Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  As it was, he was only able to start over – with a business that was legitimately his – because following the desperate, aggressive litigation, Lloyd’s had agreed to cap his losses earlier this year. He was one of the ‘lucky’ ones; the 40 per cent of Names who would share an £800 million settlement fund – as they bloody should, having sustained 65 per cent of the firm’s liabilities!

  It hurt Jack that he remained ostracized because that evil cow Innocence had stolen his empire wholesale to ‘preserve’ it – and no one believed he wasn’t complicit. It hurt him because, despite Innocence’s fraudulent precautions, Jack had still lost so much: what she hadn’t taken, Lloyd’s had. He had paid through the nose with possessions and property. Other Names hated him because he wasn’t destitute. How dare they make a moral judgement: Jack was destitute for him.

  Now he was in the humiliating position of having to beg her for pocket money to buy this ugly little wreck of a hotel.

  Vanity Fair had wanted to do a New Year’s cover with him prostrate on the snowy ground in a skimpy toga and a crown of thorns and her stepping across his back in gold stilettos, a gold chain-mail bikini and a crown, wielding a mace. A fucking can of mace, more like.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ he’d said, and she’d snarled, ‘That can be arranged.’

  In the end he’d done it to shut her up. In return, she’d lent him the equivalent of a fiver to buy this place.

  It was a shack.

  He had been avoiding calls from the manager all week. He knew the place was jinxed, that any message would bring news of disaster. And the Hotel Belle Époque opened to guests in four days.

  He was filled with gloom, but you could always shoe in a little extra squeeze of additional despair. The hotel – his hotel – had changed hands at least seven times in the last ten years, and there had been a piece in one of the gossip columns about the last owner holding an exorcism in the basement, to try and rid the site of its ill fortune. Jack didn’t believe in the evil dead – as far as he could tell, people liked to expend their share of evil while still alive – but it was useful that others did. He’d ripped out the page and kept it.

  Beggars couldn’t be choosers, he thought. The act of tearing out a piece of the newspaper reminded him of his mother, a long time ago, ripping coupons out of the Daily Express to get money off a jar of instant coffee. He felt as if he’d travelled in a large, pointless circle. He felt as if he’d been successful, once. It was a shock to realize that success could leave you, like a lover. He had striven for success all his life, and it had been natural to assume that once he’d got success, success was his to keep.

  To fail, and to fail in front of a worldwide audience, was devastating.

  But – his hands squeezed into fists – he would be back. He would show everyone, make them eat shit; all the people who had felt a shiver of pleasure at his misery and shame would choke on their fucking Cornflakes as they read of his second coming. He’d rise like a ghost from the earth, and he would rule again.

  In particular, Innocence would be in for a shock. She had him by the balls now, but that would change.

  That said, right now he was fighting a persistent urge to fall on the ground and sob. He didn’t dare to look – to look properly – at the lobby of his newly renovated hotel. He was too frightened. This project had been like no other.

  Eighteen months ago, when he’d seen the first investment of the rest of his life, he’d felt sick. It was impressive that the owner had done so much to make it this ugly. Every panelled door had been boarded over; every original feature had been ripped out and cheaply replaced. It was a small hotel, only twelve rooms, but that was the point. It had potential: high ceilings, huge windows, an underground pool. The broker had made a great fuss about the ‘subterranean’ pool, but of course, when Jack saw it, it smelled of drains and the water was grimy with green and black algae, like a stagnant pond.

  He’d bought the hotel, having no better option, knowing that he was being charged more than it was worth. The banks wouldn’t invest, and he would die before he asked Harry. They hadn’t done business since going their separate ways after getting out of the City, and he knew it was one reason that their friendship had lasted.

  Innocence had made him beg.

  They’d had fast, hateful sex – she’d bitten him, like a black widow, on the shoulder. He’d rammed it into her, rough and hard, exorcising his anger with every thrust. Trouble was, although the message was ‘I despise you’, she’d misinterpreted it as ‘I desire you’; it had been annoyingly good.

  Then she’d summoned her solicitor to draw up a stranglehold contract.

  So the Hotel Belle Époque had been completed on a meek budget of make do and humble pie, and Jack had worked closely with the builders, the architect, the interior designer, and interviewed the staff himself. Before he would have delegated, careless of the cost, but now he was like an old spinster carefully counting pennies out of her purse. Splashing money around was no longer in vogue.

  It had surprised him how much he had enjoyed his involvement. He was also shocked at how much cash he saved himself by being on the spot to veto extravagance: they didn’t need to buy new chairs, the old ones were rather beautiful and unique, they just required reupholstering. It made him realize that other people were never going to be as smart with your money as you were – another lesson learned so late.

  It had been a thrill to see that sad, neglected hotel’s glorious rebirth, and to be such an essential part of it. He knew that this hotel would be different from the others in the Élite Retreat stable, now masterminded by the Cow. They were cool, fresh, stark and modern, a spring clean for the mind, but Hôtel Belle Époque would be an expression of old-school glamour. It would hark back to happier times, although there would be twenty-first-century touches (those chairs were reupholstered in bubblegum pink). It would have an old-fashioned aura and eccentricities: sixties sputnik lights; sparkly chandeliers; excessive comfort – the curly-armed sofas would be soft and sink-into-able, hard furniture was banned. It would incorporate the feel of his aunt’s country cottage, with a higgledy-piggledy line of blue and green glass bottles on the shelf of every white bathroom with its clawfoot bath. All his best memories would be crammed into this hotel: an ornate palazzo ceiling in the restaurant (to serve good French country food, not fussy prissy Parisian nonsense); decorative lace ironwork gates. What this hotel would say was: Stuff you all and your minimalist pretensions, we are going to look after you in the old-fashioned way, we are going to spoil you rotten, indulge ourselves and you. We know best.

  The empire of Élite Retreats had been a creation of cold calculation; the Hôtel Belle Époque came from the heart.

  Clients knew what to expect with an Élite Retreat hotel; what they wanted and what they were going to get. In that sense, checking into an Élite Retreat was like buying a KitKat. While styles and quirks varied with each location, there was a list of unconscious desires always fulfilled: all-white interiors; bathrooms with Carrara marble surfaces and massive square baths; mood lighting; huge shuttered windows; beds with neutral linen covers, Frette sheets; Shiseido cosmetics; fresh lilac for a splash of colour (guests were asked about allergies at check-in); dark wood oval table instead of a desk; organic chocolate and Cristal champagne in the mini-bar.

  But the Hôtel Belle Époque was one big quirk. Normally, a costing was made for the contents of every room; Innocence had loved the feel of a cashmere throw she’d been given one January evening in Malibu, so, for the LA project, his people had investigated the cost of 820 throws, two for each room. It had added $287,000 to the budget, but it was so – as Innocence would say – luxe. Each room in the Belle Époque, however, was unique and personal. There was no ubiquitous cashmere throw, no autopilot; each room had a subtle theme, and was named. He hoped that eventually guests would find a favourite and ask for it.

  Over those fast, frenzied months, he’d felt bullish, excited, certain he was creating something great, with a sm
all, select team of inspired, devoted people – but now, as the opening night grew close, his confidence had vanished. Every night brought a hideous nightmare, his mind taunting him that his success had been a fluke, that his great secret was he was weak, a hollow man. A few times he’d actually woken feeling faint with terror.

  He had no one to turn to. He’d cut himself off from those he loved, because he knew no other way of being strong. He couldn’t care – not since the death of his first wife Felicia. Caring made you vulnerable. He’d told himself that all he had to do was work, and once he was successful again, then he’d apply himself to his family, and then they would all be happy. But sometimes, like today, he couldn’t imagine ever being happy again.

  After a lifetime of taking her for granted, he realized he missed his mother. Pathetic. Once people were buried, you were free to idolize them, love them with abandon. When they were dead you could admit the full extent of your affection, secure in the knowledge that you would get zero back. Being loved frightened him. This was the safe way of loving, something he could no longer manage with the living.

  He should look up now. He should really look up, leave the mad prison of his own head and pray that, for once, reality would be a little kinder.

  Slowly, with dread heavy in his gut, he lifted his head and looked around the lobby. His heart pounded and his hands were slick with sweat. His legs were rubber. He breathed carefully so that his stomach wouldn’t hurl up its contents. Briefly, he went blind with fright. And then he blinked, stood tall to face his final fate – and it was his final fate, because if this project failed it would kill him.

  His vision cleared and he fixed on his new obsession, and as he stared with amazed disbelief, his eyes prickled with emotion and he felt a shifting sensation in his chest. He imagined it as the two grey stones of his heart grinding slowly towards each other, still apart, but moving closer to recovery.

  The lobby of his Last Chance Saloon was just as he had imagined, but a thousand times more beautiful. The delicate wall chandeliers twinkled and the warm red walls seemed to enclose you like a womb. It was intimate but friendly, funky, not intimidating. It wasn’t cool and it wasn’t grand; it was perfect. The dark antique-wood floor shone in the flickering light of the fire; the logs crackled and reminded him of Christmas. It was a curious sensation to have, at 9 a.m. on a Tuesday in August, but it relaxed him. He felt the long frozen muscles in his shoulders and neck trying, failing, to shed their rigidity and hang loose.

  The woman stepped like a brisk angel from the gentle shadows of the concierge desk. She had glorious curves, waves of blond hair and a mischievous smile (he always noticed when a female was devoid of straight lines). ‘Bonjour, monsieur, et bienvenu. Welcome!’ She looked him up and down without apology. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she added, her London accent faint but distinct. ‘I’m Maria, head of housekeeping. I offered to show you round. I’m the one staff member you haven’t met – you asked to meet every employee, so I thought it was a good opportunity and the manager agreed.’

  She smiled at him with a slightly defiant jut of the chin. But he noticed the tremor in her voice, that she smoothed her already smooth skirt and tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. Well, it was natural to be nervous of the boss, even if you could present a confident front.

  He couldn’t help the automatic calculation in his head, though: another decision reflecting his reduced status. Before the Lloyd’s disaster, when he was master of all he surveyed, no one would dare to suggest that Jack Kent be shown around his new project by a servant. Mind you, in those days everyone was a servant … Now, he always compared: before, it would have been like this but now, in my crappy cut-price life, it’s like this. It was a compulsion, torturing himself with the curious emptiness of his own heart.

  His instinct was to be petulant, but then that too was a sign of weakness. It would make her despise him; feel that he deserved his fall. Anyway, if assigning him to a maid was a sign of disrespect from top management, for once he didn’t mind. There was something he recognized in the woman’s smile – or was it her eyes? He wanted to be near her.

  ‘I’d be delighted to have you show me round, Maria,’ he said, hearing his voice boom in the hail-fellow-well-met manner that the slickest captains of industry employed these days. ‘Have we met? You seem familiar.’ Instantly, he regretted asking. The world was littered with people he had pissed off.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and laughed, ‘not exactly, no.’

  Later that night, he sat at a pavement café and drank a cold beer, his mind almost relaxed. Odd, he was musing, that northern France was exactly like Cornwall, but Paris was utterly Mediterranean – and look at those monochrome mademoiselles gliding past! Robo-chic. So elegant in their high heels, unlike English women: the slightest heel and they walked at a slant, as if hiking into a stiff wind. Not Maria, though. Sensible kitten heels. He thought about her response.

  He supposed it was true, what people said, that he was a bad listener. He’d developed the arrogant habit of only hearing what he wanted to hear. It had got him into deep shit. Now, in leaner times, he paid more attention. He analysed every word spoken to him, ready to pick up on the slightest hint of disdain.

  But it wasn’t disdain he was searching for with Maria. He found her intriguing and he didn’t quite know why. He’d asked if they’d met before. And when he played back her words in his head – ‘Oh [laugh], not exactly, no’ – they made him wonder. ‘Oh, not exactly, no’ didn’t mean, ‘No, I don’t think so’, which was just a polite way of saying ‘No’.

  But he couldn’t for the life of him imagine what her words did mean.

  LONDON, 1997

  Claudia

  She was fast running out of excuses for not having sex with her fiance.

  Who would think a man could be so persistent? He reminded her of JR, whining for a walk. Her whole evening was ruined before it began because she was panicking about what would happen after.

  The ballet had been stunning. Sylvie Guillem was her favourite dancer – so strong, so haughty, you didn’t worry. Even when she watched Darcey Bussell, Claudia always left stiff from the tension of willing her not to wobble. But sitting in the gorgeous Opera House watching Sylvie dance Odette/Odile, and holding hands with Martin, was heaven. You felt safe. Also, classical ballet was perfect in being entirely sexless. If only Swan Lake, a paltry three and a bit hours, could have lasted a little longer.

  Now they were sitting in a cosy corner at Christopher’s, and she was refusing a second glass of wine. He wasn’t getting her into bed that way. She could feel her shoulders tense and it riled her. He should respect her wishes. Instead, he got angry with her.

  She should explain, about what had happened when she was a child, but she was too ashamed. She loved Martin and she planned to marry him and live happily for ever, and she would not risk messing that up by telling him the truth.

  He’d ordered the chicken breast – breast! Even the menu taunted her with the sex they weren’t having. She’d ordered the salmon fishcakes with buttered spinach, creamed potato – creamed potato, like the disgusting line in that song, ‘Greased Lightning’: ‘the chicks’ll cream’. She was so obsessed with not having sex that she was obsessed with sex.

  She ate slowly, and she’d order dessert if she had to – better to be fat than be laid. Her eyes pricked with tears.

  ‘Hey, Mouse. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve just got a …’ She knew if she said ‘headache’ his mood would dive. ’ … something in my eye.’

  He peered closely at her face, pretending to inspect it. ‘My God, yes, so you have, it’s an … eyeball!’

  She smiled, despite herself.

  ‘That is the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. Anyone would think you weren’t happy to be engaged to an old fart like me.’

  She liked him like this, handsome, amusing, in a social setting that ruled out a lunge. She smiled a real smile, grabbed his hand and kissed it. ‘Marti
n, there’s no old fart in the world I’d rather be engaged to.’

  ‘I’m going to test you,’ he said, teasing. Casually, gently, so she didn’t realize it was happening, he held her hand in his and lowered it to his lap, which was under cover of the elegant white tablecloth. She felt her fingers alight on a hard, warm, now slippery surface, it felt like a snooker ball but—

  She screamed, loudly, before she could stop herself, and jumped up, knocking over her chair.

  Every waiter in the room raced to their table – it was the kind of action you saw in a hospital when a patient flatlined. ‘Madam! What is the matter? What is the problem?’ Her breath was coming in short, airless bursts, and she fumbled for her inhaler. She was so furious that if she had been able to speak she would have probably said, ‘The food is delicious, only I caught a fright when my boyfriend here tricked me into touching his erect dick.’

  In a fast, angry movement, Martin retrieved the inhaler from her bag and thrust it under her nose. In a low, calm voice, he addressed the anguished waiters. ‘Everything is fine. Sorry to have alarmed you. My fiancée has this irrational’ – he spat the word ‘irrational’ – ‘fear of …’ He paused. ‘ … custard.’

  Custard? She could see that the waiters were having similar problems suspending disbelief.

  ‘Stupidly, I thought that she might enjoy some custard tart with spiced summer fruits, but of course, foolishly, I had forgotten her total aversion to it. You know’ – there was a bitter, yet conversational edge to his tone – ‘she can’t bear the feel of custard, let alone the taste of it, and even the mere idea of it gives her a panic attack.’