The Money Makers. Harry Bingham

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СКАЧАТЬ but you will be a very tough man and you won’t mind and then I will hate you because you have no money and you don’t mind even though you have holes in your shoes so I cannot see you.’

      She was crying now. Big tears fell soundlessly from her trembling eyes. George stood up to find her a tissue. In an instant she was in his arms, her face buried in his chest. After a while, she stopped weeping and looked up at him. He held her gaze and bent down towards her. Who kissed whom first? Who knows? But, within a second, each was kissing the other, first on the mouth, then inside. Kiki’s lips and tongue burned with passion. Her tiny body pressed into George’s bulky frame. George hugged her with all the passion that years of longing had given him.

      After a time, how long neither knew, they stepped back to look at one another. Kiki had stopped crying, but her cheeks were flushed and damp. George stepped forward again seeking to gather her up with renewed passion but she moved away.

      ‘Now look what you have done, you beastly man,’ she said, dabbing her face. ‘I will have to start over now. Then we have to go and find your stupid money. Then we have to go and find some proper curtains. What do you think? Maybe pink? I have seen some oh-so-nice ones in that gorgeous little shop on the Fulham Road, but they are silk of course, so then we would need to get rid of these funny old sofas which would be all wrong. Oh, Georges, you are nothing but a problem to me.’

      She whisked off into the bathroom. He was molten with feeling for her. But already he could sense her tripping away again, a kingfisher pursued by a bear.

      In due course she emerged from the bathroom looking immaculate. She took George off to see her ‘avocat’. The avocat was a London solicitor retained under the terms of Kiki’s trust fund with the near impossible responsibility for keeping some sort of hold over Kiki’s purse strings. The solicitor approved the proposal gratefully. Kiki’s London hotel bills were astronomical. There was, however, a problem. The solicitor was more or less obliged to meet any bills which Kiki ran up as long as the goods purchased were bought at a ‘fair market value’. Unfortunately the nine months rent remaining on George’s flat were valued at only £27,000 under the existing tenancy agreement. The solicitor, despite Kiki’s despairing wails, insisted that he would be in breach of trust if he paid any more than this for the flat.

      There was only one solution. George asked Kiki if she wanted his car. Of course she wanted his car. She berated him for ever having considered that she might not want his car. She had no driver’s licence (she admitted in response to the solicitor’s enquiry) but how could she ever learn to drive if she wasn’t even allowed a car?

      And so the deal was done. George gave up his flat and sold his car in exchange for a total of £47,000. The money flew from Kiki’s trust fund into George’s account. From George’s account £36,000 sped into the Gissings company account and from Gissings straight to David Ballard’s bank. The final transaction was cleared at four o’clock on the Friday afternoon.

      Kiki told George off for ruining her week, making her see that beastly avocat, spending so long on the telephone and making all the wrong choices when he’d had his flat decorated the year before. George and Kiki swept around the most expensive boutiques in Sloane Street, the Kings Road and the Fulham Road ordering items for the flat. At the rate she spent money, she would get through another £50,000 within a matter of weeks.

      At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, Kiki remembered she was meant to be at a cocktail party in New York that evening and she shot off to the airport to jump on the next Concorde. George saw her off. At the fast-track customs channel, they stopped. They couldn’t delay a goodbye any further. Kiki turned to her companion, her face showing the signs of passionate struggle.

      ‘Goodbye, Georges.’

      ‘Kiki.’

      George wanted to kiss again properly, as they had done before. He couldn’t believe that she didn’t want to too, but she shook her head and her troubled eyes were begging him ‘No’. She reached up to kiss him high up on the cheek and hugged him as she hugged practically everyone she knew.

      ‘Good luck with your horrid factory.’

      ‘Bye. Don’t … don’t lose touch.’

      She left him there, watching till she passed out of sight. George ached with longing. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He also wondered where he was going to spend the night.

      13

      Zack was depressed. He was working hard on stuff so boring it hurt. The Aberdeen Drilling deal, as expected, had run into the sand. Tominto Oil had put in a bid of £115 million and been politely told that its bid was too low but thanks so much for trying. It was goodbye and good riddance. The winning bidder hadn’t yet closed the deal, but it hardly mattered. Whoever won, it wasn’t Tominto. Zack’s first deal was a washout. In climbing the ladder to a million quid he still hadn’t put his foot on the first rung.

      What was worse, he was beginning to realise something about his chosen profession. To make money in corporate finance you don’t just have to be good, you have to be old. Chief executives making life and death decisions don’t simply want wise heads, they want old ones. Forced to choose between the two, they’d pick the old one every time. It’s not like that on the trading floor. In the markets, you can be old and grey, but if you bet wrong and the office boy bets right, then, before you know it, you’ll be sweeping the floors and the office boy will be on the phone to the Long Island estate agents. Zack could be the most brilliant mind in the City of London, but without long years of experience he’d never make bonuses big enough to release his father’s fortune. If he weren’t careful, Zack wouldn’t just be beaten by Matthew. He’d be humiliated.

      And there was one final irritation. Every day he had to see Sarah, work with her, be professional, keep his hands off, not make love. He was as hopelessly in lust as he’d always been and he was being forced to sit and watch politely as she and her millions got married to some aristocratic lumphead. Zack was depressed.

      It was eight o’clock in the evening and he was finishing up for the night. On his way out he walked by Sarah’s desk. She was still there working, bent over a presentation, hair tucked behind her ears.

      ‘Hi, Sarah.’

      ‘Zack. Hi. On your way out?’

      ‘Yes. I wondered if you’d like to come out for a beer?’

      This was the first time either of them had suggested moving beyond careful professionalism into something like friendship. Sarah hesitated.

      ‘Um. I’d like to, but I’ve some stuff to finish up. Robert’s coming to pick me up in forty-five minutes.’

      Robert Leighton, the fiancé. The obstacle. Zack sighed.

      ‘OK. Some other time? Tomorrow? It’s stupid you and me working together so closely and pretending we hardly know each other.’

      ‘Yes, but let’s be realistic. You would never have chosen me as your colleague and I wouldn’t have chosen you. But that’s how it is and so far it’s worked. Why mess things up?’

      Zack spread his hands. He didn’t tell her, ‘Because I’m filled with lust and I want your money.’ Instead he said, ‘A drink can’t hurt. It’s been years now. I’ve changed. I know I was difficult then, but it doesn’t have to be that way now.’

      ‘Not difficult, Zack. СКАЧАТЬ