The Deal (7 page)

Oliver received the text message early on Sunday afternoon. He’d spent most of the morning in the gym and lunchtime with pals in his local pub in Clerkenwell. When he returned to his flat he checked his mobile for messages. There were three: one from Abbi Highfield, another from Andrew, and a third which he hesitated over before opening.

He had wanted to spend the afternoon reflecting on his visit to Andrew’s home late on Saturday. He needed to think about the merger, although the decision had already been made.

Now he had a text message to ponder. He already knew the number well. He so wanted it to be positive. Finally he opened it.

“Oliver. I want so much to be with you today. When we are together my world comes alive. You must, however, raise the money for Alistair. Deal? Love. Amanda x.”

He replied immediately.

“Deal. Oliver x.”

He lay back and listened to the orchestral music playing on Classic FM. His mind drifted back to Regent’s Park. It seemed pretty crude. He was basically being offered sex with Amanda provided he raise two million pounds for her brother’s publishing business. He recalled the film starring the stunning Demi Moore – Robert Redford offered her husband one million dollars if he could go to bed with her. Had Amanda, too, made an indecent proposal?

Why had she worn such a brief bikini? If it was strategic, bloody hell, it had worked! She had an exquisite body, which he was sure was the result of personal discipline and hours spent in the gym. Although they had been hidden from public view on the grassy knoll Oliver couldn’t recall having seen any other woman wearing a bikini in Regent’s Park that day. Though he had certainly observed couples in the heat of a summer’s afternoon, after the lunchtime wine, clearly aroused and passionate.

The music played on with a loud burst from the trumpeters. Oliver realised that he was becoming hypnotised by his desire to have sex with Amanda. At first he had tried to empathise with her love for her brother. He knew that he had played it right by going along with her condition that was not a condition. But the issue for him was that somehow her foibles – were they such? – her personality traits – whatever they were – simply added up to one hell of a woman. He couldn’t fully explain it. He knew she tantalised him but he felt something more too… Could he be falling in love? He had to go to bed with her. That much he knew. The answer was to seduce her as soon as possible.

But he knew that was not going to happen. She meant every word. He must raise two million pounds for City Fiction if he was to experience the fulfilment he knew was awaiting him.

He should have been... something. Disgusted, appalled, humiliated – perhaps, angry.

No, he loved it. He would raise the money in any case. And at the end of the transaction he would call in the deal. He would experience the summit of his desires. He would win Amanda.

The music had finished. He re-read a long email from his father in Australia. After his mother’s hip replacement operation, the drought and his father’s dissection of East Asian politics (“Watch North Korea, son”), he considered again his father’s opinion on what the piece of music might be.

“You say Russian. That’s a start. You have eliminated Rachmaninov. You think you heard the word ‘ascent’ and possibly ‘mountain’. You estimate the playing time at about eight minutes but that could be misleading if it is part of a longer piece. It has to be Shostakovich. I suggest you listen to the ‘Leningrad’ and by the end you will know whether Shostakovich wrote the piece you are trying to find. Take care of yourself, son. Your loving father.”

Oliver had spent part of the evening reading up on Dimitri Shostakovich. He’d been born in Leningrad in 1906 and died in Moscow in 1975. He’d lived in Russia all his life and, at times, found his composing affected by the wishes of his communist leaders.

When he realised the depth of Shostakovich’s musical output, he began to understand why his father had suggested he listen to the ‘Leningrad’. Shostakovich’s compositions included fifteen symphonies, two piano concertos, two violin concertos, two cello concertos, twenty-four preludes and fugues for the piano, the Age of Gold ballet and lots of film scores.

He had visited a music shop and bought a CD of Symphony No. 7 in C Major known as ‘Leningrad’. He had read the cover notes carefully. It was thought that its underlying purpose was a protest against the suffering caused by the communist state. For some it was simply a battle symphony.

He decided to listen again to the whole performance, which lasted well over an hour through four movements: Allegretto, Moderato (Poco allegretto), Adagio and Allegro non troppo.

He became absorbed by the large orchestra’s rendition of the Shostakovich masterpiece.

At the conclusion of the performance he replayed the final section, the allegro.

He then knew that the piece of music he was searching for had not been composed by Dimitri Shostakovich. The style was different.

Twelve people packed into the board room at what was already being called Harriman Agnew Capital. Introductions were made and Charles explained the basis of the merger of the two firms. Andrew took over as chief executive and dealt with the bad news immediately.

“Three colleagues have already left this morning,” he said. “We have, of course, paid them their full entitlements and in two cases we have added some additional salary.”

“Who decided who should go?” asked Duncan Hocken.

“They’ve gone. Let’s move on as well,” replied Andrew.

He explained individual roles and there was little comment. The two companies merged together so neatly that nearly everybody involved could see the logic.

“Can you tell us more about the FSA visit please, Andrew?” asked Abbi. “What happens now?”

“Thanks, Abbi. I’ll ask Melanie to answer your question because she has been liaising with the inspector.”

“Well,” said the compliance officer, “my understanding is that it was a low grade inspection in the first place. We know that other firms in our sector are also being contacted. I spoke to our contact at the FSA this morning and told him about the merger. There will be lots of form filling but he seemed reasonably happy with the detail I gave him.”

“Why is Oliver head of corporate finance?” asked Gavin.

“Because you are head of brokerage,” replied Andrew.

“I have more experience. I should have been considered.”

“You were, Gavin. But we think you’re too valuable in brokerage. You’re the best fund-raiser we have.”

“Yeah, Oliver, hear that. Try bossing me around, mate, and...”

“Gavin. Cool it,” said Andrew. “We need each other. These are difficult times. Oliver will bring in some good deals for us.”

“Like City Fiction you mean, Andrew? I read the summary. It’s crap. I’m not selling that to the clients.”

“It’s an interesting case,” said Abbi.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what’s a good deal?” snapped Gavin.

“Gavin,” said Oliver. “I’m more than happy to go through the papers with you afterwards. It has real merit.”

“I’m busy,” said Gavin.

Gavin was in grave danger of attracting a fight. He wouldn’t have taken a backwards step if one had started. It was only the calming influence of his friend Duncan that prevented his mood escalating out of control in the dark interior of the Embankment bar.

“Dunc,” he slurred, “see that fucking river… what’s it called? The Thames. The fucking river Thames. Well, Dunc, that’s where fucking Oliver fucking, Lord Muck – what’s his sodding name, Dunc? – that’s where he should be…”

Duncan noticed that the bar manager was becoming agitated by Gavin’s foul language.

“Gavin,” he said, taking his companion by the arm, “let’s go and decide where you’re going to dump him.”

“Fucking good idea, Dunc. You’re my best friend aren’t you, Dunc? Lead on. I’ll select the deepest fucking part for Lord...”

They exited the bar and Gavin staggered towards the riverside railings.

“See, Dunc,” he cried, pointing towards the incoming tidal waters. “That’s where Lord Oliver Crumpet is fucking going to end up.”

“Oliver Chatham,” said Duncan. “He’s not a Lord, but he’s certainly landed gentry and public school.”

“Fucking Eton, Dunc. I went to state school and done good.” He grabbed his friend by the arm. “I’ve done ok haven’t I, Dunc? Bloody good I am. I never fail to raise the money, Dunc. I’m the best of the best, me...”

“Gavin, you’re the top man as far as I’m concerned.”

“Then why am I not the head of corporate finance? Tell me that, Dunc. What did Charlie say? It’s fifty fifty. It’s a merger. It’s fucking not. I’m the best. I should be head honcho, Dunc. If Oliver fucking… er… Crumpet tells me what to do he’ll go in that fucking river.”

“We need to give it a chance, Gav. I must say the combined operation looks much better. Charles has been off the boil for some time.”

“I’ve no fuckin’ choice, Dunc. The wife is preggers again.”

“God, how many is that, Gav?”

“Martine says we’ve got four. I’ve lost count.” He roared with laughter.

Lucy Harriman packed Lily off to bed and settled down in the lounge. Scarlett had gone upstairs earlier and Lucy found her and Tabitha together in the back bedroom.

The ‘For Sale’ sign was now outside their house and she had found it difficult to explain to the girls why they were selling their home, though when they knew they were staying at the same school things improved. Scarlett, being a bit older, understood better than the other two.

Charles was watching a film on the TV. Lucy edged up beside him. He turned the volume down.

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for organising everything. I’ve had a look at the properties you want to see at the weekend. The one on the edge of the Common looks alright. £1,450 a month. Can we afford that?”

“I was surprised how optimistic the estate agent was about selling ours,” she replied. “We seem in the right price range for selling houses at the moment. He said it’s the cheaper properties that they can’t move.”

Lucy ran her hand across his forehead. “How is Harriman Agnew Capital getting on?”

“Early days. It’s like two boxers eying each other. Gavin is upset but he always is.” Charles picked up his cold cup of coffee. “Are you enjoying the surgery?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t seem to cure a simple case of eczema,” replied Lucy.

“Then it’s not simple.”

“You might have a point. The patient is intelligent but he won’t accept a referral to a consultant. He says I will do.”

“He’s trying to tell you something.”

Lucy looked at her husband. “What do you mean exactly?”

“This is the businessman you mentioned to me last week? You told me eczema is stress related. This chap travels and you say the schedule he is following, and the flights to China, are the cause.”

“Yes. Probably. So what are you saying?”

“Lots of people work hard and take long distance flights, Lucy. They don’t all get skin complaints. The stress is coming from somewhere else.”

“From where though? He never stops talking. He’s told me his life story.”

“No he hasn’t. He’s told you the bits he wants you to hear. My guess is that he’s beating around the bush. What’s the most likely event in his life that might be resulting in the stress – money, career or women?”

“The bloody obvious!” she cried. “An affair… you should never stop looking for the obvious.”

She looked up and their eyes met.

“You haven’t asked me,” he said.

“I suppose I’m a bit scared to.” She was surprised by the sudden switching of the conversation.

“Nearly two weeks, Lucy,” said Charles. “Not a drop.”

She wrapped herself around her husband. She was proud of him, but she wondered whether he was truly facing up to the reality of his situation. He was not just giving up drinking alcohol; he was selecting a new way of life. The challenges would come later and then he would be tested to an extent which, at that moment in time, he could not imagine.

Amanda was lying on her bed thinking about Zach. She was not doubting her decision to end their relationship, especially now she had met Oliver. They were so different – possibly because Zach had been married and was a father, while Oliver retained the enthusiasm of youth. He went about his professional duties with an energy and commitment which was infectious. Zach was more of a thinker. He spent many hours on the script of a documentary long before a camera rolled. He studied people and selected his interviewees with great care.

She realised that she acted differently with the two of them. When she was with Zach she was more serious and took a real interest in his work. There were many nights when Zach had either gone home or slept in her spare room. They never discussed the issue: it just happened.

With Oliver she was much more flirtatious. She already loved teasing him and watching him struggling to match her humour. She was more provocative too, partly because she enjoyed using her sexuality and partly because he turned her on so much. He was so good looking and had an athleticism and virility which made her desire him intensely.

She did not, however, have any concerns over the terms of their deal. She was delighted at the spirit with which Oliver had accepted its imposition. He had not argued or even sulked: he was, after all, a man! She knew that he would raise the money and she was already anticipating their first night together. She would wear a two-piece outfit made of silk. She would arouse him slowly and take her time removing her lingerie. He would discover that she was still hiding her modesty with tight white knickers.

She closed her eyes and allowed her dreams to overtake her.

Chapter Three

Sara Flemming was late. She had misjudged the walk from Bloomsbury towards Clerkenwell and then struggled to find Bleeding Heart Yard off Greville Street, near Smithfield Market.

She pounded over the cobbled courtyard and paused at the top of the stairs, where she adjusted her jacket collar and ruffled her hair, before going in to the wooden entrance hall and asking for Alistair Wavering. She was directed down the steps and towards a dark corner where a man sat alone. Nearly all the other tables were occupied by the Hatton Garden business community.