Pride and Avarice

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by Nicholas Coleridge


  Just before noon on Friday, when Miles knew the first edition of the Evening Standard—the City Prices edition—would be hitting the streets, he dispatched his number three PA to the vendor on the corner of Berkeley Square to buy a copy. The article covering the centre pages of the business section was everything he had hoped and more. From Ross Clegg’s point of view, it was devastating. Miles felt a surge of pure, gloating, professional satisfaction that he’d been able to pull it off so brilliantly. Every invented quote ‘from a friend,’ ‘from an industry insider,’ ‘from a source close to Clegg,’ all derived from Miles himself.

  To start with, there was a particularly unattractive photograph of Ross, making him look about seventy years old. He had been taken from above, climbing out of a car, evidently having a problem with his leg. He looked frail and incapacitated, far too old to be working, let alone running a public company. Miles was thrilled with the photograph, which his people had sourced from weeks of picture research and provided free of charge to the newspaper.

  The article itself was sneering and defamatory. Reading it, you got the impression Freeza Mart was the worst-run business in the country. Anonymous shoppers were quoted on why they’d deserted the stores (‘It’s a horrible experience going in, the aisles are filthy dirty and the deep freezes solid with stale ice’). Statistics had been corrupted to imply the business was falling through the floor. But the cruellest attacks were reserved for Ross personally. ‘Insiders’ dismissed him as a ‘busted flush,’ difficult to work for, vacillating and without vision. An anonymous ‘close colleague’ complained Ross was seldom seen about the business because of his ‘mobility problems.’ ‘He can’t even manage store visits.’

  In his elation, Miles called for a glass of champagne and sat at his desk, toasting his sheer cleverness. Afterwards, as he set out for lunch, he asked his secretaries to make three hundred copies of the article, and have them faxed or couriered to every investor and financial journalist, just in case they should miss it.

  By the time he arrived home at Chawbury that night, Miles was in terrific spirits. At dinner in the dining room, he bet his family two things. The first: Freeza Mart would fall to Pendletons before Wednesday of the coming week. The second: Silas’s cottage (or what was still left standing of it) would be back on the market within two months from today, and Ross’s show-home would never get built.

  On those Saturday mornings when he wasn’t abroad, Miles had an unvarying routine. He liked to drive himself into Stockbridge after breakfast to buy wine at the only decent wine merchant in his part of Hampshire, then go out and play on one of his several trophy tractors and yellow JCBs, or else go riding with Samantha around the Chawbury estate. Today, Davina reminded him they were due to have drinks with the Winstantons at Laverstoke before lunch, so they cut the ride short and returned to the stables in time to change to go out. Nigel and Bean Winstanton lived in a seventeenth-century converted mill two villages along from Chawbury, with the original mill wheel, which Miles privately considered rather naff. But Nigel worked for Lehman Brothers and their parties were always jolly, if slightly undiscriminating, and they had accepted. Bean was a boisterous mid-fifties blonde heavily involved in the pony club and local charities, whom Miles found rather a pain, not least because she picked up every waif and stray and invited them all along to her parties; she seemed to regard—and treat—all her guests equally, which Miles considered disrespectful.

  It was nevertheless in high spirits that the Straker family piled into the Mercedes for the short journey to Old Laverstoke Mill. Miles was brimming with goodwill from his media triumph the previous day. When Samantha asked for a raise in her monthly allowance, he instantly said yes. When Archie got into the car holding a slice of marmite toast, which was his breakfast having only just got up, his father barely complained. Nor did he bother to criticise his wife’s choice of clothes, or even Peter or Mollie, neither of whom had made nearly enough effort to look smart for the occasion.

  They could see from the number of Volvos and BMWs triple-parked outside the mill that it was going to be a large party. Inside, in the beamed hall which had once been a granary, Nigel and Bean were distributing glasses of champagne and elderflower cordial, while their Croatian couple, Stanislav and Vjecke, poured tumblers of Pimms from silver-lipped jugs. Scanning the throng of guests, Miles spotted the Lord Lieutenant and his wife, Johnnie and Philippa Mountleigh, the local MP, Ridley Nairn, and his wife, Suzie, and a large assortment of investment bankers and brokers from Citibank, Merrill Lynch and Goldman Sachs, all in Saturday-casual kit and assembled from their second homes in the county. At Miles’s arrival, he became an instant magnet of interest, with half a dozen guests gravitating in his direction, keen to touch base with their glamorous neighbour. Miles positioned himself in the middle of the room, radiating charm and flirting with all comers. His eyes rested on a succession of bankers’ wives and female bankers whom he found sexy in their cashmere cardigans, Armani tweed trousers and high-heeled boots, and pondered which might be available for some extramarital dalliance at some point in the future. Their husbands, he noticed, were mostly exhausted, white-faced, bean-counting compliance officers in polo shirts and tweed jackets, or else dressed up like embarrassing late-life adolescents in jeans and expensive bomber jackets.

  There must now have been fifty couples inside the mill house, with almost the same number spilling outside on to the lawn. Through the open doors to the garden, Miles could see the young Winstanton children, Toby and Shrimp, circulating with plates of mini-quiches, open smoked salmon sandwiches and bowls of crisps. Davina was crouching down talking to Shrimp, probably about her new school or pony, which momentarily irritated Miles; he found it unbelievable that, in a house full of highly successful, interesting people, all at the top of their professional game, his wife should prefer to chat away to a vacuous eleven-year-old. Astounding really.

  Davina, meanwhile, was thinking how refreshing it was to be talking to such a sweet, open little girl, and to have a break from all these pushy adults. It wasn’t that she was unused to parties—as the daughter of a diplomat, she sometimes felt she’d spent her entire childhood at one reception or another in overseas embassies—but frequently, as Mrs Miles Straker, she yearned for peace and quiet. The nonstop socialising exhausted her, sucked the life-force from her. She had neither her husband’s energy nor his remorseless lust for life. Part of her envied the way Miles was captivated by—and so effortlessly captivated—new people, but part of her despised him for it. As parties went, this one was relatively painless, but she would rather have been at home in her garden, peacefully weeding the bed in front of the orangerie, which she had purposely asked the gardener to leave for her to do.

  Samantha completed her second circuit of the garden and decided there was nobody here she was remotely interested in. The men were all over thirty-five, either married or nerds, and she was fed up telling people where she was at school. But at least she was enjoying the lustful glances which followed her around the lawn; her new McQueen jeans plunged so low she had switched to wearing a thong, and she could feel warm shafts of sunshine against her flat stomach.

  Peter and Mollie were chatting together on a swing chair on the terrace, well away from the crowd. Mollie had been helping the brother she loved the most with lyrics for a new song; her suggestions weren’t helpful, but Peter was carefully writing them down on his pad, pretending they were great. He told Mollie that if the song was ever recorded, he would split the publishing rights equally with her.

  Archie had been oiling up to a partner in J.P. Morgan about work experience for himself next holidays, and was now feeling bored, but suddenly perked up. Because heading in his direction was an incredibly sexy girl in the shortest skirt and boots, with exactly the look he always went for: petite and pretty, with short mousey hair. It was the boots that did it for him, red plastic stacks with zips up the sides. The sleaziness of the boots combined with the girl’s slightly dopey, sweet and innocent shop-girl
face was an instant turn-on, and he began following her around the lawn.

  ‘Darling Miles, I hate to drag you away mid-conversation, but there are some people I insist you meet.’ Bean Winstanton had taken hold of Miles’s arm and was frogmarching him into the garden. Bean held the annoying conviction that her parties were famous for putting people together, and was never satisfied until numerous mismatched couples had been thrust together to their mutual dismay. ‘I have an instinct you’re going to become tremendous friends,’ Bean was saying. ‘They don’t know a single living soul round here poor things. I met them at the garage in Michel-dever, we were both filling up our cars. Now … here they are, look … we were just talking about you two …’

  And there, almost unrecognisably smart in suit and tie, stood Ross Clegg, with Dawn clinging anxiously to his arm, wearing a big pink hat as though she was at Ascot. Ross’s black hair was slicked down at the sides but oddly spikey on top, and Miles wondered whether he was using gel.

  Before either could speak, Bean said, ‘Now, I want you to promise me to remember you first met here in my garden. I’m forever reminding people they first met at Old Laverstoke Mill, introduced by me, and half the time they don’t remember. Now, I’m not sure exactly where your new home is going to be, Ross, but I think you’re going to be awfully close to the Strakers. Miles, Ross is being frightfully brave and building a brand-new house from scratch. I wish we’d done that. We do love it here at the mill, but my God it does get chilly in the winter, we can hardly bear to leave London sometimes, which is awfully naughty of us. Of course we have to because of the horses.’

  Ross’s face lit up. ‘Miles, good to see you. It’s alright, Bean, Miles and I have met before. This new place we’re doing is down the bottom of his private woods. Dawn, you remember Miles.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ interjected Miles, thrusting out his hand before Mrs Clegg had a chance to kiss him.

  Ross said, ‘What a great party this is. It’s so nice to forget work for a bit. I tell you, I took an awful pasting in one of the rags yesterday. You can see the bruises on my back.’

  Miles replied non-committally. ‘The press do tend to go overboard, once they get an idea into their heads. Best never speak to them, I suggest.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Miles. Coming from someone like yourself, that’s valuable stuff. Tell the truth, I’m a beginner when it comes to this press and public relations malarkey. We haven’t had much call for it before. All the newspapers have been calling nonstop, but I’m not sure which ones to talk to, and which to avoid.’

  ‘Avoid the lot. A pack of hyenas, most of them.’

  ‘That’s what I reckoned. But I did speak to a lady from The Mail on Sunday yesterday. I hadn’t meant to, but she caught me off-guard after the hatchet-job in the London paper came out. She showed up in the back garden, just as we were setting off to drive down here, and I was in such a filthy mood, I thought, “Right. Ok, bugger this. I’m going to speak out for once.” So I poured it all out to her, right there in the garden, I can’t even remember half of what I said. And Dawn stood there, shaking her head at me like, “Whoa, Ross, cool it, Ross,” but I was on a roll, no stopping me. Now I’m worrying what it was I said to her. She was scribbling it all down in her notebook, scribble, scribble, with this big smile across her face, egging me on. She was alright-looking too, I couldn’t help noticing.’

  Miles chuckled away at Ross’s story, making a mental note to ring the editor of The Mail on Sunday after lunch, to ensure they hadn’t gone off-message.

  Davina caught up with them and was introduced by Ross to Dawn, whom she hadn’t previously met. Dawn was soon telling her about all the problems they’d had with the wildflower and bat conservancy people at the cottage, and how it had set the project back months and cost goodness knows what in delays and all the hassle. ‘We’ve had diggers on standby for weeks, waiting to get started. Ross has been marvellous about it, considering the strain he’s under from this takeover thing, and then this on top, which we just don’t need.’

  Unaware of Miles’s involvement in the conservancy ploy, Davina was full of sympathy, and said they should use the manor whenever they wanted. ‘If you want a swim or something—or a hot bath, or if we can ever give you lunch—do just ask. Apart from when the children and their friends are there, nobody uses the pool at all. It seems such an awful waste—all that heating—I’m always begging people to come over. So please, please do.’

  Dawn said, ‘That’s very hospitable of you, Davina. The girls will be thrilled when I tell them. They both love their swimming, Debbie especially. She’s our youngest. She’s been swimming for her school, and begging us to put in a pool ourselves at the new place, though everything’s up in the air at present, until we know about the takeover.’

  The women discussed their children, establishing that Dawn had the two girls, Gemma and Debbie, plus an elder boy, Greg, who Dawn said ‘is at college down in London, and backpacking around the Far East in his summer vacation, which scares me to death.’ Davina said they had Peter ‘who works for his father at the moment,’ Samantha ‘who is mad keen on riding,’ Archie and Mollie.

  ‘Oh, Debs loves her horseback riding too,’ Dawn said. ‘What with her horse riding and swimming, she never stops still for a minute that one.’

  ‘Well, it’ll be nice for Samantha to have someone to ride with,’ Davina said vaguely, apparently oblivious to the three year age gap, and ten year sophistication gap, between Samantha and Debbie. ‘Sam rides at weekends with her father, but during weekdays in the school holidays it’s always a bit quiet, and such a performance to keep getting friends over, especially when it means boxing-up. So it’ll be lovely having you close-by.’

  Davina became increasingly conscious of Miles glaring at her, making signals that he wanted to get away. Once they were out of earshot, he said, ‘Tell me I was imagining it, or were you inviting that unspeakable woman to swim in our pool?’

  ‘Actually, I was, yes. They’ve been having a dreadful time with the rare wildflowers and bats brigade, you can’t believe the fuss they’ve apparently been making, I’m amazed actually. And at the end of it all they haven’t found a thing, so it’s all been a total waste of time. I feel so sorry for Dawn. She seems very nice, and very keen to learn about the area and know who everyone is.’

  ‘I’ll bet she is,’ Miles replied. ‘She’s a ghastly social climber, you can see that a mile off. As for swimming in our pool, I absolutely forbid it. All that make-up would clog the filter.’

  Davina sighed. ‘I don’t know why you’re being like this, darling, unless you’re still cross about them buying the cottage. Which would be so silly since we didn’t need that cottage anyway. We’ve got quite enough to look after as it is.’

  ‘I repeat, I forbid it. Under no circumstances will the Clegg woman—or any other Cleggs come to that—swim at Chawbury. Is that understood?’ Davina didn’t reply, so after a moment Miles said, ‘Good,’ and strode purposefully ahead in the direction of Johnnie Mountleigh.

  Archie was closing in on the girl in the red plastic boots. He had been circling her for fifteen minutes, like a leopard on the savannah, appraising his prey. There was no question about it: she was enticingly sexy. His eyes followed her mini-skirt and the firm, tanned legs between boots and thigh. Her short hair was thick and shiny, and there were freckles around her nose. Her lipstick was bright red like a post-box and alluringly cheap-looking. Archie reckoned she’d be easy, he’d never been one for long, drawn-out pursuits.

  For most of the party, the girl had been accompanied by a junior version of herself, presumably a younger sister, who trailed around the lawn behind her, occasionally taking a mini-quiche or a sandwich. Neither was drinking anything, Archie noticed, which he took as a bad sign. Once they stopped to talk to a lady in a big pink hat and caked in foundation, who might have been their mother, and a gritty-looking man with a limp, probably their dad.

  Now the younger sister peeled away, leaving red-boots
on her own, and Archie seized the moment. Accelerating across the lawn, he said, ‘Hi, I’m Archie Straker. We haven’t met.’

  ‘Oh, hiya Archie,’ said the girl. ‘I’m Gemma.’ Her accent was hard and nasal—‘I’m Jimmer’—and Archie’s first thought was, ‘Christ, she’s got a northern accent.’ But he also thought: she’s even cuter close up. He liked her pink gums. Around her neck was a little pink locket in the shape of a heart.

  ‘Are you local?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Well, we really live between Droitwich and Redditch,’ Gemma said.

  Archie, who had heard of neither town, nodded noncommitally.

  ‘But we just bought a place down here, well Dad has, so we might be moving,’ Gemma went on. ‘I don’t know exactly.’

  Archie was about to discover more when Miles loomed behind him, and said, ‘There you are, Archie. We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come on, it’s time to go, we’re already late. It’s one-fifteen and we said we’d be home for lunch by now.’

  Archie’s last sight of Gemma was of her sweet, willing, vacant face smiling up at him. She reminded him of the backwash-girls at his mother’s hairdressers, and was precisely his type.

  6.

  Miles slept badly and got up at seven o’clock to collect the Sunday newspapers from Middleton, which was the first place to have them. If you waited for them to be delivered at home, it could be half-past-ten, even eleven o’clock before the newsagent rolled up in his van, and today there could be no question of delay. He felt troubled as he drove along the winding Hampshire lanes, bordered by rolling chalk downland and flint walls. Straight after lunch yesterday, he’d rung the Editor of The Mail on Sunday, using the direct line as he did for all national newspaper editors. The conversation had not been reassuring. Miles had asked about the forthcoming Ross Clegg interview, and whether there was any additional information they could help with from the Pendletons side, but the Editor had been discouraging.

 

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