‘We’re going to have to be quite quick, Imo, I’ve got the table at Aubergine booked for eight o’clock.’
‘Don’t want to be late.’
‘No, sure.’
Miles slipped off his boxer shorts. He was ready. It was almost as though taking his own clothes off was enough for him to feel turned on.
‘Come on,’ he kissed her on the lips. He had been a great kisser. He wasn’t any more. He went to help her off with her T-shirt.
‘I know about Philippa Lawrenson and the Friday nights at Claridges.’ He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop what he was doing at all. He was cool, she’d give him that, just carried right on trying to get her clothes off.
‘I know.’
‘What do you know?’
He kissed her on the mouth again and now she couldn’t stand him touching her a moment longer and pushed him away. She stood and they looked at one another in silence.
‘OK, I’m not going to lie to you,’ he said.
There were so many things that she wanted to say to him it was as though they had all became jammed in a bottle neck and she remained silent.
‘It won’t happen again.’
‘That’s not going to work, Miles.’
‘It was business.’
Imogen chuckled. It sounded bitter and hurt.
‘Get out.’
He reached for his boxer shorts and pulled them on.
‘It didn’t mean anything.’
‘I could say the same about you.’
‘Come on Imo, you’re smarter than to let some something like this spoil what we have.’
He was standing, had his hands on her shoulders. He was giving it his best shot; he couldn’t be faulted on that.
‘Fuck off Miles.’ It came out far more emotionally than she had expected but it had the effect that she was hoping for. Miles’s hands dropped away and he started pulling on the rest of his clothes. He walked to the door in silence then turned back.
‘Whatever you think of me now, Imogen, I need you to know that you’re very special to me.’
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry Imogen Green. She pursed her lips together hard to stop them wobbling. The look he gave her was the same one that he had given her that day in the office at Trenchart Colville when she first met him and knew that she was going to fall in love with him. This was the last time that he would ever look at her like that.
‘Imogen?’
If she responded, she would open herself up to the danger of losing control. So she remained silent.
He said, ‘Bye.’
She nodded.
He was the first to break eye contact as he turned away, opened the door and closed it behind him without looking back. As the catch clicked and she heard him making his way down the stairs, the first tear of many broke its moorings. She had made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t cry but she couldn’t keep it.
‘You did brilliantly,’ said Georgina from the bedroom doorway.
Imogen turned and let her sister wrap her arms around her as the tears began to flow.
‘It’s over,’ said George. ‘It’s all over.’
12 Paying the Offer
Hang Seng: 14085
SP500: 940
Both having been consigned to the status of Imogen’s ex-boyfriends, Miles and Al’s friendship had resumed its former closeness of late and Miles was thankful for that, he had never intended that they should fall out. When Rob Douglas had invited him for drinks at Tobias and Von’s house on the night before his wedding to Georgina, Miles had thought perhaps that he should decline on account of his still-only-recent break-up with Imogen. Al, however, had persuaded him that he should go along with the others from their Trenchart Colville days, Fergal and the Little Fella amongst them. How much Tobias knew about the reasons for his break-up with Imogen was impossible to tell but when he met them at the front door, he was as charming as ever.
Miles had only met Tobias a few times before but had always found him to be a fascinating man. Here was a man who had set out to become the very best in his field of expertise, had let nothing stand in his way on his ascent to the very top of his profession – and it had nothing to do with money. He was supremely driven and single-minded, qualities that Miles continually aspired to. Tobias was also everything that his own father wasn’t.
‘I was sorry to hear about you and Imogen,’ said Tobias when they had a moment to themselves later in the evening. Did Tobias know about the Friday nights at Claridges with Philippa Lawrenson? Miles took a sip of a delicious French Pinot Noir and considered his response. There was only one way to go.
‘It was all my fault. I behaved badly.’
‘I’m sure you both contributed to whatever it was that came between you.’
‘I didn’t treat Imogen as she should have been treated.’ There was something about Tobias’s demeanour that made Miles want to pour out the truth about everything, not just about his infidelity to Imogen but all about his childhood and the shame he felt on account of his father’s self-imposed decline and fall. Here was someone with whom he didn’t have to compete, didn’t want to compete.
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it,’ said Tobias. ‘You’re young. We all make mistakes when we’re young. It’s all part of the process. We make mistakes when we’re old too but they’re often less easily forgiven.’
He might as well have been speaking about Miles’s father.
‘Thanks Tobias.’
‘Sometimes the way things turn out for us is based on nothing more than how much we want something. If you want Imogen badly enough ...’
Tobias let the statement hang there and Miles felt a great sadness for what had happened between them.
‘I’d better circulate,’ said Tobias and moved away. Miles glanced up from his glass and saw that Al was looking at him from the other side of the room where he was standing in a group with Rob and Keith Peake. Miles smiled and Al reciprocated but Miles couldn’t help but register that both their smiles seemed tinged with regret.
Miles felt that same sense of regret the following day at Rob and Georgina’s wedding as Rob stood on the glass wrapped in the cloth and it shattered. Mazel Tov! While others cheered and applauded, Miles remained silent. It could have been him up there with Imogen. There she was, standing next to her sister, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her look. Tobias had been right about getting what you want if you want it hard enough. Miles wanted Imogen, he wanted her so much at that moment but he also knew that ultimately she wasn’t right for him. She wasn’t strong enough for him. Whether it was his self-defence mechanism feeding him this thought in order to anaesthetise the pain or whether it was a genuine feeling, he couldn’t tell, but no sooner had he thought it than he felt a great sense of relief. He was hungry for sex. Maybe that’s what made it so much harder to get Imogen out of his mind. But there were plenty of other attractive women at the wedding and he glanced around the synagogue, searching out the young women who didn’t appear to be with someone. There were five possibles. He ranked them in order of priority. Two of them were definitely up there with Imogen in the looks department.
Miles wasn’t the only one thinking about Imogen. Al couldn’t take his eyes off her. Maybe it had something to do with watching her sister getting married. She looked vulnerable and that always made him feel protective towards her.
The wedding party was held in a marquee in Tobias and Von’s garden in Hampstead. Al couldn’t help but be reminded of the first Christmas party at Trenchart Colville when he and Imogen had kissed amidst the guy ropes outside the marquee. He hadn’t seen her for a couple of months, not since he had started at Hartmann Milner. Seeing her enter the marquee alone as guests were making their way to the easel on which a chart gave details of the seating plan, Al chose his moment and engineered it so that it looked as though he had just happened to bump into her.
‘Hi Imogen.’
‘Al! Sorry I haven’t had a chance to say hi, I’ve been
rushed off my feet.’
‘You look beautiful.’ He was merely vocalising what he had been thinking all day. She did look beautiful, her dress was a pearl pink gown that reached low to the ground. Her hair had been swept up into a chignon and accentuated her long shapely neck.
She took the compliment well. Smiling and faking a Scarlett O’Hara voice, she said, ‘Why thank you kindly, sir.’ This rendezvous was progressing better than he had expected. Gone was the tongue-tied awkwardness that had characterised their meetings of late.
Copying Imogen’s deep south accent, Al said in his best Rhett Butler: ‘I hope you’ll do me the honour of dancing with me later?’
‘Why surely.’
They both giggled.
‘I haven’t seen you since you started at Hartmann Milner, how’s it going?’
‘Not too bad. I’m enjoying it. How’re things at Trenchart Colville?’
‘Not the same since you guys left.’
Al was about to ask her what her plans were now that the bank had been sold to the Hong Kong Development Corporation but Imogen was distracted by the arrival of a good-looking man with long hair who was standing in the entrance to the marquee.
Imogen called over to him: ‘Francois!’ and as he turned and saw her, his face lit up and he made his way over, taking her in his arms and kissing her. This was definitely more than the greeting of a friend, even a close one. ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said in a Gallic accent. ‘The plane was delayed at JFK.’
‘Well, you’re here now. Al, this is Francois.’
Al took the beautifully manicured hand that was extended towards him and shook it.
‘Pleased to meet you Francois.’
‘So nice to meet you, Al.’ Francois said the words but they lacked conviction. It might have been nice to meet him but it was a whole lot nicer to meet Imogen and in that moment, Al could feel that he was suddenly surplus to requirements. Imogen and Francois wanted to be alone.
‘I’ll catch you later,’ he said to the smiling Imogen who could barely tear her gaze away from the Frenchman.
‘See you later, Al, so nice to see you.’
Al made his way inside the house and there was that feeling that he had grown accustomed to over the past couple of years, that gnawing sense of loss in his innards. Would he never be free of it? And as a side order to the sense of loss was that old familiar jealousy that he had felt so sharply towards Miles for all those months. Here it was, reignited and aimed in the direction of this suave Frenchman who had stolen Imogen’s affections.
At the wedding breakfast, Imogen was seated at the top table between her sister, Georgina, and her parents, Tobias and Von. Al wondered what thought process had gone into the allocation of seats on his table with Francois seated alongside Miles and opposite him. Was this the table for Imogen’s past and present boyfriends? Seated next to Francois on the other side of Miles was Fergal and ever the convivial conversationalist, he soon had Francois laughing. Al studied the Frenchman, he couldn’t help himself. His manners were as impeccable as his personal grooming and his voice was almost caricature ‘French sexy’. And the stuff that he was coming out with – it seemed as though he was an expert in everything: wine, film, food – he knew the lot. And the people that he worked with were reeled off like a who’s who of the fashion industry.
‘Oh my God, you’re not seriously telling me that you actually know Naomi Campbell personally, are you?’ Fergal was the perfect audience for Francois’s observations on the fabulous nature of his own life. Naturally lacking in cynicism and always prepared to see the good in people, it was enough for Fergal that he was now sharing the same air as a man who only a matter of hours before had shared the same air as the world’s most beautiful supermodels and did so on a regular basis.
Al took another glance at Imogen who threw her head back and laughed at a funny story that her father was telling. He had never seen her look so happy and as much as he was glad that she seemed to have cast off the sombre mood that had consumed her for so long, he couldn’t help but feel an ill-tempered animosity towards Francois who was busy regaling Fergal with further tales from his fabulous world. There was no way that Al could compete with him. Al was trying to make a career for himself, and doing OK by anyone’s standards but here was this guy only a few years older than him who was already at the peak of his chosen profession, one in which he was respected and sought after for his creative and artistic excellence. What stung Al even more was that he knew that Francois was the best thing that could have happened to Imogen. Having a boyfriend who was involved in the same industry that she was – one in which by anyone’s estimation she was wholly unsuited – was always going to be a painful reminder of her poor career choices. Francois, on the other hand, represented an escape into another world of glamour and excitement. Al wasn’t the only one who was watching the Frenchman as he embarked on a story about a friend of his who had ordered a bottle of Champagne at a Parisian society event which was worth 200,000 Francs. It had been a mistake, he had ordered the wrong bottle and having quaffed it was left with the enormous bill. It was an amusing story, one that allowed Francois to mimic the expression on his friend’s face which aroused peels of laughter from the other occupants of the table and one that also allowed him to display his extensive knowledge of very expensive Champagne.
‘Fuck me, that’s marvellous,’ intoned Fergal. ‘If it had been me, I’d have shat my pants.’ Then out of respect for anyone at the table who might not share his taste in profanity, he added, ‘If you’ll pardon my French.’ Then he looked at Francois, clearly considered apologising for a moment, and erupted into a childlike giggle.
Al watched Miles watching Francois and he could see from the intensity with which he regarded the Frenchman that he found him interesting. Here was someone who had achieved, someone who shared his same ambition-fuelled internal engine, who enjoyed the finer things in life, the things that only money and power and good taste could afford. Miles didn’t necessarily like Francois. Liking was not the point; he represented something that Miles wanted. Miles was well on the way to earning the sort of money that would allow entry to the world that Francois inhabited. Al knew that what terrified Miles, however, was that he lacked the necessary breeding in the face of old world European sophistication. And as with everything that Miles felt inadequate about – as Al had seen over the past few years – he would overcompensate wildly. First it was squash when they started out at Trenchart Colville. He and Al had played almost every week for a whole year. At first, Al was far superior, Miles never having played before. But gradually, Miles improved. He practised, studied the game, used his defeats as fuel for his need to win and sure enough, finally, he did win. And after that, he lost interest in playing with Al and moved on to new partners. Nothing was said. Then it was golf. Again, he and Al had played. Not as regularly as they had played squash but at least once a month. They were evenly matched at first. But sure enough, Miles improved, particularly when he came to realise that golf was one of the key sporting currencies of the City. Most people played. And Miles wasn’t content with being pretty good; he wasn’t satisfied until he had got the better of every golf player in the company. Al knew that he had golf lessons at weekends. He had seen a post-it note on his desk once to say that his golf coach had called to rearrange their appointment. But Miles never mentioned his coaching. Why should he? It would have been a sign of weakness. It was this secrecy and burning need to win at all costs that made Al realise that as much as Miles was a friend, a close friend, he would never truly understand him.
As Al watched Francois holding court and Miles watching him, he knew with an unwavering certainty that Miles would one day achieve a level of success far beyond what Francois enjoyed. It might not make him any happier – it might not make him happy at all – but he would let nothing stand in his way. What had Imogen seen in him? They appeared so unsuited. Was his ambition and thirst for glory some sort of emotional crutch for Imogen who had almost willed hersel
f into thinking that she shared that thirst? It could have been nothing else other than the physical perhaps. Miles was a good looking guy. There was no denying that. And what about Francois? He was good looking, charming, successful, everything that Al could have done without in a love rival. Is that what he was, a love rival? Even though Imogen had moved onto boyfriend number two after him, he still couldn’t help but think of her new boyfriend as a love rival. Raising his glass, and taking a big mouthful of red wine, he felt a flash of resentment towards Imogen for the spell that she had cast over him. Life would have been so much more straightforward and easy without the constant longing that she aroused in him.
At the disco later on, Al sat on the edge of the dance floor watching Fergal as he lumbered into the midst of the well lubricated wedding guests and struck a John Travolta, Saturday Night Fever pose. The kilt that he had insisted on wearing in Celtic deference to Rob’s nationality was not like any kilt that Al had ever seen before, looking more like an oversized tartan skirt. This was something that Al had pointed out to Fergal who admitted that it was exactly that. Naturally, Fergal was wearing nothing underneath the skirt and his impromptu attempt at break-dancing provided the assembled guests with a vista that none of them would ever be able to forget. As Al reached for his beer, there was Imogen next to him pushing a glass of whisky into his hand.
‘Balvenie,’ she said. It was his favourite.
‘Thanks. Had a good time?’
‘Weddings are weird, aren’t they? Especially when it’s someone close to you who’s getting hitched. How about you?’
‘It’s probably the last time that we’ll all be together for a good long while.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Imogen sounded concerned at this news.
‘Well, we’re all going our separate ways, aren’t we? The Trenchart Colville chapter is coming to a close. Miles is off to the Golden Balls Fund’ – Imogen smiled – ‘Fergal’s off to Hong Kong – God help them – and I’m at Hartmann Milner.’
Shadow Banking Page 17