Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  ‘No, it won’t,’ she howled, sinking on to the cold pavement. He picked her up and cradled her. ‘I can’t have a ba-aaaa-by! Never! All I want is a baby and I can’t have one!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  She pulled away from him, laughing through her tears. ‘Jack,’ she said. ‘Five years of screwing. No protection, no baby. You think that’s normal?’

  He bit his lip, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he sighed. ‘I wondered … I didn’t want to upset you.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to worry you. I know it’s been crazy. I know it’s been stressful, all this oil business, everyone losing money. I’m sorry I haven’t taken more of an interest. But, I’m not … fertile. I saw Dr Isaacs. I should have said. I guess I was too ashamed. I still am. I feel like a failure. It’s to do with this, this stupid heart condition – it runs in my family. It doesn’t kill you – well, apart from Uncle Wallace and he wasn’t married anyway – it just stops you from repeating the mistake.’

  Very carefully, as if she were made of glass, he stood her on the pavement and stroked her hair. ‘Oh God, Felicia. You are so precious to me. I’m so sorry, I love you so much. It’s my fault that you didn’t tell me. I’ve been a bastard, a typical City bore obsessed with work. The last thing you need to worry about is the bloody price of oil. You will have your baby. Whatever it takes, you – we – are going to have a baby.’

  He kissed her, and she felt her entire body crackle and spark with love and hope.

  LONDON, 1978

  Claudia

  ‘Tell me the story again, Mummy!’ Claudia carefully removed the blackcurrants from her Ski yoghurt and lined them up in a row on the table, for later.

  ‘OK,’ said Mummy, smiling. Mummy always smiled. She was the most beautiful lady in the world. She looked like a princess. ‘Well, once upon a time, about three and a half years ago, I was walking along the road—’

  ‘Was Daddy at work?’

  ‘Oh! No, Daddy wasn’t at work. Daddy was walking along the road too.’

  ‘He didn’t have to stay late at the office?’

  ‘No, darling. It was the weekend. Anyway. A nice lady came up to me, and she said, “I have a lovely little baby girl, but I can’t look after her. Would you look after her instead and be her new mummy and daddy?” And we said, “Oh, yes please!” And then we took you home with us, and we gave you a nice drink of milk, because babies love milk, and we made you all cosy in your cot—’

  ‘And you got Nigel the builder to paint my room pink.’

  ‘Yes, because we love you so much. We love being your mummy and daddy.’

  ‘When Daddy gets home from work, I’m allowed a sweet from the box.’

  The Coca-Cola ones were yucky, but if you forgot and took one, Daddy didn’t allow you a new sweet. Daddy was stricter than Mummy. He got grumpy because he was tired from work. He had to work to get money to buy sweets.

  ‘Mummy, was the lady a poor lady?’

  ‘What lady, darling?’

  ‘The lady who gave you the baby. Me.’

  Mummy’s smile went away. ‘Oh, I don’t think she was poor but she didn’t have a daddy for you. And I think she wanted you to live in a nice big house and have lots of toys.’

  Bass was her favourite toy. He was a basset hound with big ears. ‘We are rich, Mummy, aren’t we?’

  Mummy’s smile came back for a tiny bit. ‘We have enough, Claudia. It’s more important to have a mummy and daddy who give you hugs than to have lots of money.’

  ‘Alfie said we were rich. He said his daddy and my daddy got rich because of the shark.’

  ‘Pardon, Claudia? What did Alfie say?’

  ‘He said our daddies got rich because of the oy-shark!’

  Alfie was a big boy. He called his mummy ‘Nanny’ and she wore a brown school uniform. It was cross-making when Mummy didn’t understand. It made Claudia want to throw her yoghurt pot across the room.

  ‘The oil shock!’ said Mummy, and started laughing. Claudia liked it when Mummy laughed. It made her feel happy. Then Mummy licked a tissue and wiped Claudia’s mouth. It made it wet and nasty.

  ‘Yuck, don’t spit on me, it’s disgusting!’

  ‘Sorry, darling.’

  ‘Mummy, why didn’t the lady have a daddy for me?’

  ‘Well … some ladies don’t.’

  ‘Did I grow in her tummy?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘How did I get there?’

  ‘Ooh, Claudia, guess what! Mummy and Daddy have got a surprise for you!’

  ‘A present?’

  ‘Yes, the best present there is.’

  ‘Is it a Wendy house?’

  ‘No, darling. It’s much better than that. Now listen.’ Mummy was pulling at her curls – she did that sometimes. She did it when Daddy was cross. ‘We thought it would be lovely for you to have a baby brother.’

  ‘I want a sister!’

  Mummy got a worried look. ‘Well, darling, we thought it would be nice to have a boy, because then he won’t want to play with your toys.’

  ‘I don’t like boys.’

  ‘Ah, but you like babies, don’t you? And the Adoption Agency—’

  ‘What’s an agency?’

  ‘Oh. I mean the lady who is giving us the boy baby says he is the nicest baby ever. There are no girl babies.’

  ‘Are they sold out?’

  ‘Oh! No, darling. You don’t pay money to get a baby.’ Mummy’s face went pink. ‘You can make a … donation.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s money you give to be nice.’

  ‘Does it make sure you get a nice baby not a yucky baby?’

  ‘No babies are yucky, Claudia. All babies are nice.’

  ‘Will you be his mummy too?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  Claudia wanted a hug suddenly. She climbed on Mummy’s lap and let Mummy kiss her hair. Mummy always smelled nice, of perfume. Mummy was her best friend in the whole world. She loved Mummy. She didn’t love the new baby. Babies stank. Of pooh. There were nine blackcurrants in her yoghurt.

  ‘I don’t want the baby. I want him to go back to the lady.’

  ‘Darling. He is our baby now. It’s true that babies are a little bit boring at first. But when he gets a bit bigger, he will be your friend. And his name is Nathan. Baby Nathan.’

  ‘That’s a funny name.’

  ‘Do you think so? It’s an unusual name, but I think it’s a very nice name.’

  ‘Is Baby Nathan coming to live with us for all the time?’

  ‘Yes, Claudia. He is coming tomorrow, and then we are all going to live happily ever after.’

  ITALY, 1978

  Jack

  Jack squinted into the sunshine and smiled. The doe-eyed waitress bent low as she placed his Rossini cocktail next to his lounger, showing off her cleavage. He wasn’t interested, but he appreciated the hospitality.

  He sipped the iced blend of puréed strawberries and sparkling wine, and threw the FT to one side. The light glittered on the sapphire waters of the lake, and beyond it the snow-tipped mountains veered up to meet the cloudless sky. Some flash git had built a breathtaking holiday home at 40,000 feet. The building resembled a visor; it had a sweeping façade of tinted glass that haughtily surveyed the valley: I am above all of this.

  It was definitely a man’s dream, a place James Bond would be glad to retreat to with a bevy of blondes. Even now, Jack sometimes forgot that he could commission a pad like that. He’d been bloody lucky, going long on oil futures and other derivatives when the City was flapping like a goose about what OPEC would do next. But he was mediocre rich. He wanted to be ludicrous rich; private island rich.

  He had a lot to achieve.

  It was part of the reason they were here. He hadn’t told Felicia; she didn’t need to know yet. As far as she knew, they were having a glorious holiday in a sleek fashionable hotel to celebrate their anniversary, and other t
hings. Jack had booked the penthouse suite. Every morning, they sat on their balcony in fluffy white dressing gowns, sipping espresso coffee and gazing at the golden sun as it burned through the morning haze. The orange juice, however, was not freshly squeezed. It was a detail, but Jack required perfection.

  The grounds of the hotel were lush and extensive, maybe a little wild. The flowers that tumbled on to the neat pathways were red, pink, purple; he would have preferred a cleaner colour scheme. All white, perhaps? Red and pink clashed, Felicia would never wear the two shades together; why should they look any better fighting it out in a flowerbed? And the grass was coarse. He preferred fine English lawn grass. He wondered, was that possible over here?

  The rooms were large, airy, and the teak four-poster had a delicious spring to it. A hard bed was supposed to be great for your back, but bugger that. Jack liked to sink into a mattress as soft as blancmange. He and Felicia had probably put the bed to its sternest test for a while. The antique mirrored headboard banged against the wall throughout; another time it might have annoyed him, but right now, nothing could annoy Felicia, and that she didn’t care turned him on. She smelled of coconut sun oil and the heat of the day.

  She’d worn a white floaty dress à la Marilyn, and as they’d taken the private lift upstairs after an exquisite dinner of venison and vintage Barolo, she’d taken his hand and slowly guided it down. He’d gasped – and started fumbling with his belt. She’d grown into her sexiness; her walk had changed, there was more of a knowing curve to it.

  She’d pulled his hands away and sunk to her knees on the red velvet carpet. The sensation was so amazing his legs had almost given way. Then the lift had stopped – it wasn’t private after all – to reveal a snoot-nosed Italian woman in sequinned black, with a blue feather in her hair and a dramatic beaded necklace of jet and diamonds. She’d screamed and smacked the lift button. Felicia had screamed also and smacked it from the inside – as a result, the lift doors opened, closed, opened, closed, the Italian woman letting out a piercing scream each time.

  ‘Oh, go away then, why don’t you?’ Felicia had cried. ‘It’s only a dick!’

  They’d both collapsed laughing.

  God, he couldn’t get enough of her. They’d barely shut the bedroom door before they were ripping at each other’s clothes. Maybe tonight, after his meeting with the proprietor, they could order dinner in the room. He’d announce to his wife that just an hour before, he had bought this hotel: his first major investment. It would be one of the best days of his life. No shareholders, a small loan from the bank: he wanted the least amount of hassle.

  He’d surveyed his prey for a long time. He’d discovered that the owner was in financial trouble and needed to shore up a larger interest in the south. He’d made a good offer, considering. The hotel was five-star, but a little worn. The recession had curtailed people’s lust for travel, but the economic climate was in recovery: it was a great time to buy.

  He would take it to a new level. There was the possible issue of staff loyalty but he didn’t foresee a problem. People loved to be employed by a grand hotel. It proved you were a good worker, it showed you could cope in a high pressure environment: no one would be rushing to give notice. They would be relieved that the business was once again in safe hands, that their jobs were assured. He had no intention of making drastic changes, just essential ones. The tradition of the hotel would continue, except better. A hotel like this should run off its reputation, and under his control, it would fly.

  All he had to do was sign, and the place would be his. Tonight would herald the birth of his Roman empire.

  He’d tell Felicia the news, and they’d have cocktails on the balcony, looking on to the lake as the sun set. Felicia was a country girl: she did like to fuck in the fresh air. He’d persuaded her to borrow Cannadine’s nanny for the week; thank God she hadn’t refused or they’d have spent the holiday living like monks. Not that Claudia was any bother, the child was an angel. He rolled over in his sun lounger to look at her.

  ‘Hello, Daddy!’ She waved to him from the diving board of the large freshwater pool. ’Watch me jump!’

  She was so sweet in her little pink flowery swimsuit – and so fearless. No armbands and only just four.

  ‘Are you ready, Mummy? Don’t catch me though! I can do it!’

  Felicia beamed. She was easily the most stunning woman there, in her red and white swirly bikini – probably he should have mentioned to her that the white bits went translucent in the water. ‘Ready! Steady!’

  ‘GO!’ they shouted together. He laughed as Claudia disappeared into the blue then burst out of the water like a seal. She was divine.

  It was Baby Nathan who was the problem.

  Jack got a sick feeling in his gut when he thought about that child. The Adoption Agency’s probation period of three months was complete and he was legally theirs, hence the ‘celebration’ holiday. But when Jack held Baby Nathan, he felt … blank. There was no love there. Nothing. When he’d first held Claudia, it was a hallowed moment. He’d never forget what his wife had said as she cradled that warm bundle for the first time. Oddly formal words but so fitting: ‘This child is my salvation.’

  She’d written in her diary, and showed him: I am so happy. My cracked heart is whole again. I am instantly a mother, I love that child with my whole being, I would crawl across deserts, I would swim across seas for that tiny girl.

  Nathan might have been a plastic doll for all the warmth Jack felt towards him. He hoped that a bond would establish itself in time but what if it didn’t? Was it he, Jack, having some insane reaction to a male competing for Felicia’s attention? Ludicrous! Or was it that you could take a dislike to a person, any person, instantly? Nathan had a face like a Halloween pumpkin, his mouth nearly always open in a grotesque howl. Jack felt dirty having such cold, unkind thoughts about an eight-month-old baby. But if he was honest, he hoped that a miracle would occur, and that Baby Nathan would vanish from his life.

  Jack hadn’t even held Nathan this holiday. Touching the child made his skin crawl. If Felicia had noticed … he shuddered. Nanny was delighted to potter around with ‘the tot’ – he was impressed with the mettle of the woman, actually. He admired people who took their job seriously. He’d quite like Nanny to be his nanny, to organize his life. Felicia did her best – he recalled that dinner party where she’d served home-made lemon meringue pie with no base – but she wasn’t super-efficient in that brisk, emotionless, British way that Nanny was.

  He glanced at his watch, a white-gold Patek Philippe: nearly six o’clock! The meeting was at seven.

  ‘Darling!’

  Felicia looked up and smiled. Her blond hair was in a high ponytail, and he could see that sleek French woman under the large yellow sunhat hawk-eyeing her every move. Funny, how women watched women. The men could tromp around in green monster suits for all they cared.

  Felicia hauled Claudia out of the pool and they both splishsplashed over.

  ‘Sweetheart, I have some business with the hotel management. It shouldn’t take long – an hour? I should be finished by eight. I might want you to join us for drinks in the executive lounge. Then again, I might just want to’ – he lowered his voice to a husk – ‘celebrate privately in our suite.’

  Felicia arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, aren’t you just full of surprises and demands, my honey! I knew this was more than a holiday. So would you like me to be waiting in my little Italian maid outfit, or will a dull old Chanel evening dress and pink diamonds do the trick?’

  He loved her. ‘Surprise me,’ he said.

  They kissed.

  ‘Be good for Nanny,’ he told Claudia. ‘Say … hello to Nathan for me. Night night, darling.’

  He whistled in the shower – even though he was a terrible whistler; it was a small failing as a man. He whistled as he put on his ice-blue Ferragamo suit. (Its immaculate cut always met with knowing approval in London – God forbid that Ferragamo was the C&A of Italy! Still, at £850, he doubt
ed it.) He whistled as he sauntered along the corridor to the Executive Meeting Room. Outside, a stunning young woman with shiny hair and blue eyes sat behind a desk. She stood up as he approached.

  ‘Mr Kent, good evening. Mr and Mrs Maltese are expecting you. Your secretary has also arrived. Please follow me.’

  If Maltese was going to drag along his wife, he should have brought Felicia. But this was a business meeting, not a dinner dance. It had been enough of a fuss to persuade his secretary that a weekend trip to Italy was not a punishment. He got the feeling that she didn’t like to miss Coronation Street. She was definitely in line for the chop. He imagined getting Nanny dolled up in a business suit to take minutes – if only! But he suspected that stealing another man’s nanny was worse than stealing his wife. It was out of the question. Once you’d stooped to nanny-stealing, your entire moral fibre was called into question. What next: goosing your mother-in-law?

  He took a breath, trying to appear calm. Come on, Kent, it’s business, forget what it means to you. It’s only business.

  He walked in, a relaxed smile on his face, his hand outstretched to greet Mrs Maltese first. Always the lady first – oh good God! His smile vanished, and so did hers. She wrenched away her hand and turned to her husband, babbling in hysterical Italian. Jesus, she was actually crying, the mad old witch! It was like watching a horror movie, except he was in it! Mr Maltese, an immaculate old-school gentleman – bugger, why couldn’t he have been a louche old playboy – turned to Jack. The look on his face was utter disdain.

  ‘I am so sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘but I cannot do business with a man who insults my wife. This hotel, it is a family business, and we have run it for many years. When I sell, it matters to whom. My reputation remains joined to this hotel, and my reputation is everything to me. I cannot in good faith hand over the lasso … pardon, the reins of this hotel to a person with such moral behaviour as … yourself. A deal is a deal, but it is not everything. I feel that my reputation is worth more.’