Guilty Pleasures (14 page)

‘How are you bearing up?’

Roger popped a slice of tender Welsh lamb into his mouth and pulled a face.

‘I can’t say I’ve been delighted by the events of the last few weeks,’ he replied sourly. Roger and William Billington were sitting in the dining room of Mark’s Club, the establishment Mayfair restaurant where Roger had been coming since he was old enough to sign a cheque. William had been Milford’s banker for more than twenty-five years, a role he had inherited from his father before him, but the two men were more than just business associates, and in fact Roger had dated William’s sister for a while before he’d mistakenly double-booked her with a feisty deb one New Year’s Eve. The resulting catfight was still fondly remembered by both men. Roger and William’s relationship was based on something much more solid: a shared love of fine wines, food and money. Once a month they met up socially, taking it in turns to buy each other lunch in the best restaurants around London.

‘Did you and Saul have a falling out?’

‘Not at all,’ said Roger, looking surprised. ‘In fact the whole family is in shock. Saul hadn’t even seen the girl in the last three years, she was something of a black sheep to tell the truth. Never used to involve herself in family affairs, never summered with us at the house in Provence – not since she was a girl, anyway. Never joined us for Christmas in Gstaad. Strange girl; very closed off, I’d say.’

William chewed a mouthful of his steak thoughtfully.

‘However, I heard that she’s removed you from your position – a bit of a sideways move?’

Roger barked a hollow laugh.

‘It’s so transparent, isn’t it? Some trick they’ve taught her at that management firm she was with no doubt. Make your mark, fire a few people, especially people more capable than yourself, who might make you look bad.’

‘Hmm …’ said William.

‘More wine sir?’ asked the sommelier, appearing at Roger’s side.

Roger nodded, tapping the top of his glass.

‘And she’s replaced you with whom?’ asked William.

Roger laughed cynically, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin.

‘Ah, you haven’t heard? Some 26-year-old with no fashion college background and no track record bar some lowly position in a tacky Hollywood accessories company.’

William winced. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Indeed.’ He scoffed, ‘I’d almost understand it if she’d have got in a heavyweight designer, someone from Hermès or Bottega Veneta perhaps, but she’s treating it as some sort of game. Trashed the entire new collection for no apparent reason, wasted thousands in the process. Now she has all these grand ambitions for expansion. I still have a 20 per cent stake in this company, William, and frankly I’m worried my shareholdings aren’t going to be worth the paper they are written on by Christmas.’

William sat back and sipped at his wine.

‘I have to admit that Emma’s appointment came as a surprise to us all at Billingtons. We all assumed that you were the natural heir.’

‘Well, there we are in agreement,’ snorted Roger. ‘Saul never gave me the tiniest inclination it was going to pan out any other way.’

‘Well, to be straight with you, Roger,’ said William, ‘Saul was a dear friend but you know I was getting concerned about his lack of focus with the business. It was never really in his blood. He enjoyed the trappings, but the nuts and bolts? Not interested.’

Roger felt no qualms about being disloyal to his brother. Saul had left him with nothing – well, nothing he wanted – so why not speak his mind?

‘I totally agree,’ he nodded. ‘Meanwhile, you are aware Emma is looking for a capital injection of twenty million?’

William put down his glass.

‘That much? We have an appointment in the diary for Friday so no doubt she will tell me more then.’

‘And are you going to support her?’ asked Roger, holding his friend’s gaze.

‘You mean are we going to support
her,’
said William with a smirk, ‘or are we going to get behind
you?’

Roger was glad he didn’t have to make the purpose of their lunch explicit. He tapped his Limoges china plate with his fork for emphasis. ‘I could do great things with the company.’

‘I was looking forward to seeing it,’ said William with a sympathetic smile. ‘Of course no one knows what to make of her. She was a manager at Price Donahue so she obviously has some merit.’

Roger looked up. He had bargained on his friend’s unwavering support and didn’t like to hear Emma being talked about in such a positive manner. For a second he imagined Rebecca’s response if the bank did decide to support Emma. Ever since the board meeting when Emma announced her intention to be CEO of Milford, Rebecca had been truculent and teary. The whole situation was having a detrimental effect on his wife’s wellbeing and he wasn’t going to let it continue.

‘She’s a number cruncher, William. Obviously that’s no bad thing, and if Milford were a bank I’d be happier. But she has no experience in this sector, none at all. Plus she is naïve, her plans for expansion are foolhardy to say the least and they require a massive capital injection to proceed. I can’t see how Billingtons could possibly be prepared to support her.’

William nodded slowly, seeming to digest Roger’s words.

‘Well… the bank could refuse to support Milford’s application with Emma as CEO. To lend money of that amount, we could impose certain stipulations. Such as an alternative CEO.’

Roger smiled into his crystal tumbler.

‘However …’ said William, pointing at Roger with his fork, ‘she could dig her heels in. Then she could be removed by a directors’ show of hands but as a 70 per cent shareholder she could call a special meeting and fire all the directors on the board and put her own stooges in place.’

Roger swallowed a mouthful of potato rather too quickly, which triggered a coughing fit.

‘Could she do that?’ he spluttered into his napkin.

William nodded.

‘But what’s more likely is that she would go quietly. Without the support of the other shareholders or financial institutions she’d have little choice but to roll over. There’s no point hanging on to 70 per cent of a company which can’t even get a fifty pound overdraft. I suspect she’d return to America and be happy to sell her shareholding to you – probably for a song.’

Roger licked his lips at the prospect.

‘So … what does that scenario rely on?’

‘First. When she comes to see the bank on Friday we make it clear that we are not prepared to back the company with her as CEO. We’ll lend to Milford on the condition that a more experienced executive is in charge.’

‘Me?’ said Roger eagerly.

William’s smile was sphinx-like. ‘We could even make things doubly difficult and suggest there are a couple of loans that are dangerously close to being called in. It would put her in a very untenable position.’

Roger smiled and popped a spear of asparagus into his mouth.

‘Of course,’ mused William, ‘we are assuming that no other bank will lend to her.’

The smile dropped from Roger’s face.

‘And how likely do you think that is?’

‘Very. Banks can have a sheep mentality. They want to support who everyone else is supporting. If they know that Milford’s existing bank isn’t prepared to lend they will understandably be nervous. Emma’s lack of experience in the sector and the appointment of a similarly inexperienced head designer won’t help either. Frankly I’d be surprised if anyone else is prepared to back her.’

‘So we wait for her to come to you.’

William tapped his glass against Roger’s.

‘You have my faith and my full support. Now, shall we order some dessert? The poached pear here is wonderful.’

She was almost there. Five miles into her six-mile jog, she picked up the pace, her eyes focused on the road as it went over a gentle rise and downhill. Every Saturday Emma took the same route in a long, wide loop around the village. She was particular like that. Back in Boston she had pounded the same route around Back Bay every day if she could; Mark used to laugh at her, said she had a touch of OCD and sometimes Emma thought he might be right. But she enjoyed the routine and the challenge, and each run she pushed herself faster and faster. She had an athlete’s physique. Small breasts, long legs and lungs built for stamina, and she was now completing the course ten minutes quicker than when she first came to Chilcot. But today wouldn’t count, because today she was taking a detour. Emma veered off her usual route and down a narrow lane, squeezing her hands into tight fists as she ran. Then she saw it: a bend in the road that made her shiver. It was a pretty stretch, dappled in the shade of an oak tree, but it was a bend that had changed her life forever, claiming the life of her father twenty-two years ago in a car accident. Emma had spent every day of the last two decades missing her father. Jack Bailey had been an Economics Fellow at Oxford University. Brilliant and charismatic, at 35 he was destined for even greater things; government think tanks, a rumoured advisory role in the Treasury. Emma hadn’t cared about any of that, of course, she’d just loved her father because he was gentle and funny. Emma was a classic daddy’s girl. She was like him in many ways with her logic and intelligence, her thirst for knowledge. A big bear of a man, Jack had a big laugh and a fierce mind and Emma could still remember clearly their games of
chess, the trips to zoos, castles and museums and the nuggets of information he’d scatter about to make them fascinating as well as fun. How the elephant is the only mammal that can’t jump. How the Egyptians had invented paper aeroplanes. In the ink-black country sky they’d gaze at the stars through Jack’s old telescope as he told her about the planets and pointed out the shapes: a bear, a plough, a dog. She slowed to a stop in front of the tree, looking up through its branches towards the cornflower blue sky. It had been a cold September night that had ended it all. She was seven years old. Tucked up in bed she’d thought nothing of the police sirens whizzing through the village until an hour later there had been a knock at the door followed by the sound of sobbing. Emma would never forget her mother coming to her bedside, not bothering to turn the light on. She could just make out her mother’s tear-streaked face, just a shape in the dark telling her the news that her father had been killed, of how his Volvo had crashed into a tree on the outskirts of the village.

Today was his birthday.
Would
have been, she corrected herself. Jack Bailey would have been fifty-seven. Looking down, Emma noticed with surprise that there was a fresh bouquet of flowers by the oak tree. Emma wondered who could have put them there. Her mother? She’d seen her yesterday and she hadn’t mentioned it. In fact Emma couldn’t remember when the last time her mother mentioned Jack; with her new life with Jonathon it was as if she had forgotten the existence of her first husband entirely. Anger bubbled up, but she fought it down. That was no way to remember him. She walked over to the tree and put her ear against its bark.
Happy birthday, Dad. I wish you were here.

She paused for a few more moments, then set off back towards Winterfold, the thought of a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums tied to a tree making her run faster.
Who had left them? Who had beaten her to it?
She veered off the road onto a wide grassy open space. In the distance she could see the edge of the village, the church steeple soaring into the sky. As she made for a path which would take her back towards the house, her foot caught on a rabbit hole and she stumbled forward, twisting her ankle. ‘Ouch. Shit!’ she muttered.

Her ankle was throbbing – not broken, she thought – but too weak to run on. A few feet away was a felled tree and she hobbled over and sat down on the trunk.

Emma took a swig from her water bottle and tipped her head back so the sun warmed her face. She was wriggling her foot around trying to loosen it up, when she heard footsteps behind her. She looked up, squinting into the sun. There was a man standing in front of her. He was wearing shorts and vest and she could see he had the firm physique of someone who worked out regularly. Tall, a strong chin, a crop of dark brown hair and narrow eyes, he was also out of breath.

‘Are you OK?’ he panted, hands on his knees. ‘I saw you trip.’ He was American: an East Coast accent, she thought. Not quite hard enough for a New Yorker or rounded enough for a Bostonian she thought trying to place it.

‘No, no. I’m absolutely fine,’ said Emma, ‘My ankle went a bit wobbly there, but it’s OK.’

‘You’re pretty fit,’ said the man admiringly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ snapped Emma coldly.

‘Just saying that you’re fit,’ said the man frowning. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

Emma laughed. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s an expression we used to use as kids. Over on this side of the pond “You’re fit” means “You’re attractive”, “You’re sexy”.’

‘Dumb American,’ he smiled, pointing to himself and shrugging. He pointed down to the heart monitor strapped to her arm.

It read sixty-five.

‘Pretty good. For a woman.’

‘For a woman?’

‘You know. Women aren’t as good athletes as men.’

‘Actually there’s very little between male and female athletes,’ surprised at the casual sexism. ‘Some of the Chinese middle-distance runners will be beating most men soon.’

She wiped a few droplets of water off her lips while she tried to work out if she recognized him. Looking up and squinting in the sunlight his face didn’t look familiar. He was definitely handsome underneath the red cheeks and sheen of sweat. It irritated her to think it.

‘Rob Holland.’ He extended a hand and she took it.

‘Emma Bailey.’

‘Ah. Local royalty.’

‘Hardly,’ she replied. ‘How do you know my family?’

‘Everyone in this village knows the local mafia.’

‘Local mafia,’ she said, trying to work out if he was joking.

‘So you live in Milford,’ she said slowly.

He sat down on the tree beside her and she felt herself flinch, the intrusion somewhat unwelcome.

‘London actually. I live in Notting Hill in the week. Weekends I head west and come to this place. Do you mind if I have some of your water?’

She looked at him suspiciously. ‘OK,’ she replied, hesitantly handing him her bottle and watching him drain the water from it.

‘Sorry,’ he said handing her back the empty container.

He was beginning to rile her. It was a time to clear her head and here was some cocky American slagging off women and drinking her water!

‘Which house?’

‘None of the best ones, obviously. Your family has the monopoly of those,’ he said playfully. ‘I’m at Peony House. The owners are away in Australia so I’m renting it.’

‘Mr and Mrs Parker’s place.’ She nodded thinking of the fine double-fronted Georgian house by the church. ‘I heard they were away.’

‘They have been. They come back in two weeks so there goes my weekend retreat. I’ve offered the Parkers 20 per cent over the value of the Peony House but they’re not having it.’

‘I could have told you they wouldn’t sell.’

‘You’ve not been around to ask,’ he smiled.

‘Anyway, I’m sure Notting Hill isn’t that bad. I thought W11 would be more your scene.’

‘It’s full of people I see during the week. That’s why I like coming here. To get away from the day-job.’

‘Which is?’ she said curiously. Whenever she met someone new she couldn’t help herself size them up; guess what they did; create a mental picture in her mind of their life and past. It was probably why she had studied psychology at college.

‘I work for a record company.’

‘Argh,’ she smiled. She should have guessed from the long baggy shorts that weren’t much use for the serious runner. She had him pegged as something maybe in PR although he had that arrogance, that cocksureness that came with the young and very wealthy. Maybe it was family money.

‘Shouldn’t you be at crazy parties at the weekend?’

‘Don’t you know they happen in the week,’ he laughed. ‘I like my weekends for escaping from the music industry. Escaping from band managers, and people like John James.’

‘Who’s he?’ Emma asked innocently.

‘You’ve never heard of John James? Biggest rock act this decade. Fifty million album sales, the most downloaded artist in the history of downloading. You don’t get out much,’ he chided.

‘I just don’t really listen to music’

‘What about MTV?’

She looked at him. He must be mid to late thirties. Clearly a Peter Pan.

‘Until a few weeks ago, until I came to Milford, I didn’t have a television.’

‘What? Why? Are you Amish?’

For a moment she thought he was flirting with her.

He was looking at her through thin, curious eyes.

‘Not Amish. Just busy,’ she replied quickly. ‘When you work 18 hours a day there’s no time for TV or music’ She had a vision of him lounging all over Peony House with MTV blaring in the name of work, surrounded by beer cans and pizza boxes and wondered what Mr and Mrs Parker would think of it all.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s always time for music’

The sun was beating down now on the common.

In the background she could hear the church bells pealing.

‘I’m late. I’ve got to go.’

‘Wait up,’ he said grabbing her arm.

They both stood up from the tree and began walking back to the village.

‘I wanted to talk to you today. That’s why I’m here. Let me buy you lunch in the pub.’

‘How did you know I’d be here?’

‘I didn’t have your phone number and anyway, I wanted to talk to you face to face. I noticed you come running every weekend and I thought it might be the only opportunity to speak to you,’ he said, shaking his shoulders.

‘You followed me!’ she gasped.

He looked sheepish.

‘You take the same route. Not wise by the way. Any weirdo could be lying in wait for you.’

‘Tell me about it,’ she replied flatly.

‘I wanted to talk to you about Winterfold. I haven’t got a clue if you planned to stay there. Make it your home. I know it’s not for sale yet, but I heard talk in the village that you thought it might be too big for you. I can pay top dollar. If you would consider renting it out on a long-term lease I’m open to that too.’

She stared at him open-mouthed. The cheek of him. Following her here. Suggesting the house was too big for her as if she was some sort of mouse.

‘You couldn’t afford it,’ she said, still angry at being monitored.

‘Sweetheart. That’s my problem,’ he said coolly.

Of course he could afford it,
she thought quickly. She didn’t suppose record company executives made a great deal of money. Therefore it was definitely family money. The worst sort she thought, remembering the boys at Harvard with their sports cars and their country club memberships.

She started to walk away from him and then broke into a slow jog.

‘Won’t you at least think about it?’

‘I’m not interested. Winterfold is my home.’

He trotted alongside her, his bare arm brushing alongside her and tickling her with its light down.

‘Think about it. I could be useful to you. Word is you’re trying to revamp the company and I know every celebrity worth knowing over here and in the States. I can get Milford bags on the arm of every A-lister worth their salt. I can get them on the red carpet of the Grammies, the Oscars, MTV awards. You can’t buy that kind of endorsement, that sort of visibility for the company. You help me, I’ll help you.’

Rob Holland! Who was he? How did he know so much about her? He was creepy. And cocky.

‘Who said I wanted that sort of pop culture endorsement, Mr Holland?’

‘Don’t be so pig-headed,’ he said.

She began to quicken her pace.

‘Hey, well forgive me for asking!’ he shouted after her, throwing his arms into the air. Emma started pulling away from him, her ankle suddenly feeling much better. He slowed to a trot and cupped his hands around his mouth to shout after her.

‘Well, call me if you change your mind.’

She didn’t bother to look back.