The Deal (21 page)

“Yes. A what, Amanda? Like a what? Oh for god’s sake – I told Sara you seemed to always be in trouble with men... but this, this is something else!”

“So, that’s where her comments came from, is it? How dare you discuss my private life with a teenage researcher!”

“She’s twenty-four, Amanda!” He was raising his voice now. “And it’s hardly bloody private when you’re making sick deals based on my business! Just think. Please think about what you’ve done. You shouldn’t be involved in any way with Oliver. More importantly, you’ve totally belittled my work. And all because you two just couldn’t wait to jump into bed together!”

“Stop it. Stop it, please, Alistair. Stop talking like that. Stop making me sound so dirty. We love each other.”

“You what? You’re an idiot. Love? That’s not love, Amanda.”

“‘Oliver’,” he mimicked. “‘I can’t open my legs for you, even though I love you, until you’ve raised two million pounds for me.’ Well, am I wrong? Is that not how it is?”

Amanda couldn’t hold back her tears, or reach the door fast enough.

“End it, Amanda. Tonight!” he shouted at her departing figure.

She took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and turned to face her brother.

“We may have a big problem, Alistair, if I’m forced to choose between the two of you.”

Once she was sitting safely in her car, she sent a text message.

“I know it’s late but can I come round? xx.”

Her heart leaped as she read the immediate reply.

“Is Rachmaninov ok – or would you prefer the Arctic Monkeys?”

But, for reasons she was later unable to explain to herself, she instead returned to her flat in St. John’s Wood.

Alistair spent the next day at City Fiction in a tidal wave of indecision.

He picked up the phone to speak to Oliver and then put it down again. He went back and forth into the main office, picking up files and putting them down again, merely to see if Amanda had arrived. He decided to text her and then deleted his message. He thought about phoning her but suspected when she saw his name on her mobile screen she wouldn’t answer. He relived their row and bitterly regretted some of his words. The other members of his team sensed his mood and kept their heads down.

At lunchtime he left London on the M4 motorway to drive to Exeter to meet an author whose script he had enjoyed reading. He turned his phone off and decided to let events take their course.

Amanda finished unpacking their picnic basket and handed the bottle of wine to Oliver. St. James’s Park was crammed full of Saturday tourists enjoying the sites of London. Many would end up at Buckingham Palace hoping to see the Queen, as the Royal Standard was flying.

They had talked things over in great detail. Oliver was still a bit miffed that she had not arrived at his flat after texting him and she’d revealed her brother’s plans and their subsequent row. Oliver then told her about the warning Andrew had given him at their lunch.

“So you agree, right? We have no choice but to wait for events to sort themselves out. Better still if you can finish raising the money.”

“Perhaps.”

“No perhaps about it. We would have regretted it.”

“So there’s no re-negotiation of the deal?”

“Well, we’ve a new set of circumstances.”

“Good god, I never knew that going to bed with a woman could be so complicated.”

She sighed. She’d spoken to Alistair earlier that morning. He’d discussed the proposed publication of his Exeter author and avoided all other subjects. She went with the flow and they’d agreed to talk again on Monday.

“I’d like to think about things,” Oliver said.

Amanda sat up. “Second thoughts?”

“Let’s meet for breakfast on Tuesday. Chez Gerard. Bishops-gate. Eight o’clock.”

“But we’re here now. Let’s talk now.”

“No. I need to think. Tuesday. Breakfast.”

“Why Tuesday?”

“I need to think on Monday as well.”

Amanda slammed the top of the picnic basket closed.

Jody allowed herself one night out a month. She particularly loved the Raymond Gubbay music programmes on a Sunday night at The Royal Albert Hall, which often ended with the 1812 Overture written by one of Oliver’s rejected Russian composers. When the cannon fire shook the dome of the auditorium she always experienced a surge of excitement.

On a Sunday evening in June she was in the upper circle bar at the interval. She ordered a large vodka and ice and played around with a packet of salted peanuts, before managing to find a table in the crowded room with one empty seat. She nodded to the two other people as she sat down and they made no objection to her presence.

She was replaying some of the earlier music in her head. She wouldn’t have objected if the whole programme had been devoted to Elgar. His enigmatic variations managed to transport her to a different place as she remembered the Malvern Hills in Worcestershire where the composer lived out much of his life.

She was suddenly shocked from her reverie. “You enjoy your vodka?” said a deep, foreign voice.

She regained her composure and turned to see a well-built man sitting with a younger woman.

“My name is Dimitri. You are drinking my national drink while you wait to listen to one of the greatest of our Russian composers,” he said, smiling.

They were cut off by the first of the bells announcing the imminent start of the final part.

Dimitri surprised Jody by inviting her to join him for another vodka after the concert. Jody surprised herself further by accepting. They agreed to meet in the foyer.

Later, with the sound of cannon fire ringing in her ears, Jody met the Russian and his companion in the theatre entrance. Further surprise ensued. Before she knew what was happening, she found herself being driven in a large black Mercedes, with smoked windows, to the Hilton Hotel in Park Lane. Dimitri occupied the short journey by speaking on his mobile phone in fast, indecipherable Russian. His dark-haired companion sat silently. After they arrived in the lounge bar she disappeared and Jody did not see her again. She made an excuse to visit the cloakroom where she checked her appearance. She had retained her figure through childbirth and maintained a frugal diet, though there were now specks of grey in her hair. She had a bearing that, together with her sparkling eyes, made her attractive, with an immaculate sense of dress. She hurried back to her Russian host.

The waiter knew Dimitri. He brought a bottle of vodka, a bowl of olives and a bucket of ice, set up their table and left them alone.

The next hour flew by. Dimitri was a lively companion. He owned several companies in Southern Russia. But he also wanted to know about Jody and was visibly concerned when he heard about Xavier and his daughter. It was such a relief to speak to someone who really seemed to care, and Jody poured out her problems to this unfamiliar man.

The evening drew to a close when Dimitri said he had more calls to make. Jody was driven back to St. Katherine’s Dock by the chauffeur. As she watched the lights of the Thames Embankment, she recognised the music playing in the car. Bach.

When she returned home from work on Monday evening there were flowers and a bottle of vodka awaiting her on the door step. After the day she’d just had at Harriman Agnew Capital, she particularly appreciated the liquor.

Andrew slammed the copy letter on his desk. Oliver blinked at this unusual display of anger from his chief executive

“He’s just walked out. Gone to – and I quote – “bigger and better things”. The bugger had this all planned out, Oliver!”

They were absorbing the rather important news of the loss of Ian Bridges, who had seen Andrew over the weekend to tell him he would not be returning to the office.

“Melanie is seeing the lawyers this morning and we can, of course, make it difficult for him over the transfer of his FSA registration.”

“But we both know that we’ll not do that,” said Oliver.

“True. I’m just a bad loser,” said Andrew. “It just means it’s now up to Gavin and Duncan to raise the money for City Fiction.” He paused. “There is actually something else I need to talk to you about too.”

Andrew explained about his proposed trip to the Far East and they considered some of the implications for the business. The chairman would be back from his holiday and overall Oliver was supportive.

“Don’t give up on Britain yet, Andrew,” laughed Oliver. “We still have City Fiction.”

At ten o’clock, in the main office, Oliver started the meeting to discuss the next steps for City Fiction.

It began badly. Gavin was recovering from a heavy weekend, spent significantly in his local pub.

“Lost golden boy, have we?” he sneered. “I suppose it will now be nice to Gavin and Duncan time. You won’t raise the money, Oliver. You need us.”

“Where is everybody?” asked Sara.

“Andrew is away for the rest of today,” said Oliver. “Melanie is at the lawyers. Jody is not needed for this meeting.”

“And the head salesman has gone awol. What a fucking joke!” shouted Gavin.

“The only joke in this meeting is you, Gavin,” said Abbi.

“No. There’s another funny thing in this meeting,” Gavin replied.

“And what’s that?” asked Martin.

“Fucking City Fiction. That’s what I’m talking about. You’ll never raise anything for them.”

“Why not?” asked Sara.

“Because they’re crap publishers. Duncan agrees with me.”

“Can you justify that statement?” asked Abbi.

“Yes I can, Miss Marketing Manager. You see, I have read one of their books.”

He reached down and took from his briefcase a copy of the City Fiction title,
Imperfect Storm
.

“I’m quite surprised you actually bought it,” said Sara.

“Don’t be daft, Sara. It was on Abbi’s desk so I pinched it.”

Gavin wiped his nose with his jacket sleeve. “This Simon Watson. He can’t write for shit.”

“It’s Simon Wilson and it’s a wonderful book, Gavin,” said Abbi.

“Why don’t you give us a synopsis?” suggested Sara.

Gavin cut across her. “Actually my wife Martine read it. The whole book at my request. I wanted to know what nonsense this company is getting involved in. It’s my career as well.”

“It’s a wonderful story, Gavin. If I may say so, perhaps Martine might prefer Martina Cole,” suggested Abbi.

The recent simmering tensions were close to boiling over. Gavin stood up and moved towards Abbi.

“What are you suggesting about my wife?” he hissed.

“What Abbi was suggesting,” said Sara, “was that
Imperfect Storm
is beyond her intellectual grasp. Any woman marrying you must have serious questions to answer.”

“You lippy bitch! Let me show you what happens to girls who don’t know their place,” shouted Gavin. He advanced towards Abbi.

Martin stepped in his path but was pulled back by Duncan. Gavin reached Abbi only to find Sara blocking his way.

“If you want to lay a finger on Abbi, Gavin, you will have to go through me,” she said quietly.

Gavin hesitated, thought carefully and then backed down. He was later to tell Duncan that he could never hit a woman.

At long last Oliver took control. He ordered the room to clear except for Gavin and Duncan. Thirty minutes later the two brokers left the office and went to the pub.

Oliver reconvened the meeting and within the space of twenty minutes he had managed to galvanise the Harriman Agnew team. When he’d finished they were convinced that City Fiction would become their best ever client. He revisited the basic investor proposition and said that he would personally take responsibility for the fund-raising. He was very convincing.

Sara put her arm around Abbi’s shoulders and whispered in her ear.

“Cometh the hour, cometh the man.”

Abbi nodded in agreement.

That evening Oliver re-read an email from his father.

He wrote that he was running out of ideas and perhaps Oliver should just listen to the radio until he heard the piece of music again.

“I do have one thought, son. It seems to be the mixture of the music which so impressed you. The combination of a piano, the violins and the trumpets, which is unusual. You mention mountains being climbed. The range of the piano can produce that effect.

I think your composer was predominately a pianist who composed.

Son, it has to be Rubinstein. Listen to his piano concertos.”

Oliver emailed back thanking his father but saying he hadn’t yet given up his belief that the composer was Russian.

He received an immediate reply.

“Rubinstein is bloody Russian. Off for my lunchtime gin and tonic.”

Chapter Eight

She was wearing a pink two-piece outfit. Her fair hair hung softly around her face. She had added little make-up after her early morning gym session and, for jewellery, wore only a gold crucifix around her neck. She kissed Oliver on his cheek and they sat down at the corner table, which allowed them some privacy. She ordered yoghurt, fresh fruit and granary toast; he requested a full English breakfast. They asked for green tea and coffee, respectively.

“This is a first. I’m not sure I’ve ever met for breakfast to negotiate a relationship,” she said.

He didn’t reply. The tea and coffee were served, but he continued to look around the restaurant, avoiding her eyes. Amanda’s fruit arrived and shortly afterwards a full English breakfast was placed in front of Oliver. Amanda called the waitress over and prompted her about her granary toast; Oliver then decided he wanted some brown sauce. He never ate black pudding without brown sauce. Amanda then decided she wanted another serviette and asked for a second bowl of yoghurt. When that was produced she again reminded the waitress about her granary toast. Oliver asked for his coffee cup to be refilled. The granary toast arrived. Amanda asked for a tub of butter. When that was served, she said she would like some jam. She was offered strawberry or damson. She wanted raspberry. That wasn’t available. She decided she didn’t want jam after all. There was a long silence.

“So… how are your thoughts progressing?” she asked, eventually. She had spent two further lonely evenings in her flat with far too much time to think about their situation. She found the whole thing frustrating and annoying. A relationship by negotiation? It was all so unnatural, so unspontaneous. But then she would remember that she had introduced ‘the deal’ in the first place. She was hurting for her brother too. His words were lost. She’d simply misjudged the whole situation.