by Tom Barry
And with that he strode out, feeling the master once more.
Andy called Peter as soon as he got to the car, standing in the shade of a crumbling church that shed its dust onto his shoulders with no regard for his feelings of triumph.
“No promises — he’s thinking about it — but I think he will play ball. He walks away with no compensation — that’s several million at the least. That enough of a roasting for you?”
“And you’ll block his music deal?”
“How come you know about that?” said Andy, taken aback at Peter’s inside knowledge, and wondering again about the rumours.
“No mystery,” said Peter casually, “he mentioned it over dinner.”
“The music deal is the only leverage I’ve got. I’m the turkey here remember, not Jay. Anyway, there’s a lot of people involved in that deal, people who have done me no wrong.”
“So you’d be happy to see Jay make millions on a deal you’ve set up, when he’s cost you millions, and damn near put you behind bars?” Peter’s tone was provocative, challenging Andy to take from the taker. “Maybe that’s a scenario you might want to ponder.”
Andy bridled at being patronised. “A pound of flesh not enough for you?”
It wasn’t. Peter continued to turn the screw without mercy or regret. “What’s more important here, Andy, your principles or a lifetime living with Kate’s wrath?”
“I’ve delivered on my part of the deal; Jay will be at the meeting to sign the papers, so back fucking off,” said Andy, testosterone rising within him like mercury in a blast furnace.
Peter duly backed off, but with a parting shot. “Ok, Andy, but just ask yourself this. If it were the other way round, would Jay leave you a lifeline?”Forty-six
The conference room at BB&T might have been designed to intimidate. It boasted high ceilings, a plate glass wall to the river side, and an array of imposing oil paintings, the paint and board images of the firm’s finest men, each staring down in hallowed superiority. As Isobel walked in, two paces behind her husband, she marvelled at his confidence — a titan with the stage presence of a master of his craft. Only two figures awaited them, standing the other side of a twentyfoot teak conference table. They were Sara Golding and Brandon Colville, the head of the UK firm and a man of considerable fame.
“You’ve twenty minutes to make your pitch,” said Brandon after the briefest of pleasantries, as if Peter were selling double-glazing. “It’s been a long day.”
Peter ignored the slight and went straight for the jugular. “You guys are dead in the water on the TMI deal. Which is the only reason you took this meeting. I can change that.”
“Our business affairs are confidential, Mr. Roberts,” said Sara Golding coldly, “and as far as I know you have no mandate from TMI.”
Peter directed his gaze at her boss. “You said we’ve got twenty minutes. Do you want to spend it posturing, or talking business?”
Brandon let out a short laugh, but raised a hand in Sara’s direction to signal silence. “Go on.”
It had taken Peter less than two minutes to wrest control of the meeting; Isobel was frozen with shock and awe.
“You know that they’ve already decided in favour of your opposition,” said Peter, daring them to contradict him.
Sara bit back, “Rick Epstein’s going to make the call on this deal,” only to receive a withering look from Colville.
“Epstein doesn’t know the difference between a back office and a post office; he’s going to rubber stamp this deal…unless someone gets to him. I can give him the reason he needs.” Peter looked from one to the other, letting the implication sink in.
“Which is?” Colville asked.
“My business affairs are confidential.”
The old man laughed again. “Touché. What are you proposing?”
“That I call Epstein on your behalf, and give him that reason. The reason to override the steering committee.”
“That’s some call,” said Colville, his body leaning forward towards Peter as Sara Golding sat bolt upright. “And, if we were interested, what would be your fee?”
“Two million...plus expenses. No win, no fee. And your man Toby that’s been doing some due diligence for me, he writes off his bill.”
Colville drew his fingers down the corner of his mouth. “Two million for a phone call? Even if what you propose is of interest, my firm is a partnership, I can’t agree to something like this on the hoof; I must consult investment committees and so on.”
Peter looked at his watch and held his hand out towards Isobel; she passed across a thin file and Peter pushed it across the desk.
“You’ve got an hour,” said Peter, “fax a signed copy of this to me by 5pm.”
Sara Golding could contain herself no longer. “You are pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, swaggering in here like you own the place? What if we take our chances with Epstein?”
Peter gave a suppressed laugh as Isobel shifted behind him, unable to keep her nerve.
“Then I make the same offer to the little guys. I guess they might be faster on their feet.”
Peter walked out with great, firm footsteps, leaving the imprints of his soles in the pile of the carpet.
“You were brilliant,” said Isobel, as soon as they were beyond the revolving doors. “Sara Golding had a face like a frying pan, and as for Colville, I think he actually enjoyed it, the sheer nerve, right in his inner sanctum.”
“It won’t count for much unless Skinner calls Epstein,” said Peter, tempering his wife’s elation, “and I reckon that’s in the balance.”
Peter didn’t need to wait for the fax. Thirty minutes later, Colville phoned. It seemed he had spent most of the time checking out Peter’s credentials. Whatever Colville had learnt, it was enough to upgrade their embryonic relationship to first name terms.
“The two million won’t fly, Peter. Here’s the best I can do. A one million success fee, if we win, and a one hundred and fifty thousand pounds retainer a month, for six months, win or lose.”
“And you write off Toby’s fees?” said Peter, more in assurance than question.
“Of course. I’m standing by the fax machine. Do we have a deal?”
“We do.”
“Welcome to BB&T, Peter.”
Isobel held her palms to her breasts then pinched her nipples before emerging from the bathroom feigning nonchalance, thankful that Peter could not see the fluttering fingers inside her stomach. She glided across to the dresser in all her grace and beauty, youthful and lissom in a satin top and red silk shorts. She pretended not to notice her husband’s eyes on her smooth, svelte legs, no doubt puzzled to see her displaying them. She stood before the dresser, leaning her face close into the mirror, her arched back emphasizing her pert, round derriere, as she dabbed around her eyes with a wipe as if to remove some final trace of make-up, imagining his gaze burning in to her. When she could sustain the charade no longer, she discarded the wipe, and turned towards the bed, throwing Peter a half smile. She lay next to him, his eyes now fixed on the ceiling, his hands behind his head, and she imagined the excitement of the meeting still running through his veins, as it ran through hers. She wanted to take him, to pleasure him in the way she pleasured Jay, in the way he once craved for her to pleasure him. But fear and guilt forced her to lie still and wait for him, knowing that her wantonness would surely fuel his suspicions, if not confirm her betrayal.
He stayed silent and made no move to touch her and eventually she was compelled to follow her urges, and she turned to him, her fingers raking his chest under his pyjamas, as she kissed him on the shoulder. “I was so proud of you today,” she whispered, clawing at his chest, want burning inside her. But still he lay passive, so she gently nuzzled her head against his neck and pressed her breasts into him, bringing her leg up to rest across his thighs.
She thought she sensed his body tense, but he remained motionless on his back. “I’m pretty shattered,” he finally said, as he took her wr
ist and lifted her hand from him, kissing her on the brow, before pulling the sheet up over him, as he silently turned his body away.Forty-seven
Even before Isobel entered what she feared might be a coliseum of woe, emotions were high and division was in the air. Sheltered from the sun under a faded parasol as they pulled on their cigarettes, a huddled group with gravelled Glaswegian voices was marking out the field of battle.
“I’m telling you now, Kenny, it’s a den of thieves that we walked into like babes in the wood, and worse is yet to come, mark my words,” said the man in the waxed green jacket.
In between hurried puffs of smoke, his companion, a man short in stature with a pinched face and a head as smooth as an eggshell, did not agree. “And I’m telling you, you are wrong. Andy Skinner is an honourable man, of that I am sure. If it weren’t for him I’d be sleeping under an olive tree tonight while that rogue Devlin was laying out sleeping bags for a caravan of Irish tinkers to throw their heads down in my apartment. It’s the devious Dubliner that should be hanging from the Capadelli clock tower, with ‘abandon all hope ye who dealt with me’ branded on his bull shitting arse.”
Isobel skirted round the swirling tobacco cloud above the Scotsmen with head down, not wishing to disturb the debate, and slipped into the humble but high-ceilinged Capadelli village hall by a side door; as she did so she was hit by a wall of noise like a kindergarten playroom. The room was crammed like a commuter train with anxious looking holiday-home owners, their sunburn and agitation glowing red despite the respite provided by the coolness from the morning heat. Isobel stole along the aisle at the side, her large sunglasses and a fashionable sun hat offering some disguise against the few eyes that flicked her way as she sought out a seat. She could see Rosie Barker’s worried face through the largely white-haired heads that obscured her view of the stage and she automatically shirked away from its gaze; for although she bore no ill will towards the hapless British owners, she had heard the rumours at Castello di Capadelli that she was the cuckoo in the nest, some even saying she was Jay Brooke’s lover. Should they recognise her, she expected that she too might be hung by her heels from the clock tower alongside the already indicted Eamon. She knew only too well she was risking confrontation, and possible humiliation, to discover whether the tale of misfortune she endured from Geoff Barker was as common amongst the British owners as the poor man would have her believe.
It appeared from the crowd that some twenty owners and their spouses had responded to Rosie Barker’s email and Isobel was shocked that so many had flown to Tuscany at such short notice. Their attendance made her stomach contort with foreboding as she imagined what horrors could have compelled them to travel all this way for the sake of an hour’s discussion. Her fears were confirmed even before the meeting began as she listened in on the discussion of two, clearly newly acquainted, women to her left. They both told heart-rending stories of shattered dreams and unfulfilled promises; the more bitter of the two now having to re-mortgage her home, the other unable to pay for her daughter’s wedding.
As their lamentations grew more intense and each shared in the others misery, they grew close to tears and would surely have succumbed to them if Geoff Barker had not elicited the room’s attention in the only means at hand, by thumping out a Beethoven theme from the piano that dominated the stage. His objective achieved, he let out a hollow and humble cough to signal that it was time for shared sorrow to give way to measured debate. He began with a personal account of his own situation, and the painful financial circumstances he and Rosie now found themselves in. As he recounted the way he felt he had been strung along for nine months by Eamon, there were murmurings of assent around the room.
“Both Rosie and I feel desperately let down by people we trusted,” Geoff continued as the murmurs died down. “What hurts most of all is that we have been lied to.” A look of pained indignation was pasted across his pallid face and the wrinkles around his mouth sagged with its downturn in a veritable portrait of wretchedness.
The solemnity was broken by a reedy voice that piped up directly in front of Isobel, as a heavy set woman with sallow skin and bulging eyes made herself heard.
“You are placing the blame on the wrong person,” she claimed. “I have spoken to Eamon, and I know he wouldn’t lie to me, and he assures me that the problems we have been hearing about are the fault of Andy Skinner. He is the multi-millionaire that funds the development, and he hasn’t been paying what he’s supposed to.”
“Fiddlesticks, woman!” shouted a Glaswegian voice. “Is it that you are besotted with the Irish buffoon or what? Can you nay see Devlin is no better than a snake oil salesman, and his master and mentor Mister Brooke likely as slippery.”
The woman leapt to her feet in outrage, but her protestations were drowned in a crescendo of voices, as each in the room voiced their view as to where guilt belonged, though no one in the room suggested they might be the victims of their own folly. It seemed to Isobel that Eamon’s defenders were carrying the day at the expense of Andy, with hardly a single shot fired in the direction of the miraculously immune managing director himself, Mr. Jay Brooke.
Isobel looked on in outrage and longed to raise her voice with the others now erupting into argument about her, to tell them who the real villain was. But as she listened, the certainty with which she entered the meeting was ebbing away. For all were either saints or sinners, depending on which voice was loudest. During the next thirty minutes her uncertainty was only increased as the room heard a catalogue of complaints, broken promises, and unfulfilled expectations — from kitchens being charged but not supplied to the removal of the Armani toiletries from the bathrooms. And to most in the room, the tight-fisted Andy was emerging as the prime suspect for turning the dream into a nightmare. It seemed the list of Andy’s crimes would never end, until an Indian man ascended the platform and silenced the room with a disappointed stare.
“All these problems are no doubt valid,” he said, his voice pleasant and melodic, “but the issue is not who makes the shampoo that is in the bathrooms; the issue is that individually and collectively we are owed a lot of money, and we need to agree what, if anything, we plan to do about it.”
The room fell silent in deference to his succinct wisdom and he continued with his speech. “Now if, as Mr. Barker suggests, we are not going to be paid the money we are owed, then we have been swindled. And if that is the case the people who have been feeding us false hope and lies for the last year or more are nothing better than cheap charlatans.”
“You are not seriously suggesting that the whole thing is a fraud?” cried the sallow-skinned lady. “Because Eamon has explained it all to me. He and his company are only intermediaries, agents really, doing what they are told to do by Skinner. Eamon is as upset about it as we are. He would never—”
“I’m not sure we know enough to say that it is a fraud,” continued the wise man, trying hard to disguise his irritation with the woman’s objections, “but I am confident that at some point we’ve all been cheated and lied to. I propose we withdraw our properties from the scheme that allows the company to rent them out when we don’t use them; that might bring them to their senses, and understand we will not be trifled with.”
There were murmurings of disquiet amongst some in the room at the thought of taking such decisive action, but Isobel was buoyed by his suggestion and tried to instil courage in the orator with her gaze as he was drowned out by a cacophony of arguments. Fortunately, he did not seem defeated and he raised his voice to continue.
“You do understand the law in Italy regarding property debts?”
From the silence that greeted this question it was clear that no one in the audience did.
“Well, in Italy, the law is different from the UK, but it is also clear. The owner of a property pays all its charges, regardless of whether it is being rented or not. In addition to service charges and utility bills, many other charges come with owning a property in Italy. You must even pay for rubbish coll
ection.” Jaws were dropping as the man spoke. “And of course you have the annual property tax, plus several local taxes. And then again, even if you do not rent out your holiday property in Italy, the State assumes that you do, so you must also pay Italian income tax on the assumed rental income.”
Stunned silence swept the room. The decision whether to declare their Italian rental income — if they ever received it — to the UK tax man was worry enough; to know that they must also deal with the Italian tax authorities sent a shiver down the spine.
“So, if Mr. Skinner’s company has not been footing the charges — which I think we can safely assume they haven’t — then we are each liable for thousands of pounds worth of bills.”
A deadly silence fell over the room as the truth sank in. Several ladies in the audience began to quietly cry and Rosie Barker broke into a flood of noisy tears. Only one pallid face remained unaltered and it belonged to the bulging-eyed woman.
“It’s not true. It can’t be true. Eamon would never do this to me!”
The Indian gentleman’s face drooped in despair and he made his way silently back into the crowd with the slow and heavy footsteps of a father following the coffin of his only son. In his place rose an elderly lady with a spring in her step and blue eye shadow up to her eyebrows. Isobel’s heart leapt; it was Eileen Carragher who, regardless of her fondness for Eamon, would surely engender good sense and unity into the divided crowd.
“Hello everybody, I am Eileen Carragher from apartment sixtynine. Can I speak for a minute? I really don’t know what to make of everything I have heard today and I don’t understand a lot of what you have been saying, it all sounds like the movies to me. But I do have a suggestion, and I am sorry because it will probably sound silly to most of you.”
Isobel’s body relaxed as she saw how easily the woman won over the assembled owners. “Until we are sure of the situation,” she continued, “I think it would be wise to not be rash. And we must remember that three hundred members rent our apartments, and they have done nothing wrong, so it doesn’t seem right to spoil their holidays. Wouldn’t it be better if we just sat down with Mr. Skinner and listened to his explanation?”