Authors: Tony Drury
“There’s nothing in this world, Charles,” she said, “that Scarlett, Lily, Tabitha and I wouldn’t do for you. You are a wonderful man. You’re needed by your children. We’ll sell the house. I’ve arranged with the surgery that I can return to work for three days a week starting next Tuesday.”
Lucy produced a sheet of paper from her case. She was the type of woman to be very organised in a crisis. “Here’s a summary of the finances. The bank is bridging the sale. The credit cards will be cleared. That’s eighty thousand pounds we owe. The mortgage is four hundred and fifteen thousand pounds. After costs we will have around two hundred thousand pounds. We’ll rent for a year while we stabilise our position. With the recession there are a number of properties for rental in this area. We’ll start looking almost immediately.”
Lucy put her hand on Charles’s arm. “We need to know if your business can pull through, Charles. That’s where you are going to put all your effort. I’ll deal with everything else.” She stopped for a moment and then continued. “Charles, all I need to know from you is, are you truly serious about staying off the drink? It’s a huge challenge for you, I know. I don’t underestimate it.”
The telephone rang but they let it continue until the answer-phone clicked in.
“They were kind to me at the clinic, Lucy, but suddenly I realised that I was being treated as a patient. They said I was ill. It was humiliating. I’ve been drinking too much because of work pressures. I’m not ill. Of course I can stop.”
Lucy stood up. “We have a lot to do, Charles,” she said abruptly.
“You said that the children need me – but what about you, Lucy?”
She smiled tightly but didn’t speak. There was a long silence.
“What if I can’t resist it, Lucy?” Charles said quietly. “What if I have another drink?”
Lucy reached inside her case and took out what seemed to be a piece of card. She handed it to her husband and he turned it over. It was a photograph of his three children taken in late February during a winter’s walk in the forest. Scarlett was dressed all in red and was wearing a white, fluffy hat. Lily was clinging on to Scarlett’s back and waving and laughing. Tabitha had fallen over in the snow but was still managing to look at the camera held by her mother.
“Keep this with you at all times, Charles. You must understand one thing. You’re not giving up drink. You are making a choice. You’re deciding what life you want to lead.”
On Friday afternoon Oliver met with Alistair and Amanda at a coffee house in Old Broad Street. Alistair spent an hour telling him about developments at City Fiction and Amanda spoke persuasively to him on the potential of their foreign rights. She was wearing a green jacket and skirt. Her hair was full of bounce and Oliver noticed again her impossibly radiant skin – and her skirt rising halfway up her thighs. She insisted on smiling at him. It was a modest gesture. It completely took him apart.
“So what do you think, Oliver?” asked Alistair.
“Yes,” confirmed Oliver. “Andrew is there to be persuaded and Jody generally backs me.”
“So it’s a ‘yes’. You’ll raise the money for us?”
“It’s
almost
a ‘yes’, Alistair. Andrew wants a more detailed report on the publishing industry. He’s seen that Waterstones have been in trouble recently. He is, of course, right to the extent that we’re relying on you for all our information. A separate analysis does make sense. It shouldn’t hold matters up. I’ll prepare the client engagement letter for you and we need to complete client take-on procedures and money laundering checks. I want to spend a day with you next week. I’ll start the preparation of the share promotion document. I think you understand our process?”
“Out of ten, Oliver,” asked Alistair abruptly, “what are the chances of you raising the money for us?”
“Well, I really like your business and we’ve all been watching Bloomsbury Publishing and the Harry Potter magic. Jody likes your financial controls, although there is some work to be done there. We really do think that you’re a publisher with a great future.”
“Yes, but out of ten?”
“The economy is weak, Alistair. Cameron seems to want to save the world while Middle England collapses. Consumer spending is really struggling. Investors are cautious.”
“Alistair is a committed Tory,” interrupted Amanda. “I understand that your father was a vice-chairman of the party at one time?”
“My father was part of the inner circle during the Thatcher years,” responded Oliver. “He and my mother emigrated to Australia about ten years ago. Dad hated Blair and the doctors suggested that the heat of Queensland could help my mother’s arthritis.”
“Out of ten, Oliver?” Alistair repeated.
“I’ll give it everything I can, Alistair. If it’s possible, I’ll get it.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“Seven, on a good day.”
“And on a bad day?”
“Seven. Every day in corporate finance is a bad day.”
Amanda leaned forward, put her hand on Oliver’s thigh and squeezed.
“With you on our side, Oliver,” she said, “I reckon it’s a nine.”
“Thanks for coming in,” said Andrew.
Sara Flemming smiled. “I only posted the letter on Thursday, Mr Agnew. I’m impressed that you work on a Saturday.” She sat down on the chair that was offered to her.
“You did business studies at Manchester. You then worked in Paris for two years researching impressionist art and, most recently, you worked for a Conservative Member of Parliament?”
“That’s about it, Mr Agnew.”
“How did you get our details?”
“I was reading a research paper about publishing companies and the difficulties they have in raising money. The article mentioned a number of finance houses which specialise in the sector. I wrote to ten of those companies.”
“Is the publishing world something that interests you, Sara?” asked Andrew. “Sorry, would you like a coffee?”
“I called at Starbucks on my way here, thank you, Mr Agnew. I like researching and understanding about things. I’m an English Lisbeth Salander.” She paused, feeling rather pleased with that line.
“The girl with the dragon tattoo!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” she laughed, “without the tattoos, the hang-ups, the drugs and the occasional violence. But, like Lisbeth, I have good IT skills and I love to ferret. I like gaining knowledge.” She smiled. “I also have imagination.”
“Well, it is indeed a coincidence that you came across us in the way that you did, as I actually need a report on the publishing industry,” said Andrew.
“Why?”
“I have to make a decision on whether to commit my corporate finance team to raising two million pounds for a publishing house.”
“Which one?”
“I can’t tell you that, Sara, I’m afraid. Client confidentiality.”
“Which publishing house, Mr Agnew?”
He looked at her and smiled.
“Well...since you’ve pressed me – City Fiction... they’re a...”
“Wow. They published
Twenty Four Hours to Meltdown
. Did you enjoy it?”
“Well... I haven’t quite reached that...”
“Ronan Murphy. Former City journalist. He won a big literary award in 2010. I looked up their website. They have some great titles.”
“It’s hard work making money in publishing, Sara. I have to be certain before I can ask our investors to consider it.”
“The world is changing, Mr Agnew. Everybody is talking about eBooks, but that’s just scratching the surface. You want to know if City Fiction fully understand what is happening in their industry.”
“Can you do a report in two weeks, Sara?”
“Would Lisbeth have agreed a deadline?” she asked with a smile.
As she left the chief executive’s office, Andrew remembered they hadn’t discussed fees. He called her back and raised the question.
“Whatever I charge, Mr Agnew, I’ll be worth it,” said Sara.
Saturday was a typical May bank holiday. Sun, showers, hot, clouds, cold.
Gemma sighed in frustration and disappointment. She’d reached a decision to end her relationship with Oliver. They had met in the gym a few months earlier when he had fallen over a trailing rope and she had kissed his bruised knee better. They’d begun a passionate affair which she’d thought was beginning to mature into something more meaningful. She was now having doubts.
They had been walking and talking together for over an hour as they followed the trails of Regent’s Park. She could feel him becoming more and more remote and his mind seemed to be somewhere completely different. She told him that she objected to being taken for granted. He remained silent. He said nothing as she told him that it was over.
The last thing he did was to buy her an ice-cream. As her lips closed around the chocolate flake he experienced a slight pang of regret. They had been pretty good together.
“Goodbye, Oliver,” said Gemma, as she tried to control her frustration. She knew there was someone else.
On Sunday evening, with a bank holiday Monday ahead, Oliver stayed up late into the evening and decided to listen to Rachmaninov’s piano concerto No. 2 in C Minor, op.18, which starts with one of the greatest moderatos in piano music. Listeners of Classic FM regularly picked it at the top of their various charts.
Rachmaninov died in 1943, two years before David Lean directed
Brief Encounter
and used the music, performed by Eileen Joyce, as the background to one of the most famous love affairs in film.
Vladimir Ashkenazy had moved on to the adagio sostenuto so, for over twelve minutes, Oliver allowed his mind to be hypnotised by André Previn and the London Symphony Orchestra.
He was slowly arriving at two conclusions. There was indeed somebody else; and Sergei Rachmaninov wasn’t the composer of the music he had heard on the radio.
That had begun with an introduction of piano and violins. Da-de-da, da-de-da. The violins dominated and went up the octaves, then some trumpets and drums, followed by dum, dum, dum, dum and then the pianist came in again followed by the orchestra and...
Oliver fell asleep on the sofa in the early hours of the bank holiday. As he slipped into dreams, he thought about a skirt rising up some sun-tanned thighs.
Chapter Two
Lucy Harriman began her first surgery of the new contract at the Whiteoaks Practice, about three miles west of Ealing, on the Tuesday morning. Although there were two doctors ready to see patients from 7.30am onwards, the senior partner, who was pleased to have a female doctor in his team, agreed that for her three days each week, she could start at 9.00am and finish at 4.00pm. There had been some logistical organisation to accommodate school runs. Charles was able to cope with the mornings and a neighbour had agreed, temporarily, to collect Scarlett and Lily from their school and wait for Lucy to come and get them at around 4.45pm. Tabitha would remain at her nursery school in the care of the duty teacher until Lucy arrived.
She paused briefly before calling in her first patient. Charles had been particularly disturbed during the previous evening and had insisted on telling her about a visit he had been forced to make to meet with the regulatory authorities.
“It was so intimidating,” he’d said. “Catching the Docklands Light Railway from Bank Tube down to Canary Wharf. It’s like entering a futuristic world, Lucy. The offices are huge. There’s glass everywhere. There are shopping malls full of coffee houses.” He had paused to take a drink of fresh orange juice. “You go into the FSA building. It’s massive. It takes ages to reach reception. It’s like a seven star hotel. You get signed in and the guard takes you to the lift. The corridors are wide and the meeting room we were in was six times the size of this lounge.” He’d drunk some more of his juice and seemed genuinely distressed at the memory.
She’d studied her husband’s face and knew that he had yet to understand the devastating effects of alcohol. She was certain that he had not fully grasped that drinking merely disguised intense and scary feelings that he would, one day, need to face. He needed to talk about his real fears. But she’d found herself having to listen to his description of the regulatory interview.
“There were four of them sitting in a row opposite me and my solicitor. They had sheets of paper. The main officer started by saying that they had twenty-two questions on which they wanted answers.” He’d slapped his open hand on the table. “We were there on a routine matter. We wanted to discuss adding to our permissions. In your language, Lucy, what we were allowed to do.”
She’d noticed the sweat on his forehead.
“Routine, my ar... sorry, Lucy. Routine. It made the KGB look like Punch and Judy. Two lawyers and one barrister. We were there for two hours and, afterwards, my solicitor made me write a four page letter which, he said, was to correct all the errors I had made. We won’t get their decision for six weeks.”
He had retired to bed and she had followed her increasingly frequent habit of sleeping in the spare room.
Now, the following morning, she knew she had to focus on her medical duties.
Her first three patients were men. Philip was a sports fanatic whose daily workouts at the gym had given him piles. A thorough examination and a prescription for suppositories and cream completed the appointment.
The second was a marketing manager for a toy manufacturer who had arrived back from China the previous day convinced he had skin cancer. At Lucy’s request he lowered his trousers and showed her his infected thigh. There was a vivid red and brown blistered patch from the top of the leg almost to his knee. Across it were lines where the victim had been scratching.
“Your skin is rather dry, Mr Henderson.”
“Is it...?”
“It’s discoid eczema, Mr Henderson. It’s often caused by stress. It’s quite common with long distance fliers. How long is the flight from Beijing? Twelve, perhaps, thirteen hours? But we can help with the skin dryness. I can refer you to a dermatologist if you wish, but it’s eczema. It’s not an unusual condition.”
“It’s not...?”
“Occasionally it can be what we call tinea corporis, which is better known as ringworm infection. But you have eczema. It should clear up over time. I want you to take regular showers using a body wash I’m going to prescribe for you. Please dry the area carefully and then apply the hydrocortisone cream I’m giving you twice a day for the next week.”