by Andy Bailey
In this event, asset values were dropping – like a stone – and the billion dollar question, as always, was how low would they go? The counter–cyclical kings of such a situation would always be those who were not highly indebted, i.e. cash rich, and therefore in a position to buy the assets everyone else was unloading at historically low prices. The trick was to know when the floor had been reached, when there would be no further falls.
Many were intoning dreadful warnings that values could ultimately halve. The markets were nowhere near that yet, but if that was believed to be an accurate prediction of what was to come, the smart move was to hold tight and wait before buying, to get the assets at an even cheaper price in due course. But Barry was buying now, which meant either that he knew something the doom-mongers didn’t (that the prices would not fall much further) or that he had sufficient funds to not have to care, so that, even if values fell further, he could afford to wait while the properties he was buying now bounced back in value in due course, as history told they always did.
But where was his money coming from? This was a question that exercised some in the higher echelons of the Stone Rose partnership. But others were happy to simply bank the stupendous fees being generated and rely on Gerry Bild’s firm assurances that all was above board and that Barry and Joan Rogers’ success was simply the result of bold tactics, shrewd negotiation and clinical planning.
Maybe Martin was thinking about his imminent promotion to partner. For Martin also was riding high on the back of Barry’s prodigious deal-making. Martin had been at Stone Rose for just over a year now and had not let the grass grow under his feet. His astonishing work rate (he seemed to do nothing but work), clinical mind, and charming persona kept him much in demand. Other partners had tried to get him involved with their clients – believing he was absolutely the right man to nurse their projects – and he did undertake a range of work for various banks, investors and developers across the firm but the majority of his time was taken up with Grudge Holdings and the rest of Barry and Joan’s expanding empire.
Gerry Bild had been the partner designated to care for this particular client for many years – and all agreed that he’d done an exceptional job (although eyebrows were sometimes raised at the extent to which Gerry appeared willing to do Barry’s bidding) – but Martin seemed to have taken the job to another level entirely. Barry appeared to have reached a point where he relied on Martin’s expertise and opinion above all others, including Joan. It seemed that Barry had become enthralled at the idea of having such an unusual counsellor at his side; the sheer out-there combination of Martin’s drop-dead looks, weapons-grade efficiency, and exotic illness appealed to the fetishistic Barry enormously. In his childlike outlook, it felt like he was now living in some sort of twisted Bond film, with burgeoning success and a beautiful Oddjob at his side, cutting down his enemies for him.
In turn, Martin seemed to exercise increasing influence over Barry and, to some, it appeared that it was he who was guiding (almost goading . . .) Barry into ever bolder deals. In an audacious move in the spring, Martin had connived to bring Barry together with one of the firm’s other stellar movers-and-shakers (the London Head of Crédit Banque de Paris) over a golfing weekend in Portugal to put together a mammoth deal for the sale to Grudge of a portfolio of assets that really announced this brash upstart company to the wider investment community as – potentially – a proper, mainstream player.
All of this was making Martin something of a hero at Stone Rose. In the last 14 months, he had billed close to one million pounds in fees on the Grudge account and other jobs – much to the delight of the partners who would be sharing those fees. So there were some who were saying that it was only fair that his efforts should be recognised, that he should be allowed the due rewards, and (perhaps more pertinently) that he should be made to feel wanted enough to ignore the blandishments of rival firms eager to poach such a talent for themselves.
Thus, a recent vote on partnership promotions was almost unanimous for Martin.
Almost, but not completely, unanimous. For there were still those for whom there would always be something not quite right about Martin. Andrew Weiss, the head of the firm’s litigation practice, had said, right from the outset (and had stuck with this refrain), that if it seems too good to be true, then it is too good to be true. The idea of a commercial lawyer who literally had no feelings, no emotions to distract him from the ruthless pursuit of his quarry (like a robot, almost) was simply taking the stereotype that bit too far in his incredulous opinion and, although there were some who said that this was a bit rich coming from a litigator and wondered whether such a pious view might not derive from the rather less worthy source of professional envy, Weiss remained the focal point around which coalesced the curmudgeonly rump of Dash-sceptics in the firm and this included those who found Martin – frankly – creepy.
For some, the more they thought about what his condition actually meant, the more uneasy they became when they realised that, when he laughed, he was faking it; when he expressed concern, he must be faking that; and when he was chatting amiably to them, he can’t have been the slightest bit interested in them. These views, where they did exist, tended to reside more amongst those not managing the firm – the secretaries, support staff and junior lawyers – where the distraction of his money-earning potential didn’t tend to skew their viewpoint; and, for those who subscribed to them, the very fact of Martin’s being became more – not less – offensive, the longer he was with them. A number of them had rather expected him to ‘get better’ somehow – or perhaps that they would at least get used to him – but he remained the same, always, which tended to puncture the argument of the minority within the minority (who suggested that he was actually a double-fake, that he had no such illness) as the feeling generally was that it wouldn’t be possible to keep up such a façade indefinitely and, in any event, why on earth would anyone do that?
Vanessa Carr was one of the few who couldn’t quite make her mind up. From the outset, she had – in her habitual manner – not been inclined to simply take the thing at face value and something was telling her that there was probably more to the phenomenon than met the eye.
But the Weiss contingent were in the small minority and Martin’s promotion, due to take effect on the 1st of next month, September, was waved through by the overwhelming majority, the prevailing view being: 'What’s not to like about a young man who dedicates his life to his work, is sober, un-entangled and earns monstrous fees for the partnership? Trebles all round, for goodness sake !'
Or maybe Martin was thinking about Susan? Not very likely, she thought, disconsolately . . . but, then again, who knew?
She had spent a lot of time with Martin during his first year at Stone Rose, mostly at the office, but with the occasional foray into the recreational. The problem, as she had slowly learned, was that Martin genuinely appeared to have no interest whatsoever in (a) music, (b) films, (c) dancing, (d) romance, (e) sex, or (f) any merriment of any kind.
She knew that she had, of course, been told this at the outset but, like some of the others, she had – against all reason – felt that he would somehow get better. Or, again vaguely, that she would somehow get used to it. But no, he remained the same baffling enigma now that he was 14 months ago. She found that, when they were alone (i.e. when she had contrived for them to be alone), the conversation trailed off to nothing quite quickly but that he could keep it up almost indefinitely when he had to (e.g. with clients that had to be charmed or at office functions he couldn’t avoid) and the awareness of how little it was done when there was not the need made her realise how much of an effort that was.
Thus, he would watch the television, or listen to the radio, but only really the news or documentaries or the like, all of which appeared solely a means to ensure that he was kept up with events, government policies and social trends that he might need to be aware of in his work, or in discussions with clients. That much and only that much – if the conver
sation strayed into films that people had watched or music that they liked, he was all at sea and would generally resort at that point to simply nodding and smiling, like a tourist not conversant with the lingo.
But he didn’t seem to mind having her around. She would occasionally invite herself over to his flat of an evening – they would eat a meal; watch something on the TV; and she might mooch about reading a magazine while Martin did bits of housework – basically saying nothing.
And she had become quite used to this and, indeed, still came round for more. For, as she watched him cooking a bolognese, ordering his laundry, catching up on some work, the questions kept coming and she would, in fact, raise them with him quite openly: why wasn’t he seeking treatment? (A: he’d tried it but there had been no effect and, anyway, he’d always been like this, it was normal to him, so why would he want to change?); why, if he had no desire, did he appear to be ambitious given that he was so successful at work? (A: he’d just turned out to be good at what he did and simply went with the flow); and so on and so forth. She could not square the thing in her mind. There was a nagging voice telling her there was more to be found and that he was worth it.
Of course, it was the ultimate in playing hard to get and, if it was a ploy, it was working a treat on Susan. Despite the obvious shortcomings in conversation, in passion, in fun, she found that she was drawn to him. And, of course, he was gorgeous and she was the envy of every woman in the room if they thought he was with her. And, after all, he didn’t behave like an arsehole and talk crap like the vast majority of men she routinely encountered.
And didn’t two-time her.
Not that there was anything to be duplicitous about. She had twice tried to lunge Martin over the course of the year. Once, by way of the mandatory Christmas Party toe-curler, when her alcohol intake accidentally prejudiced her ability to accurately judge the maximum intake level for retaining her – normally sound – judgement (perhaps this was another feature of her father's personality she had inherited?). In a rush of gay abandon, she had flung her arms around his neck when they had gone up to her office to find her keys and planted a vodka-tinged smacker on his bashful lips.
This elicited no response whatsoever – maybe he had spotted the signs of danger ahead and was ready for the lunge as his only reaction was to take her by the shoulders, smile and say (somewhat patronisingly, she thought): “I think we’re all rather tired and ready for home, aren’t we?” which had provoked her into a foul-mouthed tirade which, whilst satisfying at the time, never failed subsequently to trigger a warmness in her cheeks whenever the thought of it popped up in her mind: “I’m not fucking tired ! The only thing I’m fucking tired of is fucking you; well not fucking you, actually” – meaningful look, still no response, carry on – “Not fucking getting anything back from fucking you; who the fuck are you anyway?! Who the fuck am I, while we’re at it?! I’m fucking . . .” At this point she tripped over her waste basket and slid gracefully onto a pile of files, her further considered observations upon the state of the relationship trailing off somewhat.
The second occasion had been a rather more considered affair at his flat one evening when she convinced herself that she was actually making some headway in trying to reach the personality hiding in Martin Dash.
She was cautiously interrogating him about his childhood and, for some reason that evening, he appeared to be rather more engaged than usual and had offered up a couple of remarks that hinted at a real relationship with his mother, at least.
“So, did you not feel anything for your mother?”
Just for a moment, he seemed to stop, to check himself, and Susan thought she saw a shadow pass in his eyes, that caught his attention.
“Martin, I’m not sure if I’m doing right but I want to help you. Something tells me that you won’t always be the same as you are now; that there are feelings in there, waiting to be released, and I’d love to be there when it happens. Because . . . because, I do love you, Martin.”
She was by now standing right in front of him and still watching those blue eyes, looking for signs. She brought her arms up around his back and gently placed her lips on his. She thought she could feel his hands rising to her hips, see his eyes flick to lock onto her eyes, his head incline forward and his mouth slide against hers. She felt herself wavering on the edge of a black chasm, suddenly nothing solid under her feet, as if in a dream.
And then realising that Martin was not moving.
She had closed her eyes but now opened them again to find that Martin’s eyes were now cast down and she felt him move imperceptibly backwards. Whatever had happened had now past and Martin was back to his usual self, albeit a little sheepish perhaps, which Susan found interesting – but only in hindsight, for now she was crushed and felt like crying.
'Disappointed' didn’t even come close to describing her state. 'Why?' she thought 'Why does this have to happen to me?' Martin was actually the nicest, kindest, most beautiful man she had ever met and had all the apparent attributes to be The One. Susan had had plenty of offers – a stylish, attractive, smart young woman with some serious family connections: you can bet she’d had some offers. But she had always rebelled against the too-obvious ploy of marrying the well-heeled investment banker, or one of the thrusting political tyros who courted her father, or even the famous actor who had actually proposed to her at one of the Hampstead parties.
Maybe she had been watching too much Bette Davis – as the irrational, obsessed tragedienne – but she was holding out for something she wasn’t even sure existed, to the increasing concern of her mother, who had now sunk to trapping Susan in social set-ups with her idea of eligible types.
And she was holding out for what? For a robot who couldn’t even bring himself to kiss her? What sort of a bet was that?! Way to go, Susie !!
So she had stomped out, phoned Bertie Sanchez (who was always to hand) and given him a surprise that forced him to re-evaluate his previously cast-iron conviction as to the nullity of a benign deity.
And felt dirty in the morning.
And guilty – which was ridiculous, considering she wasn’t even Martin’s girlfriend, was she? Well, anyway, she put the episode behind her, gave the glass eye to the increasingly desperate imprecations of the miserable Bertie (who, before long, came back to his original creed – or at least feeling – that, if there was a god, he must be the cock-teasing, spiteful kind of divinity), and resumed her thankless, patient stakeout of the inscrutable Mr Dash.
“Is this a stakeout, Susan?” Maisie whispered in her ear as she brushed past Susan on her way to Martin’s room. Susan jumped and realised that she’d been lost in her reverie, gazing at the back of Martin’s head, her document long since printed out and awaiting her attention.
Susan was slightly piqued at having been caught Martin-gazing by Maisie but couldn’t suppress a wry smile as Maisie turned to smirk at her before pushing open his door. Although the two of them appeared, on the surface, to be in conflict over Martin’s 'affections', it was a phony war as Maisie had long since realised that she was wasting her energies in the pursuit of 'the Monk' (as she had taken to calling him, behind his back) even if Susan didn’t have the good sense to admit defeat and an easy accommodation had been reached: Maisie, as Martin’s secretary and the class Tart with A Heart, would be permitted to flirt with and tease Martin so long as it was understood that Susan, his ablest team member and all round Good Egg, had the prior, exclusive rights should the miracle of Martin’s emancipation ever come to pass.
Susan liked Maisie, and even admired the ruthless way she manipulated her hapless beaux for her own single-minded ends. And she had a neat line in pricking Mr Dash’s bubble, which was always entertaining to behold.
As she brought the contract into his room, Susan found Martin trying to defend himself against Maisie’s barbed comments regarding his new circumstances – Martin’s upcoming promotion had already been announced and he was, this weekend, due to move into a swanky new flat in Ken
sington. It really did appear that he was on the up.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a new secretary once you’re a partner, Mr Dash; one that’s more serious . . . and efficient.” She sighed as she piled files back into a cabinet.
“Why would I want to lose you, M?” Martin intoned with a smile but not looking up and carrying on with his work as though he knew his part well in this well-trodden pantomime.
“Exactly. Why would you do that when I’m out there covering your back all the hours God sends; making you tea; seeing to your every need,” she fixed him with a stare. Susan couldn’t help but laugh – Maisie had a fine line in arch ribaldry.
“Go on Maisie, give it to him. Show no mercy !”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
“Good grief, what have I done to deserve this?” protested Martin, now looking up and slatting his pen down in mock anger.
“Oh, I don’t know – getting above yourself; buying swanky new apartments; treating your secretary like a rubbing rag,” Maisie listed off his sins.
“I’m not getting above myself and I’m not buying the apartment, just renting it,” he protested.
She waited. "But the secretary mistreatment – you admit that?!”
“Is the new place sorted yet then?" enquired Susan.
“Yes, I’m getting the keys tomorrow, so I reckon I’ll do the move then.”
“What, just like that? No van or anything?” quizzed Maisie.
“You’re joking, M,” said Susan. “Everything he’s got will go in the back of his car, won’t it, Martin?”