Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  His chief accountant had pursed his lips, but there was still a fine margin, and Jack knew that the pleasure of a perfect breakfast was worth its weight in rebookings. No one was a tourist these days, and they resented being treated as such. Delicious food served in pleasant surroundings by charming staff: it was more than a recipe for success, it was a guarantee.

  The Kents must have been the first people who had sat in those soft silver-backed chairs in that sun-streaked dining room staring at a chic glass vase of white lilac and been bloody miserable. Claudia had nibbled at a piece of dry toast, sighed, sipped water, patted her concave stomach, and murmured, ‘I’m so full up.’

  Innocence had a scowl so fierce that it was creasing her forehead; a feat as she had recently had … it was a new treatment that did away with laughter lines, he hadn’t been listening when she told him, just watching her mouth move. What was it called? ‘Buttocks’? Innocence had shuddered at the sight of food, drunk four cups of tea containing three sugars, and was waggling her foot in a nervous tic under the table – caffeine? Nicotine? Irritation? The woman was a poised whip of barely contained aggression. Claudia cringed beside her like a dog expecting a kick.

  Innocence rarely looked happy. He didn’t know what she’d expected: to rule his empire with him? He’d made it pretty plain at the start. He needed a woman who would lift him up where he belonged, and she would be handsomely paid for her trouble, but not in that way. He had a select team of highly intelligent (and highly paid) motivated specialists who ran his interests. Innocence had good instincts but she was inexperienced in business. She was born into privilege, she’d never even worked!

  So, Innocence had done her bit, but reluctantly, which pissed him off. It had been an acquaintance of hers – one of the many men schmoozed during her charity-lunch years, as she called them – who had sponsored his membership at Lloyd’s. He’d assumed it was Harry’s influence, since the guy mixed with that set, but it turned out Harry knew nothing of it. Innocence had done her duty, and yet … She hadn’t wanted it to happen – there was an underlying sense of competition, a resentment of him treading on her aristocratic toes. She wasn’t sharp enough to understand the collateral benefits that came from being a Name. The investments he was able to make subsequent to his inauguration, the investors he was able to attract – he believed that snobbery and class had added thirty million to his worth in three years.

  Why couldn’t money buy happiness? It bought everything else. And yet the thought of the four of them, designer-clad and sour-faced around his exclusive New York hotel breakfast table, plunged him into gloom.

  Emily, at least, had enjoyed the food. She was seven years old and had the social decorum of a wolf. She had gobbled up, with her mouth open, a plate of pork and apple sausages with bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and scrambled egg. She’d then crammed a Danish pastry into her mouth while drinking a chocolate milkshake from a straw. As a finale, she’d spilled the half-pint milkshake all over her pink dress, the chair and the floor. The rest had spread across the table and dripped on to Jack’s cashmere pinstripe trousers.

  Emily had then had what appeared to be an epileptic fit – wailing and howling and jumping up and kicking over her chair. This had provoked a bout of coughing so dramatic it had made her violently sick. He’d felt as if he was in The Exorcist. Jack had resisted the impulse to call security and hauled her out of the dining room himself. It was like trying to wrestle with a prize salmon, and he feared that several of his guests had been splattered with chocolate milkshake and vomit as she flipped and arched on her way into the lobby.

  It had been so astonishingly unrelaxing. He blamed Innocence for spoiling Emily. She was like an out-of-control three-year-old. His chief concierge had organized a private helicopter tour of Manhattan, but Jack was overjoyed when the inscrutable Ms Green murmured about the video conference with LA having to take place at nine rather than twelve because of five other pressing appointments at ten, ten thirty, eleven, eleven fifteen, and a quarter to midday. He’d escaped to the boardroom, flanked by Ms Green, the Head of Management, and the CFO of Élite Retreat Enterprises, and discussed budgets with relief.

  This was where he excelled, and he found that he disliked Innocence for her presumption in thinking that she deserved a place around this grand oak table. He also disliked her for disliking him for withholding it. She had a nerve. She was living the high life because of him. Her paltry two million wouldn’t have lasted a few months with her spending habits! She might have opened a few doors, but it was his shrewd nature and business savvy that had built an empire. She couldn’t even raise two kids effectively. Claudia was a fuck-up and Emily was a brat.

  He hadn’t even allowed her to dabble in the Science Lab: his nickname for the Spyglass Island retreat in French Polynesia, the place where he tested ideas and made his mistakes. There, she couldn’t do much damage – the damage to Spyglass Island had already been done. It was the only hotel still operating at a loss. After the paedophile fiasco, they’d made the mistake of going too cheap, which had discredited the hotel further and attracted a bunch of Eurotrash. They’d pulled back sharply from the error, revamped, bumped up the prices – and three months later the place had been reduced to a pile of firewood by a typhoon.

  He’d considered awarding Innocence a token directorship with a big salary and zero power, but she was too pushy – it had put him off. She was forever presenting him with her cute ideas: going-home presents for every guest; a personal horoscope prepared for those who liked that kind of horseshit. It had put him off her. The sex had dwindled, and Jack was a man who liked his sex. It had also occurred to him that Innocence liked hers – so what was she doing? She wasn’t a big fan of sex for one. As she said, she didn’t like to get her hands dirty.

  She wasn’t joking. One evening, he’d walked in while Innocence was having a bath, and she was wearing yellow rubber gloves.

  She’d seen the look on his face and said, ‘Water ages your skin.’

  It was true, he’d thought, staring at her, that she had beautiful, soft, youthful hands, but … ‘This doesn’t happen by itself!’ she’d said, indicating her gorgeous form with a huge yellow glove.

  ‘No,’ he’d said, backing out of the room.

  Jack wanted to shift in his seat, but fidgeting was a sign of nerves, and his lawyers, his PA and his advisers were flanking him in a severe grey line of suits and briefcases along one side of the table, so he sat still, a study in self-possession. Truth was, he was bricking it, and he could feel the sweat cooling damply on his Jermyn Street collar. He tended to chuck away his shirts after a few wears – he wanted to rip this one off now.

  There had been ugly rumours – well, more than rumours - surrounding Lloyd’s for a while now. He’d known about Sasse 762, the syndicate of 110 Names forced to cough up forty million dollars until the Committee had stepped in and relieved them of most of the liability. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars each, in the end – not so bad. Anyway, he’d been told it was an isolated case. But the panic hadn’t gone away. There were murmurs of fraud among underwriters. In the previous year, there had been ridiculous claims, enormous cash calls, refusals to pay, suspended Names – it was a series of events as unlikely as the existence of the Tooth Fairy and Jack had shut his ears, ignoring the sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. At first he’d been relieved when his agent and sponsor refused to confirm that anything was wrong. The most they’d said about Sasse and the others was ‘wrong syndicate – bad luck’.

  But as the stories persisted, his relief had evaporated.

  Jack hated to speak ill of the aristocracy but he was beginning to distrust his sponsor—where the fuck had Innocence met this slimeball? Now that Jack was less willing to be impressed, he saw the man with new eyes. He was so smooth, so slippery you expected to look behind him and see a snail trail. His heart beat fast, fighting its way through the medication. What exactly was at stake here?

  Everything?

  He wouldn’t
believe it. He couldn’t. Lloyd’s had to be OK. Only three years ago, the company had moved into a glittering new space-age building, twelve storeys high, gunmetal grey, with gorgeous views over the City and the Thames. He fingered his gold membership card. It would be the same as being betrayed by your own mother.

  These people had to take care of him. He had trusted them, as much as he trusted anyone: they were in charge of the country because they knew what they were doing. He was half ashamed of this reflex respect for authority as it reminded him that he was, at heart, a commoner, that he believed, in some way, these people were better than he was. It was pathetic, but it was a conviction that he was powerless to control. And he wanted to believe in them. It was like believing aged five that your father was a benevolent god: if, or when, that belief was shattered, you were shattered with it.

  He stood as the Chairman stepped into the room, followed by what Miss Green termed ‘an Embarrassment of Pinstripes’. He didn’t want to stand – he felt that his status no longer required him to stand. His status was why he had ordered his driver to park in the Chairman’s reserved parking space. But he stood, because he wanted to be perceived as a gentleman – not a man who had earned his status, but one who had been born to it.

  ‘Jack, old chap,’ said the Chairman, swooping down with a crushing handshake and a tight smile. ‘Always a pleasure. I hear you want to love us and leave us.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Correct.’

  The Chairman pursed his lips. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.’

  MIDDLESEX, ENGLAND, 1991

  Claudia

  When she got married, she’d have sex once, to have a baby, then never again. Claudia just knew that this would cause a stink with her husband, whoever he might be – some perfect man, around twenty, living his life in alarming ignorance of the fact he was destined to be with her. But her hero would have a strong sex drive; he wouldn’t be masculine otherwise: she’d read enough Harlequin romances to know the score. It was frustrating and confusing. She was resigned to becoming a spinster and buying a load of cats.

  Claudia sighed, kept walking up the hill to Ruth’s house and tried not to cry on the street. She wasn’t like other sixteen-year-olds. Her life was a total disaster, and it had been a disaster from day one. She had the worst luck of anyone, ever. It always went wrong for her. She despised her blood mother for giving her away, she was angry at Felicia for dying, she hated that witch, Innocence, who had tricked Daddy into marrying her, obviously for money: unlucky. They weren’t happy. There was no hugging, ever, just crisp exchanges of information.

  They’d fallen out of love. God, her marriage would never be like that. They’d be kissing all the time. Just no … shit … why was sex such a big thing? She liked the seduction bit. Every night she dreamed of a handsome stranger, dark, tall, with strong arms (she hadn’t yet assigned him a face), pulling her to him in a passionate embrace, possibly in the desert … well, somewhere hot anyway, with bougainvillea and her in a white floaty dress. She’d been running from him, hair flowing in the breeze; a gentle protest, then he crushed her lips to his.

  And then … what? He drove her home and they folded the washing? She liked the idea of the chase. Just not what happened when you got caught. She couldn’t stand the idea of a man she fancied seeing her exposed. She didn’t feel sexy, or – gross word ahoy – sexual. She felt disgusting. The idea of doing it … fluids … smells … it made her feel dirty and ashamed. She knew she should be over the ‘incident’ on Spyglass, but she wasn’t and she never would be. The second a boy tried to kiss her – Alfie, once, for a joke, on her fifteenth birthday – she’d sweat and tremble and feel that man forcing her head down – and then she’d retch and gasp for air that she couldn’t get as her throat constricted like a drawstring bag, and she’d fumble for her inhaler.

  Not attractive.

  In her mind, she was still a fat, awkward fourteen-year-old, even though she’d lost the weight. She’d done it by puking. She wanted to be thin enough to snap. But she was a pig – she’ d be good for days, eight raisins and three peanuts for breakfast, lettuce for lunch, crispbread with a scrape of butter for dinner – but then a sly little idea about gorging herself on chocolate would creep into her head … a wicked roll-call of KitKats, Mars bars, Toblerones flashing before her eyes … and the desire would swell and balloon, consuming her, harassing her, taking hold – torturing her with pernicious spite, urging her on, until she stuffed her face.

  She’d feel sated, for a brief moment. Then the self-loathing would swarm over her, and she’d sneak to the bathroom and jam a finger down her throat. Afterwards, she’d feel high and desperate, weak and triumphant. She hated herself. Why not – everyone else did. When the first cash call came from Lloyd’s, this year, darling Emily remained at her precious public school, but stupid Claudia was removed from hers and stuck in the local comp. The girls there were savage.

  She had no reference point for a stranger who came up and spat in your face for no reason. It was like being dumped in a foreign country where you broke every rule without realizing and were brutally punished. Once, after she found that someone had used her shoulder bag as a … toilet, she’d made the error of reporting it. The following day, a girl strode up and head-butted her, breaking her nose. Innocence had taken her to a private hospital without comment. Claudia had said, ‘I tripped.’ Her stepmother had replied, ‘I didn’t ask.’

  She was vile. And Daddy had pretended he couldn’t see it, the coward. Emily was supremely selfish – out only for herself and what she could get. But most people were fooled. At nine, Emily was bright, beautiful, charming and talented. A fabulous horsewoman. An excellent skier. She could ice skate, ballet dance, sing – of course she could, she was tutored by experts. She excelled in English and maths. She was crap at chemistry but who cared about chemistry? She was funny, charming and people loved her. They didn’t see her dark side: her jealous nature, insane ambition, crazy rages, the fact that not only did she need to win, she needed everyone else to lose.

  It was so sad. They’d been friends, once.

  Daddy had built one of the most successful businesses in the world. But he’d failed to build a family. As a unit, the four of them were a pitiful failure. And it was getting worse.

  Daddy had been in a foul mood for three years now. Ever since it had dawned that he hadn’t been proposed as a Lloyd’s Name because he was a good old boy, but because he was a gullible, social climbing nouvie. What was the phrase in the newspapers? Recruit to dilute.

  He was financial cannon fodder; he and his new money had been used by those who had inherited theirs: to sponge up a fraction of the blue chip insurance firm’s monstrous losses. Daddy was already paying out but the worst – the ultimate financial death blow that would reduce them to poverty – was imminent. The fear – his fear – was palpable, and catching. Like waiting for a monster to hunt you down and eat you.

  She worried for him, despite herself. No one else did. Innocence and Emily seemed oddly unbothered. Maybe they didn’t realize the seriousness of the situation. Maybe they thought that some miracle would occur, and it would be all right in the end, that Lloyd’s would make an exception for them. No, no, we won’t take your money, and your furniture and your house. You’re too important – you’re you! People were curious like that. They believed that nothing bad could happen to them, only everyone else. Claudia believed the opposite. Everything bad could happen to her, and it did. It already had.

  She had three real friends in the world, and that was it. Her grandmother, Ruth, her childhood pal, Alfie, and her pen friend, Lucy. If it weren’t for them, she’d struggle to keep sane. She didn’t see Ruth or Alfie as often as she wanted to, and as for Lucy, they had met only once, and she was so stupid she couldn’t actually remember – but Daddy held such huge parties how could you remember all the people who’d come over and said hello? Well, she and Lucy would meet again – one day.

  Innocence
disapproved of Claudia seeing Ruth, because Claudia was Ruth’s favourite. Ruth, unlike everyone else, had no time for Emily, and this made Innocence as mad as a rabid dog.

  Alfie was still a good friend, but he had his own life mapped out. He was probably the only good thing ever to come out of Eton. He was reading economics at Oxford. He’d train as an officer at Sandhurst, and would end up in the City. He would marry a solid, sexy girl with a raucous laugh and strong hips whose father was a judge. She’d be disgustingly fertile and they’d have four beautiful blond children. They’d live in a fabulous country house, own chickens and an Aga. Claudia couldn’t think of a worse animal than a chicken, and she had zero interest in cooking, but she still hated Alfie’s fantasy bride and imagined many a Sloane-inspired fatality: teeing off at Wentworth, golf club strike to the head; terrible weather at Ascot, slipping on to racecourse, trampled by runaway horse; Queen Charlotte ball, hastily accepted dance invitation, choking to death on olive …

  Thank God for Lucy.

  Lucy understood. Lucy understood because she was in a similar situation. There was so much bile and rage in Claudia’s head that if she didn’t let some of it out she felt as if she would explode. So it came out in her letters to Lucy. Lucy knew more about her than anyone else on this earth, and Lucy didn’t judge. Their friendship had begun two years ago when Lucy had plucked up the courage to initiate contact. She’d met Claudia at one of her father’s parties. She was the daughter of a friend of a cousin and she didn’t know anyone; they’d chatted briefly. Claudia probably wouldn’t recall (she didn’t) but now Lucy was writing to thank her for being so sweet. To be honest, she needed a friend, someone kind: her home life was … less than ideal.