Wicked Pleasures (57 page)

She was reading the business section of the
Sunday Times
in bed two weeks later; it was just as well she was in bed, she told Baby, or she would have fallen over.

‘Praegers joins American invasion’ read the headline, quite modest, but very clear on page three.

‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Angie to the paper. ‘Fucking fucking hell.’

She reached for the telephone, dialled the number of the Sherry Netherland. ‘Give me Mr Praeger in Suite Three,’ she snapped to the polite voice (extremely polite, given that it was four in the morning) which answered the phone.

Baby’s voice, slurred with sleep, answered. ‘Yes? Baby Praeger speaking.’

‘Baby, what the hell do you mean by not telling me you were coming to London?’ Angie found to her irritation she was crying; bloody, bloody hormones, she thought.

‘Angie, what is this? I’m not coming to London. Not for another week. Are you OK? Are the babies OK?’

‘The babies are fine. Their mother isn’t. Baby, why do I have to read an article in the
Sunday Times
to learn Praegers are coming to London? Why?’

‘Angie, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Well get a hold of the London
Sunday Times
and find out.’ Angie slammed down the phone.

Three hours later Baby phoned back. He sounded subdued and cautious.

‘I’m sorry, darling. You really have to believe me, I didn’t know. I had no idea. I’m as angry as you are. Once again, I’ve been made to look a fool. I’m going over to see my father now. I’m very very sorry. I’ll get back to you when I’ve talked to him. But I have to tell you, Angie, it isn’t going to alter my situation. I certainly won’t be coming. Dad has arranged for Pete Hoffman to run the London office.’

Angie arrived at the building in Pine Street five days later. She was looking extremely chic, in a white Chanel suit; her blonde hair was slicked back in a large black bow. She was pale, and slightly dark-eyed, but there was an expression on her face that Baby at least would have quailed from.

‘I want to see Mr Praeger,’ she said.

‘I’m terribly sorry, but Mr Praeger is out of town,’ said the girl, smiling at her rather coldly from behind the large curved and carved reception desk.

‘Yes, I know that. I don’t mean Mr Baby Praeger. I mean Mr Frederick Praeger the Third.’

‘Well, I’ll try for you. Do you have an appointment?’

‘No,’ said Angie briefly.

‘Well in that case –’

‘Please ask Mr Praeger if he’ll see me. My name is Burbank. Miss Burbank. You can tell him I have a debt to settle.’

‘Oh. Well.’ The girl looked flustered. ‘Well if you just take a seat, I’ll ring up to his office.’

Angie sat down, and picked up the
Wall Street Journal
. She liked the
Journal
; it looked so nice. She remembered Virginia using it once to paper the walls of some financial man’s study.

‘Miss Burbank?’

‘Yes?’

‘Mr Praeger says you’re to go up. Third floor. His secretary will meet you at the elevator.’

The elevator was very old, with elaborate gilded gate-style doors; Angie was glad when it arrived to much groaning and rattling. A very pretty girl in a pink suit was waiting for her.

‘Miss Burbank? Hi, I’m Candy Nichols, Mr Praeger’s secretary. He says will you wait just a moment, he’ll be right along. Can I get you a coffee?’

‘Yes please. Black,’ said Angie.

‘Fine. You’re like me, you like your coffee strong and your men weak, huh?’ Candy gave her a ravishing smile.

‘I like my men strong,’ said Angie. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Candy, who clearly didn’t.

Fred III kept her waiting for ten minutes. Angie didn’t mind. She knew what she was doing, and she knew he had made a huge concession seeing her at all with no appointment. She smiled at him as he came into the room, and stood up, holding out her hand. Her first thought was that he had hardly aged at all in the fifteen years since she had last seen him. He was, she knew, over eighty, but he was still a powerful, forceful man, tall and erect, and, with his thick silver hair and brilliant blue eyes, still attractive. In a strange way, she thought he looked younger than Baby.

‘Mr Praeger,’ she said, ‘how nice to see you again.’

‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘I don’t have very long.’

‘Two things,’ she said. ‘I wanted to give you this.’ She held out an envelope. ‘It’s a banker’s draft for one hundred thousand dollars. You said I should return it if I – got together with Baby again. I’m a good businesswoman. I don’t renege on a deal.’

‘You should give me more than that,’ he said. He scowled at her, but there was a flash of amusement in his eyes at the same time. ‘That money is worth a lot more now.’

‘I know, but inflation was not written into the agreement. I have witnesses to that. Sorry.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Thank you. I hope you’re not expecting that I shall tear it up. I intend to pay it into my personal account immediately.’

‘I’d hate you to tear it up,’ said Angie. ‘I’d be insulted.’

‘Good. Well, you’re looking well. Pregnancy suits you.’

‘Yes it does. Which is just as well. The only thing is, I’m not having just one baby. I’m having two. Had you heard that?’

‘I had not. I am not in the habit of discussing my son’s personal affairs.’ Again, in spite of the hostility, there was amusement in his eyes. Angie smiled at him, and drained her cup of coffee.

‘Yes, well I’m having twins. At the end of July.’

‘How nice for you.’

‘Well I hope so. It’s a bit of a daunting prospect.’

‘Well,’ said Fred III, ‘you made your bed, Miss Burbank. Now you have to lie on it.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Of course you do. Girls like you don’t get pregnant unless they want to. Nor do their lovers risk getting them pregnant.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Angie.’ Fred leant forward, patted her lightly on the cheek. ‘May I call you that? I’m a very old, very worldly man. I don’t deceive easy. Of course you trapped Baby into this. I know that. It’s a measure of what a simpleton he is that he doesn’t. What did you tell him? That your diaphragm had a hole in it? That you forgot to take your pill?’

‘Mr Praeger –’

‘And then what did you tell him? That you hadn’t realized until it was too late to do anything about it? That you were a Catholic or a paid-up member of the Pro Life group?’

‘Baby and I have been very much in love for years,’ said Angie coldly. ‘I find your assertions very insulting.’

‘I find your expecting all of us to believe that the whole thing was an accident equally insulting. However, let us not spend too much time debating that. You’ve done it finally, gotten Baby away from his wife and family. Very good. What’s the second thing you want?’

‘I want Baby to come to London,’ said Angie briskly.

‘Oh really? Well that’s very interesting. Is there any other little demand I can meet for you at the same time? Perhaps you’d like my house in New York as a pied-à-terre? A small clothing allowance? My blessing on your liaison? I’m finding this conversation very interesting.’

‘Look,’ said Angie, leaning forward. ‘It’s a very sound idea.’

‘Oh really? For whom?’

‘For you,’ she said.

Fred leant back and looked at her. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket and clipped off the end. Then he pulled a box of matches out of the other pocket and started lighting the cigar, puffing very hard in her direction. It took a long time, and he said nothing at all. Angie waved the clouds of smoke away from her, coughing.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Fred, heavily polite. ‘I didn’t think. Forgive me. Shall I put it out?’

‘No,’ said Angie. ‘I know how much you all rely on your cigars. Didn’t I hear somewhere that Lehman Brothers’ annual cigar bill is thirty thousand dollars?’

‘Sounds modest to me,’ said Fred. ‘Well now, tell me a little more about this arrangement you have in mind. What it will do for me.’

‘It’ll get Baby out of New York.’

‘And why should I want that?’

‘He’s an embarrassment to you,’ said Angie briefly. ‘I know he is. He isn’t really terribly clever. I love him, you may not believe that, but I do – but I can see he isn’t terribly clever. And he’s certainly no banker. Incidentally, why did you suddenly change your mind about the London office?’

‘Nothing to do with you. But I didn’t suddenly change my mind. I always intended to do it. I just don’t like putting my cards on the table until I’m ready.’

‘Well that didn’t do a lot for Baby’s morale either,’ said Angie. ‘Or his standing, I imagine.’

‘You’re very arrogant,’ said Fred, looking at her. ‘How did you come to all these conclusions?’

‘I listen to Baby. Telling me things. I can see it. But – he does better when you’re not there. You destroy his confidence. Make him make more mistakes than he would.’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yes. Really. So either you should retire again. Or you should give him a second chance in London.’

‘How altruistic you are. And no doubt you’d prefer the former option?’

‘No. The second. I want him in London. I don’t really like New York.’

‘Baby does,’ said Fred, looking at her carefully.

‘I know, but he’d like London too. He’d love it. And you could carry on here for years, having fun, get back in your old office, have everyone say what a miracle you are, and he’d be in London, out of your hair, and everyone would be happy.’

‘Including you?’

‘Well obviously.’

Fred stared at her for a while. Then he said, ‘No. Out of the question.’

‘Why?’

‘I want Baby here. I’m still trying to do something with him. Make a banker of him.’

‘It’s not working. He’s miserable. Demoralized. What’s more, he’s diminished in authority here. And that must be bad for the bank’s image. The clients can’t respect him. He’ll do much better in London. Given a fresh start. He did much better without you before. When you were retired. Before he had his heart attack. You’re not allowing him any stature. Why can’t you see that?’

‘I’ll allow him what I choose, when I choose,’ said Fred III, but he sounded thoughtful suddenly, and his eyes were distant.

A month later there was an announcement in the trade press. Baby Praeger was to head up the new Praeger operation in London, where Praegers had made a successful bid for the stockbrokers Rutherford and Whyte. Fred Praeger III would remain in control of the New York office until such time as he saw fit to retire once more. Mr Praeger told a journalist from the
Wall Street Journal
that he had no intention of retiring again until he received notification from a much higher authority than anything Wall Street could offer.

Max, 1984

Max got out of the plane in Miami feeling irritable and restless.

This trip was in theory going to be great fun; three girls and Max (always a happy proportion, and he knew one of the girls, Dodo Browne, extremely well already), a photographer called Titus Lloyd, who was famously able to drag sex into a photograph of anything, even a boiled egg, the hairdresser and make-up artist, a deceptively sweet-looking gay boy called Jimbo, with a tongue that could very efficiently savage anyone who crossed or upset him in the least little way; and then there was the client, a shirt manufacturer from the East End called Terry, and the account exec from the agency, a slightly plain, very clever girl called Jennifer Collins.

‘If you have to lay anyone, Max,’ the agency had said to him slightly plaintively (for last time there had been just the suggestion of a complaint from the client about Max Leigh’s extremely active behaviour after hours), ‘do include Jennifer, there’s a good lad. She’s just the teensiest bit sex-starved and sensitive.’

Max, who was sitting next to Dodo, looked at Jennifer, reading
Time
magazine, sighed mentally at her rather earnest clever face intent on an analysis of President Reagan’s fiscal policy, then reflected rather more pleasurably upon her undeniably long legs wrapped comfortingly around one another, and thought he could throw a bit her way. Particularly if she would agree to his nipping down to Key West for a day.

Therein lay the source of his irritability and frustration; he needed, desperately, to get to Key West. Michael Halston had given him the name of a bar frequented by a group of his mother’s friends; and the news that Miami was the last stop had been a serious blow. It had been too neat to be true, really, getting a free trip down there; he was absolutely skint (despite his large earnings, which were disappearing horribly fast into the bottomless pit dug by a growing addiction not only to clothes and clubs and expensive girls and fast cars but to the occasional sampling of cocaine as well) and there was no way he was going to be able to find the time or the money to go again for months.

They were staying at the old end of Miami, near Coconut Grove; they arrived there at five in the afternoon, were told they had the evening to themselves, although they could eat dinner in the hotel should they so wish, and warned that shooting was to start at six in the morning. ‘I don’t want any baggy eyes looking at my lens, thank you,’ said Titus Lloyd, ‘and that goes for you as well, Max. OK?’

‘OK,’ said Max.

He ate dinner that night with Titus and Jennifer, and went to bed early.

They were shooting around the pastel-painted, fake deco shops of Coconut Grove that first day, and using the hotel as a base; the girls were twittering
about trying on and rejecting the shirts, slagging them off to one another and oo-ing over them whenever Terry Gates hove into view.