by JH Fletcher
It was great; she had a ball. No alarm bells; life was for living, youth forever. Until two events in quick succession made her think again.
Darren Thomas was the first one. Pert eyes, lacquered hair. He was beautiful; a hard, twenty-five-year-old body, a walk-on part in a couple of TV shows. She’d shown him the town, shown him a lot more than that. She came on him giggling on the phone.
‘Sick of it, sweetheart. Like making love to your mother, you know? Gruesome.’
Thank God he didn’t see her. She got rid of him straightaway, of course, told herself he hadn’t known his good luck. All the same, mother … A blow, undeniably.
The second thing happened in public. What made it worse, she was the only one who realised anything had happened at all.
Two weeks after Darren’s departure, she’d been in a pub with a group of friends. They were a fair bit younger than she was but she’d always liked young people, had her eye on a quiet lad, a financial reporter with one of the papers. Quite a change from razzle-dazzle Darren. She had been on the edge of inviting him to dinner, her treat, when they all upped and left her sitting there. Smiles, jokes, no ill feelings, but it couldn’t have been plainer that they were a group, members of an exclusive club to which she no longer belonged. Youth.
I’ve been making a fool of myself. She tossed her drink down; considered, coldly, getting thoroughly absolutely rotten smashed.
Pride saved her. She walked out, smiling at the waiter, at the other drinkers, not a care in the world. She went home, told herself she would not crack a bottle, although she wanted it more than anything on earth. Instead had a bath, kept her eyes from the mirror, went to bed. Where, amazingly, she slept the sleep of the just — or the middle-aged. All would be well in the morning.
Except it was not. She stripped, looked coldly at herself in the mirror. Saw what had been there all along, had she the eyes to see it: a woman, still good-looking, but past her prime. Way past. No more sweet bird of youth; that had flown forever.
She wondered how she could have fooled herself so long. Wondered why, come to that. Maturity was more than a line or two where once there had been no lines; it was a state of mind. Now, belatedly, she had discovered it. To her astonishment she derived a measure of comfort, knowing who she really was after pretending for so long to be something else. But there was a warning in it, too.
If she wanted to settle down, properly and permanently, she could afford to waste no more time. She had to find the right man.
Hedy Shipley’s was as good a place as any to start looking. Hedy’s annual bash was pretty hideous, usually; too much booze, too many nineteen-year-old cuties fancying themselves because they’d done a stint on Home and Away. It was the place to be seen, all the same. The cameras were always there, and the cameras brought out the beautiful people; Nicki’s sort of people. So, hideous or not, when the invitation arrived, she wasted no time in accepting.
When the great day came she made up with even more care than usual, put on the dress that, with luck, would spike the guns of the opposition — so it damn well should, the price she’d paid — and went off to the party.
She’d been a regular for fifteen years yet now, as the hired limo crossed the city, her nerves were jumping. Not surprising, in the circumstances.
All the same, she took care to arrive in style, smile as wide as the Harbour Bridge. She kissed the air close to Hedy’s ear as though they’d been life-long mates and wafted indoors on a cloud of bravado and thousand-dollar perfume.
The first person she saw was Mostyn Harcourt. It was a surprise, not because he was there — he usually turned up at this sort of show — but because she’d heard he was out of the country.
She walked over to him at once, feeling his eyes giving her the once-over through her clothes. Nothing there you haven’t seen already, she thought. Not that she had any complaints.
‘So you made it, after all?’
‘Only just. I got back from Africa this morning.’
He sipped a glass of Hedy’s so-called champagne, made a grimace. ‘I’d fire the cellar master who served me up crap like this.’
His eyes were busy. Nicki had always been a great-looking woman; he should know that, if anyone did. She knew how to dress, how to behave in public. In private, too, come to that. A man could do a lot worse. All the same, he knew it was a non-starter.
He needed someone at his side and in his bed, someone for the long haul. That ruled Nicki out. He’d been there, done that, more times than he cared to count, and resurrecting the past never worked. No, for the long term he needed someone younger, less travelled. On the other hand, who was talking about permanence tonight?
He said, ‘Feel like some supper later?’
Mostyn’s innocent look had fooled millions, but Nicki knew him too well. Her eyebrow lifted. The whisper of a smile. ‘Supper? That the best you can do?’
They went to a place Mostyn knew in Potts Point. It specialised in French country cooking and hearty helpings, much needed after Hedy’s bite-sized junk.
He’d known Gaston for years; they went through the normal rigmarole of discussing the menu before he allowed them to order. Mostyn had soupe aux marrons, — God knows where he got the chestnuts — scalloped oysters, rounded it off with rognons de veau and plenty of tomatoes. Good, earthy food. Nicki had a salad, joined him for the oysters, skipped the kidneys. They drank a house red, rough as a file but full-bodied, just the thing to go with the food.
It was a meal to fire up the gonads; not that they needed much firing. They took a cab to Nicki’s place, had their clothes off almost before they’d shut the door, hungrier than they’d ever been in the restaurant.
They kissed, touched and, as always, something took over. It was more than hunger. For Nicki, at least, it was fear. Fear of age. She made love as though throwing up a barrier against a flood that soon, if she did nothing to prevent it, would sweep her away.
She and Mostyn … From the beginning, there had always been something tying them together. Sex had been no more than a part of it. They were mates, confiding in each other as with no one else on earth. They did so now; the fact — although not the details — of her bust-up with Darren, the problems Mostyn was facing now things were looking dodgy in Asia.
‘A rough ride ahead,’ he said. ‘Very rough. We’ll be seeing a few worms come out of the woodwork now.’
She listened, and was content. The only time she had turned her back on him had been when she had been planning to marry Tom Neal. That was when she had introduced him to Anna, but — as she had anticipated at the time — it had proved no more than a hiccup in their relationship. They had soon got together again. Mostyn had married, too, but after a month or two that had made no difference, either.
The fact was, Nicki thought, they were meant for each other. All they had to do was accept it; afterwards, time could do its worst and it wouldn’t matter.
All this from nowhere, as they lay and rolled and played. The touch and the flame. To bodies that one would have thought had experienced it all, it was an experience to shake their bones.
They had always been brilliant in bed.
Afterwards, drained, fulfilled, awash with a lazy contentment that was almost as good as what had gone before, Nicki ran the back of her fingers gently down the side of Mostyn’s face.
They had always been brittle with each other, jokey, as though needing to protect their feelings from each other. No longer. She was sick of gallivanting. She was open to him and glad to be so, vulnerable as she had never previously allowed herself to be with another human being.
Impulse took her tongue. She said, ‘I want us to spend the rest of our lives together.’
Nothing of love, of marriage. The simple truth. I want us to spend the rest of our lives together. She smiled at him, truly naked for the first time in her life.
He laughed. ‘Come on, sweetheart … I know it was good, but I never read you for the faithful type.’
The blood drai
ned from Nicki’s face, from every vein of her body. In its place came ice.
She got rid of him. That was the worst part of all; she had expected a fuss but he went willingly, eager to escape an intensity he neither wanted nor understood.
She got dressed. She made the bed. She went out into the living room. She sat and stared. At nothing; at everything. At emptiness. She poured herself one drink, swallowed it in a gulp, put the glass down again. Gathering rage beat its red drum in her temples.
Still she sat there; thought and thought. When she had decided, her mind clear, she looked at her watch. It was not too late. She went to the phone.
The following morning Mostyn turned up for his first board meeting since flying out to Africa. With the understanding with Tembe warming the cockles of his wallet, he anticipated applause, had even honed, once again, the modest smile with which he would accept their congratulations.
Things didn’t turn out like that. While he had been away, currency speculators had pulled the plug on Asia. He had known about it, of course — even in Africa he had taken care to stay in touch — but the extent of the disaster had taken everyone by surprise. To make matters worse, that morning’s financial press had contained an article about Heinrich Griffiths and its managing director. A highly damaging article.
‘The baht is through the floor. And the rupiah.’
Hennessy had been Mostyn’s protégé, had learned Mostyn’s skills too well, perhaps. Now he was on the rampage. The other directors watched apprehensively from around the boardroom table. Behind an impassive face, Mostyn fumed; he had called the shots so long that any criticism was hard to handle.
Hennessy said, ‘The loans are due for review in two weeks.’
Mostyn smiled easily. ‘I’ll roll them over. Our name’s good enough.’
‘Two hundred and sixty million?’
‘Why not? The Indonesian investments alone —’
‘Are worth nothing.’
‘That’s nonsense —’
‘Suharto’s on the skids. Everyone knows it. These investments you’ve put us in over the years … Are they really all joint ventures with members of his family?’
You’ve put us in; as though Hennessy did not know perfectly well that Suharto and his family had been the only road to investment in Indonesia.
‘When he goes, they won’t be worth the paper they’re written on.’
‘He’ll ride out the storm. He always does.’
Mostyn looked around the table, seeking support, but for once no one seemed willing to catch his eye.
‘Let’s hope the institutions agree with you. After the article that reporter wrote about your Indonesian commitments … What do we do if they don’t?’
It was true that the article had been damaging; he still didn’t know where the little bastard had got his information. Desperate times; desperate measures. Mostyn took a deep breath. ‘They’ve already agreed.’
That stopped Hennessy, as Mostyn had intended, but he remained suspicious. ‘Have they said so? In writing?’
Mostyn smiled indulgently. ‘We’ve been doing business for years. Hang around a while, you’ll find a gentleman’s agreement is all it takes.’
It was enough. The other members of the board wanted desperately to believe him; their own futures depended on his being right. The most Charles Hennessy could do was to push through a formal request that the agreements with the banks be tabled for the board’s approval at its next meeting.
One week. Nowhere near enough.
It would have to be enough.
Too busy planning his campaign to win over the banks, Mostyn hardly noticed the rest of the meeting. It would not be easy. Most of their chief executives were old friends, but that meant nothing. Business was a war of strong against weak, predator and victim. The slightest vulnerability and his friends would tear him to pieces, as he would them were their roles reversed.
At last the meeting was over. With time against him, Mostyn’s instinct was to leave the room flying. It was the one thing he could not afford. He hung around, smiling and chatting, showing them all how relaxed he was. He went out of his way to be especially nice to Charles Hennessy, the protégé who had turned on him. He smiled until his jaw ached, envisaging the pleasure he would have in disembowelling him once the banks were on side.
At last, cheery smile, comradely slap on shoulder, he got away. He went to his office, warned his secretary he was not to be disturbed and drew up a list of the banks he had to win over in order to survive. Only eight mattered; the rats and mice would go along with the rest, but the big boys were scattered all over the globe: here in Australia, Singapore, Hong Kong, Germany, Britain and the United States.
All would have to agree. One dissenter would spook the rest. It meant spending the entire week in aircraft, but there was no help for it; he could trust no one else with this.
He sketched out a schedule, putting at the top of the list the institutions most likely to support him, working down to the ones that might cause problems. He knew exactly how to go about it. Banks, like sharks, were motivated by greed, fear or a combination of both. Either he must frighten them into supporting him or give them a damn good inducement to do so.
He paused by the golden axe and ran his fingers over its smooth surface. As always, his instinct was to instil fear, but he had nothing to frighten them with; this time it would have to be inducement. He must persuade them, not only that their money was safe but that by deferring repayment they stood to gain a great deal more.
The root of the problem lay in Indonesia, and that was where the solution would have to be found. Perhaps there, he thought, Hatchet Harcourt might have a chance to live up to his name.
He gave his secretary the list of names. ‘Re-schedule all my appointments for later in the month.’
She studied the paper. ‘What if the President won’t see you?’
‘He’ll see me. It’s his neck, too.’
Years ago he had formed the habit of keeping a packed suitcase in his car; within minutes he left the office and drove to Kingsford Smith airport on the first stage of a journey that, all being well, would take him right around the world.
Later that evening he landed in Jakarta, where an official car was waiting to whisk him away into the rain-forested hills. He approved of his host’s choice of venue; the air was cooler, unwanted eyes less likely to see what was none of their business.
The magnificent palace, set in extensive grounds behind high walls, was guarded by armed paratroopers in combat smocks. Mostyn was escorted up the steps and into a luxurious foyer, where the man he had come to see was waiting for him. He was not as trim as he had once been and wore a floral shirt that hung loose about his waist.
He came forward, smiling, and took Mostyn’s hand.
‘Mr Harcourt, welcome to Bogor,’ he said. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?’
Mostyn looked at the flint-cold eyes of the army officers surrounding them. When your purpose was to blackmail someone as powerful as this, the last thing you needed was an audience.
‘If we can go somewhere private, Your Excellency, I shall explain.’
They retired to an ornate reception room, all gold paint and brocade chair coverings.
The old man stared at him. ‘Very well, Mr Harcourt. Give it to me.’
He gave it to him, indeed, with both barrels. He told the old boy he had to go along. Either he gave Mostyn options on every major industry in the country — forestry, mining, the lot — or Heinrich Griffiths would take their losses and pull out. If that happened, the shock waves would destroy what was left of the Indonesian economy, and the President and all his cronies would be down the gurgler.
It was no time for fancy speaking. ‘The mob will tear this place apart …’ The old man put a good face on it; would have killed Mostyn if he could, but knew he no longer had the power to do it.
Mostyn whizzed around the world, as planned, but after the Bogor meeting it was only a formality
. What he had to offer now would have put Ali Baba’s forty thieves in the shade.
Heading back to Sydney, he was able to relax for the first time in a week. He was safe, as long as Suharto survived.
For a month or two, things looked great. There were demonstrations in Jakarta but Suharto couldn’t have been too worried; he had gone overseas and left the mobs to get on with it.
‘Quietly confident,’ Mostyn told the press. ‘No worries at all.’
Troops took to the streets but the rioting, instead of dying down as expected, grew worse. Suharto came back.
‘Now we’ll see something,’ Mostyn said, rubbing his hands.
It was inconceivable that the general who had destroyed Soekarno all those years ago wouldn’t know what to do with a mob of students. Yet it seemed that in Indonesia, too, times had changed. From one day to the next, while Mostyn was still brandishing his confidence like a tattered battle flag, Suharto was gone. Leaving Heinrich Griffiths, and its managing director, up a tree with never a parachute in sight.
The bombshell fell at the end of the meeting.
Other Business was usually made up of a grab-bag of items that did not warrant a separate place on the agenda. This time it was different.
‘I’ve had a letter,’ Harry Dann said. ‘It’s a personal approach, asking me how we would feel about becoming involved in an Asian venture.’
‘Asia?’ Harris Donnelly said sourly. ‘Good God.’
His reaction was reflected in the faces of the others around the boardroom table; these days Asia was no longer flavour of the month.
‘How much?’ Anna asked. ‘And what kind of involvement?’
‘A tad under a billion dollars. Well within our reach. And a joint venture or partnership, something like that.’
‘Where in Asia?’
‘Indonesia, mainly. South Korea was also mentioned.’
Two of the most vulnerable economies in the region.
‘Why us?’
‘The letter talks about the advantages of cooperation. Economies of scale —’
‘Horseshit,’ Harris said.
