The Billionaire Banker

by Georgia Le Carre

  ‘I’ll decide tomorrow. But I imagine one month should do it.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Get me bored.’

  ‘And you are willing to pay a hundred thousand pounds for that?’

  His lips twist into a wry smile. ‘When I made my offer I didn’t realize you had valued yourself that highly, but I’m not displeased that you did. Despite all protestations to the contrary, nobody really wants a bargain. They settle for it because they can’t afford better.’ He glances at her.

  ‘Cheap usually means get your guard up, you are being offered something undesirable.’

  Lana thinks of her mother trawling the supermarket aisles looking for stuff that has been discounted because it is reaching the end of its sell by date. ‘I will require the money up front. So, how will we do this?’

  ‘My lawyer will draw up the appropriate contract for you to sign. Once you have done so the money will be in your account within minutes.’

  ‘What sort of a contract?’

  ‘A non-disclosure agreement.’

  She nods. ‘I suppose rich people have to protect themselves.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replies shortly. An awkward silence follows.

  He seems preoccupied with his own thoughts. Lana turns her head—it has begun to throb—and looks out of the window. He is a fast driver and they are already on Edgware Road.

  ‘I’ll send someone around tomorrow at noon to take you to your workplace so you can collect your personal belongings.

  ‘It’s OK, I can go on my own.’

  ‘I’d feel happier if you were accompanied. Indulge me.’

  She thinks for a moment. She doesn’t exactly relish the prospect of accidentally bumping into Rupert either.

  ‘Well, I only have an old pair of trainers there. I won’t bother to pick them up.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  They arrive at the block of council flats where she lives.

  He looks around him in surprise. It is a horrible housing estate, what he considers the underbelly of the city. He has never been to such a poor area before.

  ‘You live here?’ He cannot hide his distaste.

  ‘Yes,’ she says simply.

  He stops the car outside a two-story block of flats.

  ‘Which one is yours?’

  She points to the last flat on the first floor, and says, ‘That’s me.’

  He doesn’t switch off the engine but turns to her. ‘Give me your phone.’

  She hands it to him.

  He punches in some numbers and waits. When his phone rings, he ends the call. ‘I’ve got your number and you’ve got mine,’ he says and hands her phone back to her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Take a couple of aspirins and go to bed. Keep yourself free tomorrow. The entire day.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow evening.’

  He watches her totter and wobble in her ridiculous shoes over to the cemented verge, gain the cracked concrete concourse, and go up an outer staircase while holding onto the metal railings. At the entrance to her home she turns back and flicks her wrist to indicate that she is safely home and that he need wait no more. He doesn’t respond.

  Simply sits there. Watching her. She shrugs and, sitting on the front step, takes off her shoes. With them in her hand she puts her key in the door.

  It is only when Lana closes her front door and hears the powerful engine take off that she realizes neither man has wanted to know why she needs the money. The flat is lit only by the lights from the streetlamps. She walks barefoot into the kitchen and fumbles around in the darkness. She finds a tab of paracetamols, punches two out and sits at the kitchen table with a glass of water in a stunned daze. What a night it has been. She set out with an absurd idea and…

  ‘I’ve done it,’ she whispers amongst the familiar shadows, and grins. She thinks of the stone-like biceps and the hard slab of his stomach that her hands and body encountered. Then she touches her mouth. She can still feel his lips, his hands. She remembers how she lost control and totally forgot herself. And the unfamiliar too damn good sensation he caused in her body, between her legs. Is it a dream? It cannot be just her life.

  Don’t be too happy yet. He could still change his mind.

  She swallows the paracetamols and avoiding all the creaky areas tiptoes upstairs. The light is off in her mother’s room, so she quietly opens the door to look in on her sleeping form. But her mother is sitting on a chair by the window. She must have seen Lana come in.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Lana asks.

  ‘I heard you come in,’ her mother says softly.

  ‘Could you not sleep?’

  ‘No. I start my chemo on Monday. Just enjoying the feeling of well-being I guess.’

  Lana crosses the room and kneels beside her mother.

  She is not wearing a scarf, and her bald head glints in the moonlight. It makes Lana sad. ‘I’ve got good news for you, Mum. Remember that clinic in America that I was telling you about.’

  Her mother frowns. She is only fifty but the worry and pain make her appear haggard. ‘The one we can’t afford.’

  ‘Well, it’s not a hundred percent yet, but I think I’ve managed to raise the money.’

  ‘How? How did you do that?’ Her mother’s voice is suspicious and frightened.

  ‘I met a guy. A rich guy who just wants to help.’

  ‘A rich man who wants to help?’ Her mother’s tone is frankly disbelieving.

  ‘Mum, please don’t be like that. It’s not anything like you are thinking.’

  ‘Oh no? What is it like then?’

  ‘He’s just a nice guy who likes me.’

  ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, girl.’ Her mother’s skeletal fingers grip her hands. ‘You haven’t done anything you’ll regret, have you?’

  ‘I promise I haven’t. I just drank too much champagne,’ she puts her fingertip to her temples, ‘and my head’s pounding. I promise, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow when I’ve had some sleep.’ The last time she remembers lying to her mother was when she was nine and she had pretended she had brushed her teeth. Guilty and terrified of being discovered she had raced up the stairs to wet her toothbrush.

  Her mother’s hands move up her arm urgently. She touches the tips of her fingers on the dark bruises on her daughter’s arm, while her worried eyes bore into Lana’s.

  ‘Where did these come from?’

  ‘That’s not him,’ Lana explains nervously.

  ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions,’ her mother warns darkly.

  ‘I promise, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, but it’s not what you think.’ Really it is worse, a little voice says.

  ‘All will be well, you wait and see,’ she says brightly and smiles. Her mother does not return her smile. Instead she gazes at her sadly.

  ‘Goodnight, Mum. I really love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  Lana stumbles down the short corridor to her room.

  She makes it to the edge of her bed and drops the shoes clutched in her hands. Then like a tree that has been felled she falls onto the top of her bed and is almost instantly inside a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Six

  he muted but insistent ringing of her mobile phone Tjars Lana awake. For a moment she lays crumpled and confused on her bed. Her head is banging furiously.

  Then she pats the duvet around her, locates her purse and pulling her phone out squints at the number. It is the agency.

  She sits up, clears her throat and says, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello, Lana, it’s Jane here.’

  ‘Hi, Jane.’

  ‘Well, we’ve received a disturbing and very serious accusation from your current employer. They have also requested a replacement to finish the booking. So please do not go into work today. Mrs. Lipman would also like to see you to sort out this situation. Can you come in later today?’

  Lana remembers Blake telling her to keep the day free.
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  ‘Not today but tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh,’ There is a surprised pause. ‘All right. What about ten thirty tomorrow?’

  ‘OK, see you then.’

  Lana gently eases her head back on her pillow. She listens carefully and hears her mother moving around the flat. She sighs. She will have to go out and face her mother and tell fresh new lies, but she feels so tired she falls back to sleep.

  Again it is the phone that wakes her. She lifts it up to her face. It is a number she does not recognize.

  ‘Hello,’ she croaks.

  ‘Miss Bloom?’ a woman’s voice enquires. Her voice is extremely efficient and professional. And wide awake.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Laura Arnold, Mr. Barrington’s personal assistant, here. Is this a good time for you to talk?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Lana jerks upright and takes a gulp of water from a bottle by her bedside.

  ‘Mr. Barrington has asked me to make some appointments for you today. May I run through them with you now?’

  ‘What kind of appointments?’

  ‘Peter Edwards, Mr. Barrington’s driver, will be around your flat at ten forty-five. Your first stop will be your doctor where you have an appointment to see the nurse.’

  ‘How do you know who my doctor is?’

  There is a pause. It is pregnant with possibilities, perhaps even explanations.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Lana says quickly.

  As if she has not been interrupted, the woman continues, ‘She will discuss various contraceptive options with you if you are not already on some form of birth control. Next, you have a meeting with Mr. Barrington’s lawyer. Once you have concluded your business there, you will be dropped off at our publicist, Fleur Jan’s office. Ms.

  Jan will take you shopping and then on to your appointment with the hairdresser. After that Peter has instructions to take you to a beauty salon where you are booked for a full body wax, manicure and pedicure. Please bear in mind that Mr. Barrington does not like garish colors. He prefers light colors, but likes French manicures best.

  ‘When you are done at the salon, Peter will take you to the apartment in St John’s Wood and show you around.

  Please do settle in. The fridge and cupboards will be fully stocked, but should you require, I can also arrange for a meal of your choice to be delivered to you from one of the local restaurants. It would be advisable to eat lightly as Mr.

  Barrington gets into London late evening, and he wishes to take you out for supper about nine p.m. He tends to be very punctual so do be ready by eight thirty. Do you have any particular dietary needs or preferences?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Food allergies?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Would you like me to order your dinner?’

  ‘No, I’ll make do.’

  ‘Fine. Do you have a passport?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You will need one.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mr. Barrington travels often and I believe you will be required to accompany him on some of those trips.’

  ‘Uh… I see.’

  ‘I will make the necessary arrangements for you and contact you tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Oh, and when you go to meet the solicitor please take some form of identification with you. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘Er… No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘If you do come up with any question or requests call me on this number. I will be happy to assist.’

  ‘OK. Thanks, Miss Arnold.’

  ‘It’s Mrs. Arnold, actually. Have a nice day, Miss Bloom.’

  Lana lets herself fall backwards and smiles. She feels a wild surge of joy inside her. He has not changed his mind.

  It seems almost impossible to imagine but she has pulled it off. Raised the money. Her mother will go to America.

  Still, she never expected such competence or thoroughness.

  This is more like a business takeover than the simple transaction she had envisaged. Naively, she had thought up the oldest scheme in the book, imagining visits to seedy hotels or an odd-smelling flat somewhere in London, probably Soho, but with brutal efficiency he was drawing up her reality to mirror his unemotional world where everything is black and white, and every effort must be made to stop any sort of grey in the form of confusion or disorder creeping in.

  She glances at her beside alarm clock. She must have been more tired than she had realized. It is already nine thirty even though it is another grey day outside. She holds her tender head in her hands. A couple more paracetamols should do the trick.

  She sits up and looks down upon herself. The orange dress is badly crumpled. The details of last night are fuzzy.

  Only the kiss remains crystal clear. She lies back on the bed, closes her eyes and remembers his eyes—how unaffected he was. If not for that pulse drumming madly in his throat she would have thought he had felt nothing.

  Eventually, she can no longer put off meeting her mother so she drags herself out of bed and pads to their shared bathroom. The tiles are sickly green and one or two are cracked, but everything is sparkling clean.

  She takes off the orange dress and carefully hand washes it in the sink. She wrings it out, hangs it inside the bath, and gets in it herself. She turns on the shower head, and holds the warm stream over her body. When she comes out, she feels like a new person. She slips into clean underwear and dresses in jeans and a white shirt. Then she combs her hair, ties it into a ponytail high on her head and with a last look in the mirror she goes into the kitchen.

  ‘Morning, Mum. How are you feeling today?’

  ‘Today is a good day.’

  Lana smiles brightly at her mother. Both look forward to the good days. The good days are what keep them going.

  ‘Didn’t you have to go to work today?’ her mother asks.

  ‘Nope. Got fired yesterday.’

  Her mother shoots her a surprised, worried glance. ‘Sit down. I want a word with you.’

  Lana sits and her mother puts a bowl in front of her. ‘Is this man really giving us the money?’

  ‘Unless he backs out,’ she says and pours some cereal into the bowl.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Blake,’ she says pouring milk.

  Her mother sighs. ‘Are you purposely making this hard?’

  ‘All right. His name is Blake Barrington.’ She sprinkles two spoons of sugar on her cereal.

  ‘Barrington?’ Her mother’s forehead creases into a frown. ‘Why is that name familiar?’

  Lana finishes chewing before she answers. ‘Because it’s that famous banking family,’ she mumbles and quickly spoons more cereal into her mouth.

  Her mother gasps and sits on the chair opposite her daughter. There is something in her mother’s eyes she has never seen before. ‘How long have you been seeing him?’

  ‘I met him yesterday.’ More cereal gets immediately shoved into her mouth. She wants to end this conversation as soon as possible.

  ‘You met him yesterday and he agreed to give you fifty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Mmnnn.’ She makes a production of munching.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Guess it must have been love at first sight.’

  Her mother’s eyes narrow. ‘Is there something you are not telling me, young lady?’

  ‘Nope. The rest are all gory details,’ she dismisses cheerfully.

  But her mother is not put off. She is like a hound that has scented blood. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, but he didn’t look a day over thirty.’

  ‘So he’s not an old man?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘When do I get to meet him?’

  Lana slips out of her chair with her empty bowl and goes to the sink. ‘Soon, Mum. Very soon,’ she says, quickly rinsing her bowl and spoon.

  Her mother sits at the table as still as a statue. ‘Does Jack know?’

  ‘Jack?’
Lana turns to face her mother. ‘We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend, you know.’

  ‘I know, I know but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, I always assumed you’d end up with him.’

  ‘We don’t feel that way about each other.’

  She sighed. ‘You just seem so right for each other. I always dreamed that he’d be my son-in-law.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘You could do a lot worse than him, Lana. He’s tall and handsome and he’ll be a doctor soon.’

  ‘I’m not marrying Jack, Mum. He’s like my brother.’

  ‘The path of true love is not always smooth,’ her mother insists stubbornly.

  Lana goes into her bedroom, puts the orange coat on a hanger, picks up the orange shoes from the floor, and goes out of the door, saying, ‘Popping over to Bill’s.’

  Seven

  he door next to their home is open. Lana enters her Tneighbor’s home without knocking or calling out.

  The air is full of the smell of bacon cooking. A big woman wearing a faded apron in the kitchen shouts out to her.

  ‘Morning, Jane,’ she replies and takes the blue stairs two at a time. Billie has been her best friend since they were in primary school, and she has been taking these stairs all her life. She doesn’t knock on the door, but enters and shuts it behind her. Billie’s room has exactly the same view and dimensions as Lana’s but it has been done up in myriad colors and is perpetually messy. When it is clean, it reminds Lana of a piece of modern art. She hangs the orange coat on a hook behind the door, opens a cupboard, puts the shoes inside and closes it. Then, she carefully sidesteps over a mess of clothes and a pizza takeaway box to sit at the edge of the single bed.

  Billie has her head buried under a pillow. She was born nondescript with pale eyes and mousy brown hair and given the equally nondescript name Jane, but when she was eleven years old she reinvented herself. She turned up in school one day, her hair bleached white and turned into an Afro.

  ‘Why have you done that to your hair?’ the bad, white boys taunted.

  ‘Because I like it,’ she said so coolly and with such confidence that their opinion no longer mattered. She had become a law unto herself. She changed her name to Billie knowing that it would be shortened to Bill. Then she found a tattooist in Kilburn High Street, who agreed to tattoo a spider on her left shoulder. ‘Wouldn’t a butterfly have been better? Spiders are so creepy,’ her mother worried. But more and more spiders crawled onto her back, down her thin left arm, and eventually a few small but intrepid ones began to climb up her neck. Now Bill Black has given up the Afro, but her hair is still dead white and her lips perpetually crimson.