“If you sell out now,” Blaze said, “my clients will lose all of their money. The only thing to do is sit tight and wait for recovery.”
“If you can raise another £100 million, we will wait a few days.”
Doug Smith, the CEO of Spalding Trust, was equally nervous.
“How did you know?” Blaze asked, wondering how Moonshot’s investors were so well informed.
“Sleet’s been helpful” was the invariable reply.
At 10 a.m. on Friday, with Barclays’ share price still falling, Helmut Myer issued an ultimatum. “We need a margin call by 4 p.m. or we are calling the loan.”
Blaze hadn’t slept for three nights. In a frantic attempt to save her company and her investors’ money, she contacted every person she knew, bar Sleet or Wolfe, praying she would find someone willing to commit enough money to keep Moonshot afloat. No one was interested. All she’d worked so hard for, the sacrifices she had made and the future of Trelawney were in peril. Worst of all, she had promised her clients a safe haven and had let them down. Her heart twisted when she thought of the pensioners at Spalding—the lady from Newcastle who’d sold her house, the small farmer in Wales who’d taken out a mortgage on his property in the hope of getting out of debt.
There were two people left on her list. With a heavy heart, she picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” Sleet answered. “My friend Helmut is very upset.”
“So I don’t have to explain what I need,” Blaze said. As she spoke she could see her ghostly reflection in the window.
“I’ll put up £100 million.”
Blaze exhaled slowly. “Thank you.”
“You haven’t heard my terms,” Sleet added.
“I’m listening.”
“In return, I get 100 per cent of Moonshot and your head on a platter. The moment the ink is dry, you’re out.”
Blaze couldn’t believe what he was asking. “I created this company.”
“See it as saving your reputation.”
“And what happens to me?”
“You can go back to Cornwall and lick your wounds. If the share price recovers, you’ll get some of your money back. Eventually.” He let the syllables of the last word roll pleasantly and slowly around his mouth.
“You are a bastard.”
“I told you that I’d own you. There’s no escape,” he said.
“Is revenge worth all this money?” Blaze asked incredulously. The deal was hardly risk-free for Sleet; if Barclays didn’t recover, he stood to lose up to £100 million.
Sleet, as if reading her mind, burst out laughing. “I could lose a lot more and enjoy the ride. Just be grateful you have the clothes you’re wearing and your licence. My lawyers will be with you at 4 p.m. with the necessary paperwork. Sign up or sink.” He laughed again. “Oh, and by the way, I’m taking your niece out to dinner again tonight. We’re getting on well.”
Blaze’s heart lurched. “I’ll kill you.”
“Have fun trying.” Sleet hung up.
Blaze sat in front of her computer watching the share price fall to 50, then 49 and then 48 pence. Wolfe was the only person who could now help, but he wasn’t returning her calls. For the sake of her shareholders, she had no choice but to accept Sleet’s deal. Looking around her spartan room, she saw how little imprint she had made or left. Through the glass, in the empty outer office, the computers were like gravestones glowing in neon light. The only hints of former human occupation were cardboard coffee cups, balls of paper, a pizza box and an old tennis ball. In her own room, there were no framed photographs or lucky mascots to take home, only a laptop and her phone. A few might remember her as a one-trick pony—the perils of following your own conviction. Twenty years earlier she had arrived at Paddington Station with £50; today she was leaving her office with even less. Her licence to trade would almost certainly be rescinded by the Financial Services Authority.
Sleet’s lawyers arrived at exactly 4 p.m., carrying the relevant paperwork. Blaze, numbed by humiliation, signed in the necessary places. Opening up her desk computer, she typed in a code that automatically transferred everything to Sleet’s account. She took off her high-heeled shoes and, putting them into the bin next to her desk, slipped on a pair of trainers. Her life in the City was over. She double-locked the office door and left the keys at the front desk. She felt nothing: neither despair nor fear.
The weekend, behind locked doors at Moonshot Wharf, passed in a blur of vodka and sleeping pills. Saturday must have slipped into Sunday which became Monday or maybe Tuesday—she didn’t care; she had nothing to get up for. When Ayesha finally shook her awake, Blaze tried to fight her off, but the young woman was determined.
Ayesha put a cup of coffee on the bedside table.
Blaze sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday. You smell and look terrible. You’re going to have a shower now. There’s a man here to see you.”
“The bailiff,” Blaze said.
Ayesha ignored her and, pulling her out of bed, marched her to the bathroom. Blaze let herself be washed and dried.
“You look like a bag of bloody bones,” Ayesha grumbled, forcing her aunt’s limbs into a white silk shirt and a pair of black trousers. She combed Blaze’s hair and pushed her into the living room. “I’m going out. You two need to talk.” Taking her bag, she walked out of the apartment.
Blaze looked up. Sitting on the edge of her large white sofa was Joshua Wolfe.
“While you were sleeping, Barclays’ shares climbed to a high of 84 pence.”
Blaze couldn’t hear what he was saying; all she wanted to know was why he was in her apartment.
“Why have you come?” she asked. An acute hangover seemed to have shrivelled her brain and made her tongue too large for her mouth.
“Barclays’ directors published a letter claiming to have £17 billion over and above their debt. The bank is back on the road. You were right.” Wolfe remained seated. His voice was calm but his eyes roved around her face.
Blaze hoped she looked better than she felt. “Lucky Sleet. You should congratulate him. I sold out to him on Friday. He owns everything, even this apartment.” She grimaced. “I have only my own recklessness to blame. I’m out, finished.”
“You’re far from finished.” Wolfe got up from the sofa and took a step towards her. “I bought Moonshot yesterday morning for £1. Sleet didn’t want it; buying your business was simply a means to humiliate you. The company is still operational. Helmut Myer is prepared to continue with the loan.”
Blaze looked at him, dumbfounded. “Why?”
“Because I believe in you. Buying Barclays was a good decision, even if your timing was off by a few days. You bought too early but your judgement was correct. By the end of the week, you’ll make back your money and, if your hunch is right, you’ll treble the value of your investment by the end of the year. Sleet will look an idiot for selling at the bottom of the rout.” He hesitated. “I will make sure everyone knows it; he can’t be allowed to behave like he did with no consequences.”
Wolfe was now so close that Blaze only had to raise a hand to touch his. She clenched her fists to stop herself. “You didn’t return my calls.”
Wolfe shrugged. “I was angry. Hurt. And I suspected you were calling me about business, not about what happened.” He took another step forwards. “Blaze, come back to work. Moonshot is your fund. I will be a hands-off investor. Your portfolio will be one of many on my books.”
Now it was her turn to feel disappointed; Wolfe was only here on business. Blaze shook her head. “I’m done with the City.”
“You’re one of the best, Blaze; you can’t walk away.” His voice rose slightly.
Blaze smiled at him. “I am pleased that you’ve made your money back and grateful that you came
here to tell me. You’ve saved me from the ignominy of being struck off and, more importantly, my clients won’t lose their investments. But my heart’s not in it any more. I used to love taking risks but when I bought the Barclays shares, something had changed: my pulse didn’t race; my nerves didn’t fizz. I did it because a sixth sense told me, not for the thrill of the chase. To be a great investor, you have to be a gambler and be prepared to risk everything: for me, the excitement of winning and losing has gone.”
“You were right!” Wolfe insisted.
“I don’t feel vindicated, just empty.”
“You’re tired. Take a few weeks off. Get your mojo back.” He wanted Blaze to look at him, but she stared at the carpet, tracing an invisible pattern in the wool with her toe.
“Selling Moonshot didn’t frighten or appall me. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief: I was finished, it was over and I wouldn’t have to fight any more.”
“Without you, there won’t be Moonshot.”
“My number two, TiLing Tang, is steady, professional and knows the portfolio as well as I do.” She paused. “I behaved appallingly to you—imagined the worst, stamped my foot like a child. Why have you done this? Why take the risk?”
Wolfe shrugged. “I believe in you.”
“As an investor.” Blaze tried not to sound too sad.
“As a person as well.”
He reached over and, taking her hand in his, traced her lifeline with his finger. “It took a bit of time to calm down but I’d like to see you again.”
Blaze looked at him and smiled. “Thank you,” she said with sincerity.
He leaned in and tried to kiss her.
“I’m sorry, Joshua, but I can’t do this.” Blaze stepped backwards and pulled her hand out of his.
Wolfe, unable to hide his disappointment, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his hands. “What are you going to do?” he asked after a few moments.
“I’m going home. I’m going to Trelawney.”
22
Hot Chocolate
WEDNESDAY 18TH MARCH 2009
Ayesha found the red-fronted tea room in a small alley off St. James’s between a sandwich bar and a dry cleaner’s. The interior, all brass and red velvet, was supposed to look like a fin de siècle Parisian café, but all the details, from the Formica tabletops to the fluorescent lighting and the fake wooden floor, were wrong. A frieze of poorly painted cancan dancers covered one wall and on the other, for no apparent reason, was a poster of the Eiffel Tower in the snow. Spray-painted gold lettering on the window announced that this was Chou Chou, La Maison de Thé.
Tony sat waiting in a corner, dressed in a bright pink shirt and white silk cravat, with his steel-grey hair as perfectly swirled as an ice-cream cone. “Darling, you look even more beautiful than when I last saw you.” He got slowly to his feet, holding out his arms and kissing the air on either side of her cheeks. “You have inherited the best of your mother’s and your father’s genes. Anastasia’s looks were astonishing but almost too other-worldly. The Trelawneys have added a certain earthy sensuality.”
Ayesha smiled happily. “If it’s not too indelicate to ask, how old are you?” she enquired.
“Far too old to tell the truth. Now, let’s order.” They sat side by side on a scratchy velveteen banquette. “Garçon?” Tony said to a bemused-looking youth.
The waiter, dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt, tipped his name badge in Tony’s direction. “My name is Stanislav, not Garçon.”
Tony turned to Ayesha and shrugged. “The young today are so ill-educated. Imagine not being able to understand restaurant French, particularly when you work in ‘Chou Chou.’ ” He puffed out his cheeks with indignation. Stanislav handed over a leather-bound menu containing four pages of drinks.
“I know this place is hideous, but I’m a chocoholic. I recommend Valrhona, Atacama or Chilean,” Tony said. “The Toblerone is simply revolting. What will you have, darling?”
“Can I have them all mixed together?” Ayesha asked.
Tony laughed. “Of course!” He checked that Stanislav was listening. “Two hot chocolates made from your best reserves, with fresh cream and sprinkles, Stan.”
Stanislav regarded Tony with ill-disguised irritation.
Leaning back in his seat, Tony scrutinised his great-niece. “Now tell me about yourself.”
“I’ve turned into a frightful swot. Blaze has persuaded me to sit the Oxbridge exams. I don’t want to go, but if Plan A doesn’t work…”
“Plan A?” Tony raised his eyebrows.
Ayesha looked at him from under thick black lashes.
“I’m interviewing prospective husbands. Only the seriously wealthy need apply.”
Tony clapped his hands together. “How delicious—a proper project. Do you want him rich, stinking rich or oligarch rich?”
“Somewhere between the last two.”
“Any candidates?”
“I have been on a few viewings,” Ayesha admitted.
“Any offers?”
“There’s a Colombian, a Texan, a strangled Duke of Something or Other and a repulsive hedge-funder who thinks I am the reincarnation of my mother.”
“Did he know your mother?”
“They met at Oxford and he never recovered. He calls me Anastasia by mistake.”
“Creepy.” Tony shivered. “Do you like him?”
“I like the opportunities he’s offering.”
“How cynical.”
“The alternative is to get a job.”
“That would be frightfully dull,” Tony agreed.
“I have to make money so that I can marry the love of my life, Mark, who unfortunately is not nearly rich enough to look after me.”
“Can’t you live happily ever after in a garret?”
Ayesha threw her hands up in horror. “Out of the question.” Straightening the hem of her skirt, she added, “He will be a great success, but unfortunately time has yet to catch up with his invention; he’s teaching computers how to think.”
“What a perfectly appalling thought,” said Tony. “You should stop him immediately.”
“He’s a genius and so full of integrity,” Ayesha insisted. “He’ll make sure no harm comes to the human race.”
Tony seemed unconvinced. “So you marry the squillionaire and leave him for the love of your life?”
“I might have to have a child to secure the alimony.”
“What happens if the sprog takes after its father and you’re left with a vulgar baby hedge-funder?”
Ayesha shuddered at the thought of a miniature Sleet: ginger-haired, flat-footed and corpulent. “Then I might not fight for custody.”
“You are funny. Much funnier than your mother.”
Ayesha looked at him seriously. “Marrying me will cost him a billion.”
Tony looked back in astonishment. “That is a fantastical fantasy; odds against, I’m afraid.”
“My mother assured me that with the right level of determination, you can get what you want.”
“It didn’t work for Anastasia!” Tony had visited many Indian palaces and found the princes, nawabs and maharajas to be as desperate and impoverished as most of the English aristocracy. In both cases, external grandeur barely masked the internal decay. “I went to Balakpur in the 1950s; it was frightfully shabby even then,” he said, remembering miles of dusty corridors, a ballroom ceiling strung with Christmas decorations and a bad-tempered maharaja bemoaning the lack of pheasants in his kingdom. “I thought your mother married below her station. Looks like hers could ensnare anyone. Why did she do it?”
“Because of me. My arrival spoiled everything, limited her choices.” Ayesha fought back tears. “Her nickname for me was ‘The Little Millstone.’ ”
Her face hardened. “She made me promise to p
ut it right.”
“Put what right?”
“Everything. And I will.”
Something about Ayesha’s tone unsettled Tony: an eerie, icy single-mindedness. He’d never understood women; men were so simple by comparison. Centuries of absolute power had dulled the male brain, whereas women, forced for so long to cajole and manipulate, had evolved into far more complex and capable beings.
“Do you miss Anastasia?” he asked.
“I do my best to remember the good bits.” She hesitated, as if searching for something positive. “I miss her clarity.”
“That’s an odd thing to say.”
“If Mother was here, she’d know how to manage my situation.”
“Did you love her?”
Ayesha played with the edge of the white paper tablecloth before responding. “My childish longing, fuelled by books and fairy tales, for what a mother should be obscured what she actually was. That fantasy of a kind, maternal woman took precedence over the actual person. It’s far easier to live with an idealised version. No one wants to admit that their mother wasn’t a very nice person; it might be contagious or genetic.”
Tony leaned across and put his gnarled old hand over her exquisite white fingers. “I like you very much.”
Ayesha’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I haven’t had much practice at being popular.”
Their drinks arrived: tall glasses topped with mountains of cream. Tony shovelled a large spoonful into his mouth, letting it melt slowly between his teeth and down the back of his throat.
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