And as for the price - well! Thurston wished more than once for a peek inside that white envelope of George’s. In the eight months since the rout of the Aspertons, Gissings had made a profit of two hundred thousand pounds before interest. Over the next twelve, they expected to make at least three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. More if they could expand their production facilities fast enough.
Oregon knew that this profit would take another leap forward if they got control. Even if they only cut ten jobs, and they were sure they could do much better than that, they should save a hundred and fifty grand a year. That would take Gissings to half a million profit in its first year in Oregon’s hands.
So what price was fair? Usually, Oregon got away with paying around six times profit, sometimes eight. On the other hand, Oregon’s own stockmarket value was more like fifteen times profit, so they could afford to pay more and still keep their shareholders happy. The committee argued to and fro. You couldn’t try to read George across the negotiating table, because there wasn’t a table and there wasn’t a negotiation.
Eventually, they settled on a number. They decided to offer ten times the profit that Oregon reckoned it would make. That made a nice round number: five million pounds. Normally they’d knock off something for the money Gissings owed to the bank. But this was exceptional: the first foot on European soil. So they offered a full price. Five million British pounds sterling. If George wanted more than that, he was being unrealistic. Thurston worried that they were overpaying, but there was no way to tell, and Oregon was keen to get started.
The Committee agreed. The Chief agreed. So Thurston and O’Shea wrote the number into the amended contract and sent it FedEx to George. Then they sat back and waited. How would he respond?
2
There was nothing else for it. Zack, the proud, the arrogant, was forced to beg.
One Saturday morning, just four weeks before the deadline, Zack and Sarah were lying together in bed. Zack needed to go into the office and Sarah had some chores to do in London, so neither of them was heading down to Ovenden House. They could have a lie-in and breakfast in bed, rare luxuries both.
They celebrated by making love, of course, not the urgent passionate love of their evenings, but the lazy, sleepy love of first waking. Zack was unusually attentive, Sarah more than ever in love.
‘You’re gorgeous,’ she told him. ‘We should have more mornings like this.’
Zack swung his legs out of bed and began to pull on his trousers.
‘You shower if you like, or just go right on lying. I’ll go and get some breakfast.’
His young wife nodded at him happily. She knew Zack still had a long hard streak of arrogance, even cruelty, in him, but since they had started going out again, years after their long college affair, he had never once hurt her with it. His hardness, it seemed, was reserved for the rest of the world. She was happily married and believed that he was too. She stretched out full length in the luxurious bed. She wouldn’t shower yet. She’d eat breakfast next to Zack, both naked, snuggled up against each other, sharing food and warmth and company.
Zack came back soon enough. He’d been to the cafe across the road and had a cardboard tray loaded with coffee, fresh orange juice, scrambled eggs and bacon, and two croissants, still warm from the oven. Sarah watched him unload it.
‘Did I remember to tell you that you’re gorgeous?’ she asked.
Zack smiled at her. ‘You’d say anything for a warm croissant.’
She bared her teeth, rolled on to all fours, and snatched a croissant from the tray with her mouth. She growled at him like a tiger, daring him to take it off her. Zack looked at the familiar face. Sarah’s chin was much broader than women’s chins are meant to be. It was broader than Zack’s own angular jaw by some distance. But it was typical of her. She was frank, open, forceful; as strong in her way as Zack was in his own more cunning way. He admired her. He growled back, threw off his clothes and climbed on to the bed.
Sarah taunted him with the croissant, waving it in front of his nose, then pulling back as Zack grabbed for it. They were both on all fours now, the bedclothes all in a heap. Sarah was much more athletic than Zack, and though he wouldn’t get the croissant off her by skill, he could by force. He leaped at her, threw both arms round her, bound her legs with his and ended up with his mouth closed over the croissant. She continued to growl and wouldn’t release it, so he began to gobble at it, trying to eat it faster than she could gulp it. Between them, they devoured the croissant in a few seconds flat, a shower of golden flakes falling all over Sarah’s naked body and the white sheet beneath.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she panted, laughing and choking with the same breath.
‘Easily fixed,’ said Zack, who began to pick each golden flake off her with his tongue. He took his time and was easily distracted with other local amusements. She let him wander and stray as he pleased. When he was done, she brushed the remaining crumbs from the sheet and restored some order to the bedclothes.
‘Where’s breakfast then? I’m starving.’
They ate happily, squeezed so tightly together that Zack, who lay on the left, could only use his left hand to eat with, Sarah only her right.
‘Darling,’ said Zack after a while, ‘I have a confession to make and a favour to ask.’
‘I love confessions. Will you be kneeling for it?’ Sarah’s words were joking, but she tucked her dark blonde hair behind her ears in readiness for a more serious conversation.
‘I’m serious, sweetheart. It’s quite a big confession and quite a big favour.’
‘OK, my love, I’m listening.’
So Zack told Sarah. Not the whole story, of course, he could hardly do that, but he told her enough. He told her about the terms of his father’s will, his efforts to make partner, his shattering disappointment that his bonus wasn’t enough to swing it. He told her of the deadline now only a month away. Sarah listened in serious silence, her face grave and attentive.
‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?’ she asked when he was finished.
‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear it if you thought I might have married you for your money. I wanted to make my million by myself, release Dad’s cash from trust, then tell you everything. That way you couldn’t possibly doubt my motives.’
Sarah gazed at him. ‘I don’t think I’d have worried. They say that a man who marries a woman for money ends up earning it. But it was sweet of you.’
‘Well, whatever I’d wanted to do is beside the point now. The fact is I don’t have my million, and I’d like to ask your help.’
‘You want me to make up the few hundred thousand you still need?’
Zack nodded and put his hand to his wife’s cheek, softly stroking it.
‘And when you get the money, you’ll share it with your family, I guess? It’s not as though we need it.’ Zack nodded dumbly again. This was why he had racked his brains for weeks since hearing the bad news from Alan Carmichael. He knew that if he simply threw himself on Sarah’s mercy, she would calmly ensure an equal division of the money, assuming all the time that Zack’s intentions were equally generous.
‘Mmm, I see,’ continued Sarah. ‘If you divided your dad’s money into quarters, then everyone would be really well provided for.’
‘Yes, quarters, that’s right. A quarter each for George, Matthew, Josie and -’
‘- and your mum.’ Sarah finished Zack’s sentence for him. ‘That’s so sweet of you, darling. But you should keep something for yourself. Buy something to remember your dad by.’
Zack was gobsmacked. He hadn’t possibly imagined that Sarah would assume he’d give all the money away. He had thought that, by grovelling, he would get to keep at least a quarter of his dad’s wealth.
‘Well, I’m not sure. Mum’s not well enough to have money of her own. I was thinking of keeping a quarter of it for myself and obviously we’d all take care of Mum. That way you don’t need to worry about me financially.’<
br />
‘Don’t be silly.’ It was Sarah’s turn to stroke Zack’s cheek. ‘I don’t worry about you. There’s plenty of money to go round.’
‘But the prenuptial agreement . . .’
‘Don’t worry about the prenup. We’re married, aren’t we? It would be silly to hold on to money that your brothers or sister might have a better use for, just because of the prenup.’
‘Well, anyway, I’m sure we can sort something out,’ said Zack grumpily. He would not, would not, end up winning all the money out of his dad’s will just for his brothers and sister to benefit. And what if - or when - he and Sarah split up? It just wouldn’t be right that he should be the only one to lose out.
‘I’m sure we can,’ said Sarah, kissing him. ‘Anyway, how much do you still need?’
‘Three hundred and fifty grand.’ Zack added an extra hundred grand for luck. He wanted to make sure of beating Matthew.
‘Well, I’m not sure you’ve done anything to deserve it,’ she said, putting her breakfast things away and slipping down in bed again. Her hair had fallen free of her ears.
‘What would I need to do for it?’ said Zack, rolling on to his elbow.
‘Well, I’m not sure exactly. But I know I’d need to be in a good mood.’
‘Just how good exactly?’ Zack had moved his hand to her neck and rubbed slowly, moving his hand down in slow circles.
‘Oh, very good, I’d say. Very good indeed.’
Zack’s hand moved lower and Sarah’s mood improved and improved, until, three quarters of an hour later, they were both sitting up in bed again, drinking more coffee and discussing how to get the money into Zack’s bank account.
3
On that very same Saturday, one scant month before the deadline, Matthew rolled over in bed and gazed up at the ceiling, his arm around Fiona. Sunbeams poured through the little windows of the mews house, playing hide-and-seek among the broad yellow stripes of the wallpaper. Outside, the street was quiet except for a pair of pigeons cooing on the window ledge. And in one short month, Matthew stood to inherit a fortune.
Happiness doesn’t come much better.
It was Saturday morning. He and Fiona had made love when they went to bed the night before, and again this morning when they woke up. Their lovemaking had become less passionate than it had been those first nights, first in Jamaica, then Vermont, then sporadically in New York. But Fiona the fiery had given way to something that Matthew preferred: Fiona the tender lover. She looked at him during sex and kissed him, and spoke to him with love.
‘You’re getting very middle-aged,’ said Matthew. ‘No nails gouging into my back, no rolling all round the room, no screaming. Not as much screaming, anyway. I think I’d better find a younger woman before you start going to bed with curlers in your hair.’
She bit him gently on the arm.
‘I can gouge you anytime. Doesn’t have to be during sex. Just say when and I promise to draw blood.’
She ran her fingernails across the plain of his stomach, leaving four parallel tracks etched in red. Matthew lifted her hand away and drew her closer.
‘Don’t worry. I can live without being gouged. I’m getting middle-aged myself, anyway. I used to think that any relationship which lasted more than a week was past its sell-by date. Now, I find myself planning where we’re going to go on holiday next year and where the year after that. I swear to you, before I know it, I’ll be thinking about which schools our kids should go to.’
And it was true. The fact was that Matthew was already thinking about engagement rings and weddings, kids and grandkids - everything once guaranteed to scare Fiona off for ever.
She turned over on her side, and her grey eyes stared into his. He brushed a long dark curl away from her cheek. Matthew had once judged his women’s beauty with a kind of ruthlessly detached objectivity. He really believed that men who claimed to have eyes for only one woman were either liars or low on testosterone. He had changed now. In his eyes, Fiona really was the most beautiful woman in the world.
‘And what have you decided about our holiday next year?’ she asked.
‘Mustique.’
‘And where the year after?’
‘Mustique again.’
‘And which school are our kids to go to?’
‘Eton or Winchester for the boys. Saint Paul’s for the girls.’
‘What makes you think we’re staying in this country? Perhaps I’ll want to return to my hog farming roots in Iowa.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll get myself some gum boots and come tagging along to Iowa.’
‘You will? I expect I could make a decent hog farmer of you.’
They gazed at each other. This conversation wasn’t exactly like getting engaged, but by Fiona’s standards it was like agreeing to get surgically attached at the hip.
‘I’ve been thinking myself,’ she said.
‘That’s a first,’ he said, as she bit him again. They cuddled and played for a while. It was easy, tender, shared time.
‘Seriously, though,’ she resumed. ‘I think it’s time we made a change in our domestic arrangements.’
Matthew raised his eyebrows. She wasn’t going to propose to him, was she?
‘My little flat at the back of the house. Fortress Fiona. I haven’t slept there for a month and I realise I just don’t need it any more. I’d like us to share everything. That included.’
‘Hey, that’s wonderful. That’s absolutely wonderful.’ They kissed passionately and cuddled ever closer. Matthew’s happiness expanded another notch. He didn’t know life could be like this. This was the first time ever that Fiona had proposed a step forward in their mutual commitment. And giving up Fortress Fiona too. That was incredibly significant for her. Now she had nowhere to run away to, even if she wanted. Fiona was saying she no longer needed to run. As ever at times like this, there was fear in her eyes, but the fear was no longer her master, merely an annoying and lifelong companion, to be lived with not obeyed.
Matthew rocked her in his arms and was happy. In a few weeks, he’d have inherited his father’s millions. At this rate it wouldn’t be long before he got engaged to the woman he loved. What could be better?
‘So you agree?’ Fiona persisted.
‘Agree? Of course I do you nincompoop.’ It was Matthew’s turn to bite Fiona’s ear. She nuzzled him back.
‘Good. Well, we should do it properly. Your share of the flat is £100,000. And you’re a lucky man because I won’t charge you for all the improvements I’ve made.’
‘Yeah. Like fixing up a new shower curtain.’
‘Hey. I had a fax line put in and two new plug points. So don’t quibble, or I’ll put the price up. Anyway, I guess you should be able to get the money together by the end of the week, in which case we can have a house-warming on Friday.’
In the warm bed, bathed in sunshine, Matthew grew cold.
Fiona meant it. To her orderly financial mind, a deal was a deal. You share the house, you pay your way. You don’t pay, you don’t share. And she was right about the timing, of course. Matthew could theoretically write out a cheque for her there and then. There wasn’t a problem with that. None at all, except that he wouldn’t be left with a million quid.
But he couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t tell her the truth, because he’d be exposed as the worst kind of criminal in banking. He couldn’t borrow the money, because he was at his limit as it was. And he couldn’t pretend he didn’t have the cash because it was she who had given him his bonus. She knew he could afford it.
‘I’m not sure,’ he stuttered. ‘I might need a little longer.’
‘Why? A week gives you masses of time.’ Fiona pulled away from Matthew, her body tense.
‘Fiona, please. It’s not like that. I’m keen to buy the flat. I just need some time to sort out the money.’
‘What do you mean? What precise exact steps do you need to take to get the money?’
Fiona was frozen on the edge of the bed, her v
oice high and brittle.
‘Just ... just it may take time. But there’s nothing to worry about. I want -’
But Matthew broke off. Fiona was out of bed now, getting dressed in a frenzy. She was shaking all over. This was the first time - the first time ever - she’d been the one to move the relationship forward on to a whole new level of commitment. And immediately, not waiting a day, not even a minute, Matthew was backing off. She recognised the signs. She had been a fool to trust him. She shouldn’t trust anyone ever; but especially not men. She had been cruelly hurt and rejected as a child and all her injuries flooded back, a tidal wave to smash anyone too slow to outrun it.
Fiona would do her best to outrun it. She’d do her best, even though the wave was inside her and could never be outrun.
‘Fiona, stop it!’
Still racked by violent shudders, she turned to him. ‘I swear to you,’ she said. ‘I swear that if you play games over this flat, then I’m leaving. I can’t handle it, Matthew. You know I can’t. I’m going back to New York, and I swear - I swear - I’ll never speak to you again. I knew I shouldn’t trust you. I knew I shouldn’t trust anyone.’ She was three quarters dressed now and was shoving clothes randomly into a bag.
‘Fiona, it’s OK. I’ll get the money. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean anything. I’ll get the money to you right away. I want you. I love you. I want to live with you. I didn’t mean anything by what I said. It’s OK. No one’s betraying anyone.’
Matthew caught Fiona by both arms and forced her to sit beside him on the bed. Her body was still victim to huge surges of anxiety, but her breathing began very slowly to normalise. She let herself be held and forced herself to listen to Matthew’s voice. ‘No one’s betraying anyone. I’ll get the money. There’s no problem.’ She panted, recovering her breath.
The Money Makers Page 54