“Tough times?” he inquired.
Ruby studied his face before answering, as if evaluating the nature of his concern. She obviously judged it accurately and had categorised it as superficial, and replied accordingly.
“Nothing I can’t handle. Anyway,” she continued, pausing to refill her wine glass, “no matter what I did, even if I became the bloody Prime Minister, you would always be the favourite, heir apparent to the estate.”
“I can assure you, dear sister, in that respect, what is mine is most definitely yours.” He stood and chinked his wine glass against hers, as she giggled conspiratorially. Nigel meant it too, Ruby was welcome to the farm if she wanted it, his future lay in the city. He glanced at his watch, not long now, not long before it began.
Chapter sixteen
Andrew
It was Andrew’s favourite time of the week, just past eight on a Sunday morning. He didn’t have to rush out to work; instead he could take his time and watch the woman he loved, his fiancée, as of three weeks and two days. In some ways he still marvelled that she had said yes, and that he had been so lucky as to find her. He smiled as he watched the rise and fall of her shoulder, it still had the power to mesmerise him, her skin creamy white, with just a hint of freckles. She lay with her back to him, the scoop of the quilt allowing for a tantalising hint of her back and before he could stop himself, not that he would have tried to, he ran his finger tip down the outline of her spine. Molly’s body shuffled in response, so he carried on, caressing her into wakefulness.
“What time is it?” she murmured.
“Just after eight,” Andrew replied, just her voice had the power to strengthen his arousal.
“Go back to sleep,” she admonished.
“I don’t want to sleep.”
Now she turned to face him, the hint of a smile playing on her lips. “What do you want to do?”
He slipped a hand under the quilt and pulled her in closer, as her smile widened. God he loved that about her, she seemed to draw as much joy from him as he did from her. He was just leaning in to find her lips when the phone rang. He hesitated, for a fraction of a second too long.
“Ignore it,” Molly whispered, her hand reaching under the covers for him. But the ringing persisted, until Molly sighed and rolled away, her displeasure all too apparent. It wasn’t just the interruption that annoyed her, it was because she had correctly guessed the person who was calling.
“Andrew,” Nigel began, “You need to get down here as soon as you can.”
In all the years Andrew had known his friend, he’d never yet heard him begin a phone call with any of the social niceties, like asking after his health. He only phoned if he had something important to say or ask, never just for a chat.
“Really, you want to meet now?” Andrew asked, looking at Molly’s shoulder once more, this time stiff with anger. “It can’t wait?”
Which, of course it couldn’t, because Nigel wouldn’t have phoned otherwise.
“I’ll see you in an hour,” Nigel responded, and the phone went dead.
“I have to go, something’s obviously up. I’m sorry,” Andrew apologised to the back of Molly’s head.
“Of course you do, if Nigel wants you to meet him, then you need to jump to it,” she replied.
Andrew bit down a response, and chose to misinterpret her sarcasm for actual understanding. He gave a kiss on the back of the head and hurried into the bathroom.
He showered as quickly and as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb Molly further. It was the one thing in their relationship that caused more arguments than anything else, his friendship with Nigel. She couldn’t stand him, and although Nigel denied it, Andrew knew his opinion of Molly was not much better. For Andrew, stuck in the middle, with loyalty to both, it was a nightmare. Molly accused his friend of having too much influence over his political, and at times, personal life. She blamed Andrew for not standing up to him more, after all he was the senior minister. What she couldn’t seem to comprehend, and it was not for the want of Andrew trying to explain it, was that he and Nigel’s beliefs were in sync, they always had been. What she saw as interfering, Andrew took to be wise advice; the depth of Nigel’s understanding, and the parameters of his contacts, remained awe inspiring. In fact, Andrew was more than a little uncomfortable about the fact that Nigel was, technically, his junior.
Nigel was much more diplomatic in his comments upon Molly, not that he made many; he didn’t have to, his tight lipped grimace conveying his feelings perfectly. Yet Andrew knew Nigel worried that his relationship with Molly made him less committed to his political future, and maybe it was true. Andrew was more protective of his spare time, wanting to relax with Molly, wanting to cherish the life they had together. His time dedicated to the cause was no longer limitless; he viewed a twelve hour day as enough, whereas Nigel seemed to live at the Treasury.
Once Andrew was ready, he took the risk of creeping back into the bedroom, placing a kiss on Molly’s forehead.
“I’ll be back by lunch, I promise,” he soothed.
“That’s what you always say,” she muttered.
Andrew decided silence was the best reply.
Molly’s flat wasn’t quite as close to the city as Andrew’s, but it benefitted by not having prostitutes and drug dealers as its neighbours. Plus, it was only a short tube journey into work. They had decided to live together only five months previously, and had ideally wanted to purchase something, but Andrew’s flat had not attracted any potential buyers. The fact that it was going to be hard to sell had not surprised him, and even reducing the asking price, meaning Andrew would make a loss on the place, had still not stimulated the market. So, he’d decided to try and rent it out, putting the whole endeavour into the hands of a letting agency. That way he could almost, if not quite, sever all links to the place.
Molly rented her flat already. She lived in a terrace of converted Victorian houses, on the upper floor. It was spacious, if rather chaotically furnished, and had all the warmth that was so desperately lacking in Andrew’s former home. In fact Molly had only stayed at his place once, early on in their relationship, and had been so horrified that she had refused to set foot in the place again.
Having emerged from the tube Andrew checked his watch, it was one and a half hours since Nigel had called. He wondered if he could risk being another ten minutes late, enabling him to stop off at his favourite coffee shop en-route. The Treasury had a café/restaurant deep in its bowel, but the coffee was dreadful, strong and bitter. Nigel said its role was to give you a much needed caffeine shot and get you back to work as soon as possible. He decided as it was Sunday, he deserved a decent drink, he would get Nigel a double espresso to bribe him into good humour.
So it was twenty minutes later when he arrived at the office. The treasury, like many official buildings was architecturally impressive on the outside, while being soul destroyingly bland on the inside. The paraphernalia of government was not compatible with restoring the building’s original internal character. Where there should be ornate cornicing, there hung air conditioning units, and ceiling roses were replaced with florescent lighting. Large rooms housed a honeycomb of cubicles, more reminiscent of a call centre than one of the homes of government. This was where Andrew had begun his career trajectory, during the day it was noisy and claustrophobic, everyone searching for an angle, or simply to be noticed, anything that would eventually mean their salvation.
Many of the stalls were occupied, a few souls raising their head in greeting, the rest waiting for someone more important to pass by. Andrew walked from there into a smaller room, of which there were several. As far as he was aware they were all the same, slightly more comfortable in design and only housing four desks. It was here that the Financial Secretaries to the Treasury worked, and it was here that Nigel stood waiting for him. His friend looked agitated and elated at the same time, a zealot’s gleam sparkling in his eyes.
“Hey, what’s up?” Andrew asked.
“I have the information you requested upon the MOD’s stationary budget,” he replied. In other words whatever he had to say was for Andrew’s ears only and not those of the other two aids working on goodness knows what. Andrew nodded in response, as Nigel opened his office door for him. As one of several Chief Secretaries to the Treasury, he had his own space. It was tiny and only just had room for a desk, but at least an effort had been made to maintain a more traditional feel to the room. Plus it had an all-important window, so Andrew could at least acknowledge the changing seasons
“I brought you a coffee,” Andrew said, rather unnecessarily, handing the take out cup over. Nigel merely took it from him and placed it on the desk.
“I had a call early this morning from a source warning me of something which, if true, will have a catastrophic effect upon the economy, not just now, but for years to come.”
“Okay,” Andrew sat behind the desk that Nigel perched upon, all his Sunday morning joy evaporating at the tone of his friend’s voice. He was not one for dramatic affect.
“He’s heard, and he wouldn’t say from whom, that several large investors in the money market are planning to withdraw their capital.”
Now he had Andrew’s full attention. “But why would they do that?” he asked.
“Lack of faith in the system, they no longer see securitisation as a good investment. Putting it bluntly, they think that banks, in particular Goldstar, have overstretched themselves, making bad decisions when it comes to giving out loans and mortgages.”
“Does Goldstar have enough funds to back up the financial commitments they’ve made without this capital?”
Nigel shook his head, his gaze never leaving Andrews. “No, they do not.”
“Christ,” Andrew responded. “You need to warn the Chancellor, so he can brief the PM.”
Nigel shook his head. “That’s why I called you, so you can warn him.”
“Me, why don’t you go and see him yourself?”
“Because you will be able to get through the layers of yes men quicker than I can, you’re one step closer as it is.”
“But this is huge Nigel, being the first one to relay this information, it could mean promotion, you must know that.”
Nigel leaned forward as he spoke, “All I know is that the Chancellor needs to be warned as quickly as possible, ego should play no part in it.”
Andrew picked up the phone and began to dial. “I will make sure he knows where this came from,” he said to Nigel’s retreating back; as the door closed quietly on his friend he began to speak once more. “I need to meet with the Chancellor, it’s urgent.”
*****
Andrew was bone wearily exhausted. He trudged up the stairs to Molly’s flat, as he still thought of it, with eyes that focused upon nothing, and arms hanging limp at his sides. He had to admit that, at first, the drama of an impending financial disaster had got the juices flowing with nervous excitement, but as it had become apparent that there was little that could be done to stop it, the overriding emotion had turned to dread. It was the sort that began in your stomach and spread to sicken your whole body. Andrew had sat for the rest of the day, and into the night, with the keenest economic minds in the land, as well as the elite of the Republic party, including Prime Minister Blackthorn and they had made absolutely no progress toward diverting disaster. No one seemed to know quite which institution was behind the withdrawal of funding to the banks or indeed its nationality. It seemed absurd, now that it were likely to topple, that economic stability had been built upon accepting money from whoever; the source of the capital had been unimportant, as long as it had kept coming. He stood for a second, key in the lock, head slumped forward, and he felt despair, at what had been allowed to pass for financial savvy, and for what would come next. Beyond that he felt nothing, an empty, heavy nothingness, in this instance knowledge had certainly not equated to power.
He sighed, closed his eyes, shook his head and opened the door. Molly was in his arms in seconds, she knew nothing of the day’s events, other than the phone call from Andrew, telling her he would be late back, and not to wait up. But she knew enough, as the partner of a politician, to know when something bad had happened. She held him close to her body until he grasped her within his arms and, inexplicably to Andrew, he began to cry.
“Oh god Andrew, what is it? What’s happening?”
He knew he was frightening her, but he couldn’t still the slow trickle of moisture running down his face. So, he walked into the kitchen and headed for the cupboard they kept all of the alcohol left over from Christmas, and poured himself a generous serving of whisky.
Molly stood in the doorway, hair tousled from when she’d obviously fallen asleep, and eyes wide with concern.
“Andrew?”
“Sorry Molly, I just…I needed that. I’ve just came back for a quick change, a couple of hours sleep and then I need to head back in again.”
“Can you tell me what’s going on?”
She followed Andrew as he headed over to the couch, as his fiancée she’d had to sign the official secrets act, but she was still an accountant and he was acutely aware of the possible conflict of interest. Still, he thought, she’d know in the morning anyway.
“To put it bluntly, Goldstar, and many other banks and building societies have reaped the rewards of the many boom years, without ever planning for a possible bust. Well, it’s arrived. Their very existence has been based upon over valuing mortgages, and questionable trading practices, without adequate capital holdings to back the commitments they were making. It only takes one, just one investor to pull out and the whole things gone.”
Molly wrapped her arms around him. “And the worst case scenario?”
“Well,” Andrew took a good swig of his whisky, “Goldstars gone, without a doubt. We’re talking damage limitation now, reassuring the public that there is no need to panic.”
“And is there?” she asked.
“Is there what?”
“No need to panic?”
“Christ no, there’s every need. Their share price will plummet. Argh…” he exclaimed, shaking off Molly’s arm to pace the small room.
“My parents have shares in Goldstar, it’s their retirement pot. They were going to cash them in next year. The whole time the PM and the Chancellor, and everyone else was arguing about what it could mean to the country, to economic stability, all I could think about was my parents. They’ve worked hard their entire lives and we can’t even say, ‘well done, you deserve this pot of money.’”
“Surely they’ll soon pick up in value, I mean once things settle down again?”
“I don’t know Molly, I just don’t know. I wanted to pick up the phone, ring my parents and say, ‘sell your shares, now, just do it.’ Sod everyone else as long as they were okay.”
“I know darling, it must have been terribly hard for you, but then being in government is, at times, about being able to make tough decisions.”
Andrew finally stopped pacing, and opened his arms to embrace her once more, he still hadn’t taken off his coat.
“At least the cabinet tried, they did all they could, at the end of the day the banks aren’t controlled by the Republican Party. People will have to understand that, it’s how you react to the impending crisis that will matter.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Andrew mused. “But either way, officially, we will be as much surprised by tomorrow’s news as everyone else.”
*****
The following morning Andrew, Nigel and, it seemed, the entire Treasury department stood watching the news unfold on a small plasma screen; despite numerous calls by the Directors of Goldstar for calm, the city was witnessing the first run on a British bank in over fifty years. Reporters and cameras seemed to be stationed in every city in the UK, and the images were monotonously the same, queues of people, standing in the rain, demanding their money. It reminded Andrew of the scene in It’s A Wonderful Life, although he doubted Goldstar’s investors would be left with a ro
sy glow from the proceedings. He still hadn’t called his parents, although he could legitimately do so now, now that their shares were worthless.
Too tired and frustrated to watch anymore coverage, he headed back to his office, followed by Nigel.
As soon as the door closed he dropped down in his chair and put his head on his desk. “Christ, what a mess,” he murmured.
“It is,” Nigel agreed. “But unlike those poor sods queuing in the street, at least we can do something about it.”
Andrew raised his head. “Well, we don’t seem to be doing a great deal at the moment.”
Nigel leaned over the desk to get his friends attention. “Careers are going to be won or lost over this Andrew, you have to focus on the endgame.”
“The endgame,” Andrew rose also and leaned in until his face was inches from Nigel’s. “What part of this is a game?”
“None of it, that’s why the party needs politicians like you, to remind them of the human element. Because at the moment all that will be concerning the cabinet is, how to shift any blame, and distance themselves from the whole affair.”
“I don’t know…I…” Andrew lifted his arms and dropped them in resignation. “Do we all enter politics full of optimism, with a foolish desire to make a difference, only for our favourite phrases to become, ‘compromise,’ and, damage limitation?’”
“It’s called the real world Andrew, but it doesn’t mean you have to sign over your soul to the devil my idealistic friend. If you’ll excuse my use of the word, a compromise, between idealism and reality can be made.”
“Is that so?” Andrew stated.
“Yes, it is. Look, the press are going to demand a high level resignation over this. The Prime Minister will argue that the People’s Party was guilty of not regulating the banks hard enough, and the reporters will ask why we’ve been in power for eighteen months and not addressed the issue.”
“Agreed,” Andrew responded.
“They won’t be satisfied until someone is held accountable-”
An Ordinary Working Man Page 7