by Karen Swan
She pulled slightly on the cuffs of her silk blouse; they were all that could be seen of it beneath the high-necked jacket of her Armani suit. It was her most modest suit.
‘Everyone, line up, please,’ Allegra said, as there was a discreet buzz and a red light flashed in the corner, the sign from the PA outside that the visitors were now out of the lifts and just seconds away from them.
The door opened. ‘Mr Yong, welcome,’ Allegra said in Mandarin (she wasn’t fluent, though she was working on it and could say enough to indicate respect), inclining her head and bowing formally to the man in front of her, eye to eye. Kirsty’s brief had mentioned he was five feet ten, her height, so she had changed into flats especially for the meeting.
‘Miss Fisher,’ Mr Yong replied, bowing to her in return, before offering his hand. He was in his mid-sixties, her mother’s age, though as the head of a massive mining conglomerate in the Guangdong province, he wore the gravitas and lines of a man who had lived five lives.
‘May I introduce Robert Wagstaff, our chief analyst, and Derek Hall, our chief legal adviser.’
They shook hands with Mr Yong as Allegra introduced the rest of the team, and then Mr Yong reciprocated, making his introductions – Allegra paying due reverence to his son and heir, Zhou Yong – before both camps diverged to sit opposite each other round the conference table, Mr Yong facing the door in the traditional seat of honour.
It was more like a banqueting hall than a boardroom, with dark, clubby panelling on the walls, an enormous hand-made silk rug beneath their feet and an inset ceiling-within-the-ceiling that cast an ambient light, while the spots overhead were angled directly onto the leather-bound files positioned at each setting.
The oval burr-walnut table was vast, the high-backed leather chairs deeply pocketed on the outsides, and in the centre, Allegra’s personal pièce de résistance for the meeting, a 108-year-old bonsai depicting a landscape of Chinese bird plum trees set upon rocks and which she had had to negotiate hard to buy from a private collector. She saw Mr Yong’s eyes fall to it, faint creases at the corners of his mouth suggesting a pleased smile. She thought about the gifts of engraved Mont Blanc fountain pens, a limited-edition gold one for Mr Yong, ready to hand over at the end of the meeting. Etiquette had been observed and the meeting was finally in progress.
Allegra cleared her throat. The hard part was over. Now all she had to do was her job.
Two hours later, she rose from her seat and handed her business card – printed in Mandarin – face first and with both hands to Mr Yong. He took several seconds to read it, before nodding respectfully and doing the same to her. A photograph was taken of the two senior management teams, and the gifts were handed over, Allegra pleased that Mr Yong hadn’t reciprocated in this meeting – it meant a second meeting would be guaranteed, for honour’s sake.
The door was opened and Mr Yong led his son and team out, each and every person shaking hands with her as they filed towards the lifts.
It was done. Over. The first hurdle realized without a hitch.
She felt a wave of exhaustion begin to hit as the adrenalin that had fired her for the meeting began to ebb. She wanted to shut the door and go lie down on the table. She was quite sure she could sleep on it soundly. For a moment, memories of last night played in her head; Sam had been exactly the lover she’d hoped and she had let him stay slightly longer than she’d initially planned – he had quickly worked out how to get her to change her mind. But even he couldn’t persuade her to let him stay all night when she had to work and she had forced herself to boot him back up to his suite, alone, after three hours.
She sighed tiredly. There was no question of taking a break now. The rest of the team was dispersing quickly to allow her, Bob, Derek and the interpreter to debrief before they had to leave for the airport again. No agreement had yet been reached on whether Yong would invest, but that was standard practice with the Chinese; negotiating with any company in the Pacific Rim was always a delicate, complicated and drawn-out process.
‘Thanks, everyone. That was very productive. Fabian, can you get me those numbers on De Beers before I leave for the airport, please?’
Fabian, a junior analyst, nodded and broke into a small run.
She was about to close the door behind him when she saw Crivelli emerge from a smaller meeting room further down the hall. It was nowhere near as grand as the boardroom she had booked, but then, as she saw Sam following after him, his meetings were all internal anyway.
Allegra swallowed at the sight of Sam. He hadn’t seen her and she allowed herself the small luxury of watching him as he and Crivelli walked towards the lifts, Crivelli talking in low, urgent tones, Sam nodding soberly, his expression closed. He looked distractingly good in a navy suit and pale blue tie, but if he wore clothes well, he wore no clothes even better. She wondered whether last night kept playing on his mind too or if nights like that were common for him. Because they weren’t for her. She had needs even if she didn’t have time for a relationship, but a stranger on the plane and in her bed by nightfall? She was pragmatic but not usually that fast.
It was a shame she wasn’t staying here another night, she thought, watching his retreating back as he and Crivelli approached the lifts where Mr Yong’s party was assembled, ready to go down. The lift doors opened and everyone filed slowly in; Allegra stepped back, ready to close her own door and get back to her debrief with the team, but to her utter astonishment and disbelief, Sam – taking in the Chinese party – laughed out loud suddenly and, moving straight to the centre of the Chinese contingent, started shoulder-punching Zhou Yong. If Allegra had been capable of speech, she would have screamed in horror, but the doors were already closing on them and in the next instant they were out of sight.
Allegra’s mouth formed a horrified ‘o’, as all her meticulous preparations to convey respect and observe Chinese business etiquette were undone in a moment by his rash impetuousness. What had he done?
She stared at the closed lifts doors in dismay, wondering what the hell was happening in there, how many hundreds of millions of dollars were being lost to them because he didn’t have the first clue as to how to behave. With a gasp, she ran over to the PA’s desk, leaning over the startled girl’s shoulder as she desperately scrutinized the grainy black-and-white images on the CCTV monitors. She could see them all now – from four different angles – emerging from the lifts downstairs and walking across the lobby, Sam’s hand on Zhou Yong’s shoulder, his other hand in his pocket. In every screen, they were talking closely and . . . and smiling! In another moment, they had disappeared outside and out of view from the cameras.
Allegra straightened up, her heart pounding. Smiling? That meant nothing. It might seem that Zhou Yong was happy enough, but the Chinese were scrupulously polite. Even if Sam did somehow know Yong’s son, he was surely crossing a line with such inappropriate familiarity.
She looked up as the interpreter came out from the boardroom, her notes already printed out. She handed them to Allegra in silence, Allegra scanning the pages with characteristic speed and concision even though her mind was racing, wondering how to limit the damage Sam was causing. But for the second time in two minutes, her mouth dropped into a small ‘o’. She looked up at the interpreter.
‘He said what?’
Chapter Five
Day Four: Feathered Angel Wings
Kirsty opened the door and Cinzia wheeled in the rail. Allegra looked up from her desk and stopped typing.
‘Hi, Cinzia. Thanks for coming in at such short notice. Thanks, Kirsty. Could you get us some coffee, please?’
Kirsty nodded, closing the door silently as Allegra stood up and walked over. Cinzia was positioning the rack of dresses on the far side of her office, behind the grey herringbone sofa. They looked whimsically incongruous in the austere setting, filmy satins and iridescent sequin trims at odds with her office’s pigeon-grey walls and prim FSA certificates.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Allegra said, taki
ng in the array of dresses in black, pearl and anthracite grey. Even just on this rail, the options presented were mind-boggling.
‘I think this will suit you particularly well,’ Cinzia said, knowing her job was to edit and simplify, pulling out a black dress from the middle of the rack and fluffing up the floaty black marabou feathers on the skirt.
Allegra narrowed her eyes sceptically.
‘I know. I know. You don’t do feathers, but this is balanced out. The top half of the dress is almost austere with the high neck and long sleeves. I think you should try it. It’s a surprisingly simple, chic look, and you have an elegant back. As long as there’s no dancing, you won’t be too hot. Plus the neckline is good with your hair. It is supremely sophisticated.’
Allegra took in the evaluation and nodded, disappearing with it into her private bathroom and slipping off her suit. She emerged moments later for Cinzia to fasten the dress at the back.
Cinzia positioned the full-length mirror that ran down one side of the rack and Allegra straightened up as she took in her reflection: elegant, very tall, appropriate. It fit like a dream and didn’t show anything – cleavage, leg, back – but was still feminine enough thanks to the feathers.
‘Fine. I’ll take it,’ she nodded, turning for Cinzia to undo it for her.
‘Do you need shoes?’ Cinzia opened a cabinet that ran along the top shelf of the rack. Five pairs of evening shoes – all black, all in her size – were lined up.
‘Those,’ Allegra said, pointing to a black peep-toe sling-back.
‘Yes, they’d be good. The three-inch heel is so much better for drinks parties when you’re on your feet all night.’
‘Yes.’ They’d take her to just over six feet as well. She only needed to be eye to eye with the men there.
‘So where’s the party being held tonight?’ Cinzia asked as she boxed up the shoes.
‘The V&A.’
Allegra disappeared into the bathroom and stepped back into her suit again, doing up her buttons as she walked round to the desk and checked emails. Thirty-two had come in, just during that five-minute break.
Kirsty came in with the coffee and set it down as Cinzia sat on the sofa and made a record of the dress and shoes, before slipping the dress into a protective hanging bag. ‘Try not to get this dress wet. Velvet and feathers.’ She shook her head. ‘It looks simple, but it’s high maintenance to the nth degree.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Allegra smiled, looking up from her keyboard.
‘I’ll add it to your account. Is there anything else you need before Christmas? Has anything new been put in your schedule?’
‘Umm, I think I covered most of it in the September delivery.’ Allegra quickly scanned her desk diary, flicking over a few pages. Kirsty was still pouring milk into Cinzia’s coffee. ‘Kirsty, has the Christmas benefit been confirmed yet?’
‘Yes, Miss Fisher, for the 12th. You’re on the table with Messieurs Lafauvre, Crivelli, Henley and their wives.’
‘That’s all? No one else?’
‘No, Miss Fisher. Just the executive committee.’
Allegra allowed herself a small smile. She was on the top table with the boss? Everything was lining up just as she wanted.
‘Fine. Then I’m going to need something a little more special for that. Um, black definitely, maybe a little more skin, although nothing too showy, obviously.’
‘Long?’ Cinzia asked.
‘Quite possibly, yes. And a higher heel. Let’s go to four.’
‘OK,’ Cinzia nodded, leaving her coffee untouched on the table. ‘I’ll bring some things in next week for you to look through.’
‘Great. You’ll liaise with Kirsty to make sure I’m in the country?’
‘Of course.’
Kirsty nodded too, leaning forward to place something on Allegra’s desk. ‘Here’s the photo you wanted framed,’ she said quietly, handing over the image of Allegra, Bob, Jo and Derek with Mr Yong and his team, now smartly set in a jet-black Linley frame.
A frown settled on Allegra’s features at the sight of it. She had had no word back from the Chinese camp since the incident with Sam in Zurich yesterday and, after a sleepless night, had decided not to interfere, taking the view that his inappropriate behaviour couldn’t be considered a reflection on her. Strictly speaking, it hadn’t happened under her ‘watch’, and although she was still fuming about it, she had to assume no news was good news.
‘Fine. Send it over to Zurich on the overnight. I’ll follow up tomorrow. OK, thanks, both.’ And she looked back down at her screen: sixty-six new emails unread. And counting.
The halls of the V&A echoed with the sounds of jollity long before she came to the Dome, where the drinks were being held. In the centre of the vast space was a giant Christmas tree that had been sprayed white, blue lights illuminated the vaulted ceilings, and tall planters overflowed with rowan-berried profusions. In a far corner, a pianist was dwarfed by the proportions of the grand salon, almost lost.
She stood and watched for a moment, her eyes taking in the power DNA of each group of guests, waiters moving between them like skaters on a pond. London was draped in black and white tonight, women sparkling, men strictured in barathea, and she could almost smell the money in the air, over the cologne.
The feathers of the skirt shimmied slightly as Allegra walked, her footsteps light but quick over the floor, as she approached the closest group; one man, Peter Butler, was her opposite number at Red Shore, their closest rivals, with a portfolio within £70 million of theirs.
‘Peter,’ she smiled, kissing him on each cheek without actually making physical contact. ‘Belinda,’ she smiled again to his wife, repeating the charade and making small talk about the merits of cockerpoos over Labs in London and the floppy paddles in the new Discovery 4, before exiting with a regretful smile and moving on to the next group.
She was four groups in when she finally reached her target, Pierre Lafauvre, founder and chairman of the company and centre of her world. Every night she spent without sleep, every day she spent sequestered from sunlight, every medical check-up that noted too-high blood pressure was done willingly in pursuit of his approval. Fifty-two but looking ten years younger, with salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders and a disarmingly still manner, he had enamoured her long before they’d ever met, his business reputation almost mythical on her postgraduate course at LSE, when he’d been the big ticket at Credit Suisse, before falling out spectacularly with his bosses over the expenses scandal – to this day he still maintained the £68,500 bottle of Petrus had been the clincher for a deal that had netted $486m in fees – and setting up his own hedge-fund company, PLF, months later. There was nothing between them romantically, although she knew people talked. He was her professional icon and mentor – that was all; he had never made a move on her, but she had sometimes wondered whether he suspected the motives behind Crivelli’s resentment towards her, often positioning himself between the two of them as interference. A sort of protector.
His wife was a model, naturally: Allegra’s height, Slavic and twenty-three. Someone – Bob? – thought she’d once been an angel for Victoria’s Secret, but that was no help to Allegra. She always found it a sufferance having to talk to her; Pasha’s English was fine, but her conversational range wasn’t and she clearly felt that Allegra’s title as president of luxury goods meant they were bonded for life, dooming Allegra to countless evenings discussing Dior’s new handbag range and Saint Laurent’s unforgiving androgyny.
‘Pasha, how lovely to see you. Your dress is beautiful,’ Allegra smiled to her, taking in the backless baby-pink number interspersed with crystals and – to Allegra’s dismay – marabou feathers.
‘Thank you. Elie Saab Couture,’ Pasha replied, twisting her narrow hips slightly to make the crystals glitter and the feathers flutter. ‘I like yours too. The same, huh?’
Allegra kept smiling, her body rigidly still. She would not flutter. Their dresses were nothing like the same. They were nothing
like the same. Allegra wasn’t in this room on account of the slant of her eyes or the curve of her breasts. She was in here because she deserved to be, because she was every bit as talented and ruthless and disciplined as the men surrounding them in Savile Row conformity. They could all merge as one in their identikit dinner suits, only a slip of coloured lining or change of buttons marking them out, while she stood alone in her black dress, but she was more like them than she was like Pasha – whether they were both bedecked in feathers or not.
‘Pierre.’ Allegra smiled, visibly relaxing as she met his eyes and almost bursting to tell him about her triumphant first meeting with Yong. Nothing in her world seemed real till he knew about it.
‘Allegra,’ he nodded, holding his champagne glass by the stem. ‘I hear things didn’t go according to plan in Zurich.’
She stalled, the smile frozen on her face. ‘Excuse me?’ Oh God. Sam Kemp. He’d ruined it for her after all. No news was bad news. No news was failure.
She shifted position, stopping the panic from taking hold. ‘As far as I’m aware, everything’s on track. Yong liked our proposal for the investments, he accepted the gifts with gratitude and thanks, we couriered over the meeting photograph this afternoon, and I’m planning on following up with a phone call requesting the second meeting tomorrow. As far as I’m concerned, it should all be wrapped up and in the bag by this time next week.’
She knew it was foolish to speak so confidently. There were 101 things that could go wrong between now and then. The Chinese were notoriously difficult to pin down to an agreement, and she’d be a fool to think Red Shore and all their other competitors weren’t furiously chasing after him too. But she couldn’t help herself. This was her big break.
‘I have always admired your balls, Allegra,’ Pierre said, ‘but I don’t see how even you can get around this. And I want that account, because then Leo Besakovitch can take his fucking money and go fuck himself.’