Authors: Tony Drury
It wasn’t long before the four of them were seated at the wooden table, each with a plate of food. Charles realised the music being played was Leonard Bernstein’s ‘West Side Story’, a modern day Romeo and Juliet musical set in New York.
“Mrs Allen was horrible today,” said Lily.
“Later,” ordered Lucy. “Charles, I think you had a board meeting today? We want to know what happened.”
He looked at the girls and drank some cordial.
“Well, I sacked a broker,” said Charles.
“Can you do that?” she asked.
Before he could answer her question his eldest daughter chipped in with one of her own.
“What did he do, Daddy?”
“He was rude to a client. It has been going on for some time. I can’t abide that.”
“Is that a sacking offence?” asked Lucy.
“No. But his expenses are. It’s the oldest trick in the book. I went in early this morning to go through his returns for the last six months. He has a girlfriend. He took her to Paris. He shouted and screamed and then I showed him the hotel and restaurant invoices. He walked out.”
“And is that the end of the matter?”
“He’ll go to a lawyer and we’ll end up paying him two hundred thousand pounds and then he will secure another position. That’s the way the City works.”
“So why sack him, Daddy?” asked Scarlett.
“I want to live my life with people I can trust, my darling,” replied her father.
“Like me,” said Tabitha.
“Like you, Tabitha,” he laughed as he sipped his drink.
Sara had spent the morning at her computer compiling an initial report on the publishing industry. It was a fairly straightforward task. She had been trained in this activity and knew many of the tricks of the trade. One was sheer volume. It never ceased to amaze her that there was an immediate payoff between size and quality. Time and again in her government work she saw volumes of meaningless research papers which would hardly be read. She understood that the work lying behind these tomes provided the basis for the recommendations which might, at a later stage, be considered. It was the system and Westminster worked on the system.
She wanted her report for Agnew Capital to offer originality. She therefore spent the afternoon in Charing Cross Road visiting a number of bookshops. She spoke to some of the staff and asked what books people were reading. She asked what they themselves were reading too. It proved difficult to identify patterns. She studied the bestseller lists; fiction and non-fiction, hardback and paperback. She used Google to analyse the latest information on eBooks.
At 5.30pm she had reached Leicester Square. She found a wine bar and treated herself to a glass of Chardonnay. She raised her glass and said a silent “cheers” to herself. She had decided that she knew what Andrew Agnew wanted.
She felt her mood beginning to lighten with the wine. She didn’t touch drugs anymore after several unhappy experiences at university, but drank liqueurs with Alex – Schnapps, Kahlua, Crème de Menthe, the sweeter the better. She remembered the many happy evenings… Yet she never lost her perplexity at the unpredictability of their relationship. Sara understood her life in clear straight lines. In her professional work she was adept at thinking laterally. But it was in her personal dealings that she experienced the vagaries of the human spirit. Why, on some occasions, was their sex warm and loving and then, for no good reason that Sara could identify, did their physicality lack any passion? She hated the situation, especially as they seemed unable to talk about it. The rows were long gone. She had become used to accepting it. The lure was that when the spark was there it was really, really good.
Charles Harriman looked around the breakfast area of The Landmark London. It was located beneath a soaring eight-storey glass roof atrium. He noted several familiar faces. A former Labour cabinet minister was reading the
Financial Times
and a retired England test captain was in animated conversation with a companion.
He’d left his car in Dorset Square near to Marylebone Station and had met his guest in the reception area of the hotel, where the Presidential Two Bedroom Lifestyle Suites are available at £4,400 per night. They were shown to a vacant table and offered menus.
“I’ll start with the fresh fruit from the buffet bar and then order an English breakfast,” Charles said to the waiter.
Andrew Agnew nodded in agreement and told the waiter to bring him some Earl Grey tea. Charles ordered coffee and then the two businessmen walked over to the buffet area. Andrew selected mixed fruits, including prunes and figs, and Charles served himself some freshly prepared melon and citrus fruits.
“It’s good of you to meet like this,” said Andrew.
“Just tell it as it is, Andrew,” Charles replied.
“Always to the point,” laughed his friend. “We had a visit on Wednesday from the FSA. As the judge said, ‘you will be given a fair trial, then hung’. They had already decided on their conclusions. They pretended to look at some files but they were in no mood to listen. They’d received several complaints about two of our deals. They said our due diligence work was inadequate.”
“That’s not good.”
“There was a director of one of our client companies who had concealed a previous disciplinary action and we failed to pick it up. Actually it was the lawyers who didn’t check properly because he was a Hong Kong resident, but the FSA don’t have time for excuses. I was given a lecture about our ‘know your client’ procedures.”
“So what did they say?”
“They said that they would be impressed by the introduction of new management.” He paused and drank some tea. “Initially I was offended and called our solicitors in to consider our position. They read the riot act and said we had a massive fight on our hands to retain our regulatory permissions.” He stopped again and wiped his forehead with his napkin.
“It was Oliver who really took charge. He sent a four-page letter to the FSA that evening detailing the immediate action we were taking to address their concerns. Jody was calm too and helped the whole situation. The FSA inspectors had interviewed her for over an hour but she seemed to be able to handle the stress.” He drank some water. “Stress is the right word I can tell you. These regulators make you feel guilty whatever the situation.”
Charles understood the issue of personal pressure all too well. He signalled to the waiter that he required a refill of his coffee cup. Their plates were cleared and quickly followed up with two cooked breakfasts: poached eggs, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, black pudding and a hash brown. A rack of toasted granary bread was delivered by a waitress.
“You want me to help you,” said the corporate financier, “in what way?”
“I’m hoping that we might merge our firms,” replied Andrew. “We have eleven staff and you are seven according to your website.”
It was only later in the day that Andrew realised how quickly Charles had eased into the concept of merging their firms.
They spent the next hour in detailed discussion on how the two businesses might unite. White, Harriman and Boyle was regaining some momentum but had experienced a difficult time in the recession; Agnew Capital was also ticking over. They quickly agreed on some key matters: chairman, Charles Harriman, chief executive, Andrew Agnew, finance director, Jody Boyle (whose father had been a founder of their merger partner), head of corporate finance, Oliver Chatham, head of brokerage, Gavin Swain, and head of compliance, Melanie Reid. It was agreed to move to the offices of Agnew Capital in Queen Street by Mansion House tube station. The new name would be Harriman Agnew Capital LLP.
They paid their bill and moved into the lounge area for morning coffee, where they began to discuss their various pending transactions.
“We have a two million fund-raising for a publisher, City Fiction,” said Andrew. “I’m just waiting for a report on the industry but I’m keen to sign them up.”
With the business discussion at an end Andrew and Charles stood up and shook hands.
When Charles got home Lucy wanted to know all about his breakfast meeting. She seemed genuinely interested and wanted to know every detail. He told her gladly.
Amanda scanned around the lower part of Regent’s Park, shielding her eyes with her hand, and spotted Oliver hurrying towards her. They met and decided to walk over to the tented coffee shop, where Amanda ordered a large skinny latte and Oliver had English tea. They both selected a pain au chocolat before sitting down at a table.
“It’s been a hectic two days,” he said.
He knew that he should be exercising caution but he chose to tell her about his discussions yesterday afternoon with Andrew. They both agreed that the FSA were sending a clear message. Initially Oliver had proposed the recruitment of several additional staff members. However, after hearing Andrew’s suggestion that they offer Charles Harriman a merger, he was warming to that strategy.
They left the café together. Amanda was making the most of the tanning potential by exposing a lot of skin to the late morning sunshine. It was growing very warm, so they strolled over to the lake and walked round its perimeter before finally finding a small, and rather secluded, grass-covered knoll. As they settled down, Oliver took a bottle of champagne and two glasses from his bag. He extracted the cork expertly and poured them each a drink. Amanda looked around before slipping off her dress to reveal her yellow bikini. She produced a tube of suntan cream and invited Oliver to rub the liquid on to her back. She then straightened the towel which she’d laid on the ground and settled back down onto it with a sigh.
“I enjoyed our lunch together,” she said, “before you rushed off leaving me with the bill!”
“Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’ll settle that up for you.”
“Don’t worry,” she laughed. “You had other matters on your mind.”
“And you were missing Zach,” he said.
“Zach’s history.” She pushed herself up and adjusted her bikini top.
Oliver retrieved the bottle of champagne and filled their glasses. He paused, slightly uncomfortably, before looking down at the sun-bathing goddess. The skin of her stomach was tanning well and without a blemish.
“Oliver,” she said. “Please come and sit down.” She patted the grass by her side and smiled as he joined her. She put her right hand across his shoulders. “Tell me about your girlfriends.”
“Why?”
“I told you about Zach.”
“But you chose to. You just started talking about him.”
She squeezed his shoulder tightly. “I still want to know about them.”
He laughed. “Not much to tell. I work hard and I play a lot of sport. I go to the gym every day, just like you. I play squash and rugby in the winter and tennis in the summer. I go skiing when I can.”
“No girlfriends?”
He pulled away from her.
“Look, Amanda. I’m sorry. You’re a client. This is getting too personal. But… if you must know, the truth is that girls are not a problem for me. If I want company it’s usually available at the squash club, in the gym or somewhere. I never mix up my personal life and the office. I prefer it that way. I always find a partner for my winter trips. That’s the way the girls want it and it suits me fine.”
“If I wasn’t a client do you think I might be a candidate? Do you think I might be one of your girls?”
The danger signals rang. He took a deep breath.
“I can’t believe the effect you’re having on me,” he said. “I promised myself I wouldn’t talk in this way. It’s so tricky... Andrew would be furious if he overheard this conversation...”
She reached up and pulled him towards her.
“But he’s not here is he, Oliver? You’re here and I’m here. We’re adults.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “But I also have a problem...”
“Problem?”
“Well, we know we’re going to sleep together, don’t we?”
“We do?” Oliver could barely contain his enthusiasm.
“But there’s a condition.”
“Before we sleep together?”
“Yes.”
“One condition?”
“Just one.”
“When am I going to find out about this condition?”
A languorous smile spread seductively across her lips.
“It’s not really a condition. It’s a situation. I want for Alistair more than I can explain. The fund-raising is everything. It’ll allow him to expand the business beyond his wildest dreams. And you’re going to secure the investment of two million pounds.”
She paused.
“I simply can’t prioritise a personal act. It would be selfish. You know that we’ll go to bed together eventually… but help me out, Oliver. Raise the money first.”
“That’s the condition, Amanda? I’ve got to raise two million pounds before you’ll go to bed with me.”
“Oliver. If that’s the way you want things. I’ll lie on the bed and you do what you want. I’ll think of England.”
He looked at her in amazement. She was so hard to read. “There are plenty of girls at the gym who’ll do that.”
She smiled. “You want what I want, don’t you?”
“I’m moving in that direction.”
He stood up and looked around for his jacket.
“Where are you going?”
“Where do you think? To raise two million pounds, Amanda. I think you’ve just redefined a ‘banker’s bonus’!”
Sara sighed with contentment. Her anger at receiving a phone call from a Member of Parliament suggesting they should get together for dinner was fading. She recalled meeting him but couldn’t remember much more. She decided to check him out on
www.sexymp.co.uk
, the website that ranks MPs according to their (alleged) sexiness. To her horror she discovered that her prospective dinner partner came in at around number four hundred and fifty. She sent a curt text message to the disappointed parliamentarian.
She ran her hands over Alex’s body and, underneath the bed clothes, allowed her fingers to creep ever lower. She knew already that tonight would be one of those evenings when their relationship failed to meet the heights of passion she craved.
Was it her fault? She was becoming obsessed with her report on City Fiction. She was sleeping fitfully and spending many early morning hours reading her research papers. She was walking daily around the grounds of the Tower of London, thinking through the conundrum of publishing.