by Maeve Haran
‘Nina.’ The tiny lady grinned ecstatically.
‘To Nina, who is also amazing. Best, Angela.’
Nina held the paper towel against her bony chest.
Angela washed her hands. ‘OK, Angela,’ she told herself, ‘you don’t take no nonsense from nobody!’
Angela pulled herself up to her full five feet eight inches and walked into the dining room. What took her aback wasn’t the extraordinarily grand décor with a huge boardroom table, elaborately swagged windows and yet more flowers. It was the fact that there were five people seated around the table. Not just the two young men – over-entitled public school boys – whose names she’d already forgotten – Eddie? No, Jamie. And possibly Adam? – but three other people – two men and a woman – who had the instantly recognizable air of lawyers.
Drew caught her eye. He obviously thought so too.
‘Ms Williams, hello.’ Jamie was holding out a hand. ‘So good to meet you in the flesh, so to speak. I’m a great admirer of Done Deal.’ He smiled ingratiatingly. ‘I’m just grateful Woodley doesn’t have to lend to any of your contestants.’
‘They’re not contestants,’ Angela replied disdainfully. ‘They’re genuine business people who want an investment.’ She looked round at the gathering. ‘Just like I did from you.’
‘Fabric had rather more substance than onesies for dogs.’ Jamie smiled in a superior way at his colleagues.
‘Actually, I made a very wise investment in Poochy Protectors. They’ve done extremely well.’
‘Right,’ Jamie continued quickly. ‘You’ve already met Adam Northcott. Mary, Tim and Seb are all from our legal department.’
‘How thoughtful of you to forewarn me that lawyers would be present.’ The hint of steel in her voice had them all suddenly shaking out their napkins.
‘Please, take a seat.’
Angela noticed the caterer hovering in the doorway, eager to serve their starter. She placed a dish in front of each of them, handed out bread, which Angela noted looked delicious, and began to fill their glasses. ‘Still or sparkling?’
‘Fizzy for me.’ Angela held out her glass.
‘Excuse me,’ Jamie’s voice interrupted, waving Claire’s carefully handwritten menu, ‘but what is this?’ He pointed petulantly at the starter.
‘Tuna ceviche,’ Claire replied, trying to be polite. ‘It’s from Peru. Tuna marinated in chilli and lime.’
‘If I want chilli I’ll go to a Mexican restaurant. What happened to the tomato and basil soup we ordered?’
Claire felt a wave of panic, thinking of the piri-piri salsa she was serving with the next course. He didn’t seem to have noticed that yet. What had Margie been up to, giving her a deliberately bum steer? If it was revenge for being fired, then she’d kill her when she next saw her. It was bad enough being humiliated like this, but it would be in front of that steely-looking woman from the telly. And having to put up with being patronized by this overpaid kid . . .
‘Well, I think tuna ceviche is delicious,’ Drew interrupted. ‘Fresh and sophisticated and fabulously trendy.’
Jamie looked at him as if he’d crawled out from under a stone.
Shortly afterwards, Claire collected the plates – the others had eaten theirs but Jamie’s remained untouched – and disappeared as fast as she could into the kitchen where she scraped the piri-piri off the chicken breasts. Madly, she chopped some mushrooms she had been going to use as a garnish and sautéed them on the hob. She would just have to use the cream that was destined for the pudding.
As soon as the mushrooms began to cook and release their dark liquid, Claire added the cream, reserving a little which she could dilute with some milk later for the pudding course.
To her relief, the dish didn’t look too bad when she plated it up with the rice she had been going to serve with the piri, plus a green salad.
Her eye caught Angela’s as she placed the de-chilli’ed chicken down in front of her. Angela smiled almost imperceptibly, still managing to convey some of the disdain she was feeling for this public-school idiot.
Angela knew from previous encounters that they wouldn’t discuss the real business of the day till the coffee arrived, so she did her best to survive the inane chit-chat about their children, the state of the stock market, and who was going to win some test match or other.
The pudding, when it arrived, smelled delicious. ‘Whose recipe is it?’ she asked the caterer before Jamie or Adam had a chance to put the boot in.
‘Nigella’s.’ The woman smiled. She had a very pleasant smile which lit up her rather plump features. God, Angela couldn’t help casting a professional eye over her, look at those awful clothes.
‘She can lick my spoon any day,’ announced the sleaze-bag Angela identified as Adam.
The female lawyer raised her eyes to heaven.
The caterer cleared the dishes, obviously deciding this wasn’t worthy of a reply.
Once the plates were in the kitchen, she returned with a cafetière and placed it on the table with some mints.
‘At least the mints are OK,’ commented Jamie wittily. He leaned towards Angela and added in a low voice, ‘I bet you wouldn’t lend to her on Done Deal. No Deal for Ms Sour-Faced Caterer.’
‘I thought she was extremely pleasant, actually,’ Angela replied. ‘And unlike venture capitalists, caterers operate on such low margins that I doubt she would have applied to Done Deal anyway.’
In the kitchen, Claire smiled. Angela knew how to keep those jumped-up prep-school boys in line.
She was surprised to look round and find that Angela had brought her own dirty plate back to the kitchenette.
‘You didn’t have to do that,’ Claire thanked her.
‘Pleased to. Sorry about all that. The food was great – especially the pudding. I adore that Italian panettone.’
‘I love all Italian cooking.’ Claire found herself responding to this gesture of friendliness. ‘My dream would be to move there and run a restaurant with rooms.’ She smiled at Angela. ‘Fat chance of that. Heigh-ho. I’m Claire, by the way.’
‘Excuse me, ladies,’ one of the loathsome idiots called out to them. ‘This isn’t a mothers’ meeting. Time for business.’
Angela turned, her eyes sparkling dangerously. She had always loathed patronizing expressions. And, besides, she wasn’t even a mother.
‘Right.’ The one called Adam decided it was time to assert his authority. ‘To business.’ He leaned forward on the table and steepled his fingers as if he were Henry Kissinger about to announce world peace. ‘We have received a very interesting offer for Fabric from a most desirable party, from which both you and ourselves would benefit greatly. In fact, the approach is so advantageous that we would like to proceed immediately and close the deal in two weeks.’
Angela almost choked on her mint. ‘But Fabric’s not for sale!’
She knew that venture capital investments were more about making a fast profit then selling and that they had invested in Fabric three years ago, but surely they couldn’t force her? Besides, you didn’t reach this point in a major transaction in this manner. They must have been working on the deal behind the scene for weeks, months even. And all without consulting her! She was being squeezed out! They were trying to sell her own company from under her!
‘And who is this desirable party?’
‘The Tuan Corporation of Singapore. They have already made several acquisitions of clothing chains and they think Fabric would sit perfectly in their portfolio.’
‘Aren’t they the people who bought Material Girl?’
‘Yes, I believe they are.’
‘Then they took a perfectly good clothes range and ruined it! They stuck jewels and sequins on simple, stylish clothing and destroyed it!’
‘I understand that since the sale it has been flourishing in Asia.’
‘If they want bling in Beijing, then they can get it with their own companies. Not mine!’
‘Ms Williams, you would stand to
make a considerable amount of money.’
‘As would you!’
‘That is the purpose of our investment.’
‘And to watch my brand destroyed! The brand I developed from my kitchen table, and put all my unpaid time into until it could stand on its own feet. I refuse.’
‘Ms Williams,’ the female lawyer spoke up for the first time, ‘may I remind you of the Drag and Tag rights in the shareholders’ agreement?’
Angela realized she had never fully understood this stuff, partly because she had never dreamed it could come to this. ‘How long have you been working on this deal without telling me?’
‘We have been exploring the option for a little while, certainly, but that is normal business practice.’
‘And what would be my role in my own company?’
‘Mr Tuan might wish to keep you on as Fabric’s figurehead with some kind of continued shareholding, though from what I’ve heard he does tend to run things himself.’
‘Fabric’s figurehead . . .’ she repeated bitterly. ‘I’m not agreeing to anything until I talk to my lawyer. And if I can’t get her, I’m not agreeing to anything, no matter how desirable the other party is.’
She got to her feet and strode out of the room, Drew at her heels.
‘I just can’t believe they’re trying this on!’ she hissed when they were out of earshot.
‘You would make quite a killing,’ Drew pointed out.
She dragged Drew all the way downstairs and into the Ladies with her, despite the cheeps of protest from the startled guardian at an invasion by someone of the male gender, determined that they wouldn’t be overheard. After several fumbled attempts she located her legal adviser and repeated the situation to her.
‘So, let me get this straight,’ the lawyer spelled out. ‘They’re saying that if they decide to sell, you aren’t in a position to refuse the offer?’
‘Exactly. That can’t be right, can it?’
There was an ominous pause from the other end of the line.
‘I’m afraid it is. That’s what you agreed in exchange for a very generous cash offer when you crystallized a large part of Fabric’s value.’
Angela knew she had a good head for business but this lawyerese drove her insane. She was sure the woman hadn’t made this clear at the time. Maybe she’d been badly advised? If so, she’d sue – but that might not stop her losing her business.
‘That was three years ago,’ she insisted furiously. ‘My hard work and creativity has added huge value to the business since then! The business Mr Tuan of Singapore wants to take from me and ruin.’
‘You could always start another. You’ll have more than enough cash, Angela.’
‘Oh fuck off, will you!’
The diminutive cloakroom attendant smiled encouragingly under the mistaken impression that Angela wasn’t taking anything from anybody.
When they got back into the dining room, there was much conferring in hushed voices which stopped when Angela entered.
‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ Angela announced in steely tones. ‘It seems you are right.’
Listening from the galley kitchen, Claire was appalled that someone as smart as Angela could be treated so shabbily. All she could think of was to offer more coffee and some of her home-made brownies.
‘Whatever happens,’ Angela tossed her hair in a gesture Drew recognized as a sign of stress, ‘nothing is going to be settled today.’
‘Of course.’ Jamie nodded sympathetically. He could sense that they were going to get what they wanted. ‘But you do understand there is no other option in the end?’
Angela got up and walked towards the huge swagged windows. Claire could sense her anguish, even though no one else in the room seemed aware of it. Under the desk she saw Jamie make a crude gesture of victory and it was too much for her. What with her husband Martin, Harry the fishmonger and now this untalented little shit . . .
As she refilled Jamie’s cup, Claire’s arm jolted suddenly and the boiling liquid landed in his crotch with all the deadly accuracy of an unmanned drone. Jamie jumped up, yelping.
‘Stupid bloody woman!’ he accused. ‘You can’t even get the menu right; now you’ve injured me for life. You won’t be working here again.’ He turned to the row of lawyers. ‘Can’t you sue her or something?’
The meeting descended into chaos.
Drew had been about to offer Angela some discreet support when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket.
It was his old friend and mentor, Stephen Charlesworth, whose business acumen was so legendary that he was sometimes nicknamed the Seer of Southwark. Stephen was not only famously successful but equally reclusive, so Drew knew a call from him was not to be ignored, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances. He withdrew into the galley kitchen, so close to Claire that she could hear his conversation as she tidied up.
‘Stephen,’ he replied in a low voice. ‘Can’t talk. In a rather bloody meeting.’
‘I know,’ was the astonishing reply.
‘How come?’ Surely even Stephen wasn’t that all-seeing.
‘Someone has been tweeting, “It’s a done deal for ball-breaker Angela”,’ he quoted. ‘“Telly tycoon’s company to be bought from under her.” Drew, you’d better warn her. The press will be onto her like maggots on carrion.’
‘What a delightful image.’
‘Is she OK? Look, Drew, if she needs somewhere to get away, I’ve got this villa in Italy. If she has to have a reason, you can tell her the owner has had an offer to sell it and turn it into a hotel and would welcome her advice.’
‘Right. Of course, you knew her once.’
‘A long time ago. And for Christ’s sake, don’t mention that or she’ll never go.’
‘Stephen, what are you up to?’
‘Kindness of my heart, mate.’
‘I didn’t know you had a heart.’
‘Tut tut, Drew. Just because I’m successful it doesn’t make me heartless.’
‘They often go together in my experience.’
Claire, hiding in the galley kitchen till they’d all gone and she could pack the dishwasher, let her thoughts dwell on what she’d heard. Would Angela really feel the need to run away? To Claire, she seemed pretty resilient, but she could see what a field-day they might have in the papers about the tough tycoon from the telly losing her business in real life.
She put the plates in neat rows, filled the cutlery basket, and added the glasses on the top layer before stowing away her own stuff in a large orange Sainsbury’s bag with an elephant on it.
She wiped the boardroom table and put the sponge cloth back in the sink. There was someone waiting by the door. Claire recognized the woman in charge of hiring who had told her about having to sack Margie.
With a sigh Claire waited for the blade to fall.
‘I’ve just been talking to Mr Fisher. He seems to think you deliberately injured him.’
‘Nonsense,’ Claire rallied. ‘It was a simple accident.’
‘And what about the menu changes?’
Claire decided she’d sound mad if she launched into Margie’s sabotage. ‘I’m very sorry. I had no idea a menu had already been selected.’
‘I see,’ replied the woman severely. ‘Well, I think that possibly your skills aren’t quite what we’re looking for here. Send your account for today to me and I’ll get it settled.’
Claire shouldered her heavy bag and headed down the thickly carpeted stairs.
‘Claire!’ a voice suddenly hissed at her.
It was Angela, with a nervous-looking Drew in tow.
‘Can you see if there are still two reporters standing outside the front door? The bastards seem to be onto me already.’
Claire peeked out. A small posse of journalist-looking types did indeed seem to be standing on the other side of the street, waiting to pounce.
‘Yes,’ she told Angela. ‘Are you sure they aren’t waiting for someone lunching at Claridge’s?’
; ‘I don’t want to risk it. I wonder if this building has a back entrance.’
‘My car’s right out front. It’s a blue Panda. Here are the keys. Go and get in and I’ll distract the enemy with the leftover panettone. Better that than giving it to my husband.’
Before they could object, Claire threw her the keys and strode out across the road towards the huddle of reporters. ‘Hello, guys, you look starving. Why not share out this delicious bread-and-butter pudding which would otherwise go to waste?’ She handed over the pudding.
The three reporters fell on it like lions on a wildebeest. Claire turned on her heel and smartly crossed Brook Street, halting the traffic with a firm hand. She jumped into the driver’s seat of the Panda, relieved to see Angela in the back and Drew in the passenger seat, and tore off before the hacks worked out what she was up to.
‘My God,’ Angela glanced out of the back window, ‘that was brilliant! Thank you so much.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Claire grinned. ‘I enjoyed it. Where to?’
‘I live in Marylebone but any tube station will be fine.’
‘Nonsense. I can drop you home and go back over the flyover to the A40. Hardly a detour at all.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘You seem to have had a hell of a morning.’
‘Yes. But not as bad as it might have been, thanks to your decoying of the press.’
‘Makes a change, I must say. To be honest, my working life is usually a bit dull.’
‘Hence the restaurant with rooms idea.’
‘Italy’s my passion. Maybe my great-great-grandmother dallied with a Neapolitan sailor.’ She smiled at Angela in the driving mirror. ‘Or looking at her picture, ice-cream maker would have been more likely. Anyway, I’ve always loved the place.’
‘Maybe if your mysterious friend is serious,’ Angela said to Drew, ‘Claire here ought to come too.’ She then turned to Angela. ‘I’ve just had this generous offer from Drew’s friend to disappear to Italy for a bit.’
‘I’d come like a shot,’ Claire announced, ‘whether my husband likes it or not.’ She suddenly realized this might sound a bit pushy and concentrated on her driving.
They were at Marble Arch already.