The Yacht Party

by Perry, Tasmina

  ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘Not sure,’ said Alex. ‘Parties, charity dos, openings. especially anything in the last year. Make that the last five years. There might not be much, but get me everything.’

  Gary nodded, tapped his pencil decisively on the desk. ‘I’ll get on it now. What’s this for by the way?’

  ‘News piece I’m working on.’

  Gary raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Getting your hands dirty again, eh? Good stuff.’

  ‘Yeah, it is isn’t it?’ he said, smiling.

  Back in his office, Alex shut the door and dropped into his ergonomic chair, spinning it round until he faced the plate glass window and the city, darkening in the dusk, beyond it. It was true what Gary said. He’d spent the past two years, before, during and after the Felix Tait trail banging on about the vital importance of journalism and a free press and yet when was the last time he’d actually reported on anything? When was the last time he’d actually written anything? And it was worse than that, wasn’t it? Alex was actually thinking about abandoning the Chronicle’s sinking ship to join Dominic’s digital project for a life of more of the same – more meetings, staffing issues and glad-handling the advertisers rather than holding them to account. If he really cared about crusading journalism that made a difference, why wasn’t he down with the troops, fighting?

  Sighing, he tried calling Lara again but when it went straight to message, he flipped through some layouts that had been sent over by the features department, not really concentrating.

  ‘Are pizzas on the way, boss?’ asked Steve from the production department. Alex edited the Monday edition every fortnight, and from the start, he’d ordered take-out for the staff who worked long into the evening.

  He paid for it out of his own pocket, and at some point, he guessed people had forgotten that and considered it a company perk. He didn’t mind. People like Steve had been in since 9am and wouldn’t leave until the night-shift team arrived once the first edition had gone off to press.

  He gave a thumbs up sign and hopped online to order a dozen Margheritas.

  The food had just arrived when Gary walked past his office slipping on his cycling helmet, his trousers legs already cuffed with clips for his cycle journey home.

  ‘I’ve got to push off early tonight. Wife’s birthday. Pete’s in charge of the desk,’ he said, name-checking his deputy. ‘The stuff you want is on the server,’ he said, fiddling with his hat strap.

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘You know me. I’ve emailed you a link.’

  ‘Thanks a lot. I appreciate it. Now push off before you’re in trouble with the missus for being late. And by the way, that hat makes you look like an alien.’

  ‘State of the art, mate.’ He grinned and gave him a thumbs-up before he left.

  It wasn’t early, no matter what Gary said. It was almost ten o’clock and the office had taken on a more muted sound. The night shift was beginning to trickle in, Monday’s first edition, had been declared ‘off-stone’ and sent to print. Although the lights were always on in a daily newspaper, the frenetic energy of the office simmered down to an industrious hum.

  ‘Come on Michael Sachs, let’s have a look at you, then,’ he muttered, as he clicked on the file with the most recent date.

  Whoever said a picture was worth a thousand words had probably been a photographer, but Alex had always known the value of the picture desk with his stories. Back in the day, it had been paparazzi snaps: Britney shaving her head, Nigella’s marriage imploding, Sean Penn coming out swinging. But Instagram had stopped all that: celebs could tell their own stories on their feeds, and the big news events were documented by a thousand cameras from a thousand angles. The image was still king, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be manipulated and controlled.

  Just like this, thought Alex, scrolling through hundreds of near-identical shots of Michael Sachs. At art gallery openings, charity dinners and fundraisers, or with happy benefactors of the Sachs numerous charitable foundations.

  He wasn’t sure why he was surprised that there were so many pictures of Sachs. Money men were always out and out on the party circuit flexing their wallet, improving their profile, showing off their Masters of the Universe credentials. And although middle-aged financiers were not of obvious interest to the press, and by extension, the paparazzi, they were often surrounded by beautiful women, which did make them of interest to editors looking to glamorise their pages.

  He leant closer to inspect Sachs. He was a good-looking man in the Richard Gere silver fox mode. The cut of his suits said Saville Row, his tan spoke of skiing holidays and winter breaks. Even from these grainy pictures Sachs oozed the sort of self-confidence that Alex had often encountered among the top movers and shakers. If you lived such a charmed life, why wouldn’t you feel confident? The wife was also a beauty, hovering around sixty, well-preserved, elegant with a look of Catherine Zeta Jones.

  The pictures began to blur before Alex’s eyes. The same slightly forced smile, the same suits and dresses, many of the same people appearing next to the Sachss. This was pointless. He didn’t know what he had expected to find; a picture of Sachs and Meyer surrounded by teenage prostitutes?

  He was just about to switch off his machine when he saw it. David Becker, the investor he’d bonded with at Dom’s pitch dinner, standing shoulder to shoulder with Michael Sachs. Looking, it had to be said, like great pals.

  Alex glanced at his watch, then out at the river, an idea forming. It was a thin idea, but it was better than no idea at all.

  He took out his wallet and pulled out a business card he had put in there three days before.

  ‘David Becker. It’s about time we got reacquainted,’ he muttered. And made the call.

  Alex had thought his own gym was pretty fancy, with three floors of spinning rooms, fitness studios and lavender-infused towels, but The Mayfair Racquets Club was a whole different world. Hidden away on a discreet mews near Berkeley Square, there was a doorman in tails and a bowler hat and a beautiful redhead on reception who already knew his name and immediately showed him the way to the changing rooms. It was exactly the sort of place that a high-flyer like Jonathon Meyer would be a member of, thought Alex with a slight sense of foreboding as he opened his assigned locker and found the regulation club whites crisply ironed and waiting for him.

  Alex had been apprehensive about meeting David Becker here, especially as he hadn’t held any kind of racquet in close to a decade, but there hadn’t been much choice; Becker’s squash partner had dropped out that morning and David was flying out to Frankfurt later in the day. Time was money and all that. He supposed the squash court was a better setting for a private conversation than the bar and an on-court humiliation was a small price to pay if he got the information he wanted.

  David was already smashing a ball against the wall when Alex arrived at Court Three.

  ‘Looking good, Alex,’ called Becker, as Alex opened the glass door and went inside. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got then,’ he said, not pausing for small talk.

  David hit the wall, a couple of inches above the red service line. Alex retrieved the shot without too much difficulty, moving around the court with more ease than a man who sat behind a desk for fourteen hours a day deserved to.

  ‘Nice shot,’ said David. ‘I didn’t know you played.’

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he replied, concentrating as he thwacked the ball low and hard. ‘Not since school really.’

  ‘Harrow?’

  ‘The other place,’ said Alex. It was his standard response to public school old boys; he knew that to them, ‘the other place’ meant Eton or Harrow, depending on who you spoke to, but technically Kendal Grammar was another place too. He returned Becker’s serve and smiled to himself as he remembered the town’s squash club, an old warehouse just off the A6. He’d go with his mates Jacko or Gaz, messing about on the bus journey there but taking the game deadly seriously when they were on court.
/>   Alex was exhausted by the time they’d finished the first game. David had beaten him, but Alex had put up a fair fight: that was all that was required. Becker wiped his face with a towel and squirted some water into his mouth from a bottle with a thick plastic straw.

  ‘So, have you given any thought to Dom’s offer yet?’

  ‘Plenty,’ said Alex honestly. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk, actually.’

  ‘You know everyone is really keen to get you on board. Ideas you can change, develop or even reverse, but without the right staff to do that, you’re screwed.’

  ‘I was just interested to know more about the financial side of things. The backing and so on.’

  ‘Sensible,’ said David. He outlined some figures and who they had in mind for next-stage investors.

  ‘We need someone with vision, but they’d also need deep pockets,’ said David. ‘The problem with too many new media ventures is not having sufficient backing to get through the first few years.’

  ‘You know Michael Sachs right?’

  Becker gave him a sideways look.

  ‘A little. Why do you ask?’

  Alex knew he had to play it gently. Last night when he’d seen the picture of Becker and Sachs together, he’d been convinced David would be a conduit to insider information, but in the cold light of day, it felt more tenuous. After all, Alex had met all kinds of people at parties, but he didn’t know the first thing about their financial dealings.

  ‘We’re running a news piece on Sachs’s ClearView development,’ said Alex casually. ‘You know the project’s very big on the arts, the creative side, so I thought he might be interested in backing a media venture. Have you tried him?’

  ‘Mike’s not usually interested in our sort of stuff,’ said David, looking doubtful. ‘He does use media people for corporate intelligence work but that’s about it.’

  ‘Corporate intelligence?’

  Alex knew what it was but he wanted to keep Becker talking; not least because he needed to catch his breath before the next game.

  ‘Corporate intelligence is investigative research into companies you might be interested in buying or sectors or opportunities you have an interest in. One CI start-up a friend of mine backed two years ago has unicorn status already. He’s made an absolute killing.’

  ‘So why do you think Sachs would be interested in corporate intelligence?’

  Becker gave a low laugh.

  ‘Because due diligence is Mike’s superpower. You want to know why Michael Sachs is so successful? He researches everything and everyone he invests in and uses what he finds as leverage.’

  David paused to wipe the handle of his racket with a towel. ‘In fact I sent your mate Stefan Melberg his way.’

  Alex tried not to react.

  ‘Stefan?’ he repeated, his heart jumping. ‘What for? Investment?’

  ‘No, I didn’t think his news idea stacked up, but I thought Stefan was smart and Sachs mentioned he was on the lookout for brilliant researchers, so I recommended him.’

  ‘Wow. I’ve always got the idea that Stefan was kind of anti-corporate. Did he do it?’

  Becker shrugged and tossed Alex the ball. ‘No idea. But I do know Michael Sachs pays very, very well. I find that overcomes a lot of principles.’

  Yes, thought Alex, throwing up a serve. I imagine it does.

  Chapter 33

  ‘…And the final lot in the auction, ladies and gentlemen, is the grand prize.’ A twitter of excitement ran around the hotel ballroom. ‘One week in Penelope and Richard Devaine’s villa on Harbour Island!’

  There was a ripple of applause and Lara looked over at her Aunt Olivia.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Nicholas and I stayed there last New Year.’

  Lara had always wondered why anyone would want to come to a society fundraiser. Yes, Claridge’s was a beautiful hotel and the lunch had been lavish, but who would pay upwards of a thousand pounds a ticket for the privilege of spending yet more money on auction prizes donated by your friends? But then again, Lara had always wanted to go to the Bahamas. And right now, being 4,000 miles from this spot seemed eminently appealing.

  ‘Who will start me off at a very modest one thousand pounds?’ asked the auctioneer.

  There was an expectant pause, then a slim arm went up. An elderly lady at the next table in a black velvet dress.

  ‘That’s Elspeth Hart-Daniels,’ whispered Olivia, leaning across. ‘She’ll be hoping that someone outbids her.’

  ‘She doesn’t actually want to win?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ted – her husband – lost a packet in the last crunch. She’s still putting on a brave face, but she can’t afford to fly to Nassau, let alone stay on the island for a week.’

  The one saving grace about this lunch had been having Olivia sitting next to her. Olivia knew everyone in the room and had the inside track on their wealth, politics and social position. It was fascinating, like watching a soap opera with the director giving a running commentary. Lara watched Mrs. Hart-Daniels’ face when another bid came in. The old woman tried to look disappointed, but Lara could see the relief.

  ‘You’re right,’ said Lara and Olivia nodded.

  Looking at the lunch through her reporter’s eyes, Lara could see that the event was really about power. People flexing their wealth, showing how little money meant to them, creating a little league table of who was the most important. Even the seating plan was loaded with meaning. The top players sat at the front, the most visible and the most vocal in the auctions, everyone applauding their bids, but the prime spot was at Victoria Sachs’s table slap-bang in middle of the room, surrounded by admirers, desperate to gain a smile or an acknowledgement from the Queen Bee. The question for Lara was how could she break through that ring and get to Victoria Sachs?

  Lara took a sip of wine trying to think it through. She knew it had been risky coming here today, but what else could she do? She remembered something Alex had once said when he was back in London, heading up the news desk. She’d been having trouble with a story, hitting dead end after dead end.

  ‘Sometimes you’ve got to shake the tree and see what falls out,’ Alex had told her.

  ‘We have a new bid,’ said the auctioneer, leaning forward from his podium, shading his eyes to peer into the crowd. ‘A generous bid from the lovely Marguerite Hurlingham.’ A ripple of applause and a cool smile from Victoria Sachs.

  ‘So who will give me a bid of ten thousand pounds?’

  Suddenly Lara knew what she had to do.

  ‘Fifteen thousand!’ she shouted.

  She felt Olivia’s head swivelling towards her, but Lara kept her eyes focused on the auctioneer, who pointed at her with his gavel. ‘Fifteen thousand!’ he repeated with glee. ‘From the young lady at the back. Now who’s going to…’

  ‘Sixteen!’ came a cry from a table near the middle. A red-faced man with wire-rimmed glasses who had turned to grin at Lara. Perhaps he thought that bidding against her would win her heart. Au contraire, she thought. All eyes were now on Lara, including – as she had hoped – those of Victoria Sachs. It was one way to get someone’s attention.

  ‘The bid is at sixteen thousand,’ said the auctioneer. ‘And let’s all remember that this is for the ImpactAid charity and all the good work they are doing out in Haiti.’

  Lara felt a hand on her knee. ‘Lara, what are you doing?’ murmured Olivia. ‘It’s not actually that nice a place. You’d be better off staying at The Dunmore.’

  ‘Twenty thousand pounds!’ shouted Lara, figuring she might as well throw herself all in. It was reckless and irresponsible – she supposed theoretically she could afford it, but even so, Lara felt a little like the one time she had done a parachute jump. Goaded into it by Alex when he was stationed in South Africa, standing in the doorway of that rickety prop plane, she had felt the same mixture of adrenaline and idiocy.

  ‘Looks like we have someone who loves the Bahamas,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Is there
anyone else who fancies a week in the lap of luxury in Harbour Island?’

  There was a horrible hush as everyone watched the auctioneer scanning the audience.

  ‘Anyone?’ he asked, ‘No?’

  Oh God, thought Lara, her euphoria rapidly turning to panic.

  The auctioneer raised his gavel with a flourish. ‘Going once… going twice.’

  The sound of the gavel smashing against the lectern vibrated around the room.

  As the crowd burst into applause, Olivia leant in. ‘What the hell was all that about?’ she whispered.

  ‘Just trying to fit in, Auntie,’ she said, finishing off the rest of her wine.

  The main event over, people were beginning to get up and move towards the hotel lobby. Lara followed the flow, accepting the odd arm-squeeze and ‘well done’ from the society ladies. It was strange: the money being thrown about here was ludicrous, but there was a jolly village fete atmosphere, as if Lara had just won the fruit basket in the raffle.

  ‘Here she is!’ said a jolly woman grabbing Lara by the arm.

  ‘Let me introduce you to Penny. She owns the villa.’

  Penny was a less slender and stylish version of Olivia. She had a regal bearing, pale blonde hair in a cloud around her head. Her blue blazer had shiny gold buttons with a horse’s head stamped onto them.

  ‘Oh it’s you, Olivia’s niece. Lara, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’re going to have a wonderful time. Weather can be a bit hit or miss in September, hurricane season. But of course, you miss the crowds.’

  Lara frowned. Had she just paid £20,000 for going out of season? She made a point to check the small print on the auction.

  ‘Have you seen Victoria?’

  ‘She’s just had to visit the little girls’ room, dear,’ said Penny pointing down the corridor. ‘Although she’s not the one collecting payment. I think you’ll have to speak to Lucinda Dyson for that….’

  Lara followed the corridor that led away from the ballroom. Lara guessed this wasn’t the bathroom that the guests weren’t meant to use. It was quiet here, the sound of pots and pans in the distance suggesting they were close to the kitchens.