Midland

by James Flint

  ‘So I set up this offshore account for you, pay in all this cash, then use the money to buy the land in Rosaventos off your friends at some crazy price? They get the money, I get the land, and I’m guessing you get a commission. Something like that?’

  ‘As I always said, Jamie, you are a very smart man.’

  ‘Do you need me to go to Argentina as well?’

  ‘It is very likely.’

  ‘Then there will be expenses involved. Lots of them.’

  ‘Of course. You will need to take flights. Stay in hotels.’

  ‘And I want a commission. Apart from the land. Same as you’re getting.’

  ‘I don’t know if—’

  ‘Okay, well then you write off the Club Vayu’s debt.’

  Gomez considered this.

  ‘We can work something out.’

  Jamie removed his sunglasses and blinked in the sunshine, wondering what he was getting himself into.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  —————

  When he got a telephone call from Brazil one Friday evening, Sean knew at once that something was up. Jamie never called. When he communicated at all it was over the Internet.

  ‘Hey! Sean! It’s me. What’s up?’

  Sean rubbed his face. It was late. He’d been locked into an epic session of Tomb Raider and hadn’t noticed the time.

  ‘I’m good. You know. Same old. You? Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Look, I think I’ve found a way to get hold of that piece of land I told you about. But to do it I’ll need to set up an offshore account in the BVI or the Caymans. Could you find out the best way to do that?’

  ‘What do you want an offshore account for?’ Sean asked, gearing himself for the moment, surely imminent, that Jamie was going to ask him for money.

  ‘A tax issue on the seller’s side. It’s too boring to explain.’

  ‘I know absolutely nothing at all about that kind of thing.’

  ‘I know you don’t. Nor do I. But if we can work this out then I may be able to get a deal, cover all the costs myself.’

  ‘What, of buying the land?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh well that’s good.’ Sean felt a distinct sense of relief. He had indeed discussed investing in the Club when he’d been out in Brazil, and it had seemed like a good idea when the sun was on his face and the surf was cooling his toes. But back in the colder, more pragmatic light of Warwickshire, it had started to seem like a rather less sensible notion. ‘I could ask the finance guys at NolCalc, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you crazy? That would go straight back to Tony.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to tell them it was for you – I’m not completely stupid. But yeah, questions might get asked. It’s not really ideal. The trouble is I don’t really know anyone in banking. It’s not exactly my scene.’

  He racked his brains for a few seconds, drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa and contemplating the figure of Lara Croft standing patiently on the edge of a precipice, ponytail swaying, awaiting his next command. The reality was that he had quite a narrow social and professional circle. Apart from his three years at university in Durham he’d never lived anywhere other than Warwickshire. He’d gone straight into the forestry management job that his father had created for him when he graduated, and after about three years of doing that Tony had shunted him into a lowly middle management role at NolCalc’s headquarters in Edgbaston. A squat postmodern hulk ornamented with pressed steel architraves and pediments that resembled oversized pieces from a child’s building set, the building was filled with accountants, product designers and sales people. All the physical manufacturing took place overseas, mostly in China, and when Sean wasn’t commuting to Edgbaston he regularly found himself listening to Mandarin language tapes at thirty thousand feet and waking up to pre-packaged ‘Western-style’ breakfasts in hotels that looked as they’d been constructed from the same AutoCad files as the NolCalc HQ. It was a routine that, while undoubtedly cosmopolitan in the broader sense, had not given him the wealth of contacts that a job in London might have done.

  ‘How about Alex Wold?’ Sean said, remembering suddenly that Matthew’s older brother had gone into finance. ‘Doesn’t he work for an investment bank, or something? He’d probably know.’

  ‘Can you ask him?’

  ‘I don’t think I have his details. I’d need to call his folks.’

  ‘It’s pretty urgent, Sean. The quicker the better.’

  ‘All right, all right. Calm down, your ladyship. I’ll do what I can. How’s everything else?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. Fine. Busy.’

  ‘Lots of parties?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘Got a girlfriend yet?’

  ‘Nah. Too much else to do.’

  Sean laughed. That was classic Jamie. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘I mean it! Hey. Look – I’m about to go to Argentina for a bit, on business.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I won’t be gone long. And I should be picking up email. So if you need me to call anyone about this bank account thing, then I can be available. Thanks man. Speak soon, yeah?’

  Then he was gone and Sean found himself alone again with Lara Croft. He stared at the computer-animated figure, swaying gently on the screen. Something about her – her hair, maybe, or her face seen in profile – reminded him of Alex’s sister Emily. He hadn’t seen Emily for ages. Maybe that’s why he’d thought of Alex in the first place. Sean had his parents’ number somewhere, Miles and Margaret’s, in an old Filofax whose address function had long since been superseded by his palmtop. He’d need to call them. But where on earth had he put it?

  —————

  Alex was happy enough to hear from Sean, but he didn’t know anything about offshore accounts. Freddie Winston, however, could be relied upon to have a relatively detailed and strongly partisan opinion on the subject, and by happy coincidence Alex was having dinner with him the following night. He told Sean he would ask.

  Dinner with Freddie was generally an extravagant affair. On this occasion they began in Soho with champagne cocktails at Kettner’s, transferred by cab to Nobu on Park Lane for beef tenderloin tataki, then returned to Soho for whisky sours and cocaine in the toilets at subterranean jazz-age bar Titanic. After that it was imperative they go dancing round the corner at China White’s, where they sailed past the enormous queue thanks to what Freddie pretended was his buddy-buddy relationship with the doorman but which Alex suspected had more to do with the absurd fee he paid for an annual ‘VIP’ membership.

  Once inside they installed themselves at one of the low tables by the dance floor and ordered more champagne. While the drinks were being poured the conversation lagged, and casting around for something to say Alex remembered his promise. He’d meant to bring up the subject in the restaurant where it had been a little quieter, but he and Freddie had been too busy cock-measuring their various deals for an opportunity to present itself. Now would have to do.

  ‘Know anything about offshore accounts?’ Alex yelled above the music. With Freddie, blunt was best.

  ‘There are such things. Who wants to know?’

  ‘Old family friend. Well, young family friend, to be more accurate.’

  ‘Where’s he operate? The friend. Assuming it’s a “he”. Which jurisdiction?’

  ‘Brazil, I think. Though also Argentina. South America, at any rate.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Freddie, reaching for the champagne bottle and topping up his glass. ‘That kind of offshore account. Now all is clear.’

  Alex grinned. ‘He says it’s for property deals.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘Seriously. He’s got some land there already. Had it for a while – he runs a fancy little water sports resort. Windsurfing, water-skiing, all that malarkey. Apparently he’s expanding. Tax is an issue, as is moving money around. So he needs a facility.’

  ‘Water sports, huh?’ Freddie leere
d, never one to miss a chance for innuendo. ‘Well he’s got you sold.’

  ‘Apparently it’s a bloody gorgeous spot, and he throws good parties, too.’

  ‘I like the sound of that. Presumably he’s also rolling in the finest chang.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Oh come on. He must be. Why else move to Bumfuckão, Brazil, unless it’s because it happens to be a llama spit from Colombia? He must be up to his ears in dusky maidens, Cuervo Gold and fine white flake. And now he needs an offshore pot to stash his ill-gotten loot. Alex, my friend, there is only one thing for it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We have to go and see him.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘We do. Call him up. Tell him we need to meet to, er, ratify the deal. Do due diligence blah blah blah. Tell him there’ll be arrangement fees and expenses, then tell him we’ll waive all that and do it gratis if he lays on the maidens, the nosebag and the Gold.’

  Alex considered this, rather annoyed he hadn’t thought of it himself. ‘What about the windsurfing?’

  ‘Fuck the windsurfing.’

  Alex laughed. Sometimes Freddie could be genuinely funny, though if you threw enough shit at the wall some of it had to stick. ‘So you can actually set up an account for him then?’

  ‘Christ yes. We do it all the time through our Mexican division. They have a Cayman Islands operation. It’s totally extreme. Known in the trade as the Marie Celeste.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Thirty thousand accounts, zero employees.’

  ‘No way? That’s hilarious.’

  ‘Absolutely. It was set up originally for the yacht-abiding fraternity, aka the Bermuda Triangle crew, so they could keep their dividends and capital gains floating in a virtual state rather than get them taxed back into reality every time they stopped off in port to stock up on ship’s biscuits and gin. But these days all sorts of riff-raff get a look-in. They’d probably give your pal an account if he fell off the plane in Mexico City and asked for one. But don’t tell him that. Not if we can score ourselves a free holiday.’

  So Alex called Sean and Sean called Jamie, emailing him first to set up a time to talk.

  ‘They want to come and visit,’ he said, once he’d got his half-brother on the phone.

  ‘What? Really? What about the account?’

  ‘They’ll sort the account. They’ll bring the details with them. But I think they want you to show them a good time as a quid pro quo. They’ve heard about your parties.’

  ‘They have? How?’

  Sean cleared his throat. ‘I might have mentioned something.’

  ‘Ha, well, if that’s what it took to get them interested, so be it. It’s not a problem for me. Just let me know when they’re coming. I’ll sort them out. Fucking hell. Bankers. It’s just like they say it is, isn’t it?’

  —————

  Sean had just put down the phone when his mother called, told him that Caitlin had come up from London for the weekend, and asked him if he wanted to join them the next day for lunch.

  ‘I’m going to cook Lancashire hotpot after we get back from church, if you fancy coming over. I know it’s your favourite.’

  ‘Caitlin’s not going to church with you is she?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. I expect she and Mia will stay and hang out by the pool. If they can get themselves out of bed, that is.’

  ‘Who’s Mia?’

  ‘A friend of Caitlin’s. An actress I think. I haven’t met her before.’

  A friend of Caitlin’s. An actress. Whenever Caitlin came to visit their parents, she seemed to bring a new friend. Even at Christmas. There was always some lost soul she’d found, someone who needed a temporary home. For a long while it had been her various boyfriends, never the same guy twice, each more random than the last. There had been that emo guy Leo, who hadn’t been able to meet anyone’s eye and had only eaten white food. There had been Paul, an advertising creative who dressed in Doc Martens, drainpipes and a dinner jacket and got into a very tense disagreement over dinner with Tony about golf, a subject he clearly knew nothing about. And then there had been Riichi, a Japanese tattoo artist whose extensive body art Caitlin had taken particular delight in describing in excessive and intimate detail.

  Sean wasn’t sure he could sit through another meal watching his father trying to keep a check on his tongue while Caitlin drank too much and continually drew the conversation back to whichever characteristics of her latest beau she judged the most likely to annoy him. It was hardly a surprise that none of the guys ever came back for a second visit. He’d once overheard the reaction of a boyfriend who hadn’t enjoyed being goaded into the ring like that, a row that had turned into a full-blown screaming match up in Jamie’s old room, which was where the visitors were usually cloistered by Sheila during their stay in a largely symbolic attempt to prevent fornication taking place under her roof. The row had not been pretty. A girlfriend could only be an improvement. Unless Caitlin was sleeping with her, of course, and was about to serve that revelation up for their father’s delectation while their mother served dessert. Oh God not that, please not that.

  But if Mia was Caitlin’s gay lover neither of them mentioned it, and once he’d met her Sean found himself hoping fairly fervently that she was not: she wasn’t only polite and apparently sane, but she professed to be both an actress and a model, a claim which was thoroughly credible. Girls like Mia didn’t pass through Warwickshire with particular frequency – at least not through Sean’s part of it.

  ‘Mia was in The Bill when I did my stint there,’ Caitlin explained at lunch. ‘But she’s going to be at Stratford for a season. It’s very exciting.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Sheila, who was a devoted theatregoer. ‘What will you be playing?’

  ‘Viola, in Twelfth Night,’ Mia said proudly. ‘Though we’re also doing The Cherry Orchard in The Swan – I’m Varya.’

  ‘How wonderful! We’ll have to come and see it. Won’t we Tony?’

  Tony grunted a not particularly enthusiastic affirmative.

  ‘It’s amazing to be working with Michael Boyd. He’s a genius.’

  ‘Is he one of the actors?’ Sean asked, vaguely jealous.

  Caitlin cackled loudly. ‘God Sean, you bloody philistine. He’s the artistic director.’

  Sean flushed. ‘Sorry. I’m not really a theatre person. I don’t think I’ve been to see a play since I was at school.’

  Tony gave him a wink. ‘We like our drama with balls, don’t we son?’

  ‘Tony! Please,’ Sheila chided, misunderstanding.

  ‘He’s talking about sport, Mum,’ said Sean. ‘Does anyone want another drink?’

  ‘There’s another one of those on the side there,’ Tony said, as Caitlin drained the last of the Valpolicella into her glass. ‘You can open that if you like.’

  Sheila’s eyes flickered. ‘Darling, do we really need another bottle?’

  ‘It’s not every day we have both the kids home. I say let them have what they want.’

  Sheila let it ride. It was true. It wasn’t often that they were together as a family. Rarer still for them all to be together without Tony and Caitlin at loggerheads. She just hoped no one would spoil it by drinking too much, though by the size of the measure her daughter had just poured herself, it looked like she intended to try.

  When lunch was over Caitlin, Mia and Sean took what was left of the wine through to the pool. It was a warm day and girls slid back the doors so they could smoke. The meal had left Sean feeling drowsy and he changed into his trunks and did a few gentle lengths in the half-hope of tempting Mia into the water. When this didn’t happen he got out, put some music on the sound system, and came and sat on one of the white plastic loungers next to the girls, a towel draped round his shoulders.

  Mia was talking about the theatre. Her shows went up in October and she was deep in rehearsal.

  ‘Anyway,’ she sighed at length, finishing a long anecdote about the irritating
ly obsessive behaviour one of the more famous members of that season’s company, ‘to be honest I’ll be glad of a break.’

  ‘Are they giving you some time off?’ Caitlin asked.

  ‘Yeah. We’ve got a free week in September, thank God.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘After that it’s heads down till April, so I thought I’d go somewhere nice and hot, and do ab-so-lutely nothing except lie in the sun. I’ve been in that rehearsal room the whole summer and I’m practically white. Look at me!’

  Sean had been doing little else since Mia had arrived. Her mother was Senegalese, her father Scottish, and her buttery complexion looked just fine to him. But the notion that she might need to top up her tan gave him an idea.

  ‘I’m going to this fantastic place in Brazil in September. For a beach party. You guys should come.’

  ‘What party?’

  ‘Remember Alex Wold, Matt’s brother? I’m taking him over to see Jamie.’

  Caitlin’s head snapped around. ‘You’re in touch with Jamie?’

  Sean had known this moment would come, and that when it did it would be difficult. At least this way, with a natural reason and an outsider present, there was a chance that a scene might be averted.

  ‘Yeah. I tracked him down online. I actually went over to see him in Brazil back in February. Mum and Dad don’t know, by the way.’

  ‘I didn’t know either. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I haven’t seen you Cait. I wanted to tell you in person.’

  Caitlin’s hands were shaking as she lit a cigarette and tried to digest this piece of news. ‘What’s he want to see Alex for?’ she said at length, struggling to keep a light tone.

  ‘It’s a business thing,’ said Sean hurriedly, relieved that his sister seemed to be dealing with the revelations okay. ‘Jamie needs some financial advice. Anyway, he organises these beach raves every month or so, and we’re timing the trip to coincide with one of those.’

  Mia felt that now might a good time to try to defuse some of the obvious tension in this little exchange. ‘Sounds amazing,’ she said. ‘Who’s Jamie?’