“Well, I can’t help worrying about her,” he said. “She’s been very brave, telling us about all the parties and so on she’s going to, but the fact remains she’ll wake up alone on Christmas morning and go to bed alone on Christmas night. And have her friends wondering why she isn’t at least coming up here to be with her grandchildren, if we can’t go down there.”
“Richard, I just said she could have been up here. Oh, this is a ridiculous conversation. I haven’t time for it, anyway. Have you got any more Sellotape? I have about a dozen parcels still to wrap up and we’ve got to go to the church in an hour.”
There was a long silence, then he said, “I would not have believed you could have become so hard, Debbie. So hard and so—so aggressive. It makes me very unhappy.” And he walked out of the room and slammed the door.
Soon after, he reappeared. “Now the children are upset,” he said. “You know how they hate us quarrelling at Christmas.”
“Richard, I’m sorry, but I seem to remember it was you who started this, you who slammed the door, when all I wanted was a bit of Sellotape. For God’s sake, why don’t you help instead of picking on me?”
“Oh, just shut up,” he said. “I really have had—”
And then Emma appeared in the doorway, her eyes full of tears. “Just stop it!” she said. “It’s horrible, you shouldn’t be quarrelling at Christmas; it’s a time for being happy, loving one another, doing what Jesus would want.”
“Oh, darling,” said Debbie, remorse flooding her, “darling, I’m sorry. It wasn’t a real quarrel, just—”
“Yes, it was. I heard Daddy shouting at you. So—make up friends. Now. Say you’re sorry, go on, both of you, in turn, and then Daddy, give Mummy a kiss and then Mummy give Daddy one.”
Debbie looked at Richard and felt suddenly overwhelmed with mirth. It was a bit like the marriage service, she felt, being told what to say each in turn by a third party; and then being told that the groom might now kiss the bride.
She managed not to laugh—just; and then said dutifully, “I’m sorry, Richard.”
“Good. Now Daddy…”
Richard remained silent.
“Daddy. Go on.”
“Go on, Richard,” said Debbie. “I did.”
“I’m sorry,” he said very quickly.
“Right. Now Daddy, kiss Mummy. Go on…”
Finally satisfied, Emma left the room; Debbie started to laugh. Richard stared at her, then reluctantly smiled too.
“Come on now,” she said, “do it again. I wasn’t very impressed with that kiss. I didn’t feel you meant it.”
“Of course I did.”
“No, you didn’t. Come here, Richard. This is a kiss. In case you don’t remember. Bit of a while…” She started to kiss him; and as so often, her emotions heightened by the row, she began to feel sexy. And felt him, with great unwillingness, start to respond.
“Lock the door,” she said.
“Debs! No, the kids are all over the house.”
“They can manage without us for a few minutes. I heard Emma telling the others we were making up friends. I really think we should, don’t you?”
“Debbie—”
But she had already started pulling up her skirt, slithering out of her pants; she pushed him against the desk, started unzipping his fly—and suddenly, with a rather awkward grin, he reached for her.
It was over in minutes; excited, joyous, half-guilty sex. Afterwards, flushed, breathing hard, pulling her clothes into order, feeling absurdly happy, she smiled at him and said, “You can still do it, Mr. Fielding, still show me a good time. Right, what’s next? Oh, yes, the nativity service. How appropriate. Poor old Mary didn’t know what she was missing.”
“Debbie!” said Richard, his voice shocked. But he smiled back at her just the same.
“I’m off to the shower,” she said. “Oh, and I tell you what, how about we all go down to Wales for New Year?”
This was a considerable sacrifice as her new friends at Know How were having a party, and it would have been fantastic, lots of media and publishing people.
“I think that would be very nice,” he said. “Thank you. And for the early Christmas present. Much better than the CDs I found hidden in your drawer.”
“Richard! That’s not very nice, poking around in my drawers.”
“But I thought that was what you wanted,” he said, “to have me poking around in your drawers.”
It was quite a long time since he had made her laugh, she thought; or made her come, for that matter. She suddenly felt very happy.
“Happy Christmas, Richard,” she said.
Lucinda had offered to go into the office on Christmas Eve. She had nothing better to do, she certainly didn’t want to get to her parents’ any sooner than she had to, and working was the only thing that soothed the dreadful aching misery that seemed to be getting worse rather than better.
Blue was trying to enjoy the customary Christmas Eve piss-up at McArthur’s. Apart from anything else, he thought that a few glasses—just a few—would help to cure his hangover. They did, briefly, but then he started feeling drunk again: drunk and absolutely miserable. He left the group and went and sat by his desk, staring at the empty screen; if someone had offered him a gun, he thought, he would have held it to his head and fired it.
“Blue!” It was Stella, one of the receptionists; the girls didn’t usually venture onto the trading floors as the welcome they got, although enthusiastic, was not exactly subtle or gentlemanly. “Blue, you OK?”
“No, not really, Stella love, I’m not,” said Blue. He reached out an arm, put it round her without looking at her; the screen blurred. She stood there, and then suddenly bent down and kissed the top of his head.
“What is it? Girl trouble?”
“Girl trouble, Stella. Got it in one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Well, all I can say is she must need her head examined. No one in her right mind would turn you down, Blue. I certainly wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Course not.”
He turned his head and looked up past her considerable breasts to her concerned face. She had very large blue eyes: a bit like Lucinda’s, he thought. They were regarding him with an almost maternal sympathy.
“You should try again,” she said.
“What—even if the situation was totally hopeless?”
“Course. Always worth another try. She might just be playing hard to get,” she added helpfully.
“I don’t think so.”
Stella bent down and kissed him again; her breasts, richly perfumed, moved into view. Christ. He’d almost forgotten what breasts could do to you. Apart from anything else, he was bloody sick of being celibate.
“Look,” she said, “what you got to lose? It’s Christmas.” Blue couldn’t quite see what that had to do with it, but a surge of recklessness suddenly rose up from somewhere. From between Stella’s breasts, probably.
“All right,” he said. “I will. Right now.”
“Well done,” she said, straightening up. “You do that and I’ll go and get you another glass of bubbly. All right?”
“All right,” said Blue.
He picked up the phone and dialled Lucinda’s office number. She probably wouldn’t be there, but he certainly couldn’t ring her at home.
It was nearly lunchtime; the office was dead. There was no point staying any longer. She was the only person there, apart from the doorman. She might as well go and do a bit of last-minute shopping. She still hadn’t got anything for her sister. And then she could join the car park that would be the M4 on a Christmas Eve evening.
She walked down the corridor, pressed the button to call the rackety old lift. God, her head hurt. The sooner she got out in the fresh air, the better.
No answer. He’d hung on for ages. She’d obviously left. Well, he’d tried. He almost felt better; quite pleased with himself, in fact. He could see Stella coming back now with the champagne. He’d drink
that, and then he might even ask her out. She was sweet. And those breasts; you could drown in them. That’s what he needed: breast engulfment…
“She wasn’t there,” he said, “before you ask.”
Lucinda reached the ground floor and looked out at the street; it was teeming with people, noisy, laughing, happy people. She really couldn’t go out there and join them, not with this headache. She might have to give in and take a couple of aspirin…
“She might have gone to the toilet,” said Stella helpfully. “You can’t just give up that easily, Blue. She got her own office, has she?”
“Yes.”
“Well then. Try again. Just once more, go on.”
“Will you hold my hand?”
“My pleasure,” she said brightly.
Lucinda went back up to the office, unlocked the door, sat down at her desk, opened a drawer. She certainly had some painkillers in there. Quite strong ones that Blue had given her after one of their more spectacular lunches.
“Buck-up pills these are, Lucy. Take two and think of me.”
Don’t think about Blue, Lucinda, don’t. It won’t help. It won’t do any good at all. She pulled out the packet, got up again to fetch a glass of water. The phone rang.
“Go away,” she said to it. “Just go away.”
And then thought that it might perhaps be Nigel. You never knew. He might just want to make peace: given that it was Christmas. She picked it up, hoping. “Hello?” she said.
It wasn’t Nigel.
“Lucy? It’s me, Blue. I—er—I just phoned to say Happy Christmas. Hope that’s all right.”
“Oh Blue,” she said. “Oh Blue, please…” And burst into tears.
“Stay there,” he said. “I’m coming over.”
He arrived within twenty minutes; she didn’t have the strength to move, to run away, to tell the doorman not to let him in, any of the sensible, right things. She just sat at her desk, staring at the phone, still holding it, where she had placed it back on the base, contact with him of a sort at last. She would just see him and chat to him for a bit and convince him somehow that everything was all right and then—
“Hello, Lucinda.”
He was standing in the doorway.
Lucinda felt faint; faint with shock, with love, with grief.
“Oh,” she said, as if she was surprised he was there. “Oh Blue, hello.”
He didn’t move: nor did she.
“You all right?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly all right, thank you.”
“Because you were crying.”
“Yes, I know. Silly. Couldn’t help it. Sorry.”
“Why were you crying, Lucinda? Is something wrong?”
“No,” she said. “No, of course not. Well, obviously I’m a bit—emotional. At hearing from you, and—and—but no, everything’s fine. Yes, I’m just off to the country, you know.”
And then it was all too much and she started crying again. And reached out to the box of tissues at the back of her desk and her sleeve slipped up her arm…and he saw.
“Lucy,” he said, his eyes fixed on it.
“Yes, Blue?” she said, blowing her nose, unaware of what miracle she had worked. “Yes, Blue, what?”
He moved round the desk then, tipped up her head, made her look at him.
“If everything’s so absolutely all right, perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re wearing that fucking watch.”
Chapter 13
JANUARY 1990
Ms. Fiona Broadhurst. Age probably mid-thirties, Simon would have said: tall and very slim, with light-brown hair caught back in a ponytail, and brilliant probing blue eyes in a pale and rather emotionless face. She wore a black suit and a white shirt, and black shoes, and she had extremely good legs. Her voice was quick and clipped, as if she didn’t want to waste any more time than was necessary on speaking—and she had (Simon inevitably noticed such things) very pretty hands and nails. Un-painted, of course. She was, in a rather cool way, extremely sexy. Which would make meetings more pleasant, he thought, smiling at her; she didn’t smile back. So—maybe not.
She was a partner in Evans Dixon Campbell, a medium-size setup near Charterhouse Square; they were in the boardroom, which was as plainly decorated as Fiona herself, at half past ten in the morning.
“Good morning,” she said, shaking hands with each of them in turn. “Very nice to meet you all. I’m Fiona Broadhurst, this is my assistant Clare Lomax. Mr. Meyer, perhaps you could go first.”
They went round the table; Simon, who had got to know the other two during the first abortive attempt to find a solicitor, wondered how many would stay the undoubtedly tough course. There was a rather thuggish Northerner, called Terence Cunningham, and a clearly formidable lady, Anne Rudyard. And of course Flora Fielding.
“Right,” said Fiona, smiling briefly at them all, “let’s get down to business, shall we? Perhaps you’d like me to summarise the case as I see it.
“As I understand it, your case rests on whether the inducement to you to become Names was reckless or not; whether it was fraudulent or not. If it was fraudulent, then that would remove all liability from you. Of course, fraud is the highest burden of proof, it’s almost criminal, up in the ninety percent league. It’s beyond reckless; reckless is not caring, fraud is mens rea. I presume you all know what that means?”
Simon was brave enough to say he did not; Fiona Broadhurst gave him a patient look and said, “It’s literally criminal intent, the knowledge of wrongdoing; it’s what distinguishes murder, for example, from manslaughter. In this case, what you are seeking to prove is that Lloyd’s, or to be more precise your Members’ Agents Jackson and Bond and/or your main syndicate group Westfield Bradley knew this very large swathe of claims was coming their way, mostly for asbestosis or pollution, that they didn’t have the funds to meet them and were seeking further investment from people without examining the latter’s resources sufficiently carefully, and without warning them of the possible consequences. Would you say that states your case clearly?”
George Meyer said it did.
“So what you are saying is that you have been fraudulently induced into becoming Names, that you want your money back, plus some costs, you want interest on the money you have disgorged, and you don’t want to pay any more.”
“Yes,” said Meyer, “that’s about the size of it.”
“Well, that’s pretty straightforward.”
“Is it?” said Simon hopefully.
“Mr. Beaumont, when I say straightforward,” said Fiona Broadhurst severely, “I mean your aims are pretty straightforward, I don’t mean a settlement will be. And of course in this country you won’t get anything for pain, aggravation, and suffering, all that sort of thing. The Americans are very keen on that, but it won’t happen here, so I hope you’re not expecting it.”
“No, of course not,” said Simon, anxious to distance himself from such self-indulgent nonsense.
“But your case is complex. And I can’t say yet if I can take it on. At this stage. I need a great deal from you first, and I need to do a lot of work of my own. That said, litigation is teamwork and we will need to work together from start to finish.”
“What sort of work and what would you need from us?” said Cunningham. “I must say, I’d always thought lawyers took whatever they could get. I’ve never heard of this sort of auditioning business.”
Fiona Broadhurst looked at him very coolly.
“Then clearly you’ve never been involved in a case of this kind,” she said. “I, and the other partners here, assess cases very carefully before committing prospective clients to heavy expense and high risk. As to the second part of your question, or rather the first, if we are to be pedantic, I would require each of you to come to me and say, ‘This is the situation, this is my contract, this is what induced me, these representations in this brochure, this is what I’ve paid already, this is what my balance is.’ I need to know what you’re upset about, apart from the obvious
which is that you don’t feel you should have to pay. I need to know where you feel you’ve been misled. If you feel there has been a cover-up, if you feel the people in Jackson and Bond or Westfield Bradley knew, if the market knew, if those who were dealing with Lloyd’s knew, if those who had a vested interest in Lloyd’s knew, and didn’t properly disclose it. I need to know all these things. I would like each of you to drop me a line, giving me a statement of what you owe, whether it’s increased, whether you agreed at any stage to write more business and why. I shall then look at that and give you my decision as to whether I think you have a case. And I should tell you, of course, at this stage, that going to law is a massive decision; it’s terribly expensive and you must know there are no guarantees that you will win.”
“Could you give us some idea of costs?” said Meyer.
“Not at this stage, because I don’t have any real idea of how long it will take, but I do anticipate it would be very expensive. We would get a top Queen’s Counsel, a top junior, our fees here are between two hundred and fifty and three hundred pounds an hour, less of course for assistants. But you’re certainly looking at several hundred thousand pounds. A comparatively simple case, lasting six or seven days, can cost in the order of a hundred thousand, and a case like this, with this type of complexity, you could be looking at a lot more. We’d need experts of every kind, experts on the state of the market, experts on asbestosis, and it would be very expensive. And we would want money on account, paid in advance, something like fifty thousand pounds. So I would advise you to think about it all very carefully before you come to see me again. More coffee, anyone?”
Nobody wanted more coffee.
“Now Bel darling, what do you think you’re going to be doing tomorrow?”
An Absolute Scandal Page 16