Sweet Talking Money

by Harry Bingham

  ‘Done,’ he announced, throwing down his pencil.

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I’m famished.’

  ‘Uh, they do sandwiches at the bar,’ said Cameron vaguely, still wrapped up in her research plans. ‘How were the contracts?’

  ‘Which one? The investment contract was professional, well-drafted, totally one-sided.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘I’m making three lists of comments. There are my got-to-haves, my like-to-haves, and my pretend-to-wants. I’ll make sure I get everything from the first list and as much as I can from the second. Stuff on the third list, I’ll scream about, but concede. That way he thinks he’s getting the better of me.’

  Cameron shook her head. ‘Children, honestly,’ she muttered. ‘How about the loan?’

  ‘Strange. It’s a pretty standard loan contract. The interest rate is ridiculous, but the rest of it … Well, it’s pretty loose. From our point of view, it’s a good contract.’

  Cameron nodded. ‘That’s kind of odd, isn’t it?’ she said, flipping through the agreement. ‘He may be a jerk, but he strikes me as a thorough one … What’s this all about, then? “Suspension of business”? I don’t like the sound of that.’

  Bryn glanced back at the agreement, where Cameron’s pencil wavered over one of the black printed paragraphs. ‘Suspension of business’, it said. ‘Lender is permitted to call the Loan due for Repayment or Conversion if the operations of the Business are suspended or under investigation for possible suspension by any governmental or regulatory authority who is empowered so to act.’

  ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘It looked totally weird, until I realised. He’s most likely given us an old loan agreement, picked off the word processor. My guess is he used this agreement with a pharma company once. And since pharma companies need a licence to manufacture, you have to have a clause like this to protect you. We don’t need any kind of licence, so the clause is pretty much meaningless in our case.’

  ‘So we ought to delete the clause?’

  Bryn pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘Not really. The point is, this agreement is actually favourable to us. The less we look at it the better, in case he has second thoughts …’ He hesitated. He didn’t like pointless clauses wandering round an agreement. It was unworkmanlike, unprofessional, unsightly. But his mind was made up. One stupid clause in exchange for a favourable agreement? No contest. ‘Yes, that’s what we’ll do. We’ll complain like hell about the interest rate, then sign. Leave him thinking he’s God’s gift.’

  Cameron paused a moment longer. She didn’t like it, and she sensed Bryn didn’t either. Her pencil continued to hover over the clause – then moved away. She tossed the contract back on to the table.

  ‘Coquilles St Jacques to start with, I think,’ said Bryn, scraping his chair back across the cobbles. ‘And somewhere in Cannes there’s a lobster with my name on it.’

  ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Bryn, deftly tucking his thumbs under her arms and rocketing her upwards. ‘We are.’

  5

  Except for one thing, the evening was a delight. They found a waterfront restaurant, with big plate-glass doors wide open to let in the cool evening air, and that happiest of signs, a Michelin star, which guaranteed them food of exceptional quality. Bryn succeeded in his campaign to persuade Cameron to share the two-person assiette des fruits de mer as a starter.

  ‘Fruits de mer? The French think shellfish are fruits? They can’t be up to much as zoologists,’ said Cameron, up to the elbow in brine, lemon juice, and the assorted oozings of a dozen different sorts of sea creature.

  ‘Not up to anything much,’ agreed Bryn. ‘Except in the kitchen where they belong. I don’t think we’ll manage with one measly bottle of wine, though.’ He signalled to the waiter for another bottle.

  Wine came, the meal went. One lobster died a grisly death, but not in vain, as two people covered themselves with hollandaise sauce and ended up with chins dripping and eyes sparkling.

  ‘So tell me about your man,’ he said, switching topics. ‘The mysterious Allen Green.’

  ‘Allen? He’s a good guy. We’re getting on well. I’m thinking of moving in with him. Properly, that is. I mostly already have.’

  ‘You have? You are?’ Bryn was momentarily taken aback, then annoyed, then simply glad for her. A happy research director made for a prosperous business. He should be pleased. He was pleased. Certainly he was. ‘So. What d’you see in each other, then? Don’t tell me, he loves you for your tidiness and ability to keep house.’

  Cameron laughed. ‘Yeah, right. I caused so much mess, he had to sign over the spare room to me.’

  ‘He’s a scientist, you say? So you discuss blood cells with your cornflakes, and viruses with your Ovaltine?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely,’ said Cameron without conviction. ‘It’s great.’

  ‘He’s in research, like you? An immunologist?’

  Cameron fell silent, a lobster claw motionless in her fist. She realised that Bryn knew virtually nothing about Allen. ‘No. He trained in respiratory, but he’s been working in chemotherapy these past few years. His immunology is probably worse than yours.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘But he’s hoping to get back into respiratory.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘He’s been applying around for jobs.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll end up working for Corinth.’ There was a pause wider and deeper than the ocean outside. ‘Corinth Respiratory. Headquartered on the Marylebone Road.’

  Bryn had given up on the little fish forks and mallets for getting meat from the lobster. He had a full half-shell in one hand and had been ripping flesh out with the other. He put the shell down, rinsed his hands in his finger bowl and wiped then carefully on his napkin, first his left and then his right. He took a sip of wine, poured some more, refilled Cameron’s glass, and set the bottle back in its ice-bucket.

  ‘He’s going to go and work for Corinth,’ he said. His voice was quiet and calm, like the ocean on a still blue day.

  ‘Right. Corinth Respiratory.’

  Bryn picked up the bowl of hollandaise and put another dollop on his plate.

  ‘The lobster is good,’ he said.

  ‘Uh-huh. Great.’

  ‘More hollandaise?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I believe you said he’s intending to work for Corinth.’ Still calm. Still quiet. Still ever so pleasant. Any wind on the sea was just enough to ruffle the water, make it look frilly and fun.

  ‘Right.’

  Bryn took another drink of wine. ‘Now, correct me if I’m wrong,’ he said, settling the glass back on to the tablecloth and still sounding pleasant if not maybe quite so relaxed, ‘but isn’t Corinth trying to destroy our company and steal our research?’

  ‘Brent Huizinga might be. Allen Green isn’t.’

  ‘Forgive me if I’m in error,’ said Bryn, in a voice which was growing louder and distinctly less pleasant with every word, ‘but aren’t there approximately one million males of marriageable age in London, and you had to go and pick someone who’s about to start working for Corinth?’

  ‘I’ll go out with who I damn well please.’

  ‘So I can bloody well see. I can’t believe –’

  ‘– I can’t believe –’

  ‘– that you’d choose to share your life and work –’

  ‘– that you’d have the nerve –’

  ‘– with someone whose primary loyalty is to bloody Corinth!’

  ‘– to tell me who the hell I see! And Allen’s loyalty is to me, and not to Corinth, and not to Huizinga, and not to anyone who wishes me harm.’

  Bryn’s voice had risen to a thunderous pitch, rolling round the walls of the restaurant and out on to the street like the ocean running before a gale, grey and violent. It boomed like artillery fire. Diners fell silent. Passers-by on the street outside stopped and stared
. Waiters stood stock-still and open-mouthed. Cameron, too, did her share. Her voice lacked the resounding force of Bryn’s wide-chested roar, but what she lacked in volume she made up for in passion, and they were evenly matched, indifferent to the watching world.

  And that was that.

  Cameron stormed out. Bryn ripped his lobster into tiny fragments, then did the same with whatever was left of hers. He ordered another bottle of wine, followed by coffee, brandy, more coffee and more brandy. He went to bed drunk, angry, and confused.

  TWENTY-TWO

  1

  The next day dawned hotter and fiercer than the one before, though a weather forecast in the hotel lobby warned of more unsettled weather coming in later.

  ‘Sorry for jumping down your throat last night,’ said Bryn. ‘I overdid it.’

  Overdid it? I’ve met quieter volcanoes,’

  ‘You go out with whoever the hell you want.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘But, all the same, I do think that –

  ‘That’s OK. I’ve been thinking about it. I think you’re right. Allen did put in a job application, but I think I’m going to have to ask him to withdraw it. I can’t see that it’d be a problem but I don’t want to chance it.’

  Bryn nodded. ‘Good. I’m happy to hear it.’

  Friends again, they had time for an excellent breakfast of coffee and croissants, before the launch was due at nine. The day had started well.

  2

  ‘Bryn! How did the fleshpots of Cannes suit your taste? I should have shown you round. Spanking good fun, I assure you. And Cameron, my dear, even lovelier than yesterday. The sun deck still very free. Anytime you like, my love, just say the word.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ said Cameron pleasantly. After getting the measure of Altmeyer yesterday, she had taken care to dress down today: casual denims and a crisp white shirt that revealed nothing.

  ‘Careful, Max,’ said Bryn. ‘Let’s just negotiate, shall we?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly.’

  They sat down, as before, under the gleaming white awnings in the seating area sunk into the deck. It was already warm, and in the absence of any breeze the heat would ratchet up to intolerable levels before too long. There was a jug of ice-cold, freshly squeezed lemonade on the table in front of them, which Bryn smelled carefully before tossing overboard.

  ‘Not funny. Water this time, no alcohol, thanks very much.’

  If Altmeyer was embarrassed at being found out, you’d never have guessed it. ‘You enjoyed my little joke?’ he tittered.

  ‘Idiot.’

  Altmeyer called a steward, who supplied two glasses and a tiny little jug of water, mostly full of ice. Bryn poured the water out for Cameron.

  ‘Let’s get going.’

  They began to negotiate – a nightmare. Normally, negotiations proceed because there is some mutual recognition of what is fair or, failing that, of where the balance of power lies. Both sides have a reasonable idea of where things ought to settle and the process of negotiation is to make sure that the balance is as optimal as possible, the compromises neatly worked through. Altmeyer would have none of that. Every issue was a wrestling match. Altmeyer didn’t argue, he just resisted. Bryn attempted intelligent negotiation, he attempted flattery, he attempted threats. In the end, all that was left was attrition: cannon fire trained on a massive stone rampart, chipping bits off, time after time after time. Bryn mostly swung the punches, then, when his mouth dried up with thirst and irritation, Cameron stepped in to continue the barrage, using her flashing incisive mind to win concessions that had so far eluded Bryn’s constant battery. The hot day drew on as the cannon fire continued to boom, and point after point was wrested from Altmeyer’s grip

  Meantime, the air changed, and a heavy ocean swell warned of a change in weather to windward. Cameron’s gaze turned inward, and her stomach began to mutter rebellion. Bryn resolutely continued his campaign until he’d obtained all of what he needed and most of what he wanted. Only the loan agreement remained unchanged, Altmeyer tittering over the high interest rate but refusing to drop it even an inch.

  Eventually – hot, thirsty, and angry – Bryn was done.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Bugger it. Let’s go. Both contracts. Type and sign.’

  Altmeyer rocked to and fro in his seat, hugging himself. He looked like a smug little brat, the sort to give smacking a good name. ‘Type and sign, partner,’ he said. ‘From this day on, we’re partners, remember.’

  Bryn muttered something under his breath, and supervised Altmeyer as he instructed a secretary on correcting the two agreements. Now that the purpose of starving his guests was completed, Altmeyer proved a suddenly generous host with a table spread with oysters and champagne, brown bread and butter.

  ‘Cameron, my dear, nothing gets you in the mood quite like oysters, eh?’

  ‘Leave it,’ growled Bryn.

  Whether or not the idea of eating oysters with Max Altmeyer was her idea of fun, Cameron took one look at the food and ran. Her seasickness was mounting by the minute, and Bryn was desperate to get the contracts signed so they could get out of there. As the secretary worked, Altmeyer was like a four-year-old wanting Bryn to admire his yacht: the mahogany panelled stateroom with its black leather sofas, the bathroom and its taps plated in real gold, the bedroom with a ceiling painted with naked angels, the radio room, the engine room …

  ‘What d’you think, Bryn?’

  ‘Vulgar as a horse’s arse, Max. I’m going back to check the documents.’

  Altmeyer sprang after him, chortling.

  ‘Racehorse’s arse, you mean, racehorse’s arse. It’s very expensive.’

  They passed through the dining room (gold statuettes in each corner holding lamps, naked bodies with tits out of Baywatch). Cameron sipped a glass of water, holding her eyes away from the food and looking awful.

  ‘Not long now, Cameron. I appreciate this.’

  She lifted her eyes miserably as they passed. They arrived to find the last of the documents spilling out of the printer. Bryn took each page as it came, proof-reading carefully, spotting and correcting a small handful of typos. The new pages were run off. At one point, Altmeyer rudely pushed his secretary from the keyboard and made some adjustments himself. The new page ran off with fifty-one per cent of the shares printed where forty per cent should have been.

  ‘Don’t be a jerk.’

  ‘Give me fifty-one per cent and I’ll throw in the yacht for free.’

  ‘Give me this pimp’s palace and you get thirty per cent.’

  Altmeyer roared with laughter, pounding Bryn on the back. Bryn waved the secretary back to her post and instructed her to reverse the change. Eventually, they got there. ‘OK. This looks OK.’

  Altmeyer tittered. ‘We’ll sign, then, shall we?’ He produced a pen, rolled-gold, Swiss-made, laughing at Bryn’s disposable biro. ‘Racehorse’s arse, Bryn, not donkey’s arse.’

  Two copies of each contract came off the printer. Bryn signed the back page of each, checking that Altmeyer did the same, then initialled every page in turn.

  ‘Initialling pages, Bryn? You don’t trust me?’

  ‘Not an inch.’

  Altmeyer initialled in the spaces after Bryn. His handwriting was childish and vain at the same time, combining look-at-me flourishes with schoolboy care over his letter formation. At last they were done. ‘Investment agreement, loan agreement,’ said Bryn, helping himself to one of each. ‘You can get going on the due diligence right away. Money in ten days.’

  When they came out on deck, it was night. The coastal hills were lit up by strings of fairy-lights, while to the south only the lights of big ships passing lightened the black edges of the sea. Bryn had hoped that open air would help Cameron’s stomach, but the opposite was true. The sight of a fixed horizon exacerbated the plunging sensation and the first dry retch came to her lips.

  ‘Cameron, my dear, perhaps you’d better stay the night. Bryn’s seen the bedroom. I’m sure it’ll be
to your taste.’

  Enough was enough.

  Bryn grabbed Altmeyer by the top of his shirt and threw him against the rail, bending him back over the voracious sea, further, much further, than could be explained by a joke. Beneath Altmeyer’s pale face, the black waves foamed strong and insatiable. The slapping of water against the hull sounded like a giant mouth preparing to feed.

  ‘One more crack like that, you little fool, and I’m shoving you overboard!’

  ‘Bryn, honestly, Bryn. Can’t you take a joke?’

  Altmeyer’s words belied his face, which whitened against the darkness below. Bryn pulled him out another couple of inches over the rail, holding him there longer than he needed to, not as long as he wanted to. Now that the contract was signed, Altmeyer couldn’t withhold the money, however much he might want to. Bryn lowered his hand, moving his victim another inch or two towards the sea.

  ‘Bryn!’ said Cameron weakly. ‘For God’s sake.’

  Bryn pulled Altmeyer slowly back to the safe side of the rail and released his grip.

  The journey back into Cannes went slowly. For some reason, the smaller boat was easier than the larger one, and though Cameron was still ill, her discomfort didn’t tip over into full-scale seasickness. The night air was cool and the wind mixing with spray from the bows picked at her cotton shirt and whipped the hair back from her face. Bryn put his jacket round Cameron and sat with his arm around her, quiet and companionable. Her body was warm beneath his touch, surprisingly slender and feminine. He suddenly felt acutely fond of her.

  As they entered the harbour, Cameron’s incipient nausea dropped away like a cloak, and she moved away from his arms. The air smelled good. Restaurant lights twinkled in promise of good things. And in their hands were a pair of contracts, promising money, promising peace.

  3

  That night, Bryn was racked by an odd feeling. It should have been elation at securing the clinic’s future, but this was the opposite: a kind of vomity dread, a dreadful foreboding of failure. Bryn sat alone, drinking the muck which passes for beer in France. In the corner of the bar, a gaggle of tourists sheltered from the rain. What was it, this feeling?