‘Sounds like a good deal.’ Arthur rubs his chin. I like it when people rub their chins in meetings with me. ‘And who would run it?’
‘You know who’d run it. You’d do it for a percentage. You’d have to give up headhunting – once you’d completed this last assignment, that is.’
‘But these hedgies, the bosses whose talent we’d be poaching, they’d sue.’ Nice touch that – now it’s ‘we’. ‘They’re brats. If they don’t get their own way, they’re the first to stamp their feet and run home crying for mummy. And they always reach for their lawyers.’
‘I have lawyers too. An army of them. The biggest law firm in the world. Literally thousands upon thousands. And I love a fight.’
‘OK, so where do we take this?’
‘Before we do that, there’s one thing you have to understand, Arthur.’
‘What’s that?’
‘No shorting. We’re only going to invest in the long side of the market. We’re going to run strategies that involve buying things that we expect to go up, rather than selling things to make them go down. The Salvation Fund invests for good. I know it sounds corny, but I don’t want us to profit out of someone else’s misfortune. When a company’s share price falls, no one on my team will be cheering. I’m even planning a campaign to get short-selling banned in the London market.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Sure, I’m serious. My PR guys are briefing MPs already. We’ll hold off from getting this into the press until we’re ready. Then we hit the hedgies with an industry-wide talent raid, as well as a political campaign to get half their business abolished or forced offshore.’
‘You’d really force them out?’
‘I wouldn’t. Politicians would. By accident. Look what they did to the non-doms. Politicians never really know what they’re doing until after it’s happened. But that doesn’t matter, because London would be a better place. Imagine what would happen if thousands of hedgies moved offshore. Normal people would be able to get tables at decent restaurants again – and Wimbledon tickets, and Glyndebourne. Think what it would do to Chelsea house prices. Real people would be able to afford to live in Chelsea again.’
‘Dave … would that be a good thing?’
‘Not sure. Let me think about that one.’
I’M SEEING Two Livers again tonight. We’re having dinner, but not at some fancy restaurant. She’s cooking for me. This is a very good sign. I don’t know how great a cook she is, but since she does everything else superbly, I’m guessing that it will be pretty tasty. And since we’ll already be at her place, it won’t be far from the dining room to the bedroom.
Tom picks me up at seven and has a twinkle in his eye as he asks me what sort of dinner party it is – business or pleasure?
‘Put it this way – it’s just the two of us.’ At least I hope it is. What if I get there and it’s one of those horrible surprise parties, where all kinds of people you don’t want to see have been invited and, because they felt they couldn’t tell whoever was organising it that they didn’t want to see you either, they’ve actually made an effort and come?
Nah, impossible. It’ll just be the two of us. I’m sure of it. Why would she want to invite anyone else when she’s got me?
I decide I need some assertive displacement activity to fill the momentary void and overcome my uncertainty, so I text her: ‘ON MY WAY. X.’ Why do I do that? And why the capitals? Is it really to be assertive? To reassure myself? Or so she has plenty of time to get her lover out the back door? Or to get all the ‘surprise guests’ into the back room with the light turned off?
No. It’s just the two of us.
Tom drops me off, I ring the bell and wait impatiently for what I’m sure is just a few seconds, but seems longer.
I’m gazing back down the street when the door opens and, without looking, I say, ‘Darling, these are for you,’ and hand a large bunch of peonies and a bottle of Krug to … a waiter. A uniformed waiter. For just the two of us? Damn. ‘What are you doing here?’
He looks uncomfortable, takes the flowers and champagne, and shows me inside. No thank you, pal. I already know the way inside. I’ve been here before. I’ve even made love to your employer.
When I enter the drawing room, there are two other couples there. What the fuck is going on? A young guy in a Richard James suit with a pale purple shirt, undone enough to show a bunch of chest hair that I really didn’t need him to share with me, seems to be paired up with a leggy brunette about three inches taller than him, in flat shoes and a long black sequinned number which I don’t recognise and can’t be bothered staring at. Next to them is an older man with his back to me when I come in. He turns and, thank God, it’s the Silver Fox – with his latest squeeze, who I believe is a twenty-three-year-old Spanish girl. She certainly has the flashing dark eyes and mane of long black hair, and she oozes passion and temperament.
‘Dave, come in. Laura’s in the kitchen working her magic. Let me introduce you to people.’ His squeeze I take in, because who couldn’t, and I mumble something to the other woman, Sarah, but I’m mostly trying not to show my disappointment. Then we turn to chest hair. ‘Dave, can I introduce you to Sir Neil Moreland? Have you met before?’
Sir Neil Moreland? Sir fucking Neil Moreland? This kid’s younger than me. What’s he doing with a fucking knighthood? Inwardly I scratch my head. I’ve heard of Neil Moreland. He used to be some kind of athlete – won a gold medal in the Olympics for … something or other. Then he went into business, started his own firm – I think it was sports related, a chain of gyms, or maybe it was retail – and sold out for a fortune so he could sail round the world. When he came back, he bought back his old business for a song, it having fallen on hard times without his hand on the tiller, and now he’s motoring again. And he’s got a knighthood for services to … sport? Maybe. Business? Possibly. Party donations? Almost definitely. Why is he here? Why couldn’t Two Livers and I have had a quiet dinner à deux and then gone to bed?
‘Pleased to meet you, Sir Neil. I’m Dave. Dave Hart.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Dave. I’ve heard a lot about you. And, please, just Neil is fine.’
Very fucking condescending of you, sir. Thank you very fucking much, sir. Let me tug my fucking forelock, sir. Why am I here? I feel like going home.
But then the door opens and I know why I’m here.
She’s wearing a black floral lace negligee dress with the same jewellery by Kiki that she wore to the opera. The dress is sufficiently see-through to be exciting and she’s bra-less underneath. A woman needs a lot of confidence to wear a dress like that. Models can get away with it on the catwalk, but in real life most women wouldn’t dare and most men can only dream. But she isn’t most women. Irritatingly, I can’t place the designer. I’m not on form tonight. She smiles and greets, sharing a few private words with each of the guests, while I hold back, waiting ’til last.
‘How are you, Dave?’ She kisses me on each cheek. Her scent tantalises me, and I’m tempted to grab her and kiss her firmly on the lips, ignoring the others. But I don’t. I’ve no idea what it is she’s planning tonight, but I don’t think that’s on the menu.
‘I’m great. I wasn’t expecting –’
‘Has everyone got a drink?’ Before I can finish she’s off, looking after everyone – everyone except me – changing the music, asking what the bimbos like listening to – as if anyone cared – pouring more drinks and joking with the Silver Fox. Who is his biggest client, for fuck’s sake? I bet I’ve paid him more fees than his next ten clients combined. At least I hope I have. I like to be able to count on people’s attention.
They’re all talking about the Bigmann resignation. There have even been calls for him to be stripped of his peerage, which is apparently quite hard to do. The final straw was when the press found he had a couple of love children in Spain and photographed them with their mothers – photogenic Northern lasses who were happy to relocate, with a wedge in the bank and a big
monthly cheque, to villas that were conveniently (for him) close to each other. Why would they come forward now? I guess someone with an even bigger wallet must have found them and offered them an even bigger wedge. Success is so fickle. Here one day, gone the next. It’s a funny old world.
Sir Neil sidles up to me. ‘So, Dave, not many people get to come back from the dead.’
Jesus Christ. Good opening, pal. Like I haven’t heard that anywhere before.
‘Really? Is that what you believe?’
He pauses and looks at me. ‘What do you believe?’
‘I’m not sure. I believe we’re all on a journey. Where it takes us, how far and what happens, is impossible to predict. But I don’t see death as a final barrier. I think there might be a higher purpose.’ I turn to his companion, who has wandered over to join us. ‘What do you think, milady?’
‘It’s Sarah, please.’
He looks uneasy and feels he has to say something. ‘Sarah and I aren’t married.’ So he hasn’t married her? Now there’s a surprise. Maybe he’s not so dumb, after all. Women like her are like fruit machines. Put anything you like in the slot. Just not your money. But then he goes and blows it. ‘But we’ve been together a long time.’ Probably seems like a long time.
‘So he hasn’t made a lady out of you? I bet a lot of men would love the chance.’ She flashes a glance at him. Bingo. ‘So what’s your view on … life, Sarah? Or maybe death? Is this it? Is this what it’s all about?’
She’s clearly been hanging around too long with a rich, successful, well-connected man, because she mistakes me taking the piss for a genuine enquiry, as if I might really have the slightest interest in her views on anything at all, or even give her the time of day if she wasn’t with him, and therefore, here tonight. Cute she might be, but the reality is she’s an Insignificant Other. Cruel? Me? Just honest. Welcome to London Society.
‘I … uh …’ She looks at Sir Neil. ‘I agree with you. I think we’re all on a journey too.’
Smart girl.
I’m about to fire the next salvo and can tell Sir Neil thinks it unfair that I’m using her rather than going at him mano-a-mano, but who cares?
Obviously Two Livers cares. Her antennae have been twitching, probably spotted something about the body language, contempt and loathing and all that, and she comes over to intervene. What is it with people at dinner parties? Dinner parties are just another form of competition, another way for guys to wave their willies – mine is bigger than yours, my life is amazing, yeah, yeah. We were bored by this bullshit when we first heard it a thousand years ago. And who on earth brought us together thinking that, for some bizarre reason, we’d get on and have any interest whatsoever in each other? We’re men. We’re juvenile, immature, full of testosterone. We want to arm wrestle or roll around on the ground trying to strangle each other.
Well, on second thoughts, Two Livers brought us together. And she’s not dumb. I look again at him.
‘Neil, what are you up to these days? I guess you still work out. You look like you’re in pretty good shape.’ A little flattery never hurt anyone. Sir Neil laps it up.
‘I still train hard.’ He pats his ironing-board stomach. ‘Try to stay fit, though it gets harder every year.’
I rub my martini gut. ‘Yeah, me too. Doesn’t get any easier.’
I think I’m trying hard to establish common ground between us, but he thinks I’ve relapsed into taking-the-piss mode.
‘Are you a sportsman, Dave?’
‘Used to be. Not any more. Now I get all my exercise lying down.’
Before I can ask him about his sex life and dust off all those old horizontal jogging jokes, Two Livers intervenes again.
‘I think it’s time we sat down. Would everyone like to come through?’
Dinner is amazing. We start with white asparagus with foie gras, followed by chilled carrot soup, and then roast pigeon as the main course. And it’s all superb. How does she do it? I couldn’t. I probably didn’t need to tell you that. What’s interesting is that every dish has some individual, special feature, something surprising and deliciously tempting. Or maybe it’s just that it’s perfectly prepared. She must have been working for hours and planned this for days. But it’s worth it. When you dine out constantly in over-priced, pretentious restaurants, your appetite becomes jaded. You become completely saturated, so that it’s hard to enjoy anything at all without finding some imaginary fault. So when I’m completely blown away by a meal, it’s a rare event. Two Livers has excelled. She has the waiter to help serve and clear away the dishes, but otherwise just goes to and from the kitchen in an unhurried, completely confident way. This is a dinner party. She’s the hostess. Where’s the stress? Where’s the pressure? Something must have gone wrong. Something always does. But not tonight.
So I find myself not only noticing the food, but positively enjoying it. The wine is perfectly chosen, but I expected that and help myself liberally. The Silver Fox keeps us all entertained with his never-ending fund of stories and, to my surprise, I’m having a good time. At a dinner party. This might be the first time ever.
And then, at Two Livers’ prompting, Sir Neil starts talking about sport. She glances my way to see how pissed I am and whether I’m actually listening, and I frown to look like I’m concentrating and lean my head to one side to show sympathy and empathy and understanding. As if. I’m here, Neil, and I’m paying attention.
‘… So the sports industry – if you can call it that – never really integrated. You have manufacturers and retailers, the way you do in other industries, and then you have the clubs and the stars – the talent, if you like. Some of these are big businesses, like Premier League football clubs, but they’re generally rich men’s indulgences rather than viable businesses, run mostly for the benefit of the players’ and their agents’ wallets. But a lot of talent doesn’t get support. Look at amateur athletics. Track and field events are hugely neglected. And swimming. Huge numbers of people participate, especially young people, but there’s a disconnect between them and the world of business. And the reason is the media, which is a massive business in its own right. They can make or break a sport with their coverage, but their programming is dominated by a handful of high-profile events – football, tennis, Formula One, probably half a dozen others.’
‘Figure skating.’ It’s Sarah, his squeeze. The one he won’t marry.
‘What?’ He looks irritated.
‘I said figure skating.’ I think she’s pissed.
‘No. Figure skating doesn’t get the coverage. It could probably do with it, but it doesn’t get it. It proves my point.’
‘Oh.’ She looks crestfallen. Keep hitting the juice, babe. We’re on to dessert and we’ll all be going home soon.
‘We have very expensive in-depth coverage of a few sports, but we’re missing the breadth.’
Interesting. He sounds like he cares.
‘I have a question,’ I pipe up. He looks at me as if I’m going to make another of my arsehole remarks. Understandable. ‘Don’t people get the sports coverage they deserve? If there’s enough interest, won’t the media follow the market? And won’t manufacturers and retailers do the same?’
He takes a moment before answering, obviously wondering what my angle is. I must be taking the piss, but it seems like a genuine question.
‘The media don’t follow the public. It’s the other way round. The media have got so big that they create the market. They create the super-brands in sport, whether it’s clubs or individuals, and the manufacturers and retailers follow them. The public get the sport they’re given, not the sport they deserve or would necessarily choose if they were asked.’
‘So fix the media and you fix the problem?’
He’s still suspicious. What’s the punchline? Where’s the put-down coming from?
‘Dave, no one can fix the media.’ Now he sounds condescending. Careful, pal. ‘It’s the ultimate big business. They’re huge, highly concentrated – probably mo
re than is good for us in a theoretically free and democratic society, and they have big cheque books.’
‘Mine’s bigger.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My cheque book. I’ve got the biggest one.’
He rolls his eyes. So this is it? This was my point? Just when he thought I was being serious.
‘No, he means it.’ It’s Two Livers, and she reaches out and touches Neil briefly on the arm to reassure him. ‘His really is huge.’
Now he’s glancing at her, wondering if we’re in this together. I need to show him I’m real.
‘Neil, think of all the money you can possibly imagine. Mountains of it. Then double it. Well, I have more.’ Me and the cartels and the syndicates and the crime families and all of their buddies. We’re in this together.
He pushes his chair back from the table and wipes his face with his napkin. I can see he doesn’t get it.
‘Neil, I have a fund. A very large fund. We can invest in anything we want. We raised eighteen billion dollars for our first closing a few months ago, and so far we’re well up performance-wise. Our investors are very happy and I could easily go to them for another eighteen billion. Or more. In fact, in a few weeks I probably will. I just need a sufficiently compelling proposition and I’ll do it.’
It’s true. The normal ‘friction cost’ of moving illegal money into the legitimate economy – drug profits, say, or money acquired through racketeering – is thirty to forty per cent. But once these guys have established a genuine route to change black money into clean, legally earned profits accrued within my fund – which is, in any case, showing a great return – they won’t want to stop. Why would they? They’d happily put everything through me.
‘Do you mean it?’
‘Neil, I never joke about money.’
The Ego's Nest (Dave Hart 5) Page 11