Golden Boy

by Rosemary Friedman

  The first-floor drawing-room overlooked the park. Given a free hand by Freddie, Jane had installed eighteenth-century panelling, and enhanced the grandeur of the room with a Louis XVI chimney piece topped by a massive gilt mirror. Having created her shell, which she decorated in shades of deep coral, she proceeded to furnish it with the glossy patina of antique pieces, Belgian tapestries, sofas piled high with richly embroidered cushions and the silk glow of Persian rugs. Double doors, left permanently open, allowed additional light to travel into the high-ceilinged room from the hall.

  The dining-room, by contrast, was dark. By the use of spotlights and mirrors, and with a certain wry humour, Jane had turned it into a seraglio. She employed specialist craftsmen to paint the walls faux tortoiseshell, and had added a lacquered dado and cornice. Moulded cupboards housed her collection of china and porcelain and cunningly concealed the dumbwaiter, while fourteen chairs with leopard-skin seats, a black marble chimney piece, and Mexican amber glassware, completed the melodramatic setting for the Lomax dinner parties.

  In the master bedroom with its king-sized bed, Jane, in a volte face, had used the faded tints of old prints – pastel-striped wallpaper, muted carpet, and delicate fabrics – to create an oasis of calm for herself and Freddie.

  As far as Freddie was concerned his house, in addition to fulfilling his childhood dream, was an investment which was set to double in value within five years. Delivering it from its years of neglect, and restoring it to its former glory, not only made sound economic sense, but would provide a fitting setting for him in the future, when Gordon Sitwell retired and he became chairman of the bank.

  In the kitchen Freddie found his daughter, in second-skin cycling shorts and a sleeveless Lycra top, the remains of the previous night’s mascara still round her eyes, plugged into her Walkman and inert at the table. There were grotesque blue tattoos, one of which looked like a poor representation of the Amazon rain forest, on her forearms.

  ‘Rosina…’

  Without unplugging herself, Rosina spat on a finger and rubbed at the rain forest which disintegrated at her touch. She pushed a clumsily wrapped parcel towards Freddie. He assumed it was his birthday present.

  Unwrapping the layers of recycled brown paper, followed by layers of newspaper, followed by layers of crumpled tissue paper, took him back to the game of pass the parcel which he had played as a small boy. Although Lilli pretended not to look as she played the piano for the circle of school friends who sat cross-legged on the floor, he knew that his mother deliberately took her hands off the keys whenever the many-layered package landed in his lap. Removing the final sheet of paper, Freddie came to a concertinaed cereal box. Inside it was a psychedelic, hand-painted glass paperweight. He assumed it had come from Camden Lock where Rosina had once sat on the kerb while a handsome Nigerian pulled the strands of her hair, one by one, through a hole in a sheet of cardboard and beaded them painstakingly. Kissing Rosina, who jumped up and down like an affectionate young puppy, and removing her clinging arms, Freddie put the pyramid into his briefcase. It would look very well on his desk.

  Five

  Leonard, Freddie’s driver, was about to turn the Mercedes out of Chester Terrace, when he caught sight in his mirror of a frantic Rosina, her school bag over her shoulder, running to catch up with the car. Glancing at Freddie who was on the phone, and knowing that it was as much as his job was worth to ask his boss to wait, he reduced his speed as much as he dared.

  Hanging up on his stockbroker, Freddie nodded to Leonard to wait for Rosina. She was well aware that if she was not ready on time and waiting for him she forfeited her lift to school for her early rehearsal, and also that her father was a soft touch. Wrenching open the door, she fell headlong into the car and collapsed on the seat beside him.

  Freddie took her hand with its bitten nails but did not attempt a conversation with his daughter. Rosina would be capable of only grunts, or at the best monosyllables, for at least the next hour. He got on well with Rosina, who seemed to him to be perfectly amiable until he listened to Jane. Rosina had been an exemplary baby and a good-natured child. From the age of 12 however, when she had begun to reduce Jane to tears in communal fitting-rooms the length and breadth of the King’s Road, they had been at loggerheads. Rosina was hostile to her mother and rolled her eyes to the ceiling when addressed by her. Although she had enough lotions and potions of her own to make up the entire cast of The Phantom of the Opera, she borrowed Jane’s cosmetics and forgot to give them back. According to Jane, Rosina dropped her discarded clothes on the floor – instead of in the dirty-linen bin where there was at least a chance of them becoming clean again – and declined to do anything about her room which not only reeked of joss sticks but was a repository for boxes of Tampax, empty cassette cases, Third Eye candles, and discarded coffee mugs containing biological cultures at various stages of growth. When Jane had a migraine and was resting, Rosina would barge thoughtlessly into the darkened bedroom and demand money for the cinema or the loan of some tights. When her mother had arranged her drawing-room to her liking – Jane spent endless time moving the furniture an inch or two one way or another – Rosina would bring in her friends in their Doc Martens to watch a video, and leave 7-Up cans on the carpet, peanuts in the armchairs, and Jane’s strategically placed cushions on the floor. Despite the fact that she had her own bathroom she had no hesitation, when she wanted to wash her burning bush of frizzy hair – a significant and time-consuming occupation – about monopolising Jane’s and leaving long red hairs in the washbasin. Freddie, who could not really sympathise with what he saw as Jane’s trivial complaints, until Rosina used his high-tech equipment to listen to rap and acid house, intervened only when called upon to do so.

  Rosina played her parents off one against the other. She wheedled money out of Freddie for converse boots, or a Coach bag for her school books – she was the only one in the class not to have them – assuring him that Mummy had said it was all right, when Jane had said no such thing. She complained to Freddie that Jane was always ‘getting at her’, and swore to Jane that Daddy had said she could come in at three in the morning after a Saturday night out. Rosina was a warm and demonstrative girl, cuddling up to her father in private, and exhibiting him with pride to her friends. She was good at school, particularly at drama – the histrionics of which extended into her home life and had landed her the coveted lead in the current production of Kiss me Kate – and considerate to her grandmother whom she visited often and with whom she had a special relationship. Freddie could not really see what Jane made such a fuss about.

  Tristan was another matter. Ever since he was born he had been able to do no wrong in his mother’s eyes. At 16, thoroughly pampered by Jane, and protected by her whenever Freddie had attempted to discipline him, he constantly opposed his father whom he accused of being both a reactionary and what he contemptuously referred to as a merchant ‘wanker’. At the age of 13, bright but difficult, he had brought home consistently poor reports from his academic day school where he refused to conform. He was almost as tall as Freddie, cocky and contentious, and the house could no longer contain him. Despite Jane’s protests, Freddie had sent him to boarding school. At Bedales, where the staff were known by their first names and the pupils were uninhibited by authority, Tristan, wearing a black singlet, and sandals from a Dorset friary, became a useful and popular member of his year. Allowed to express himself freely, he found that he had a talent for sculpting, devoted himself to Amnesty, played tenor sax (jazz) at the parents’ day concerts, and contributed esoteric poems to the school magazine. On his weekends at home he was waited on by his mother, argued with his father, and fought with Rosina, whom he constantly goaded. Sometimes Freddie could hardly wait to take him back to the station. He had willingly agreed to finance an expedition to India, which would keep Tristan out of his hair that summer, and had promised him driving lessons and a car.

  As the Mercedes drew up outside Queen’s College, Rosina kissed Freddie, now on the ph
one to Boston. Leonard opened the door for her and – with a wink at her ally – she fell into the arms of a 15-year-old Boadicea, her face almost obliterated by a curtain of plum-coloured hair, who greeted her as if she hadn’t seen her for ten years, instead of two and a half days, and flashed her eyes at Freddie over Rosina’s shoulder.

  As the Mercedes turned into Cavendish Square, Freddie enquired about the health of his driver’s wife and family who had almost been evicted from their terraced cottage in St Albans after falling behind with the mortgage repayments. The order had been served, the bailiffs had arrived to change the locks, and Leonard was already piling up their belongings on the pavement, when Freddie, who had heard about his dispossession through the bank grapevine, had stepped in with a large personal loan.

  Seeing Leonard’s eyes, meeting his own in the driving mirror, fill with tears of gratitude, he rapidly changed the subject to an item in the newspaper he was reading.

  ‘I see some busybody in Birmingham is developing a “black box” for company cars.’

  ‘Is that right, sir?’

  ‘It can record mileage, measure the time taken for each journey, and check speeds.’

  ‘What would be the point of that, sir?’

  ‘Prevention of accidents. The equipment would give precise details of the vehicle’s speed and braking in the two minutes before impact, and transfer the information, within seconds, through an infra-red gun, to the company’s main computer.’

  ‘We’d better watch out on the motorway then, sir!’

  Leonard was referring to the fact that Freddie did not dissuade him from breaking the speed limit on the M1.

  Having succeeded in diverting Leonard, Freddie dismissed from his mind such considerations as his driver’s building society arrears, Rosina, his unwarranted entry into his fifth decade and the party Jane was giving to mark the occasion, and directed his attention to the business of the day.

  He had every reason to congratulate himself. His successful defence of Corinthian Hotels – a personal triumph which had been announced only late on Friday afternoon after Gordon Sitwell had gone home for the weekend – had confirmed his high reputation in the City.

  Working flat out over the past few months, and using all the skills at his disposal, he had managed to convince all but one of the most influential Corinthian Hotel shareholders to reject the hostile bid by Apex Holdings. Only Roger Randall, on whose vote depended the success or failure of his assignment, had remained impervious to either Freddie’s blandishments or his charm.

  Randall, the retired chairman of Randall’s Breweries, owner of 6 per cent of the equity in Corinthian Hotels and a multimillionaire, was notoriously both an obstinate and avaricious man. Unable, even after several meetings, to persuade the old boy to oppose the Apex bid which would add a few more thousand pounds to his already overflowing coffers, Freddie backed off for a while to work out a plan of action.

  Following a hunch, he flew up to Liverpool to see an old friend and one-time client, Clive Bonney. Bonney was chairman of the Galaxy Hotels chain which was, in its own small way, in competition with Corinthian. As Freddie had suspected, Clive Bonney – together with everyone else in the hotel business – had been following developments with interest.

  Over a good lunch at the Adelphi Hotel, Freddie brought up the subject of Corinthian Hotels and asked Bonney what he thought of the Apex bid. Bonney’s reply was exactly what he had expected.

  ‘I’ll be damned sorry to see them go to Apex,’ Bonney said. ‘I know their bid’s a load of rubbish. You know their bid’s a load of rubbish.’ He pointed his cigar at Freddie. ‘They couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery, never mind run a hotel. They don’t know the first thing about it.’

  ‘Why don’t you put in a bid?’ Freddie asked casually.

  ‘Outside my league. I’ve had me eye on them for years.’

  ‘It would certainly put Galaxy on the map…’

  ‘It’s a question of funding. Money’s always been the problem as far as Corinthian’s concerned.’

  Freddie took a deep breath. ‘I want to ask you a question.’

  ‘Fire away.

  ‘Suppose I were to find the money…’

  ‘You!’

  ‘…With the guarantee that Sitwell Hunt will make up any shortfall.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Would you be interested in making a bid for Corinthian sometime next year?’

  ‘If you can put your money where your mouth is – and I’ve no reason, Freddie, to believe otherwise – I’d be very interested.’ He ground his cigar firmly into the ashtray. ‘I’d be more than interested.’

  Bonney’s eagerness to get his hands on the Corinthian Hotel chain was all that Freddie needed.

  His next move was to do nothing at all until documents had been sent out by Apex Holdings to the Corinthian shareholders. He allowed what he gauged was sufficient time for Roger Randall to give further consideration to the offer, then called him to say there had been an interesting development which could be to his advantage. A further meeting was set up and Freddie made straight for the brewer’s Achilles’ heel.

  ‘I understand that the Galaxy Hotels chain, which has always had its eye on Corinthian, is considering making a bid for it sometime next year.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘It is my considered opinion, Mr Randall, that if you were to wait a bit, you stand to make a great deal more money than you would by accepting the present Apex offer.’

  The bait was taken.

  ‘What makes you so sure, Lomax?’

  ‘I have reliable information to that effect.’

  ‘How reliable?’

  ‘Extremely reliable.’

  ‘I’d need to check that independently.’

  Freddie’s heart was banging like a bidder’s at an auction sale. ‘Would confirmation from the chairman of Galaxy put your mind at rest?’

  The next moment was crucial. Failure to defend the Apex bid was inadmissible. As a boy he had been rewarded for good behaviour and success had been encouraged. His mother had not troubled to hide her disapproval manifested by the withdrawal of her love, if he did not perform well. He had not failed his mother, and he had no intention of failing either Sitwell Hunt or himself.

  Randall’s silence, in which the wheels of his brain could almost be heard revolving, was broken only by the rattle of Freddie’s worry beads. He wondered if he had got the old man’s number as accurately as he had thought.

  When the silence became intolerable Randall narrowed his hooded eyes and said: ‘I might just give Clive Bonney a bell.’

  The fish was hooked.

  At lunchtime on Friday – after the expiry of the final deadline – acceptances had been received from only 47.2 per cent of the Corinthian shareholders. After a long-drawn-out battle, Freddie had finally been successful. The Apex bid had failed.

  Six

  As the Mercedes approached the bank, the sight of a bag lady wandering the city streets muttering to herself, made Freddie think of Lilli. He had taken it upon himself to care for his mother as his father would have done had he been alive, but it was not always easy. His conversation with her that morning, a circular discourse which had centred largely on the diminishing contents of her fruit bowl, had left him with the distinct impression that the days of the new carer were numbered and that Mrs Williams would last no longer than the rest. The diplomacy which stood him in good stead as head of corporate finance was as nothing compared with that which he had to employ when dealing with Lilli whose wellbeing accounted for a disproportionate amount of his time.

  He visited his mother every Tuesday, often rescheduling his trips abroad in order not to disappoint her. After dinner he would force himself to sit with her for half an hour and listen to music – Lilli’s arthritic fingers keeping time on some imaginary piano – until, anxious to get back to his paperwork and his unmade calls, and with a discreet glance at his watch, he would announce that it was ti
me for him to go, a statement guaranteed to provoke the response that he had only just arrived.

  When he was growing up he had assumed that there was some stage at which you detached yourself from your parents, and that the emancipation, like graduation, would come somewhere after puberty and leaving home. He had never managed to work out why at the age of 40 he still cared what Lilli thought about him; why her criticism, which he was unable to accept with mature detachment as a mere statement of opinion, mattered; why, when he was capable of supporting a family, running a department, making multimillion-pound decisions, owning a home, and paying his dues to the Inland Revenue, she was still capable of making him feel like a small boy; and why, no matter how much attention he gave her, how much thought and energy he expended on her behalf, he was always left with the uncomfortable feeling that somehow he had let her down.

  A silver Porsche, with the number plate H6 TAN (well known in the City as the ‘undertaker’s car’), drawing to a halt on the double yellow lines outside the head office of Universal Concrete, one of Britain’s largest construction firms, banished all thoughts of Lilli. Telling Leonard to slow down, Freddie watched with amazement as Tarquin Chapman, senior partner in the liquidators Chapman Tansley, looking extremely pleased with himself and carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase, got out of the car, looked quickly to right and left, and hurried into the building.

  With so many businesses now either going into administrative receivership or being placed in intensive care by the banks, the sight of the undertaker, who prospered (to the tune of £350 an hour) not so much in spite of the recession but because of it, was not uncommon. When companies went bust, firms such as Tansley’s were called in to salvage anything of value after the banks had recouped their secured loans, and took on the debtors to the swingeing tune of 15 per cent.