flashed Oliver her most winning smile.

Sara Flemming was seriously fed-up.

She could accept his arrogance. She tolerated the occasional wandering hand and the suggestive language. He was rich, so what. He was on his way upwards, a Cameron favourite. He’d convinced her that the Tories would win the next general election in 2015 and that he would become a minister. He had told her that a PPS wasn’t too far away. She’d had to ask a friend what PPS meant – not that she understood what a Permanent Private Secretary did anyway. But she liked Portcullis House, overlooking the Thames towards the South Bank and she enjoyed the parties. She’d now slept with three Members of Parliament. To this day she could never understand why one of them insisted on putting a photograph of his wife beside the hotel bed. Still, it was a particularly vigorous experience. So far, she’d notched up a Conservative, a Lib-Dem and a Scottish Nationalist. Not bad going.

But now she was upset because of Charlie Stanford’s hypocrisy. He adapted his policies as required by the situation. At first he was totally for the proposed reform of the National Health Service. Sara sent letter after letter to his constituents praising Andrew Lansley’s budgetary changes. “I love the thought of patient choice and GPs holding the purse strings,” he would write. “Dear Mrs Roseacre. It is a disgrace that you have waited six months for your replacement knee joint. I send you my sincere best wishes and know that under Andrew Lansley’s proposals the financial power being given to your doctor will change things for the better.”