40 Love

by Madeleine Wickham

  ‘Well,’ Patrick seemed doubtful, ‘I’m not really supposed to be telling anybody except our existing clients. But, since you were so good as to tell me I wasn’t ripped off with those prints,’ he laughed, ‘I owe you one.’ He took a breath. ‘Where do I start? I suppose you’re familiar with the idea of investing in international equities?’

  ‘Stocks and shares,’ said Charles.

  ‘Right,’ said Patrick. ‘And are you familiar with the idea of investing in futures and options? That’s to say, promising to buy shares in the future, at a certain price?’ Charles shrugged.

  ‘I dimly remember being told something about it once. What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Well,’ said Patrick, ‘this fund invests half in stocks, calculates which way the price is going to go, and then uses the other half to work the market with futures and options.’ Charles shook his head.

  ‘You’ve lost me. I was never any good at maths.’

  ‘That’s a shame. If you knew a bit more about it, you’d see the potential. If you’re interested, I’ve got some graphs somewhere that explain how it works.’

  Charles looked alarmed. ‘I don’t think so.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shouldn’t we be getting back?’

  ‘Of course, that’s not our only fund,’ interrupted Patrick smoothly, ‘although it’s the most exciting. We’ve got some that are safe as houses—boring as bricks, we call them. It really depends what kind of attitude the investor has got to risk. I mean, take yourself. What kind of approach have you got to risk?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Charles, diverted briefly. ‘It’s quite an interesting question, isn’t it? What is one’s attitude to risk?’ He puffed on his cigar. ‘I mean, I suppose leaving Ella and marrying Cressida was quite a risk. But at the time it seemed the obvious thing to do.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Patrick. ‘That’s the kind of problem our fund managers deal with all the time. Investing in a certain stock may seem the obvious thing to do—but sometimes you’ll get far better results by doing the unobvious.’

  Charles wasn’t listening.

  ‘I sometimes wonder what it was about Cressida that attracted me,’ he said slowly. ‘And I think it was that she was so different from Ella.’ He pushed his hands through his hair, and stared ahead with a sudden bleak expression. ‘Ella and I had been having problems—well, you know that. Most of it was over the gallery. I mean, it was so stupid, things we used to fight about. She used to get completely irrational in arguments, and that would drive me mad.’ He winced at the memory. ‘She’s so passionate, Ella, and she believes in things so strongly, that she can’t understand anyone who doesn’t agree with her—or, even worse, doesn’t really care. She used to accuse me of being too apathetic, of sitting on the fence. She really used to lay into me. And then one day, during all of that, I met Cressida. She was like an antidote to all the shouting and screaming. I mean, Cressida never even raises her voice.’

  ‘She’s a very elegant lady,’ agreed Patrick. He left a decent interval of silence before saying, ‘Now, I wonder what her attitude to risk is? In investment, I mean. Because—’

  ‘Look, Patrick,’ interrupted Charles in an exasperated voice, ‘can’t you see? I’m not interested. I’m sure you’ve got wonderful investment plans and there are all sorts of opportunities just dying to be exploited. But, if you don’t mind, could you find someone else to do the exploiting? Our portfolio is managed by a very reputable company in London, and I’m afraid we haven’t got any spare capital to put into any of your plans.’ He looked at Patrick kindly. ‘It’s nothing personal. No hard feelings.’

  Patrick stared at Charles through a haze of black and red. It wasn’t possible that he had completely failed; that he hadn’t even mustered ten or twenty thousand’s worth of business. He thought of the hundreds of thousands that Charles must, must have under his control now, and his heart began to thump hard at the thought of his failing to garner any of it. The blind anger he felt towards Charles, still sitting there smiling at him, was tempered by the pragmatic realization that he must keep things on a pleasant basis. If it had been anyone else he would have launched into a more aggressive selling routine. But Charles wouldn’t react well to that. And there was always the chance he might be interested in the future.

  But underneath it all, Patrick knew that he had muffed it, probably for ever. Charles regarded him with an air of superiority that was hard to cut through; probably later he and Cressida would laugh about the way their oikish host had tried to flog them a dodgy investment plan. The thought drove out all pragmatism from Patrick’s mind. Charles was looking fidgety; soon he would get up and go and the chance would be lost for ever.

  ‘So who is it that manages your investments?’ Patrick found himself saying. (What was he doing? Rule one: never refer to your opponents.) Charles gave him an amused look.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it’s Fountains. You know, the private bank.’ Patrick summoned up a casually concerned look.

  ‘Really? They’re still taking on clients for portfolio management? I’m surprised.’ (Rule two: never ever be derogatory about your opponents.) ‘I heard they’d been going through a rough patch.’

  ‘Really?’ Charles regarded him with slight amusement. ‘Well, I can assure you, Patrick, they’ve served us very well, and Cressida’s family for the last fifty years. And that family certainly knows how to look after its money.’ He made as if to get up. Patrick stared at him desperately, unable to stop him, but knowing that once he was outside the study door, all would be lost.

  Suddenly his attention was caught by a small figure crossing the lawn outside the study window. It was Georgina, looking flushed and happy and hot, clutching a pile of straw and laughing something to Nicola, who followed. The sight of his beautiful daughter, who was the reason behind his efforts and yet was so entirely oblivious of them, sent waves of panic coursing through Patrick’s body, as he observed Charles drawing his feet up, getting ready to make his departure.

  ‘Just listen to what I’ve got to say,’ he blurted out. ‘It won’t take long. Then you can talk to Cressida and make up your minds together. No pressure.’ Charles’ smile faded, to be replaced by a look of distaste.

  ‘Look, Patrick, I don’t think I can put it more plainly. I’m not interested in buying anything from you. Our money is doing quite nicely where it is.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘And to be frank, I think it’s a bit much trying to do business with one of your guests. This is supposed to be a party, isn’t it? Keep your charts for the office.’

  Patrick felt burning humiliation cover his face and his chest heaved.

  ‘You weren’t so picky when it was you who needed money, were you?’ he shouted. His voice came out much more loudly than he had intended, and Charles, who had been getting up, sat down again in surprise. ‘You weren’t so picky,’ said Patrick more quietly, ‘when you needed that loan for your precious gallery, were you? Quite happy to come and talk business in my kitchen, you were then.’

  ‘I know I was,’ said Charles. ‘I was very grateful and I still am. But that was entirely different.’

  ‘No it wasn’t,’ said Patrick. ‘One neighbour doing another a good turn. I had the money then and you needed it. Now you’ve got it, and I need it. I’m not even asking you to lend it to me. Just have a look at some of the investment plans I’ve got to offer.’

  Charles sighed. ‘Look, Patrick, I didn’t realize you really needed the money. I mean,’ he gestured around him, ‘you hardly give the air of someone who’s hard-up.’ Patrick said nothing. ‘If I did put some money into one of your funds,’ said Charles, ‘how much are we talking?’

  Patrick didn’t move for a second. His cigar had gone out; he carefully relit it. When it was going properly again he looked up at Charles.

  ‘I would think around a hundred thousand? Perhaps eighty?’

  ‘What?’ Charles looked genuinely shocked. ‘You must be mad, man. If that’s the kind of money you need, you�
�ve got the wrong guy.’ He paused, and thought. ‘I could put around five thousand into a plan if that was any use to you. Perhaps seven or eight at a pinch.’

  Patrick’s face felt numb. Seven or eight thousand. And he was eighty thousand short of his target. It was hardly worth the ink. With an effort, he looked up at Charles and gave him a professional smile.

  ‘I’ll have a look through my fund details and put together a package which I think might suit you. How’s that?’

  ‘Fine.’ Charles seemed relieved. He got to his feet. ‘Coming back outside?’

  Patrick shook his head. ‘No, I’ll just sort out a few things in here. See you later.’

  They smiled at each other again and Charles left the room. Patrick went over to his desk and sat down heavily in his leather-bound swivel chair. The folder marked ‘Charles’ was still lying to hand in his top drawer. With a scowl he took it out and ripped it in two. Then, suddenly feeling drained, he slumped down on his desk and buried his head in his hands.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Stephen, sitting alone on the grass with the remains of his raspberry pavlova, felt as if he had had too much. Too much food, too much drink, too much envy. As the day wore on, he was becoming more and more aware of how rich and successful everyone here was compared to him and Annie. Patrick and Caroline, Charles and Cressida; even Don, with his manor house hotel. They all had the air of comfort, if not wealth; they all had reached their goals. Whereas he hadn’t even worked out what his goal was.

  He abruptly stood up and shook the crumbs of meringue off his legs. Annie looked up drowsily.

  ‘Just going for a little stroll,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’ She smiled and closed her eyes again. Caroline and Don seemed to be asleep; Valerie was chatting animatedly to Cressida. She paused and glanced up at him, and he hurried off before she asked him where he was going—or, even worse, suggested accompanying him. He was in no mood for talking.

  He walked briskly and mindlessly to the far end of Patrick’s grounds, beyond the tennis court, past the paddock, till he was at the fence which bordered the garden with a field full of sheep. Then he turned and surveyed the scene behind him. The White House was almost invisible behind the trees. There was no sign of anyone else. He was on his own.

  Stephen sighed, and sank down onto the grass. He didn’t want to see any of them, not even Annie. They all seemed to be mocking him; his failure to reach the same goals as them; his dusty old car, his scruffy old clothes, his indeterminate career path. Annie, too, though she didn’t mean to, had slipped into the clothes of Caroline with consummate ease; over lunch they had giggled together like schoolgirls, and his last ally in this glossy, alien world seemed to have slipped away to the other side.

  Where had he gone wrong? Until he left Cambridge, he had seemed one of the chosen ones—a bright, popular scholar who gained his first in history, took part in the university musical scene, acted, debated, even rowed for a term. ‘A brilliant all-rounder’ was how his final reference from his tutor described him, ‘destined to go far.’ He had left intending to become an academic. His M.Phil. had gone well, and he had begun research for a doctorate. In those days, he had still been the bright, intellectual success among his peers, who themselves were pursuing careers in advertising, accountancy, even retail management. Stephen, left behind in Cambridge, had felt sorry for them, having to settle for such tedious jobs. And that had been the sentiment among everyone at Cambridge. He could still remember his tutor gently mocking one of his friends, who had joined a well-known firm which made cooked meat.

  But what the hell was wrong with cooked meat? That friend now figured frequently in the business pages of newspapers, as his company mounted takeover after takeover. The contemporary who had ‘wasted himself’ in advertising now had his own agency. He had recently been quoted in the paper as saying that he thought graduates weren’t worth the space. ‘Give me a sixteen year old any day,’ he had said. ‘I’m tired of these graduates who think they’re God’s gift because they can quote a bit of Plato.’

  After four years of making notes, attending seminars, and tutoring the odd undergraduate, Stephen’s doctorate had not taken shape. He was disillusioned, lonely and poor. And then he had met Annie. The burning desire to achieve knowledge, to be published, to make his mark in the academic world, had been succeeded by more mundane requirements. A house, a car, an income. The decision to take a teaching post in the comfortable city of Silchester had seemed an obvious one.

  And for a while, he had seemed to be swimming with the rest of them. His income from teaching wasn’t bad, a legacy from his father had bought them a house, they were able to afford a comfortable life. He had befriended a local history expert; had joined a local choir; all his needs had seemed to be fulfilled. It was only in the last couple of years that the canker had started. Seeing contemporaries’ names in the lists of university appointments as well as on the finance pages. Realizing that he was destined to have neither the prestige of an academic career nor the financial rewards of a commercial one. For a few months he had been severely depressed. Was this mediocre, suburban life all he, who had been one of the brightest stars at Cambridge, was to aspire to?

  It had been Annie who had proposed, then insisted, that he should go back to studying. He had carried on, sporadically, with his research since abandoning the doctorate; his notes still sat in their folders; his original ideas still had backbone to them. If he took a year’s sabbatical, perhaps two, she suggested, they would be able to manage with their savings and her part-time work. It wasn’t too late for him to achieve his ambition of becoming Dr Fairweather. Her enthusiasm had given him the impetus to submit a fresh proposal, find himself some funding, negotiate a sabbatical with his school, and begin his research all over again.

  Stephen hunched his back over his knees. The familiar sinking feeling which he had whenever he thought of his thesis had gripped his stomach again. He couldn’t, couldn’t admit to Annie that his thesis wasn’t going, let alone going well, that he was terrified of failure, that he had no one to confide in. He gazed miserably at the ground. Had he made yet another mistake? Should he have stayed in teaching? Should he have decided to move into a more lucrative area? Taken accountancy exams? Don, bloody smug Don, with his moron daughter, seemed to have done all right out of accountancy. Why had everybody derided it at Cambridge? Patrick, who hadn’t even been to university, was making a fortune; Charles might have been in financial straits once, but he was doing all right now. They were all moving onwards and upwards, to bigger and better things, while he and Annie were left behind.

  His legs were beginning to feel stiff, and Stephen stood up. He would have to rejoin the party before people began wondering where he was. He began walking reluctantly back towards the house. His hair felt rumpled and he was sure his shirt must be covered in hay.

  He walked past the tennis court, avoiding the terrace, and went round to the front of the house. He would go and tidy up before facing the others. As he entered the cool house, he saw Charles disappearing out of a side door at the end of the hall. He paused, and looked at himself in the hall mirror.

  ‘Stephen! Didn’t hear you come in!’ Stephen turned in surprise. Patrick was standing at the door of his study.

  ‘Thought I’d have a quick wash and brush up,’ said Stephen. ‘I’m sure I need it.’ Patrick waved his hand dismissively.

  ‘Come in and have a cigar. I’m not sure I had this brand last time you were here. I’d appreciate your judgement.’

  ‘I’m hardly in a position to help you, since the only time I ever have a cigar is when I’m here,’ said Stephen, more harshly than he had intended. Patrick gave him a surprised look.

  ‘Come in anyway.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Stephen, stepping into the long, dim room. ‘I guess I’ve had too much sun.’ Patrick clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, Stephen. We’re friends. If you can’t sound off to me, who can you sound off to?’

  Stephen
sank on to the leather sofa. The ashtray on the table to the side of the sofa was full.

  ‘Have you been soliciting Charles’ advice, too?’

  ‘What?’ Patrick looked taken aback as he sat down. Stephen gestured to the ashtray.

  ‘About your new cigars. I saw him going outside just now.’ Patrick paused.

  ‘Oh. Yes, I did ask him what he thought. But actually, I’m afraid to say we were talking business.’

  ‘The gallery again? I would have thought he was OK for money by now.’ Patrick smiled as if at a nice memory.

  ‘No, not the gallery. Just a bit of an opportunity I was able to put his way. He should do quite nicely out of it.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stephen held up his cigar to the lighter. ‘He’s become quite a capitalist, old Charles, hasn’t he? All a bit different from the Charles we used to know and love.’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘It’s not really a question of being a capitalist. Anyone would take advantage of this opportunity if they knew about it. Did you see Charles’ face?’

  Stephen shook his head.

  ‘Pity. I was wondering how wide his grin was.’

  ‘Why?’ said Stephen curiously. ‘What’s this fantastic opportunity?’

  Patrick grimaced. ‘It’s very boring. And quite technical. You don’t really want to hear it.’

  ‘Why not?’ Stephen looked up, nettled. ‘How do you know I don’t have a stash of cash, just waiting to invest?’

  ‘I don’t. Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then.’ Patrick took a puff of his cigar and looked thoughtful. ‘Although, of course, that’s not quite true,’ he said. ‘You do have a stash of cash.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not an obvious one, but it’s there, if ever you need it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Your house.’

  ‘What, eighteen Seymour Road?’

  ‘Must be worth a fair bit now.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Stephen. ‘But you forget, we live there. If we sold it, we’d only have to buy another one.’ He began to laugh. ‘We’re simple folk, Patrick. We don’t have spare property hanging around to sell.’