Bums on Seats (10 page)

“That all sounds admirably sensible. Any likely snags?” Her eyes engaged his with peculiar intensity. He thought she might directly access his brain for answers. This was a woman who’d be hard to deceive.

He swallowed and said, “Some of their A Level groundwork might be a bit lacking, I should think.”

“Let’s come back to that. Talk me through your draft report to the committee.”

“Well, the market would stand about eight thousand pounds per year, for three years, per overseas honours degree student for this type of course. I’ve proposed that we establish facilities to process an intake of two hundred of them per year, for three years. So in the first year the income is £1.6 million. In the second year, when the next batch has joined, it’s £3.2 million. In the third year it becomes £4.8 million. Assuming that no more join, then in the fourth year the income drops back to £3.2 million. In the fifth year it drops further to £1.6 million. By the end of the fifth year the last batch of students has qualified and the scheme ends. Total income derived from the scheme is £14.4 million. Mind you, we could have a reputation for overseas students by then and find other sources. Or Zombek may want to carry on.”

“And the downside?” She was looking perceptive again.

“We’d have to give extra help to the students to focus. I’m assuming that the majority have never lived in anything like our culture. There’ll be distractions. The learning will be hard anyway. If the failure rate was high, our reputation would sink.”

“What does Luke Nweewe think?”

He was right. She could see into his mind. “Naturally, I’ve collaborated with him. He’s endorsed both the syllabus and the report, at a personal level. On our say so, he’ll email them to his Minister of Education for consideration. But, Chloe, you do see …” He was about to enlarge on the ramifications of some students having marginal A Levels, but she cut him off.

“You don’t need to say it! Look, what the students will need is extra group-based tutorials. And those will need to be very directive. It probably means four extra lecturers at, say, twenty-five thousand pounds a year each plus overheads. Which probably means fifty thousand pounds per year for each in total. That will add just two hundred thousand a year to the bill. I expect the Zombekians would see the sense in that. Don’t you?”

“I’ll put it to Luke, shortly.”

“OK Simon, and then work up your draft a bit, especially in respect of teaching resources. Then we can meet again in a few days.”

“Yes, that should be fine.”

“Simon, I’m sorry I snapped when you arrived. You’d done nothing to deserve that. Perhaps, when the pressure’s off a bit we could go somewhere for a bite to eat?”

He didn’t subsequently recall exactly leaving her. On balance he thought he’d probably just floated out and wafted back to his office.

At half past three, he decided to skive off to the supermarket. His fridge-freezer could do with a top-up. When he arrived, at five minutes to four, the place was bright, pleasant and enjoyable. He’d never counted, but there must be 10,000 culinary delights on offer. He ambled along the aisles adding items to his trolley. Numerous staff were amending price labels.

At four o’clock they disappeared and all hell broke loose. He selected a pack of sirloin steak. The label said reduced by £1. He put it down to think about it. A gnarled hand reached past and snatched it up. He ignored the rudeness and edged towards another amended label. Another trolley shunted his aside.

“Mine I believe,” said a quivery voice, its octogenarian owner grasping the only remaining reduced sirloins. Simon ended up with three unreduced packs of pork chops.

The pre-packed cheeses were at the next turn.

“Ouch!” he winced. A younger lady, probably only around seventy-five, sped over his right foot in her electric wheelchair. She’d picked up two heavily discounted mini-camembert, reengaged the motor and slewed the corner to ‘TV dinners’ whilst he still hopped about. He dubbed her ‘Agatha Schumacher’ in his mind’s eye!

He moved on and it became clear that the whole damn store was full of senior citizens, either darting or driving about at speed, all of them being bargain-selective. Perhaps the Social Services had fitted them up with reduced-price-seeking radar.

By careful footwork, and keeping away from discounts, he avoided further confrontation, barring an ancient elbow in the ribs at a fruit display. At the checkout, the old gent in front unloaded two bottles of gin and two bottles of port. “Got to keep her in the mood” he smirked. Simon wondered what tablets he was on.

When it was his turn to pay, the checkout operator said, “Don’t ever come at four o clock if you value your ankles. It’s bargain time and the wrinkly Mafia take over!”

Back home, he rang Luke who, after the briefest of hesitations, accepted the amended figures.

“If you email a revised draft today, I’ll get it off promptly. Thanks again, Simon.”

About an hour later, sat in his living room, he called up the Outlook Express package on his computer. Five minutes after that, for better or worse, it was on its way.

He decided to spoil himself with a homemade spaghetti bolognese. He assembled and processed half a pound of minced beef, a diced large onion, a tin of tomatoes, paprika, a crushed garlic clove, a sprig of tarragon, an Oxo cube, a knob of butter and a generous splosh of red wine. It would simmer and reduce for an hour. He went back to the computer to update his stocks and shares statistics until it was time to cook the spaghetti.

“Great! His holding in Thompson Travel had shot up in value. There were strong takeover rumours in that market sector. He was just over £1,000 up. This was a good time to sell. He reached for the phone. “Hello, I’d like to deal in my portfolio please. My PEP code is SM 402633.”

“Thank you, sir. Would you confirm, for security reasons, your full name and address and date of birth?” He did so. “Very good, sir. How can I help you?”

“Would please tell me what price you’ve got on your screen for Thomson Travel?”

“Yes, sir. They’re a hundred and forty pence to buy, a hundred and thirty-eight pence to sell.”

“A hundred and thirty-eight is the best, is it?”

“It is, sir.”

“All right, sell my entire holding at a hundred and thirty eight pence; no less. And that instruction can stand until the market closes tonight.”

“If you’ll just hold on, sir … Right, I confirm that I’ve now sold them at a hundred and thirty-eight pence.The transaction is complete. Do you want to buy something else, sir?

“No thanks. I’ll just let the balance sit in my account until I’ve decided. Thanks.”

“Pleasure Sir.”

Simon made a note in his Filofax. He’d cleared about 12% after dealing expenses and stamp duty on those shares, in just over four weeks. Wonderful! Everything was looking distinctly rosy.

After luxuriating over his meal, he poured a brandy, lowered himself into the recliner and pressed the buttons on the stereo remote. He was in a Mahler mood. He felt soulful and somewhat larger than life. But he also felt a bit lonely. If he was, after all, going to become better off, he’d need someone to share it with. And not just on a ‘Wham, bam, evening Ma’am,’ basis. Someone like Chloe! The thought entered his head without prior notice. It shocked him.

CHAPTER 12

It was Wednesday and free of lectures. He was at home and being productive. He’d rung his broker and bought £7,000 of shares in Royal Bank of Scotland. He’d emailed a final draft report to Chloe. Now he was making excellent progress on the research article. It might well be finished today. The phone rang.

“Simon, this is Stuart Mison.” God, the Vice-Chancellor was calling personally. “Simon, I hear you’ve produced a promising proposal for my Senior Management Executive Committee. I’m anxious to explore all possibilities for funding. However, regrettably, I cannot attend the next meeting of that committee. I’ll be in Philadelphia speaking at a convention of Vice-Chancellors. Would you oblige me with a personal briefing? I really must keep on top of this.”

“Of course, sir. When did you have in mind?”

“Come to my house for drinks and snacks at eight tomorrow evening. We’ll be very informal. There’ll just be ourselves and Mrs. Mison, Sally – you know her of course.”

“Yes, that’s fine, sir. I’ll be pleased to come.”

“Good. Thank you. I’ll ask her to send a cab for you, then you’ll be able to drink,” he added considerately. “Goodbye.”

Simon had been about to confirm his address for the cab driver but the VC cut the connection. On reflection, since he’d obviously been advised of the Zombek report, he was clearly well informed. Piddling little details, like every single staff member’s home address, drinking inclinations, perhaps even zodiac sign, would be no problem at all. Power must be a strange commodity to handle.

An hour later, Sally Mison visited a nearby town. It was one of those rare communities that still has a high street mostly filled with useful small shops. There were no ‘For Sale’ boards, only two banks and no supermarkets. The shops were a little more expensive but staff were attentive, knowledgeable and discreet. A number of places offered home delivery. Heaven comes in many manifestations.

She visited in turn a delicatessen, a wine merchant and a fishmonger. Her last visit was to a chemist.

“Hello Madam, lovely day!”

“Yes, good morning. I’ve come for my husband’s monthly tablets, please.”

“Very good. They’re ready for you.” The pharmacist handed over the little pillbox containing eight Viagra tablets. There were no other customers at his counter. “That will be £100. As you know they have to be imported from America. When they’re licensed here, prices will fall. In the meantime, my supplier has considerable expense.” He avoided looking at her directly. His few similar customers seemed to prefer it that way. She was grateful for his help and appreciated his risk. She handed over five £20 notes and departed.

Driving home, Sally thought about her husband and his prescription. Until a friend had told her of Viagra and the illegal source, and given them a personal introduction to the pharmacist, their sex life had become desperate. Stuart was fifty-eight and she was forty-eight. He’d started flagging three years earlier. It had reached the situation where he either couldn’t manage at all or, if he did, it was very brief. It drove him to the edge of despair. It impelled her towards infidelity.

Now, with his pills, he could perform very well. It was a God-sent miracle. In case there were any unknown side effects they rationed themselves to a twice-a-week sex life. Even so, it was infinitely better than before.

There was just one unsatisfactory aspect, which detracted from her pleasure. He had no inclination at all for foreplay. He would take a tablet 30 minutes before the event and wait quietly for the rush of blood. Once he was in command, her mere presence, or anticipated presence, was sufficient to have him thirsting action. She, on the other hand, wanted to work around to it. She craved endearments and kissing and stroking. But a girl can’t have everything, can she? she thought. They had a good life, with status, a nice house and home, and almost enough money.

On Thursdays, Simon ran a part-time MA Business Studies course from 1:00pm until 7:00pm. The students were mostly in full-time employment and given a half day off by their employers. They were in their late twenties or early thirties. Of the eighteen students, eight were women. They were a likable class, mostly intent on a career and prepared to put in a lot of effort.

“How can we use the Profit and Loss account to see whether the company’s making progress?”

Nadia Jennings spoke up. “We can use comparative analysis. Look at the ratio of Gross to Net Profit, for instance. Compare that figure with last year’s equivalent. Or compare it with the figures from other organisations in a similar line of business.” It was a reasonable first answer. An interesting thing about Nadia from Simon’s point of view was that she was Sir Maurice Steynes’ PA, and he was Chairman of the University Board of Governors.

“Supposing there was some special circumstance, like a change in production method?”

Freddie Shah offered, “It would probably show up on the Balance Sheet as Capital Investment in Plant. In special circumstances there could be Notes to the Accounts.

The afternoon passed quickly. Later he divided them into syndicates, gave them a problem to solve and left them for twenty minutes whilst he dashed to the Common Room for sausage rolls and coffee. There wouldn’t be time to eat at home before leaving for the Vice-Chancellor’s.

At five minutes to seven he called a halt. “Would you please try and get a copy of your own company’s Accounts and follow through the aspects we’ve spoken of? Then we can discuss more realities of commercial life next time. Thanks for coming. See you next week.”

There was just time to shower and change. He wore his chinos with his new Ben Sherman shirt. The cab came sharp at eight. At ten minutes past it rolled up to the Misons’ front door. Sally had been watching out and was down the front steps and at the car door before he had emerged. She leaned past him and said, “Will you come back for Mr. McGuire at half past ten, please? And please add the bill to our account. Hello Simon, lovely to see you.”

He kissed her cheek. “Hello Sally, it’s lovely to be here.” She looked stunning in a simple skirt and blouse with an expensive pair of loafers.

She linked arms and took him to Stuart Mison in a room he’d not seen before.

“Hello Simon. It’s very kind of you to indulge me in your spare time.”

“No trouble at all, sir.”

“Call me Stuart whilst we’re here. Sit down, do. Champagne?”

Sally lifted one of two bottles from an ice bucket and poured three glasses. They talked for a few minutes, as English people do, of the weather, yesterday’s weather and the prospects for tomorrow’s weather. Eventually the VC said, “Zombek?”

Simon was a fluent speaker. He spent a deal of his working life presenting concepts. Mison listened and occasionally asked for clarification. Sally topped up the glasses as necessary. After an hour, Simon had covered the basics of the proposal and the syllabus. He’d not been too explicit about his reservations over the quality of the proposed students but the VC had been in education a long time and was Vice-Chancellor by merit, not good fortune.