Pride and Avarice

by Nicholas Coleridge

  ‘What are you saying here? I’ll get a knighthood if I back Pendletons?’

  ‘I’m sure I said nothing of the sort,’ Miles replied silkily. ‘That would be most improper. But if you choose to read that implication into what we have discussed, that is entirely a matter for you.’

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ said Dick. ‘Five percent of the company, you say. What’ll that set me back? Half a billion quid?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s do-able. But do I give enough of a fuck to bother? That’s the question.’

  Greg Clegg was not, of course, the sort of man Miles would have considered lunching at Mark’s Club, so instead arranged to take his son-in-law to an Italian restaurant named Don Barrollo in Hammersmith High Street. It occupied a basement beneath a bicycle shop.

  Greg arrived by account cab from his council office two streets away and took in the restaurant. ‘Not your usual style of place, is it, Miles?’ he said. ‘I hope the credit crunch isn’t affecting your expense account?’

  ‘Happily not. We’re entirely unscathed. I thought it might be more convenient for you, if we met in your part of town.’

  ‘So you’re not hiding me away then? I reckoned you might be embarrassed to be seen out with a socialist.’

  Miles replied with an affected laugh. ‘Quite the opposite. I have several very distinguished Labour peers as clients. Though, if the polls are to be believed, we’ll have a change of government before long. It doesn’t look so good for your friend Gordon.’

  Greg gave a knowing little sneer. ‘I think you’ll find rumours of our demise are greatly exaggerated. There’s a lot of difference between mid-term council elections and a freak by-election, and a General Election. Our focus groups show the wheels are already coming off the Cameron bus. People won’t vote for a toff, not in a General Election.’

  They ordered their food and Miles chose a Bulgarian red with Greg in mind, and enquired after Mollie. ‘Fine, I think,’ Greg replied. ‘Teaching today at her school, of course. Then she’s taking the train up to the constituency to attend a swimming gala. I can’t make it unfortunately. Diary clash.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, politics is one of the things I want to talk to you about, Greg. That and this great standoff between your father and James Pendleton, currently enriching so many investment bankers to their great delight.’

  ‘My views on supermarkets are a matter of record. They’re all as bad as eachother, one giant con, hiking prices while pretending to slash them. There’s a case to be made for nationalising the lot.’

  ‘Nevertheless, one side or the other is going to prevail in this takeover. May I take it you’re rooting for Ross?’ Miles asked leadingly, allowing the question to hang in the air.

  ‘I told you, I really don’t care. There’s nothing to choose between them.’

  ‘The reason I ask is, I’ve got a proposition to put to you. Rather an unusual one, and I’d be grateful if you heard me through before saying anything or interrupting.’

  Greg shrugged.

  ‘The thing is, Greg, I’ve always had a lot of time for you. I respect your integrity, which actually very closely matches the position of the modern Conservative Party, though it may surprise you to hear that. We’ve made a lot of progress under Dave and the others, and I think can genuinely lay claim these days to the ethical and environmental high ground. Which is where you come in. And I’m speaking now with two hats on—first as your father-in-law who naturally wishes you to reach your full potential in politics and public service. Secondly, as an occasional advisor, mentor, eminence grise, call me what you like, to the new Tory Party—a party I’ve to some small extent helped shape behind the scenes—which is anxious to attract all the talent it can in a big tent, non-tribal way. In some respects, you are the perfect new Tory candidate—idealistic and sceptical at the same time, exactly what we need. Your own man. So I thought I’d mention to you our local Member of Parliament for Mid-Hampshire, Ridley Nairn, will be standing down before the next election after twenty years in the House, and if you put your name forward I’m fairly certain you’ll be successful. Particularly with my personal backing. Which I’d be only too happy to offer, both as my son-in-law and as a local man who’s lived in the constituency for much of his life.’

  Greg gave Miles a long appraising look, wondering whether this could be a trap.

  ‘I’m absolutely serious, Greg. I’ve sounded out Paul Tanner, one of the party deputy chairmen, and he’s given it his blessing. I’m assured you’ll go straight onto the A List of approved candidates without having to jump through any hoops.’

  ‘Well, this comes as a surprise,’ Greg replied. ‘It isn’t something I’ve ever considered.’ In this, he was being mildly disingenuous, since he had been worrying rather a lot about his prospects of winning the Droitwich and Redditch seat, with a majority of only 3,800, which would require only a 5 percent swing to the Tories to be overturned.

  ‘And wouldn’t the local selection committee have a fit if I’d defected over to you lot from Labour?’

  ‘Ah,’ replied Miles. ‘I don’t think we need worry overmuch about them. And it will be easy enough for you to demonstrate your independence of mind. If you speak out for Pendletons against your father in the matter of this takeover, that’ll clinch it. James Pendleton is revered in the constituency. With so much goodwill behind you, you can’t fail.’

  Miles’s third and final lunch was with Archie whom he hadn’t spoken to for over a year. His son, unlike his son-in-law, was deemed worthy of the full Mark’s Club treatment, and Miles appraised Archie critically as he swaggered into the upstairs bar with its deep sofas and Regency furniture. Tall, handsome and evidently fit, Miles liked what he saw, though the suit looked disconcertingly cheap and off-the-peg (it was part of the new Freeza Mart Hommes Plus menswear range) and the haircut too cocky.

  ‘That isn’t gel in your hair?’

  ‘It keeps it in place, Dad. Got to look the part for business, you know.’

  ‘Makes you look like Ross Clegg. He wears Brylcreem, used to. Ghastly.’

  After that, Miles did his best to be affable to Archie, bathing him in charm and asking how his job was going and even, through gritted teeth, asking after Gemma.

  ‘She’s OK.’

  ‘And you’re still shacked up together behind Waterloo station? You’d have thought Ross would buy her somewhere more salubrious, with all the money he’s made. Glass of champagne before lunch?’

  Later, they went downstairs to the dining room where Miles insisted his son choose the richest and most expensive dishes on the menu, and ordered unusually good wine. ‘This is my clever son,’ he told the Polish waitresses in their white pinafores. ‘I think we’ll have to make him a member here soon, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Straker. And can I offer you anything from the dessert trolley today? We have strawberry millefeuille, a very nice chocolate cake, some fresh raspberries very nice.’

  ‘I must tell you,’ Miles told Archie over the coffee, ‘I’m proud of the job you’re doing at work. I’m impressed.’

  Archie was touched by the unexpected compliment. His relationship with his father had once been close, and he disliked their estrangement. Frequently, during domestic weekends cooped up in Roupell Street with Gemma and Mandy, he wondered what the hell he was doing there, when he’d much rather have been home at Chawbury.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m really getting into this whole corporate PR thing. It’s interesting.’

  ‘You’ve got a talent for it, which I suppose shouldn’t really surprise us for obvious reasons …’ Miles made an immodest bow of his head. ‘I keep being told you’re a natural.’

  ‘Really? Thanks a lot!’

  ‘Not many people get it, you know. Your brother never got it, not even after three years, didn’t have a feel for it. Either you have it or you don’t. Peter didn’t, you obviously do.’

  Archie was massively buoyed up by this flattery which, combined with the wine and the hushed gravitas of the di
ning room and fawning flunkies, made him feel privileged.

  ‘The thing that concerns me, the fly in the ointment so to speak,’ Miles continued, ‘is you’re on the wrong team, Archie. I mean over this Pendletons business, this ill-advised Freeza Mart adventure, barbarians at the gates of Paradise. You’re on the wrong side. Batting against your family. I don’t want to make too much of it, but Pendletons has been Strakers’ biggest client for years, almost from the beginning. Everything we have as a family—Chawbury Manor, Holland Park Square, the people who look after us, our holidays, horses—it all derives, good part of it, from Pendletons’s fees. Which is why it concerns me having you working for the enemy. After all, in the end, Straker Communications is going to come to you. After I’m gone, I mean, and I can’t go on forever. It’s going to be your inheritance, that’s what I’ve always intended. So we need to be damned careful we don’t damage the business in the meantime.’

  Archie stared at his father, taking in what he’d said. ‘You really mean I’d take over Strakers?’

  ‘Certainly. Who else? I didn’t spend my life building this thing up to see it leave the family. We’ve got plenty of good people inside the business, but they’re managers not wealth creators. There’s nobody I see as my successor. Whereas you’ve demonstrated a natural aptitude, working outside the family business. I can’t pretend I’m happy you’re working for the insufferable Clegg. To be honest, I’d be happy never to hear his name or see his face ever again. But I’m also proud of you for doing well there. It can’t be a barrel of laughs working for a man like that, but you’ve stuck it out and full marks to you. And now you’re ready to join the family business.’

  ‘You think I should join now?’

  ‘Why not? I don’t mean start at the bottom like Peter—for all the good it did him—I mean join as a senior account director, step up to the Board next year, perhaps take over as MD the year after that. We’ll kick Rick Partington upstairs as deputy chairman. I envisage you running the whole shooting match in three to four years.’

  Archie looked at his father, to figure out whether he was kidding.

  ‘Another reason we need to get you bedded down at Strakers sooner rather than later is Chawbury,’ Miles said. ‘What I mean is, the sooner you assume proper, senior responsibility in the company, the sooner you can be paid enough to enable you to run the house. Obviously Peter’s never going to be able to afford to, not a hope. Mollie doesn’t approve of big houses and Samantha’s way off the rails. So you’re going to have to step up to the plate and take over Chawbury too.’

  Archie wondered whether he was dreaming. To inherit Chawbury—to have it ahead of Peter. Suddenly life’s path was gloriously clear: Chairman of Straker Communications, Master of Chawbury Manor, sole heir to his dad.

  ‘God, amazing. I’d love to join, yes please.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad,’ Miles replied. ‘I thought you’d make the sensible decision. So all we need to finesse are the details, such as what and how to announce your appointment, and the setting of your renumeration.’ He paused. ‘Also, of course, now you’re transferring your allegiance to the Pendletons’ camp, it will be useful to hear everything they’re saying over at Freeza Mart. All their strategies and so forth.’

  For a moment, Archie looked uncomfortable.

  ‘I think it’s the least we can expect,’ Miles said. ‘Given what we’ve just been discussing.’

  65.

  It was four days after the record went on sale at Freeza Mart that Peter took the call.

  Debbie rang his mobile while he was driving into Durness, on a stretch of road where there was actually a signal, and he almost crashed the car at what she said. ‘Peter? It’s Debs. I’ve just seen the early EPOS data and thought you’d like to hear how your record’s selling. It’s amazing. We’ve shifted nearly 18,000 copies.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Eighteen thousand. Well, 17,657 to be precise. That’s up until ten p.m. last night. It averages out at about 25 CDs per store. Your record company’s reprinting. We’ve just ordered a further thirty thousand.’

  ‘God. That’s quite good isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s massive. Like, one of the five fastest-moving CDs. Customers are hearing it in the stores and snapping it up. And it’s selling everywhere, right across the country.’

  ‘Christ, Debbie. You sure about this? You couldn’t have got it wrong?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve seen the EPOS. The data comes direct from checkout. And Dad’s seen it too, he just called me. He says to say well done.’

  ‘Well, I’m stunned. I wasn’t expecting anything like this. I need a cigarette.’

  ‘You better get yourself straight down to London. I mean it.’

  ‘London? Uh, why’s that?’

  ‘Because The Cormorant’s Cry is going to chart this week. It’s going to come in at number four or five, we reckon. And everyone’s going to want to interview you. So get yourself onto the first flight down, Peter. You’re famous.’

  Dawn was on her third site visit with the architects and the plan was starting to take shape. Having rejected both Home Farm and the watermill as being too close to the big house, they’d settled on a medieval barn on the western boundary of the estate, with good access to the dual carriageway. It was here Dawn planned on locating her new pet project: the Longparish Organic farm shop.

  It had not been lost on the soon-to-be-new-Lady Pendleton that all the best, most modern-thinking country estates these days possessed a personal farm shop, and she could not think why Laetitia had refrained from starting one. She could not open the pages of a magazine without seeing photographs of this smart lady or that posing infront of their cheese counter or with a wicker trug of homegrown vegetables. If truth be told, Dawn was finding life with James Pendleton slightly less glamorous and high profile than she’d anticipated, since he was perfectly content staying home in the evenings, and reluctant to go out as frequently as she’d have liked herself. And since this terrible takeover thing began their routine had been disrupted, with business meetings and conference calls at all hours and James constantly on the phone to his brothers. Dawn could have murdered Ross. She suspected he’d dreamt up the whole thing to upset her. She found it personally mortifying that Ross was behaving like this towards the Pendletons, when James and Laetitia had welcomed them into their home and taken them to the theatre as personal friends. It made her uncomfortable in front of James’s brothers and their wives that it was her ex who was causing all this trouble. It wasn’t helpful when she was still trying to integrate herself into the family.

  Then, of course, there was Miles ringing at all hours. She knew Miles didn’t approve of her, not that he’d ever said so; whenever they met he was perfectly charming and solicitous, but she sensed his insincerity and didn’t trust him. When James stupidly mentioned her Longparish Organics idea, which she hadn’t wanted him to talk about yet, Miles was all over her offering his services on the publicity. Dawn still kept in intermittent touch with Davina, though it was all quite awkward what with Miles working for James. She’d most recently run into Davina at a little birthday supper party for Gemma in Roupell Street, which she felt she had to drop in on, even though she didn’t really like returning to Ross’s railwayman’s cottage and even felt awkward telling James’s driver that this was the right place. Gemma invited both her siblings and their significant others, so Greg and Mollie were there, and Debbie, plus Archie of course, and Davina who was playing on the floor with Mandy. Dawn hadn’t stayed long. Gemma and Debbie had been on excellent form, but she thought both Greg and Archie seemed preoccupied.

  Davina, too, appeared under the weather. Dawn hesitated to ask how the divorce was going, especially in company with Archie and Mollie both there, but she did get her chance, and Davina groaned and said it was all so slow and expensive, and Miles was dragging his feet over everything, so it went on and on.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Dawn replied. ‘Ross and I have been separated for eighteen m
onths, and have hardly started the process. And I’m not even asking him for half his wealth in alimony since James is much richer in his own right.’

  ‘It hardly seems worth it, any of it,’ Davina said. ‘All this disruption and unhappiness. Sometimes I think we’d have done better staying together, and just put up with eachother.’

  ‘I could never have stayed with Ross,’ Dawn replied. ‘James and I are so much better suited. We have our art and music in common, you see. And we each have our own little businesses to think about—James with his supermarkets and me with my little farm-shop.’

  As it happened, Dawn’s ambition for her farmshop was growing every week. Having originally conceived it as a utilitarian outlet for surplus produce from the vegetable garden and fruit frames, her visits to rival farmshops inspired her to greater heights, and her architect saw new potential at every turn. The old, collapsing milking sheds next to the medieval barn had potential as a gourmet café, and the Victorian threshing sheds could be opened up into another light-filled space selling plants, bulbs and garden tools. Already, Dawn was working with some very clever consultants in London developing Longparish Organic shampoos and conditioners made from nettles, elderflower and apple blossom harvested on the estate. The more she thought about it, the more excited she became. She had an idea for a contemporary sculpture park in the meadows behind the barn, with talented young sculptors from all over the county—in fact the country—showcasing their work, and the estate becoming a magnet for exciting new design, with resident sculptors, painters and carpenters inhabiting James’s cottages. As she told everyone, good design meant everything to her, and she was delighted to be invited to become a Trustee of the Institute of Contemporary Arts on the Mall. It annoyed her that, in the many feature articles coming out about Ross at the moment, they always used a photograph of Chawbury Park taken from the bottom of the garden, showing the Victorian lampposts and the ornamental iron gates she’d ordered from the local blacksmith. Both made her cringe these days, and she hoped nobody thought she had anything to do with them.