by Leo McNeir
“Mr Blackwood?” said the chairman. “Have there been further developments?”
“Yes, chairman,” Dick said. “I spent most of Sunday morning on site – before the tide rose – and carried out further excavation of the bones. There’s no doubt they are human. Other dating evidence suggests they’re probably Anglo-Saxon.”
Dick fielded questions from around the table, while Zoë Tipton said nothing. In fact she did not even look up, but spent the time writing rapid notes. Eventually the chairman glanced at his watch and brought the discussion to a close, asking Dick and his colleagues to keep everyone informed if any other significant finds were made.
Over the next hour several reports were presented, most of which were too technical for Anne to understand. Philip was called on several times to contribute to the discussions, sometimes on design matters, sometimes on phasing and timing of building works.
Marnie did not have to speak except to confirm that she had received a full set of floor plans from the architects. She would begin work on the interior design immediately and would be putting forward her proposals at the next monthly meeting. Anne admired Marnie’s calm tone and confident delivery and noticed she was listened to in respectful silence.
The chairman paused the meeting mid-morning for what he called a comfort break, and participants took the opportunity to stretch their legs in the lobby, where coffee and pastries had been set out. Marnie said she wanted to phone Ralph, so Anne nipped along to the Ladies Powder Room, where the sign on the door depicted a lady wearing full-length Victorian dress. After powdering her nose and adjusting her crinoline, Anne bumped into Judith Bennington on the way out.
“Hallo, Anne. Lovely to see you. I hope you’re not finding it too boring.”
“Not at all,” Anne said, shaking hands. “It’s interesting to see how everything fits together.”
“You made a good impression this morning. Well done.” The PA pushed the restroom door open. “Must dash. We’re due back in five minutes.”
In the lobby Anne could see Marnie still talking on the phone. In need of fresh air, Anne legged it up the stairs, crossed the hotel reception area and went outside. Tower Bridge loomed up before her and, right on cue, a Thames barge slipped out of Saint Katherine Docks, its brown sails furled, and headed downstream.
Anne realised that the hotel rooms in their project across the river would have a spectacular outlook and skyline. The feeling that she was privileged to be part of it all flooded over her. Standing there beside the Thames, she recognised how great a part luck had played in her life. Everything she did, everything she had, she owed to a chance meeting with Marnie three years earlier one summer’s morning by a bridge on the Grand Union Canal in Bedfordshire.
Anne wanted there and then to rush back inside to hug Marnie tightly and thank her for her life. Suddenly she recalled some advice Marnie had once given her. Never be late for a meeting, especially if you’re a woman. Anne knew the session would resume in one minute and was determined not to fall short of her or Marnie’s standards. Turning on her heel, Anne strode towards the hotel entrance and as she did so, saw Zoë Tipton speaking urgently into her mobile near the door. The young archaeologist failed to notice Anne as she sped past, so absorbed was she in her conversation.
People were talking together in small groups round the table when Anne entered the meeting room. The chairman had left his place and was standing beside Marnie and Philip, with the other architect in attendance. Marnie spotted Anne and signalled with a nod of the head for her to join them. Philip’s colleague was a slightly-built man in his thirties with thinning mousy hair. He was quite tall with a hint of a stoop and wearing John Lennon glasses, which combined to give him a scholarly air. He passed Anne a spiral-bound A4 book containing a site plan, floor plans and elevation drawings, a useful volume covering the whole project. She saw that among the names listed on the front cover was Project architect – Nigel Beardsley.
“Hallo, Anne,” he said in a low voice. “I’m Nigel. This is your copy.”
Anne silently mouthed her thanks as she heard the chairman speaking to Marnie.
“… your initial thoughts, though I realise that’s an unfair question at such an early stage.”
Without hesitation Marnie replied.
“I’ve been thinking about the job ever since we talked about it in your office on Friday. Most guests in the hotel will have a busy schedule, either seeing the sights of London or attending business meetings. They’ll appreciate a welcoming entrance probably in muted colours with imaginative lighting. I’d like them to feel they’ve come back to an oasis of calm in a hectic world.”
“I’m with you there, Marnie,” said Cawdrey.
“But,” Marnie went on, “and I think this is important, they should also feel inspired by their environment, so I’d like to feature a mural facing them as they enter, a riverscape scene of London as it was in times past, filled with sailing ships at anchor in a bustling port, with wharves and cranes as a backdrop.”
“Do you yet have a colour scheme in mind?” Cawdrey asked.
“The style would be like a pen and ink drawing over a single colour wash … possibly in a faded blue or perhaps cream or green, depending on the scheme for the rest of the entrance.”
Cawdrey was nodding. “I like it. What do you think, Philip?”
“Murals have become a popular feature of Marnie’s designs in your waterways pubs. This would be a continuation of that theme, a sort of extension of the house style.”
“Good, good.” Cawdrey beamed at Marnie. “I can’t think of anywhere else using that kind of design. Any other thoughts?”
“I’m thinking of having a key colour for each floor, restful colours to soothe the guests at the end of their day. And perhaps we could continue the mural theme in the dining room, bistro and wine bar.”
The chairman looked at his watch. “We’d better get started. Thank you, Marnie. That all sounds very promising. I’m looking forward to seeing your proposals in detail later on.”
*
Malcolm Cawdrey looked up from his agenda as the meeting drew to a close. The participants now appeared rather less alert than when proceedings started. He thanked everyone for their contributions and declared that his PA would be distributing the draft minutes later in the week. The management group would reconvene in one month’s time. His last task was to invite everyone to stay on for a buffet lunch which was waiting for them in an adjacent room.
There were no windows in the convention centre, and Anne found the air-conditioned atmosphere weighed down on her. When the chairman rose from his seat, she muttered to Marnie that she would see her at the buffet and made for the exit.
She was not alone. On reaching the external courtyard, she found herself followed by half the participants, all of them performing the same act. As if choreographed, they each took out their mobile phones and began pressing buttons, pacing up and down like dancers in a surreal modern ballet. Anne turned to look out at the river. A few minutes of watching the tourist boats passing by restored her spirits, and feeling revived she returned to the basement.
Marnie, Philip and Nigel were chatting in one corner of the room, and it was clear that the gathering had split into groups of shared interests. Anne headed for the buffet and studied the name-plates, looking for the non-meat offerings.
At the end of the table she joined the drinks queue and found herself close to Dick Blackwood and Zoë Tipton. They were engaged in conversation with their backs turned to the rest of the room and seemed oblivious to everyone else. Although speaking in lowered voices, Anne heard every word.
“… and thanks for upstaging me in front of everybody,” Tipton was saying.
“That was not my intention,” Dick protested.
“Well you could’ve at least told me what you’d been up to while my back was turned.”
“I wasn’t up to anything. I was concerned about the find.”
“The find that I’d seen first.”
Tipton’s voice had an edge to it. “I seem to remember that I pointed it out to you.”
“And immediately dismissed it as probably nothing significant,” Dick reminded her. “Probably a still-born calf, you thought, buried where it was dropped.”
“Not unreasonable,” Tipton protested, “seeing as there wasn’t likely to be a cemetery in a Saxon residential area.”
“No. That bothered me, too,” Dick admitted. “Which is why I went in yesterday to check it out.”
“You could’ve informed me,” said Tipton.
“I had no chance. You were surrounded by your circle of admirers as soon as I got here.”
Tipton gave an exasperated sigh. “Well keep me in the loop from now on.”
At that moment Dick seemed to become aware of Anne’s presence. She stepped smartly forward to the drinks table and asked for a fruit juice.
*
Much as Marnie enjoyed visiting London, she was always glad to shake the dust of the capital’s streets from her shoes – or in this case her tyres – and head for the country. As soon as lunch was over, she led Anne back to the flat where they packed their overnight bags. Marnie was giving the place a final check-over when her mobile rang.
“Where are you now, Marnie?” It was Philip.
“Just getting ready to go home. Why?”
“Is there any chance you could be around tomorrow? I’ve got Dr Fennimore, the archaeology project director, coming. He wants to talk about the gallery-museum area. We need to make sure the decor blends in with the rest of the development. What d’you think?”
“Well, I … yeah, I suppose we could stay another day.”
“Thanks, Marnie. I appreciate it. About eleven on site?”
Marnie ended the call and explained the change of plan to Anne while pressing Ralph’s number on the speed-dial. She told him not to kill the fatted calf – Anne the vegetarian grimaced – or the fatted aubergine, until the next day.
“Girls night in?” Marnie suggested.
Anne nodded. “There are some shops somewhere round here. I remember them from last time we came.”
They bought lettuce, spring onions, tomatoes, cucumber, new potatoes and French beans from a greengrocer. At a mini-market they bought a few basic stand-bys plus yogurt, eggs, tuna, olive oil and wine vinegar. A wine shop supplied a bottle of Italian Orvieto. Back at the flat they spent a happy half hour in the kitchen putting together a salade niçoise, and for this meal they had a river view from their table.
Afterwards, they took coffee over to the sofas, where they settled down to look at the books of plans given to them by Philip and Nigel. Anne had already instigated a file for the project back at the office. Looking at the layouts, a thought occurred to her.
“Marnie? This is different from most other jobs, isn’t it?”
“It’s all new build,” Marnie said.
“So what do we do about claiming fees and expenses? We haven’t talked about that side of things. Have we been given a budget?”
“It’s all done on a percentage basis. We’ll agree phasing of payments with Philip.”
“Okay. Shall we talk about it with him tomorrow?”
“Sure. It’s all quite straightforward. Everett Parker charge six per cent of the total build cost as their fees. We’ll get ten per cent out of their commission.”
Anne sat working out the sums. The total cost was tens of millions of pounds. She could not remember how many. Six per cent of that went to Philip’s company. Ten per cent of that amount to Walker and Co. Every way Anne looked at it, the fee element came to a hefty sum. Yet there was Marnie, calmly leafing through the plans, sipping her coffee as if this was just another job for Walker and Co.
Marnie looked up, smiling. “Anne, I can hear your brain humming from here.”
“Marnie, do you realise –”
“Yes, I know.”
“Have you worked out how big our fee will be?”
“No. I try not to think about it. It could become a distraction. Better just to concentrate on the work in hand and let the money take care of itself.”
“But we’ve got to know how to organise the payment schedule.”
“Easy. The first instalment will come when our scheme design is accepted. Then it’s just a matter of phased payments as work progresses.”
“But the sums involved …” Anne’s voice petered out.
“I know,” said Marnie. “With that kind of money I can afford bonus payments. You know what that means, Anne.”
“A tin of that luxury cat food for Dolly?”
“Exactly.”
5
Donovan
Tuesday 19 June 1997
Marnie and Anne rose early as usual on Tuesday. After a shower and breakfast they decided to take a stroll along the Thames bank. It was a perfect summer’s day. Gulls were dipping low over the river that reflected the clear sky. The sun, climbing steeply above the hills on the eastern horizon, was already easing the coolness from the morning air. Traffic was flowing steadily across Tower Bridge.
They stopped to lean against the parapet and look towards Saint Katherine Docks on the opposite bank, where masts extended upwards from yachts in the basin.
“It’s amazing to think we’re part of all this,” Anne said quietly.
“Part of all what?” said Marnie.
“You know … the world of big business, developers and all that. We work in the little office barn in a small country village, yet we can play a part in what goes on here.”
“Only because the business people like what we do for them.”
“They like what you do,” Anne said. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be here at all. Actually, why are we here? I mean, why doesn’t Philip just use his in-house design group, the one you headed up?”
“It’s like you said, Anne. Willards asked for me to continue handling their projects when I set up on my own, and Philip puts their work my way.”
“So Philip gets a major job like this because Willards like your style.”
“And he’s a very good architect, Anne. Don’t forget that. There’s no room for sentiment in this world. You saw how radical the project is in the book of plans. He’s designed something that hasn’t been done before, as far as I know.”
Anne nodded. “It’s quite an achievement.”
Marnie chuckled. “It will be if it works.”
Anne’s eyes widened. “You think it might not?”
“Don’t look so worried, Anne. He’s brought in some of the best structural engineering consultants in the country to make sure it does.”
They walked back to the flat in silence. As Marnie was using the key card to open the access door, Anne’s mobile chirped. She pulled it from her pocket and pressed the phone to her ear.
“Donovan,” she mouthed.
Unable to use the mobile in the lift, she took the call on the pavement while Marnie wandered along the cobbled walkway to look in the window of an estate agents. It was a decision she soon came to regret. She was reading the details of a flat in the same part of Butler’s Wharf as her own, and trying not to boggle at the asking price, when the door to the agents flew open and she was joined by a smooth-looking man in a three-piece suit.
“Mrs Walker! How nice to see you. I was thinking of you – or rather your flat – just the other day.”
“Good morning, Mr Blunt.”
“Indeed it is. Do I take it that your presence here means you were coming to see me with a view to letting the flat, or perhaps putting it on the market?”
“I’m afraid not. I have a project here in London and I’m using the flat myself.”
“And when the project is completed?” He flashed a wheedling smile.
“Too early to say. It’s a big project and will be running for a year or so.”
“Ah …” Blunt looked deflated. “Such a pity. The market’s picking up again. With the new government installed, there’s a feeling in the air that things might start going forward.”
> “Sorry to disappoint you.” Marnie glanced over her shoulder and saw that Anne had finished the call. “Time to go. Good-bye, Mr Blunt.”
Marnie walked briskly back to the entrance, where Anne was slipping the mobile into her pocket.
“How’s Donovan?” she asked.
“Fine.” Anne looked serious. “Marnie?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think it would be possible for Donovan to come and see us? And I do mean us, not just me.”
“Why not?” said Marnie. “Do I get the feeling this wouldn’t be just a social visit?”
“That’s right. He’s doing a project for his university course. It involves making a short film on how progress impacts on heritage and the environment … something like that.”
“And you told him about the Horselydown job?”
“Hope you don’t mind. If you’d rather he didn’t –”
“No, no. That’s okay. When’s he coming?”
“I said I’d phone him back to let him know what you thought.”
“Tell him he’s welcome. Does he want to come today?”
Anne grinned. “You know Donovan.”
They all knew Donovan. To call him Anne’s boyfriend would be the nearest to a description of their relationship, but it was more complicated than that. Everything about Donovan was usually more complicated.
Ralph had known Donovan since he was six years old, when his father, Dr William Donovan Smith, had been doing research at Oxford about fifteen years earlier. Unable to secure a tenured post there, Bill Donovan Smith had obtained a part-time lectureship at Reading University and another at one of the London University colleges. For that reason Bill and his German wife Greta had bought a house in west London, convenient for commuting in either direction.
Donovan was ten when the family was on holiday in South Africa and they were involved in a coach accident. Both his parents had been killed but by a miracle Donovan survived and went to live with an aunt and uncle in Germany. The family kept the house as a pied-à-terre, and now it was Donovan’s home. Having dropped out of one university course when he found it unsuitable, Donovan had taken a year off and was now studying Media and Communications at Brunel.