Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  Although she came along dutifully every summer, Davina was not a fan of their Italian villa holidays. Given the choice, she would prefer to have been home in her garden. But she recognised how important it was to Miles, and did her best to entertain the stream of corporate visitors. The heat of Italy in August, even by the sea, didn’t suit her; she missed the overcast skies of Chawbury, and these holidays were far, far too long. A week would have been plenty. The prospect of a further twenty unbroken days with Miles, with all his pent-up energy and expectations, filled her with dread. So when he casually mentioned that he needed to show his face at a client conference in Rome next week, she considered it a merciful reprieve.

  Shaken awake by his mother at a quarter-to-one with a message that lunch was in twenty minutes and his father would be angry if he was late down, Archie stumbled into the shower. He was badly hung-over and queasy. Had he really got into a sambuca drinking contest with that Italian bloke? He groaned.

  The thought of lunch turned his stomach. Why did he even have to come to lunch at all? He wasn’t hungry, and it wasn’t as if any guests were coming, it was just family. He pulled open a shutter but the sun was too bright, so he closed it again. Dripping water from the shower, he dropped his wet towel in a heap on the floor and looked round for some clothes. Finding nothing to hand, he put his pyjama bottoms back on, with the t-shirt he’d worn last night to go clubbing.

  You had to hand it to the Italians, they did know how to party. This new club they’d discovered, the Strada, about an hour beyond Porto Ercole, was fantastic, much better than the Club Jolly where they used to go. It was like an open-air discotheque inside a bamboo stockade, right next to the autostrada, full of crazy people. It didn’t matter he couldn’t speak one word of Italian, the music was so loud, nobody realised. And some of the women there were wild. You could tell they were well up for it.

  The only pain about the clubs was having to go with Sam and Peter, who never wanted to stay that late. By two o’clock, they became killjoys and started agitating to go. Peter was always like that anyway, so no surprise there, but even Sam was being boring these days. She hardly danced anymore, because of being in a relationship with Dick Gunn, and she seemed spaced out all the time. Archie hadn’t met Dick yet but had seen his picture, the fat-arsed tosser.

  Screwing up his eyes, he stumbled outside to the loggia, where bowls of different pastas and salads were laid out on a table, and platters of mozzarella, prosciutto and parmesan.

  ‘Anyone seen my shades?’ he asked croakily.

  ‘I think you left them on the table at the Strada,’ Sam said. ‘That’s where I last saw them.’

  Archie cursed.

  ‘Good morning, Archibald,’ Miles said, with heavy irony. ‘Is there a special reason you’re still wearing your pyjamas? Would you mind putting on some clothes for lunch? And change that shirt too. Its got something slopped down it.’

  Archie rolled his eyes and wandered back inside. This whole stupid holiday was a waste of space. If he hadn’t lost his mobile phone, and if he’d remembered to bring the charger with him, he’d have called his mates in Rock to find out what was happening. They’d probably have moved on to Polzeath by now in any case. It was just so ridiculous he was made to be here. He hated his dad somethimes, his whole family in fact.

  Miles held very strong views about restaurants which filled Davina with dismay, since it was her job to satisfy them.

  Every second evening, he insisted they eat out as a family, generally at one of the harbour-side restaurants in Porto Ercole. His requirement, which Davina was expected to facilitate, was that they should drive down to the town in two cars, buy the English newspapers, then first have a drink at a bar. The only bars acceptable to him were the three smart canopied ones on wooden pontoons, jutting out over the harbour. It was impossible to make reservations at these places, which were frequently crowded, but Miles became testy if Davina couldn’t secure one of the best waterside tables, large enough to spread the newspapers out on.

  ‘This is intolerable, Davina,’ he would rage, if asked to wait for a table for a single moment. ‘Tell the waiter we come here all the time. He knows us for Christ sake.’

  Miles became especially exasperated if they had clients in tow, as they did tonight, having been joined by the Managing Director of British Regional Airways, Bradley Pike, his wife, Carole, and silent, sunburned kids Owen and Keeleigh, who had driven down from Portofino. Bradley was an important client of Straker Communications, and Miles was intent on impressing and patronising him, in equal measure, to keep him keen.

  Running his gaze critically over his family, he felt that, on balance, they were conveying the right image tonight. Archie looked clean and smart in white chinos and a blue shirt with unfrayed cuffs, and turning on the charm with Mrs Pike, and Samantha had pulled out all the stops in a floaty white sundress, which he knew Dick Gunn had bought her at Chloé. Bradley couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts, which was all to the good. Peter still dressed like a student unfortunately, and Mollie resembled a trainee comprehensive school teacher … which she was.

  A waiter delivered Bellinis and Bloody Marys and bowls of olives , nuts and crisps, and Miles devoted his attention to flattering Bradley while impressing him with his more famous clients. ‘James and Laetitia Pendleton sailed over for lunch on their yacht,’ he told him. ‘They moored in our bay, which was tremendous fun.’

  ‘I see Pendletons are getting quite a run for their money from this Freeza Mart guy,’ Bradley said, hoovering up a fistful of crisps. ‘He’s doing some smart new things, there’s a story in today’s FT.’

  Having only just bought the newspapers, Miles hadn’t read it yet. He made a mental note to ring the office and bawl them out for missing it in the daily digest. Opening the paper, he spotted the piece at once: ‘Freeza Mart’s Clegg announces pure-play logistics company.’ There was an accompanying photograph of Ross standing outside an enormous warehouse like an aircraft hanger, giving a cheery thumbs up.

  Miles scanned the article with rising irritation. Ross’s new company was offering distribution and logistics services to all retailers, including direct competitors, from a new 400,000 square foot facility in Coventry. Asda, Proctor & Gamble, Sara Lee food and Nestlé were reported to have signed up as clients. The new business would begin as a subsidiary of Freeza Mart but was expected to float as a stand-alone business within three years.

  ‘We’re confident this is the largest state-of-the-art warehouse facility in the West Midlands,’ Ross was quoted as saying. ‘With next-generation IT capabilities already up and running, we can provide third party clients with a fully integrated logistics solution.’

  Miles felt a dark cloud had drifted across the sun, making the warm Italian evening bleak and chilly. God how he despised Ross Clegg. His plan to undermine him was assuming a new urgency, and the sooner Dick Gunn arrived the better.

  Stretching out on a white sunbed on the balcony of his suite at the Hotel Russie, Miles felt the rush of elation which always came when given a reprieve from his family.

  Through the open door to the bedroom, he could hear Serena taking a shower in the adjacent bathroom, following their reunion lovemaking session. Having got all that out of his system, Miles was looking forward to a civilised dinner outside in the hotel courtyard, and an opportunity to berate Serena some more about her clients, Dawn and Ross.

  Seeing Serena with fresh eyes following the eight-week hiatus in their affair, he was reminded how greatly he still desired her. It did not put him off that, for the first time ever, he noticed a strand of grey in her magnificent red mane of hair.

  ‘Do I spot a grey hair?’ he asked her, peering critically at her scalp.

  Dismayed and panicking he might drop her, Serena blushed crimson. ‘How awful, I must do something about that.’ She wondered if there was a hotel salon for an emergency colour-job.

  Miles smiled. It gave him a delightful sensation of superiority to have wrong footed her. In the
same way it pleased him that his mistress had a useless husband in Robin, he enjoyed commenting on her little imperfections. He preferred his women in a state of perpetual anxiety. It gave him the upper hand.

  Objectively, he recognised Serena would not make a suitable or satisfactory wife for him, and he had no intention ever of leaving Davina for her. Once, on a long flight, he had listed the pros and cons of both women, awarding marks out of five under different categories: homemaker, reliability, loyalty, bed, taste, appearance and public image. He used a similar system for ranking his executives at work, and found it illuminating. In ranking Serena versus Davina, Davina came out ahead in every category except bed. In the ‘appearance’ category, they tied; Serena being obviously a lot sexier, but Davina more elegant, if he nagged her. He suspected, too, that if he ever made Serena his wife, she would quickly become less compliant with his ring on her finger.

  In his more philosophical moments, Miles acknowledged (to himself, never to her) how dependent he was upon Davina and how the rhythm of their marriage largely suited him, even in this its tepid mature phase. She was non-judgemental, and did not impede him in his career. In fact, she could be regarded as an asset, since she accompanied him to business dinners, when pushed into it, and organised the annual summer lunch party at Chawbury, if adequately supervised. Certainly she did a good job on the garden and he felt able to delegate almost total responsibility in this department to her. Above anything, Miles valued the illusion of being happily married. Working in an industry in which few of his peers had been able to sustain their marriages for longer than ten years, he considered it a USP of Brand Straker that he and Davina were still together, with four industrious and well-adjusted children. Only three days earlier, Bradley and Carole Pike had been fulsome in their praise for them, commenting on how polite and delightful they had been during their visit. ‘You must be awfully proud of them,’ Bradley had said. ‘Carole and I were just saying what a grand job you’ve done with your parenting.’

  Serena joined him on the balcony wearing a short black leather dress, with zips and buckles and a studded leather belt.

  ‘So,’ said Serena. ‘How’s the duty holiday been so far?’ She resented Miles spending a month in the bosom of his family. He frequently assured her his marriage to Davina was over, certainly in that way, but she didn’t know whether or not to believe him.

  Miles shrugged. ‘I’ve been working to keep busy. A lot of client entertaining. You? How are your special clients?’ He peered at her, tilting his head, to emphasise which clients he referred to.

  ‘Dawn, you mean? Fine, I think. I haven’t seen that much of her.’ She blushed, having in fact been in almost constant communication, choosing a kitchen company for Holland Park Square and joining her for site meetings with the architect. Following the surveyor’s report, they were now looking at a total gut job, with every inch of pipework and wiring replaced, as well as all the windows and most of the floorboards and joists.

  ‘I hope you’ve thought seriously about what I said. About stopping working for the Cleggs.’

  Serena shifted uncomfortably. She hoped Miles had forgotten that conversation.

  ‘I told you, they’re my biggest clients, I can’t just dump them. I need the money. And I don’t know why it bugs you so much, it’s not like I ever discuss you with them.’

  ‘I should hope not. If anyone ever found out about our … situation … it would have to end immediately. I’ve made that clear.’

  ‘I’m only giving them some decorating help, it’s not like they’re my best friends.’

  ‘I don’t understand how you can bear to work for them. Ross Clegg’s a peasant, you’ve nothing in common. That ghastly house he built, like something in Weybridge. Worse, actually. As for his wife—Dawn—what’s that television programme Samantha’s always glued to? Desperate Housewives. That just about sums Dawn up. I couldn’t get over the way they’d done their Chawbury house, the one time I saw it.’

  ‘It looks better now,’ Serena found herself saying. ‘Everything’s been redone.’

  ‘Precisely. Ross makes some money with his turkey twizzlers, whatever they’re called, throws up that monstrosity, then blows another fortune putting it right with a decorator. Proves my point. No taste, no clue about anything. And I find it incredible, and rather disloyal, you have allowed yourself to become some sort of glorified lady-in-waiting at their beck and call, choosing their curtains, choosing their houses for them for heaven’s sake, when you know I hold them in contempt. And to crown it all you find them a house on my own London square, directly opposite mine.’

  ‘Miles, I told you, that was nothing to do with me. The estate agent showed it to her.’

  ‘You could have put her off. You knew I wouldn’t want them anywhere near us.’

  They went down to dinner where Serena did her best to lift his spirits, regaling him with gossip about mutual friends and flattering him about his business success. She liked to believe Miles’s filthy mood was bought on by being cooped up with Davina on holiday, and she only needed time to smooth him out. She understood his competitiveness with Ross, and it was a problem for her, though she reckoned she could handle it. Still imagining herself marrying Miles at some future point, she would do nothing to jeopardise that. But the Cleggs were far and away her most lucrative clients, and she couldn’t lightly walk away from them. Besides, a little harmless rivalry couldn’t hurt. Although she did not say so, she had come to have a lot of respect for Ross, and even found him quite attractive in a strange way. He lacked vanity and paid her bills on time, both rare attributes in Serena’s world.

  So when Miles reverted to the subject of the Cleggs at the end of dinner, reminding her he didn’t much enjoy spending his money on dressing their personal decorator, and maybe he wouldn’t bother if she carried on like this, she intentionally provoked him. ‘You realise Ross and Dawn are spending the best part of a million quid on doing their London house, when you tot it all up?’

  Miles regarded her darkly. ‘All I can suggest, Serena, is that I’d get your fees paid up-front if I were you. I’m not going into details, but you may find your benefactors have rather less to throw around, a few months from now.’

  Serena looked startled. ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not saying any more. But keep the name Dick Gunn in mind, that’s as far as I’m prepared to go.’

  ‘Samantha’s lover, you mean? That Dick Gunn?’

  Miles flinched at the word ‘lover.’ ‘Sam’s friend, yes, that one. You know my opinion on that, and it’s got nothing to do with this other business. But be warned.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can’t leave me on tenterhooks. If you know something, tell me.’

  Miles shook his head. ‘My lips are sealed. Now one last drink and it’s bedtime.’

  Samantha sat at the open window of her bedroom at the villa, smoking a joint and staring, somewhat hazily, at the silver sea below. She knew it had been risky bringing gear through customs, but no one had even asked her to open her hand luggage, let alone her sponge bag. She’d been scared shitless queuing at the X-ray machine, but the lady behind the screen hadn’t given her bag a second glance. Gaz told her it’d be cool, and he’d been right.

  There had been a second scary moment just before boarding the aircraft. They’d all been waiting in the first class lounge, courtesy of Miles’s Gold Executive Club card, and when they’d filed down the gantry there’d been this security guy with an alsation which started sniffing at her case. Luckily she’d been able to shuffle past, reading Tatler.

  She knew she’d never have got through the holiday without her secret stash. Every afternoon she came upstairs to smoke, or something stronger when she needed it, and boy did she need it, marooned here with her family for weeks and weeks. From somewhere below in the loggia she could hear Peter playing the guitar and singing one of his depressing songs. She could see Mollie by the pool under an umbrella, nose in a schoolbook, which struck Sam as just totally biza
rre behaviour. And her Dad, back from his conference in Rome, glued to a mobile as usual, in swimming trunks, shirt and straw hat.

  Through the haze of smoke and her befuddled brain, she saw yachts and Sunseekers coming and going on the horizon, and wondered whether one of them was Dick. She couldn’t exactly remember which day he was meant to be coming, though her Mum had it written in the diary. At this precise moment, she couldn’t visualise Dick clearly at all. She’d tried calling him a couple of times on the boat, but it was complicated with sat-phones, you couldn’t use a normal mobile unless they were in port. She hoped he’d arrive soon, since she was planning on joining the yacht and sailing off with him, not that she’d told anyone that. She hoped her Dad would behave himself when Dick came and wouldn’t be ridiculous, as he usually was.

  Peter had asked her last night at supper, ‘When’s your boyfriend showing up?’ It had taken her a second or two to realise who he meant. She didn’t really think of Dick as her boyfriend, even though she virtually lived in his flat in Eaton Square, and she supposed she was his girlfriend in every way, even though she didn’t like to dwell too deeply about some aspects of it. What really worked with Dick was he left for his office at six thirty, five whole hours before she even woke up. And he generally left a wodge of banknotes on the dressing table for spending money.

  Despite his numerous misgivings about Dick, such as his age, his great wealth, his big yacht and the fact that he was sleeping with his favourite daughter thirty years his junior, Miles was determined the visit should be a success.

  Consequently he was up and about an hour earlier than usual, double-checking the jetty was free of slime and ready to receive visitors, that the garden was perfectly tidy, the swimming pool perfectly clean, and the lunch appropriately magnificent to receive their high-profile guest. It had irritated Miles that, shortly before setting off on holiday, the London Evening Standard had produced its annual magazine supplement entitled, ‘The 1000 Most Influential People in London.’ Although self-evidently an arbitrary production in every way, it nevertheless annoyed him to find himself listed only at Number 169 (‘smooth-as-butter spin-doctor to the Great and Good …’) while Dick Gunn was at Number 107 (‘Roly-poly Private Equity Tsar with a finger in every pie’). Almost as irritating, Ross Clegg had made his first ever appearance at Number 973 (‘Gritty supermarket boss opening 25 London superstores this year, with a new £10 million home in Holland Park …’). Well, that might be Ross’s one and only appearance on the list, Miles thought grimly.