Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked, when he’d finished speaking to a fat man with an Access All Areas pass on a chain round his neck.

  ‘A member of the Party Executive. MP in Tyne-on-Weir. Very influential, great bloke.’

  In the hall, Greg ran into more people he knew, this time fellow councillors from Hammersmith, who asked them to sit with them.

  ‘Can’t, sorry. We’ve got places saved up front,’ Greg replied.

  ‘I didn’t know we’ve got reserved seats,’ Mollie said, when they were out of earshot. ‘How come?’

  ‘We don’t. I didn’t want to sit with them. Petit bourgeois tossers.’

  Ken Livingstone was brilliant, Mollie thought. He was an amazing orator and so inspiring, it was fantastic he was back inside the Labour party where he ought to be, because he was doing so much for London as its mayor. Whatever he said, Mollie found herself nodding in agreement: the emphasis on multi-culturalism, his attack on the Tories’ racist attitude towards the Islamic communities, bus lanes, cycle lanes, punitive new taxes on 4-by-4 owners, his progressive policies to sort out London’s transport for the twenty-first century, reinvesting in the tube system, public firework displays, backing community-based small enterprises by Afro-Caribbean and Bengali immigrants, Diwali festivities … all spoke directly to Mollie’s kind heart. She imagined each and every one of these initiatives being received with joy by her schoolchildren and their parents, and shared the excitement. Ken Livingstone was the People’s Mayor.

  ‘Wasn’t he wonderful?’ she said afterwards, when the applause died away.

  ‘He’s a tosser,’ Greg replied. ‘He’s sold out. Their private-public funding schemes stink.’

  For the rest of the afternoon there were dozens of short speeches by men wearing red rosettes, some a bit waffly and disappointing Mollie had to admit, and she slipped away to visit the stands. These she found much more interesting, especially the environmental ones, and soon accumulated a stack of literature about wind turbines and carbon emissions. She felt tempted to post the carbon ones to her dad anonymously, since it was terrible he still drove a high-polluting Jensen. She could hardly bear to ride in it. At the Save the Rhino stand she was so moved by the photographs of dead animals with their horns sawn off by poachers that she made an enormous donation, almost all her remaining cash. The charity worker, having taken nothing all day, was so grateful he presented her with a badge in the shape of a rhino, which Mollie decided to send to her goddaughter Mandy.

  At supper, however, Greg was most put out when she had to confess she’d spent all her money, and could he lend her some for her meal? ‘You gave sixty bloody quid to wild animals?’ he said, incredulous. ‘You Strakers don’t live in the real world, do you?’ Mollie felt tears of humiliation welling up.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Greg. ‘I’ll pay for supper, and you can do the lodgings on your credit card. Then we’ll be quits.’

  47.

  Samantha was filled with shame and self-disgust. Ten days had gone by since that hideous moment at the Hotel Meurice and she couldn’t get it out of her head. If anything, it had got worse. The vision of her father in the bathrobe opening the door to her, made her freeze with horror. It said something about Sam that she was infinitely more censorious about her own role in the drama—the callgirl—than about Miles, the punter. It was unbearable, unforgivable, how could she ever have sunk so low? She realised two things immediately. The first was that she couldn’t continue working as an escort, not possibly, she could see now how sordid, how soul-destroying it was, she must have been crazy to get involved. She resigned the same day and insisted her picture be removed from the website. Annoyingly, it was still up there ten days later, and she was furiously texting Pat to have it taken down. The second was that obviously she could never see her father again in her life; and so, by extension, she must cut herself off from her family. The thought of being in the same room as Miles made her blood run cold.

  To make matters worse, she had nowhere to live, or very soon wouldn’t, once Gaz found out she’d stopped working. For now, she still pretended she had bookings, and left the flat for a couple of hours at a time ostensibly on outcalls but in fact to wander around the shops. He’d find out soon enough when she couldn’t pay him, and kick her out for sure. She still owed more than two grand, and Christ knows where that would come from.

  After ten days of confiding in no one, in a lather of shame and indecision, she decided to ring Peter. She and her elder brother had never been close, and in normal circumstances she would never have sought his advice on anything. But by process of elimination he was the only family member she could trust to be discrete. Archie, the obvious candidate, being the most similar to herself in character, was incapable of keeping a secret for five minutes, and if she told him it would be broadcast all over London. Mollie was a prude, she’d never understand. Her mother … well she could hardly confide this particular episode in her mother. Which left Peter; handsome, unworldly Peter. She found him exasperating sometimes, like his brain wasn’t fully in register. But in her present predicament the prospect of confiding in someone non-judgemental was appealing. So she called him at Straker Communications and told him she needed to meet urgently. She had another reason for choosing Peter too: he was the only one of her siblings liable to have money. Congenitally un-extravagant, coveting nothing in any shop, Peter actually saved from his salary which was unheard of. Sam thought she might be able to borrow the cash to pay off Gaz.

  They met at Starbucks on Beak Street, close to Peter’s office, which Sam immediately realised was a bad choice since the place was teaming with people and she felt they could be overheard at the window counter. Peter, however, was unconcerned. In fact, Sam was struck by how carefree he was, like all the heaviness that generally enveloped him had blown away. No sooner had he collected the coffees plus two chocolate muffins for himself (Sam didn’t do muffins), than he produced the print-out of an email from his pocket. ‘Read this.’

  Sam looked at it. It took her a moment to work out what it was, since the message was quite short, much of the email being devoted to long corporate legal disclaimers from the sender’s business. But she saw it came from a record company, Black Cat Wardoursound Music; specifically from an A&R executive enthusing about Peter’s demo CD. The message said, ‘everyone here really loves it, including the marketing folks,’ and saying they were interested in signing him. ‘The tracks you’ve sent aren’t enough to make an album, so we’re keen to know what other material you have. Otherwise you’ll have to write some more.’

  ‘This is amazing,’ Sam said. ‘When did it come?’

  ‘Last week. I didn’t believe it at first, I thought it must be a wind-up by the guys at work.’

  ‘And it isn’t?’

  ‘I rang Jasper, the guy who emailed. And he took me for drinks at Soho House.’

  ‘You at Soho House? That’s deeply cool, Peter.’

  He laughed. ‘I know, I felt slightly out of place. But some Straker Communications people came over and said hi, so it worked out quite well, because now Jasper thinks I’m a regular and it helped my cred.’

  ‘And he really likes your music?’

  ‘Seems to. Says he does. I’m embarrassed to tell you, they exaggerate so much these music people, it’s all hyperbole. But the fact is … they want to sign me. Give me a recording contract. Not a huge one, obviously. I mean, not like Robbie Williams. But enough to live on for a year if I’m careful, to work on my song writing.’

  ‘That’s fantastic. Have you been celebrating? Does everyone know?’

  Peter looked anxious. ‘Actually, no. I’m a bit worried about that, telling Dad. I don’t think he’s going to be too happy when I tell him I’m quitting my job.’

  The mention of Miles made Sam anxious too. ‘You should probably just get it over with.’

  ‘That’s what I reckoned. I tried to see him yesterday, but he wasn’t available. Flying back from Brunei, I think they said. But he’s ther
e today, I checked again with his office.’

  ‘Well, good luck. And for God’s sake don’t say you’ve seen me. That’s very important, OK? You haven’t seen me.’

  ‘Really? Why’s that?’

  ‘Just something that happened … I … don’t know if I want to talk about it.’ And then, shoulders crumbling, Sam collapsed.

  ‘What is it, Sam? Come on, you can tell me.’ Peter tried to comfort his sister, leaning awkwardly along the Starbucks counter and placing his arm around her shoulders. ‘Whatever it is Sam, it can’t be that bad.’ He guessed it had something to do with a boyfriend. Peter found Sam’s taste in men execrable, one buffoon after another. As for the most recent one, Dick Gunn, he was monstrous with his great fat stomach and floating gin palace. Peter hoped he wasn’t going to have to commiserate with Sam about Dick, because he didn’t think he could be very convincing.

  And then it all tumbled out: the drugs, the debts … then the escorting … Sam felt herself blushing from head to toe when she owned up to that … and finally the encounter with Miles at the Hotel Meurice. The words would hardly come out when she reached that part. ‘The door opened and there was … Dad,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh my God,’ was all Peter could say when she finished. ‘Oh my God.’ Then he said, ‘You poor, poor thing, Sam. I wish you’d come to me earlier, before you got into all that. I’d have helped you, I’d have given you money.’

  Sam was crying, white faced in the coffee shop. ‘I feel so disgusting, so seedy. I’ve screwed up my life.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. You’ve got yourself in a hole, that’s all. You can get out of it. And let me start by giving you the cash to pay off this drug pusher. Though I’ve a good mind to go round there and smash his face in. How dare he set you up as a hooker? I’ll kill the bastard.’

  ‘Don’t blame Gaz. He’s been a mate, he’s OK. But if you could lend me the cash, I can get him off my back. I’ll pay you back, promise. It’s a loan.’

  ‘Have it. I never spend it anyway. It’s not like there’s anything I want to buy.’

  ‘You’re amazing, Peter. Really. And I can trust you, can’t I, never to repeat what I told you? Not ever. Promise.’

  ‘Promise.’ He hugged her. ‘Now, come on, we’ll go to an ATM. Several in fact. I can only withdraw two hundred pounds a day. So we may need to do this over a few days. But I want you to pay off that creep by the end of next week. Then we’ll figure out where you live next. I don’t think you should stay in Draycott Gardens.’

  ‘You’ve been so lovely, Peter. I feel better now, just by talking. I knew you were the person to tell, you’ve such great judgement.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Peter said. ‘We’ll see if Dad agrees with you, when I quit. Somehow I don’t think he’s going to like it much.’

  Miles was cloistered in his office in Charles Mews South when Peter rolled up at six pm for his appointment.

  Any visitor to the corporate offices of Straker Communications pressed a brass bell set into a discrete brass bell plate, and the Georgian front door was opened by Miles’s driver, Makepiece, who doubled as gatekeeper when he wasn’t driving or hand-washing the Jensen or the office Mercedes with bucket and sponge further up the mews. From the Regency hall, with its leather-upholstered footman’s chair and real coal fire in winter, visitors were collected by Miles’s number three PA, who would lead them upstairs to the first floor and into the outer office where the number two and number one PAs could be found organising Miles’s complex life. At this precise moment, Peter observed, they were engaged in securing a particular table for dinner at Harry’s Bar, and a particular first class window seat on a BA flight to Beijing. The atmosphere in the outer office was always one of barely disguised anxiety, as Miles’s exacting expectations were impressed upon a less fastidious world.

  Eventually, Sara White, Miles’s senior PA, told Peter, ‘I think it’s alright to go in now. He’s finished his call.’ So Peter opened a heavy mahogany door and entered the inner lair, where the great corporate affairs specialist sat in splendour, surrounded by marble busts, photographs of Chawbury Manor and various awards won by his agency over the years.

  ‘Ah, Peter,’ he said, looking him up and down. ‘Trainers with a suit. Very dotcom. I hope you weren’t dressed like that in the office.’

  ‘No, I changed. I’m walking home.’

  ‘Good. And I hope you’re arriving with positive news about Pendletons. I’ve been reading negative pieces all week. And a puff about Freeza Mart in the FT.’

  ‘Actually that’s not why I’ve come over, Dad. I need to tell you something.’ He felt awkward under his father’s beady gaze. ‘In fact, I’m resigning. I’ve … got another job, well, not a job exactly, but something very good’s happened.’

  ‘It had better be very good indeed to make it worth leaving Straker’s. What is it?’

  ‘I’ve been offered a recording contract by an indie label. They’re paying me an advance to write music. It’ll come out as an album.’

  Miles’s first reaction, on hearing either good or bad news about any of his children, was to evaluate how it might be interpreted by the world at large in relation to himself. Would it enhance or diminish his personal reputation? So when Archie was selling cars in the Lexus showroom he felt mildly disadvantaged, having a son who was a car dealer. Conversely, he felt good telling people Archie was employed at Thurloes (‘that frightful dive where the royal princes go’), believing it made him trendier by association. Similarly, he had enjoyed saying Samantha was at Heathfield, but not that Mollie was at Mid-Hampshire College or later at teacher training college. In fact, he’d seldom found he could mention Mollie to anyone.

  With Peter, he digested the idea of having a pop star for a son. ‘How much is the contract for?’

  ‘Twelve thousand,’ Peter replied proudly. ‘Not paid all at once though. It comes in instalments.’

  ‘Practically nothing. So what’ll you live on?’

  ‘Well, the advance. It should be enough. They’ve given me a year to lay down ten tracks.’

  ‘Twelve thousand to last a year? You’ll be lucky. Twelve thousand is two return flights to Beijing.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Peter replied.

  ‘That’s what you say. And what happens when this bottomless twelve thousand runs out? Which it will, sooner than you imagine. What then? Am I meant to hold your job open for you, for when you come creeping back with nothing to show for it? That what you’re expecting?’

  ‘Actually, no. I’m giving my notice and that’s the end of it. If the music doesn’t work out, I’ll find something else. But it might do well. The record company’s optimistic.’

  ‘Though evidently not that optimistic, given the smallness of your advance. You’re really prepared to walk out of this highly successful company—your family company—to write folk ditties? Speaking as one of the few people fortunate enough to have heard your songs, I think that’s a brave decision, Peter. And probably a rash one.’

  ‘Well, I’ve decided. If I don’t give it a try, I’ll spend my whole life regretting it, wondering if I could have made it. At least I’ll have given it a shot.’

  ‘You’ll be poor, Peter. You realise that? Because if you walk out of Straker Communications, you can kiss goodbye to inheriting any of it. I’m not giving it away to people who don’t value it, who haven’t played their part in building the asset.’ Miles was working himself into a massive strop. ‘No, you’ll be poor. You’ll never make a success of anything, you never have. In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to allow you the dignity of resigning. No one resigns from Straker Communications, least of all family. So you’re fired, Peter. You’ve been dismissed. An internal email will be issued to that effect tomorrow morning … Pendletons have been dissatisfied with your performance for a while now. It’s placed them in an awkward position, because they don’t like to come out and complain about my son, but they’ve made it perfectly clear. Zach Durban feels the same. He doe
sn’t rate you either. So you’re fired, Peter. You needn’t go back to the office. If you do, they won’t let you in. Security will be informed. And you needn’t think you can stay in Holland Park Square either. Don’t imagine you’ll be living there, strumming your guitar in the communal garden, scaring the children and pigeons. You’re banned from the house. And from Chawbury. No doubt your record company can find you a suitable place to doss down. Or you can rent a hotel room with your famous advance. See how long that lasts, eh? I don’t think you’ll find a very comfortable room for that, if you need it for a year.’

  Peter stared at his father with level gaze. For the first time in his life, he felt ready to stand up to him.

  ‘Probably I won’t be able to afford a suite at the Meurice,’ he said. ‘You’re probably right about that. Not with all the extras on the bill.’ He looked at him meaningfully, saw Miles flinch, turned on his heel and walked out.

  48.

  Miles arrived home at Holland Park Square feeling testy. The more he thought about it, the more angry he became about Peter. Loyalty, he told himself, was one quality he placed above all others, and Peter had shown himself wholly disloyal in quitting his job. Especially now, when he knew how important the Pendletons and Zach Durban accounts were to the company, and any disruption of account personnel was destabilising for the client. Furthermore, he didn’t know what to make of Peter’s jibe about the Hotel Meurice. Had Samantha told him something, or was it coincidence? Miles suspected the second, but it had been an uncomfortable moment. Well, with no job and nowhere to live, Peter would soon learn his lesson.