“I could go to the police.”
Li guffaws. “Very funny, Reynard. Yes, why not tell Detective Inspector Mutch?”
“Oh fuck, he works for you as well?”
“Who, Mutch? No, not one of ours. He is your problem, nothing to do with us. Look, Reynard, you sign this deal, you walk away with a massive amount of money, more than the man in the street could imagine.”
“But a lot less than my stake is worth.”
“It is only worth what someone is prepared to pay for it.”
“I would be leaving hundreds of millions on the table.”
“An exaggeration, I think, but what price can you put on reputation? And liberty, in fact. You sell, and we forget everything we know about Cryx, Thwaites, your perversions, the policeman Mutch. The slate wiped clean, and you are free.”
I finish my espresso. “Just one question: my Uncle Ish, where does he fit in?”
“Isengrim? He is a long-term partner of Lucky Li, but he does not have a stake in it. You know, I see the family resemblance. He is like you in a lot of ways.”
“But did he suggest that you buy me out?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’ll take that as a yes. So he is to blame.”
Li shakes his head. “No, Reynard, he is to thank. He saved you.”
Li stands and smooths down his trousers. “So, Mr Xavier, do we have a deal?”
I stand. “Mr Li, have your lawyers email Michael Tanaka with the contract. We are both men of honour. We shall of course both fulfil all parts of the deal, whether explicitly included in the contract or not.”
“Yes, of course.” He offers his hand, and I shake it, not so dominantly as to hurt him, but his grip is weak, almost feminine. He says, “We shall see you and your team in our offices at nine on Monday, correct?”
47
Lucky Li to Save Gyges’ Bacon?
Rumours were circulating last night that Lucky Li International, the Guangzhou real-estate giant with substantial development projects in London, is poised to acquire Gyges Holdings, the troubled £4.5bn open-ended real estate fund. It had previously been believed that Gyges had simply engaged in a debt-for-equity swap with the Chinese behemoth, but it is now understood that Gyges’ founder Reynard Xavier is privately conceding that the business does not have a long-term future even after re-financing and has accepted a cash bid for his majority stake.
Market analyst Sven Mortenson said, “Not before time, Reynard Xavier is about to lose control of Gyges. His devil-may-care approach brought Gyges to the brink of extinction, but, if the rumours are true, Lucky Li has saved his bacon and he'll able to sail off into the sunset with a big pay-off, although probably only half of what he could have received six months ago.”
It's understood that Xavier faced a number of health issues this year, which resulted in control of Gyges being temporarily passed to colleagues.
Neither Gyges Holdings nor Lucky Li International responded immediately to our requests for comment.
It’s Saturday, so I plan a quiet day alone in the flat. My mobile's manically vibrating as I'm deluged with calls and messages, so I turn it off. Late morning, I find a bottle of Grey Goose in the freezer, which soon enough alleviates a rising sense of irritation.
The pain in my right side returns, now accompanied by nausea that accumulates and swells in successive waves.
Two-thirds through the Grey Goose, someone presses the entryphone, a guttural buzz that does nothing to ease my sickness. On the screen I see Lucija with her hair tied up and wearing oversized round spectacles. I buzz her up, tuck in my shirt, gargle with mouthwash, splash on some Gucci Guilty Absolute aftershave, and smooth down my hair.
I'm standing by the open front door as Lucija emerges from the lift, wearing an androgynous tracksuit and with a rucksack on her back. “Hi, Reynard. Can we talk, please?”
I beckon her in with a smile, and she perches on the Eicholtz sofa. I place an iced drink in front of her.
“What is it?”
“Vodka and tonic. It's good for you – one of your five a day.”
“Thanks. Bit early for me, although I have just been to the gym, so I guess it's okay. God, that's strong!”
“Stronger the better, in my book. Anyway, what can I do for you, Lucija?”
She reaches into her rucksack and pulls out a crumpled newspaper. “This article, is it true? Are you selling to Lucky Li?”
“You shouldn't believe what you read in the papers.”
“So it is not true?”
“I didn't say that. Look, I'm over a barrel. It's better that someone else takes the reins.”
“So it is true, then. Shit. What happened to you? You have given up? You do realise what will happen to Gyges if you sell?”
I take another ambrosial swig of vodka. “Look, we can all speculate, but if I've learned anything it's that predicting the future is a mug's game. I've made lots of money for other people—”
“And yourself, of course.”
“Okay, but mainly for other people, and now it's best that I pass on the baton to someone else.”
“But you do realise Lucky Li will shut us down? You can bet they will heavily write down the assets, hive off the best ones, then close the fund. Investors take a massive haircut, guaranteed.”
“As I said, I don't make predictions.”
Birdlike, she takes the tiniest of sips from her V&T, then winces. “Reynard, please just look at the facts. If you sell, you are virtually guaranteeing that taxpayers, pension funds, charities, all lose lots of money. I don't understand how you can possibly do that now, when Gyges could finally be stable again. Just when the worst is over, you are running away.”
“This is the best, in fact really the only option. Look, you’ll probably do very well out of this, you should see this as a great opportunity. Carpe diem.”
She sits there motionless, simply looking at me. Quietly, she says, “You just do not get it, do you? You just do not care about the implications of what you do. How can you live with yourself?”
“Listen, you're overstepping the mark here. This is business, nothing more, nothing less. Why are you here, anyway? Where's Roger – he's CFO, not you.”
“You get my message? Spoke to Susan. He had another of those fits. Not a huge one, but he must rest. He is not well. I worry about him.”
“Yes it's a shame, but you're more than capable. Gyges is lucky to have you. Who knows how long Roger will be able to do his role? As you say, he's not well. And he hardly covered himself in glory when I was away.”
She takes another sip. “He did what he thought was right. He did his best. We all did.”
“And that's what I'm doing now — the right thing, the best thing. In time, you might understand why.” I stand and retrieve the Grey Goose from the kitchen worktop. I get some fresh ice, pour myself a generous measure, and flop back on the armchair.
Lucija says, “How can you say this is right?”
“Listen, I’ve been backed into a corner. Cryx was nobbled to put us into difficulty, my Uncle Ish is in bed with the Chinese, and they’ll destroy me and the fund if I don’t sell to them.”
“If that is true, then go to the police.”
“Oh, don’t be so naive.”
“Look, if this is coercion, well, you can tell the police. No one is above the law.”
“Unfortunately, that’s simply not true. This all goes on above the heads of petty policemen. This is the ebb and flow of international finance, decisions made at a far higher level. You’re a clever girl, you know what really goes on.”
“It is not right.”
“So? Look, if I don’t sell, they’ll definitely destroy me, and with it the fund. At least if I get out, Gyges has some chance of surviving. It still generates tens of millions in management fees every year. They’re not going to kill the golden goose just like that, are they? And the FCA will ensure that they don’t step out of line. And of course you’ll be there to keep an eye on t
hings, maybe as CFO, even.”
She sips her V&T and sighs. “I would not want to be CFO if I did not believe in what I was doing. Now, I only want what is best. You have seen the papers, you know about inequality, about how the poor are still being made to suffer for bankers’ decisions. I am realistic, I know how the world works, but that is different to deliberately making others suffer when you have an alternative. You cannot sell.”
I shake my head. “No, wrong, I have to sell, and I’ve earned the right to do so. I’ve made billions for the poor of this country. Just look at the numbers. You can’t deny it.”
“That is not the point. And Reynard, why do you look so desperately sad, well, pretty much all of the time?” I look up from my drink to see her leaning forward with her chin resting on her bunched fist. Her mouth is closed, but unnaturally, so her lips form a horizontal line and dimples appear in her cheeks.
“I'm not sad at all, but thanks. Maybe it's the drink.”
“Or maybe it is guilt. You have to live with the burden of what you do. With wealth and power comes responsibility, you know that?”
“Look, Lucija, I’m doing the best I can in a difficult situation, that’s all there is to it.”
“It is not the best, please think hard about that.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say, and reach out to pat her reassuringly on the knee.
She stands abruptly, knocking her drink over. She grabs for the glass and rights it, even as she retreats, and says, “You need to sober up and start thinking straight. Eight fifty a.m. at the Chinese office on Monday, right?”
“Right.”
The door closes with a reassuring click as she leaves, and I return to the Grey Goose. She's a nice enough girl, but clearly confused.
So tired, unable even to make it to the Bacchus Club for dinner. I don't even make it to my bed; instead I lie on the sofa, and soon I'm dreaming. In the dream my mother is the Virgin Mary, and she’s handing out small packages to a faceless procession of grey, hooded figures. My mother/Mary wears a nice trouser suit – Stella McCartney, I believe – but she has bare feet, and her hair is unruly, uncombed, and, I notice with horror, is crawling with lice. The queue slowly diminishes and takes me closer to her. When I reach the front and hold my hand out expectantly, she says, “You're in the wrong queue.” She points back over my shoulder. I turn my head, and there, snaking off over the horizon, is another queue. My mother/Mary isn't apologetic or sympathetic, and is entirely matter-of-fact in the way that she dismisses me. I turn my back on her, and she calls out, “Next!”
48
A Sunday morning walk down Berkeley Street, across Piccadilly, and through Green Park. Denuded trees, ashen sky, dull headache. Vestigial memories of last night.
I return to the flat to find Akemi picking through her clothes that still hang in my wardrobe.
She turns and smiles, walks out to the hall to meet me. “Reynard, I wonder where you are. How are you?”
“Okay, thanks. But why are you here, Akemi? It’s lovely to see you and everything, but why are you still bothering with me? Most people would have given up years ago.”
“I have to talk to you. I have no choice.”
“Okay. Coffee?”
“No, please just listen.” She reaches out and takes my hands.
“Okay … Reynard, I am pregnant with your child.”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Reynard, I am sure. I am eight weeks pregnant, doctor said so. It can only be your child — I have not slept with any other man for years and years.”
“Really? You were seeing that girl, Megan, though?”
“Reynard, you know the difference between man and woman? Megan is a woman. One of the signs is breasts. The other is no ability to make a woman pregnant.”
“Okay, I get it, don’t labour the point.”
“So … you are going to be a father.”
I drop my keys and phone on the console table, hang up my coat, and try to gather my thoughts. “So what does it mean?”
“What does it mean? It means you are going to be a father. Your flesh and blood will be born into the world. It is amazing news. You did want to know?”
“What? Yes, of course. It’s important that I know.”
Akemi tilts her head. “So, what do you think?”
“You want to keep it?”
Akemi looks down at the floor. “Yes, I do. I must. I do not think I have a choice.”
I’m not sure what to say. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” We move to the kitchen, where I wrestle with the Nespresso machine, eventually producing myself a double espresso. I turn to Akemi and say, “Are you allowed cappuccino?”
“Of course, why not?” She perches on a stool at the breakfast bar.
Finally, the machine churns out something that looks sufficiently frothy and milky.
“Here’s to, er, the child,” I say, and lift my espresso in Akemi’s direction. “I just hope he or she takes after you rather than me.”
“Don’t say that. You have many qualities, and you are gorgeous, of course.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Let’s hope the child’s a little Akemi, not a little Reynard. And you know you’ll definitely be better off without me around to screw the kid up.”
“You do not even want to know your own child?”
“Why? What good would that do? What could it learn from me? Perhaps how not to behave, how not to get screwed over. But nothing actually positive. Just like my own parents, I should never be allowed to raise children.”
“Reynard, this is not like you. Modesty and self-pity. It is unusual, but I think now you underestimate yourself. You are a successful man, you have done some amazing things.”
“But it’s all gone now, that’s the point.”
“It is not true.”
I go to look out across the square. No other signs of life, nothing going on except me, Akemi, and the unborn child.
Still facing away from her, I say, “Look, I don’t think for a second that you, me, and the child can live together as a happy family, do you?”
After a pause: “No, not anymore. Maybe a few years ago, but not now.” I can feel her right behind me. In the air around us is a hint of Chanel, but also something else, something ripe, fecund.
I say, “But if the child is mine—”
“It is—”
“Then I will of course do my duty, pay my way.”
“But of course.”
“I need to think about the best mechanism for that, sorry to be so cold about it, but you know how it is?”
“No, I do not know. What?”
I turn, and take her exquisite face in my hands. She smiles bravely.
“Akemi, look, it was never meant to be like this. Something happened along the way, I don’t understand it.”
“It is simple. You changed. I think you lost sight of everything that mattered. Too late now.”
“Mistakes were made, yes.” I briefly run my fingers through her hair but she gently moves away.
“Reynard, I am sorry but you are just not the man you were five years ago. You had it all. I don’t know why you changed. The drugs, the money, the power, maybe?”
“I was trying to do the best I could, that’s all.”
“The best for who? Not for those who were close to you, that is for sure.” She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand; the glint of platinum, and of diamonds.
“Look, I did my best, I proved I could reach the top, that I could handle it. I made it. But then I was misled, let down, screwed over, sunk by the mistakes and duplicity of others. Hollowed out. Ultimately, I lost. And if you lose, you’re nothing.”
Akemi takes my hands in hers and draws me close. “Darling,” she says, “You do not talk like this, it is not the Reynard I know.”
“It’s too late. Too many things that can’t be undone. But I can make it all less bad.” I feel tears welling then cascading down my face. I move away and say, “I’m sorry, bu
t please go now. I’ll make it all okay. I’ll send you the details — I just need Michael Tanaka to do the legal stuff first, okay?”
“Please Reynard, let me in. Talk to me. I never see you cry before.”
“I can’t, I’m sorry, it’s all too late for that. Just go now, please.”
“Then tomorrow we talk?”
“Maybe.”
I move over to her and we embrace, in a chaste and heartfelt way that we have never done before — and we surely never will again.
49
10.30 a.m. at the Chinese offices. Jun Li pours the Dom Perignon as her father proposes a toast: “To Gyges Holdings!” We all raise our glasses: me, Lucija, Michael Tanaka, Julian, Mr Li's two underlings. Roger's not here, but it doesn't matter, legally or otherwise. I take a deep swig from my glass, and Jun recharges it. Lucija scowls and shakes her head.
I turn to her and quietly say, “What the hell are you doing?”
She whispers, “You know how I feel about this. I just hope Roger's back soon to take control – we have to do what we can for the investors.”
“Now's not the time to talk about this. Just drink your champagne like a good little girl, got it?” She edges away from me. Out of earshot she asks Jun Li a question, Jun Li points towards the door then gestures left, and Lucija leaves the room.
I turn to Michael Tanaka and raise a glass; he mirrors my movement and says, “Congratulations, Reynard.”
“Thanks for your help, Michael.”
“It was a favour for Akemi and her father, that's all. I think we're probably all square now, aren't we?”
“Almost. I need you to sort out a couple of documents. I’ll email the details to you, and I need them sorted today.”
“Okay, one last favour.” He leans forward and says, “Akemi's very special, you know, Reynard? One in a million, a uniquely good person, so you must treat her properly.”
“I will, you’ll see. And thanks again, Michael.”
I cross the room to Mr Li, who I shake by the hand and say, “This is a sad day for me, you know?”
The Greater Fool Page 19