‘Yes?’
‘There are — private investors. Known in the trade as
business angels—I expect you’ve come across them.’
‘Not personally,’ said Aubrey, ‘but I know what you
mean.’
‘Indeed. They bridge the gap between the high street and
the investment banks. Advance comparatively small
amounts of money, the hundred thousand you are looking
for being typical, in exchange for a share of the profits. Or a
share in the company, of course, which he might agree to
sell back to you at some future date. When Fleming
Cotterill are flying high again, as I am personally convinced
they will be.’
So convinced, you’re not prepared to help us, you
bugger, thought Aubrey. He smiled, leaned forward. ‘Well,
short of the more traditional type of angel, and we have
explored that avenue—’
‘I’m sorry?’ David Jackson looked puzzled.
‘You know. The ones up there. With God. White robes,
wings, that sort of thing?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He smiled uncertainly.
‘They didn’t seem to be willing to do much. So the other
sort does sound more interesting. Is there a list of such
people?’
‘Well, yes. Rather amusingly known as dating agencies.
They advertise in the FT, that sort of thing. Your
accountant would be able to advise you. Have a word with
him.’
As they reached the sunlit street, Tom said, ‘Aubrey, what
are we going to do?’
‘Christ knows. We can try his idea of a private investor.’
‘He’d need his brains examined,’ said Tom gloomily.
‘Now, Tom, don’t get downhearted. It’s all true, what’s
in our projection. We will be back on our feet, given just
one, maybe two new clients. More than on our feet, flying.
Nothing’s changed. We’ll find someone. Maybe we’ll have
to do what you always swore you wouldn’t, and approach
your father-in-law. He’s always trying to muscle in on the
company, isn’t he?’
‘Over my dead body,’ said Tom grimly. ‘Or his.’
‘Steady on, dear boy. Only joking. Octavia coming to
this do tonight, by the way? The dinner at the House?’
‘No,’ said Tom sharply. ‘No, she’s not.’
‘Pity,’ said Aubrey.
He had guessed the reason of course; she had looked
wretchedly unhappy at the last party. What was besetting
him more even than a harrowingly deep sympathy for her
and Tom in their patent difficulties, was the already visible
effect. The Flemings had always been a team, working
together, drawing strength professionally from one another;
each a stronger force than they would have been individually.
Both their companies recognised it, traded on it.
Octavia lent Tom humanity; he gave her substance. To
have Octavia, albeit notionally, at a business pitch, was hugely helpful; her high profile not only as a hugely
successful businesswoman, but also in a field of apparent
moral probity.
By the same token, he knew, Capital C used references
to Tom’s contacts at Westminster, his working knowledge
of various parliamentary procedures, to impress their own
clients, giving the impression (while saying, of course, no
such thing) that where governmental intervention might be
necessary to promote a cause, fight an injustice, Tom
Fleming could instigate it.
Their relationship was dazzlingly productive — ‘A rolling
stone,’ Aubrey had once said, ‘gathering an inordinate
amount of moss.’ And for years it had worked beautifully.
But the whole structure was none the less fragile, based on a
mutual regard, a professional trust, a desire in each to see
the other succeed; if the foundations began to decay, the
walls would follow with terrifying speed.
Aubrey was, with great sadness, seeing the beginning of
that process; and the timing, both from a professional as
well as a personal point of view, was catastrophic.
It was only a small thing, the hand sliding into hers, but it
made Marianne feel much better. She squeezed it, very
gently. Romilly’s eyes met hers, large and tremulous.
Neither of them said anything; just got out of the lift and
walked into Christie’s reception. By then they were both
smiling.
‘Good morning, Mrs Muirhead. And Romilly. You look
very grown up. And young-ladylike!’
‘Yes. Sorry!’ said Romilly. It had been the bargaining
point; either she wore her school clothes and went straight
on to school, Marianne said, or she didn’t go. Romilly had
worn her school clothes.
‘Well, come on in. Everybody’s here. Mrs Muirhead,
Romilly, this is Donna Hanson and John Bridges, both
from New York, and this is George Smythe, from the UK
division. Coffee, everyone?’
George Smythe, she really didn’t like, Marianne decided;
nasty, sweaty, lechy little man. But the Americans were
fine; especially Donna Hanson.
Donna was about her own age, and told her she had two
teenage daughters herself. ‘So I can see this is a little
troubling for you.’
‘Just a little,’ said Marianne.
The talk was general; they asked Romilly about herself,
her ambitions, her schooling, looked at her photographs, asked her how she’d feel about coming to New York.
‘Fine,’ she said, smiling at them. ‘I know New York
because my dad lives there. I love it.’
‘Oh, good!’ said Donna Hanson. ‘So you could stay with
him.’
‘Possibly,’ said Marianne. ‘But I would come over with
Romilly in any case.’
‘Yes, of course. Fine. Well, that’s one problem out of the
way. Now there’s another small one: if we do decide we’d
like to use you, Romilly, and if everyone is happy, then
there are the braces …’ Her voice tailed off tactfully.
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done about them,’ said
Marianne. ‘They have to stay on. I can’t have Romilly’s
teeth ruined. However much we may all want her to do
this thing.’
‘Mummy, I’m having a check-up next week,’ said
Romilly. ‘He might say they can come off then.’
‘I’m sure he won’t,’ said Marianne. ‘They’ve only been
on six months.’
She sounded harsher than she meant; she could see that
from Romilly’s eyes.
‘Her teeth do look beautifully straight,’ said Serena. It
was the wrong thing for her to say; Marianne felt a stab of
violent irritation.
‘I agree with you. They look like that precisely because
she has been wearing the braces. Anyway, as Romilly says,
we are going to the dentist. We could let you know.
Always assuming—’
‘Of course. Well, I think we would want to know
anyway. It might have a bearing on the final decision.’
So they haven’t actually decided, thought Marianne.
Maybe they won’t want her. She looked at Romilly; her
expression was strained. She had been very upset that
morning; she’d got a spot, her period was due, she said, had
cried, tried to squeeze the spot, made it worse. Only Zoe’s
calm intervention with some lotion and cover-up had calmed her down. God, she was cursing this whole thing already.
‘Well, thank you for coming in, both of you. You have
to get back to school, Romilly, I believe.’ John Bridges
smiled at her. ‘Your mother’s a very sensible woman,
you’re lucky.’
Romilly smiled at him, a rather wobbly smile; no glimpse
of its usual radiance.
She said nothing.
In the car, driving up to Harley Street, she was silent,
picking at her skirt.
Marianne looked at her. ‘Darling, don’t be upset.’
‘Of course I’m upset. They didn’t like me. It was the spot
and these stupid clothes. And you weren’t exactly helpful
about the braces.’
‘Darling, I am not sacrificing your teeth to some stupid
contract.’
‘Well, what’s the point of having perfect teeth if no
one ever sees them?’ said Romilly. ‘Look, we’re here.
‘Bye.’
She got out of the car and slammed the door; she was
near to tears again.
‘Damn,’ said Marianne under her breath. ‘Damn damn
damn.’
‘Glorious,’ said Donna Hanson, ‘quite glorious. Perfect
face, perfect skin - well, except for that one little pimple.
Inevitable at her age. Hormones, I expect; we may have to
work round her cycle. We must definitely have her.
Mother’s a bit difficult, I can see that. And those braces are a
problem.’
‘We can get round both,’ said Ritz Franklyn. ‘Don’t
worry.’
‘Good,’ said John Bridges. ‘I’ll leave you and Serena to
draw up the paperwork. I agree she’s simply beautiful.
Wonderful eyes. Very, very virginal. There can’t be many
like that any more. Not at her age.’
‘No,’ said Serena. ‘No, sadly not.’
Ritz looked at her sharply; but Serena’s eyes, meeting
hers, were devoid of any expression but steely professional
satisfaction.
‘So, it’s looking good, wouldn’t you say?’ said Nico
Cadogan.
He and Tom were lunching together at the Ritz.
‘I would,’ said Tom: the shareholders had turned down
Egerton’s offer by a comfortable majority.
Nico signalled to the waiter to refill Tom’s glass. ‘And is
referral a foregone conclusion now? Or is there still a
chance the MMC will nod it through?’
‘It’s a bit more complex than that. The Office of Fair
Trading will now look at it, and if they do say it’s okay and
there’s no real danger of a monopoly, then politicians are
not allowed to question that. But we’ll continue to lobby
hard to have it referred. And I think it will be. We’ve got a
very good case, what with the support from your MP who’s
put down a question, incidentally.’
‘What does that mean exactly?’
‘It means he’s put in a request to ask a question. He’s
waiting now to be given parliamentary time to ask it, by the
speaker.’
‘And what will he ask, exactly?’
‘Oh, something like - does the Secretary of State for
Tourism realise the consequences of the proposed merger,
blah blah. He’ll say he doesn’t of course, but it will open the
case up, help to air it.’
‘Good.’
‘Then there’s the Early Day Motion, the petition I
mentioned to you — she’s got at least thirty signatures
apparently. And I’ve got a couple of journalists interested in
the story, one of them will be ringing you in a day or two,
so it’s all looking as good as it could be.’
‘Excellent! And if you were a betting man, Fleming,
would you put money on this one?’
‘Which way?’
‘That I’ll win. Obviously.’
Tom sighed. ‘I’ve personally nothing left to gamble with.
And it’s not in my interest to raise your hopes.’
‘That’s not an answer to my question. Anyway, betting
men aren’t inhibited by a small matter like a lack of funds.
Come on now, off the record. I won’t hold it against you.’
‘Oh, all right. Off the record.’ Tom hesitated, then
grinned at him. ‘Off the record, I’d put at least half my shirt
on it.’
‘Good man! That’s what I like to hear.’
It was a conversation neither of them ever forgot.
All Octavia’s own grief and anxieties left her at the sight of
Louise. She looked appalling: ashen pale, with heavy dark
rings under her eyes, her hair uncared for, her skin dull.
Always slim, today she looked almost emaciated, drowning
in a big sweater, her jeans hanging on her hips. ‘Hi,’ she
said. ‘Hi, Boot,’ and gave her a hug; her body felt oddly
insubstantial.
‘Louise, you look—’ She stopped herself. Not helpful to
be told you looked terrible. ‘You look awfully tired.’
‘Yes, I am tired. It’s hard. But we have to battle on.’ She
smiled, but her lips trembled. ‘How’s things? With Tom?’
‘Oh, pretty terrible. We had another huge row the other
night, he was flirting with this woman at dinner, and—’
‘What woman?’ said Louise sharply.
Octavia stared at her. ‘A new client of mine, Lauren
Bartlett.’ She stopped; she felt suddenly and absurdly
disloyal. Tom had only agreed to dinner with the Bartletts
to help her, and she had done nothing but bitch about it
ever since. Then she shook herself, remembering why she
had come. ‘God, Louise, what does that matter? Compared
to what you’ve had to cope with? Sorry. I’m so sorry. How
is your mother?’
‘Not good. We’re down to days now, the doctor says.
It’s so frightening. Four weeks, Boot, that’s all it’s been.
Maybe five. Since they diagnosed the liver.’ She stopped,
tears welling up. ‘But she’s not in pain. And she knows
you’re coining. She is confused, though, so don’t be hurt if she doesn’t seem to know you. Or worry about anything
she says.’
Octavia was shocked at the sight of Anna. Shocked and
distressed. Her face had grown skull-like, her eyes vacant
and dull. The once lovely hair was spread back from her
face on the pillow, and when she turned her head, she
pushed at it fretfully, with a clawlike hand. The cancerous
liver was huge, looked like a five-month foetus, under her
nightdress, and her skin and even the whites of her eyes
were jaundiced. For one awful moment, Octavia thought