Golden Boy

by Rosemary Friedman

  Under strict instructions not to divulge his predicament to anyone, she told Lavender, who was surprised that Freddie was still at home when she arrived, that he was taking a few days off. When Lavender crept into the drawing-room – where Freddie was glued to the teletext – with her duster, he nodded, but did not address her. There was no light-hearted chorus of ‘Lavender’s Blue’.

  Leonard was polishing the car when Freddie appeared in his City suit and asked to be taken to Eaton Square. From behind his Financial Times, as usual, as if he was on the way to the bank, Freddie addressed his driver.

  ‘No doubt the news has got round, Leonard?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘Five years, sir? I couldn’t believe it when Mr Travers told me. Neither could Mollie. I’m extremely sorry, sir.’ He turned the car into Euston Road. ‘I just wish I could repay you for all you’ve done for us…’

  ‘I may have to come to you, Leonard.’ Freddie tried to lighten the conversation.

  ‘We’d be in bed and breakfast by now if it wasn’t for you, Mr Lomax. I’ve been assigned to Mr Verger. But if there’s anything, anything at all I can do, sir…’

  ‘There is something, Leonard. I have your services until the end of the week, I believe.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘There’s a client coming over from Frankfurt at the weekend. I’m taking him to Covent Garden on Saturday night. If I can borrow Mr Mitchell’s Bentley…’

  Leonard’s eye met his own in the mirror. He was grinning broadly.

  ‘It will be my pleasure, sir.’

  Freddie found James in the kitchen of his elegant apartment, struggling with The Times crossword as he assembled his muesli.

  ‘Ten across: “Customer takes foreign money with hesitation.” Six letters.’ James grated an apple into the jumbo oats. ‘You should know that.’

  ‘Haven’t a clue.’ Freddie had other things on his mind.

  James counted out half a dozen pumpkin seeds and put them into the bowl. ‘“Called for someone with skill to reverse adverse economic situation?” Five and three. No?’

  From the brightly lit interior of the outsize fridge he took a carton of orange juice.

  ‘Let’s try six down and it might help us with the foreign money. “Clerical garb that’s sensible clothing abroad.” Soutane!’ He pencilled in the word. ‘That makes ten across punter. Punt. Italian for pound. Foreign money. Coffee?’ He drew up a chair for Freddie.

  ‘If you won’t help me with the crossword, perhaps you’d tell me what brings you here at this godforsaken hour when all good bankers should be in their counting houses counting out their money. Last time we had a breakfast meeting was when I walked out on Helen. In every relationship there is a flower and a gardener. Unfortunately Helen and I were both gardeners. Nothing wrong with you and Jane?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Out with it then. Or do you want me to play twenty questions?’

  ‘I’ve been fired.’

  James whistled. ‘Pull the other one.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘On Monday.’

  ‘So that was why Gordon wasn’t at your party.’

  Helping himself to coffee, Freddie recounted the events of his personal Black Monday followed by a brief resumé of the precarious state of his finances.

  ‘My dear chap! I hope you’ve run screaming to your lawyer?’

  ‘I’m setting everything up. I wanted you to know. You’re the only person, apart from Jane and the children, I’ve told.’

  ‘Keep it like that. It’s not the kind of thing one wants to get about. I must admit I have quite a problem taking it in. You were always the rock, Freddie, the serious one. Pillar of the establishment and all that. My friend the vice-chairman…’ He saw Freddie flinch and changed tack.

  ‘Listen, I know the construction business is not exactly your field. To be perfectly honest, it’s hardly anybody’s field these days…’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, James. I’ll stick to my last.’

  ‘Nobody knows more about banking than you do, that’s for sure.’

  Freddie was not only a good financier but a mine of information on the history of banking. He had even written a potted history of Sitwell Hunt International, which was routinely handed out to clients. It explained how private banks had been set up in the eighteenth century, when London had become the capital market centre of the Western world, and had served as deposit takers and lenders to the ‘specie traders’, while the newly formed Bank of England, with no time for gold-smiths, was busy with the government bonds which financed the national debt. Freddie knew everything there was to know about the City from the days when bulls and bears had been traded in Change Alley (later to become the Stock Exchange), and firmly believed that the essence of a good finance house lay not in the range of services offered, but in the manner in which such services were provided. Confidently predicting a future in which the exploration of space and the progress of technology would provide investors with new scope for gain, it had been his personal dream to take Sitwell Hunt International into the twenty-first century.

  ‘There is something I would very much like to do,’ James said slowly. ‘Remember Cambridge? That day in the Blue when you snitched Jane from under my nose?’

  Freddie recalled the summer’s day and Jane, in her panama hat, intimately stroking the dog. ‘I’m hardly likely to forget it.’

  ‘Tristan is my godson. Not being much of a churchgoer I’ve never really fulfilled my responsibilities in that direction, apart from the odd christening mug, that is, and one or two Cup Final tickets. Things are going amazingly well for me at the moment. Believe it or not I’ve just sold my new office building in Basingstoke. I hope you won’t take this amiss…’ James got up from the table. ‘I’d like you to let me take care of the school fees. For Tristan and Rosina.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Think about it, Freddie. I look upon those kids as my own.’ It was James’ one regret that he had never had children. ‘There’ll be plenty of time to pay me back when you’ve sorted things out.’

  Freddie had to admit that it would be a load off his mind. Having to take Tristan and Rosina away from their respective schools at a crucial time in their education was a frightening thought. Swallowing his pride, he accepted James’ offer. It was his first experience of charity.

  James put an understanding arm round him. ‘“Lookers on, many times see more than Gamesters; and the Vale best discovereth the Hill.” What’s the similarity between Mikhail Gorbachev and an Essex girl?’

  Freddie had no idea. James didn’t wait for an answer.

  ‘Both get screwed by eight men while on holiday! I just wish there was something I could do to help you, old cock.’

  ‘Actually there is.’

  He asked James if he could borrow his Bentley to take the Wichmanns to the opera.

  ‘If you have to ask, my dear, you don’t deserve it,’ James reached for a tray and put a large cup and saucer on it. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must take Madame her coffee. And, Freddie,’ tray in his hands, James turned at the door, ‘keep your pecker up.’

  Thirteen

  By the time Freddie called at the Porchester Bank, he had got over his initial shock. Before leaving home, he had managed to ring Susan, who had been on his conscience, and left a message on her answering machine to say that he was just calling to enquire how she was, that he would be in touch again, and that perhaps they could meet up for lunch.

  Cooling his heels in the bank anteroom, and feeling like a doctor waiting in his own surgery, he wondered what was keeping Derek Abbott.

  ‘My dear boy!’

  A pale man, with pale eyes, Derek Abbott, who lived in Purley and rode a bicycle he had had since the age of ten, shook Freddie’s hand and led the way into his office.

  ‘Right, Freddie. This
is an unexpected pleasure. What’s the problem?’

  As if he had not been writing to Freddie about it at regular intervals, as if he were looking at it for the first time, Derek Abbott studied the print-out of Freddie’s personal balance sheet which lay in organised readiness on his desk.

  Freddie opened his mouth in which there was an unfamiliar dryness. It had been bad enough telling Jane and James. Breaking the news to his bank manager, to whom he was heavily in debt, that he was no longer gainfully employed was infinitely worse.

  He was tempted to trump up some excuse for his visit and leave. A drink might have helped. A three o’clock meeting had been a mistake.

  ‘What do you want first, Derek, the good news or the bad?’

  ‘Why don’t we start with the bad?’

  Freddie took a deep breath. ‘I am no longer with Sitwell Hunt.’

  Derek Abbott looked up sharpely. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. I have left the bank…’

  ‘Left?’

  ‘Okay.’ The worry beads came out of Freddie’s pocket. ‘I was asked to leave.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘No reason. Reconstruction. Rationalisation. Forced to reconsider things, et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘You’re not playing silly buggers with me, Freddie?’

  ‘I wish I was.’

  ‘After your success with Corinthian! I can’t believe it, Freddie. Give me a minute or two.’

  ‘Take your time.’

  ‘There was no indication…?’

  ‘None whatsoever. Totally unexpected. My own theory is that that stupid bloody Gordon is looking to his wimp of a son-in-law. No experience. No personality. He thinks he is running a dynasty. He should check out the facts.’

  Derek Abbott seemed visibly shaken. ‘You were the last person…’

  Freddie did not want his commiserations. ‘I don’t want to rush into anything…’

  ‘Of course. That would be most unwise.’

  ‘It could be a couple of months before I find something else. The good news is that I have been promised £130,000. Six months’ salary plus a bonus. As soon as I receive it I shall be able to reduce my overdraft by £50,000…’

  Derek Abbott smiled.

  ‘…I want you to leave the other £50,000 available to me for one year.’

  Freddie had been a banker for long enough to know that the gradual eclipse of the smile, the lack of immediate and positive response to his demand, indicated an immediate downgrading of his status and that he had ceased to be a valued client of the Porchester Bank. Derek Abbott seemed to have some difficulty in meeting his eye.

  ‘That could be difficult.’

  Freddie remained silent. He did not want to presume upon their long-standing friendship.

  ‘I shall certainly have a word with head office…’

  A discreet attempt to get himself off the hook.

  ‘I suspect that they might agree to six months.’ Derek Abbott had no intention of putting his own job on the line.

  ‘There is, of course, Universal Concrete,’ Freddie said.

  ‘Quite so. Your put option. I have a note of it. One hundred thousand shares. I trust you know what you’re doing?’

  Going short on a share was like backing a horse. It called for strong nerves and the absolute conviction that the market would move in the right direction. Freddie’s gamble was based on his knowledge of form. He ignored Derek Abbott’s comment.

  ‘The shares should net me sixty or seventy thousand by the end of the account. Things might not be as bad as they look.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. For your sake.’ Derek screwed the top on his fountain pen. ‘Why don’t you leave it with me, Freddie? Let me see what I can do?’

  The meeting was over. Despite Derek Abbott’s almost imperceptible shift in attitude towards him, Freddie felt encouraged. He had cleared the first hurdle, taken some positive action. Given his situation, and the state of the economic climate, he knew full well that the branch manager was in no position to extend his overdraft facilities for as long as a year. With only six months’ survival, his family and Lilli to support, he had to get his act together fast.

  The offices of Mason, Detroit and Fitch were in High Holborn. Pushing open the swing doors with more force than he had intended, Freddie strode up to the reception desk which was manned by two young ladies both of whom were on the telephone.

  ‘Mason, Detroit and Fitch.’ ‘Mason, Detroit and Fitch.’ ‘Mason, Detroit and Fitch.’ ‘Sorry, Mr Fitch is in a meeting. Can someone else help you?’ ‘Mason, Detroit and Fitch. Will you hold?’

  Managing to capture the attention of the younger of the two, whose mug of unidentifiable beverage steamed on the desk before her, Freddie addressed her.

  ‘I have an appointment–’

  ‘Mason, Detroit and Fitch.’

  ‘– with Mr Mason.’

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Mason, Detroit and Fitch. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘I didn’t. Lomax.’

  ‘I have a Mr Lomax at reception for you.’

  ‘The appointment was for four o’clock.’

  ‘Take a seat.’

  The girl indicated a sofa. Freddie stood his ground.

  ‘It has gone four.’

  ‘Mason, Detroit and Fitch. Mr Detroit is on the other line and there’s a call waiting. Mr Mason knows you’re here.’

  Freddie did not like waiting. His childhood had been spent waiting. For Lilli to finish her interminable piano lessons and earlier – if her advice to Jane after Tristan was born was anything to go by – for his four-hourly feeds.

  Glancing pointedly at the clock as troglodytes in motorcycle gear burst in at two-minute intervals to receive packages or deposit manilla envelopes at reception, and with the refrain ‘Mason, Detroit and Fitch’ reverberating in his head like the tympany in Ravel’s Bolero, Freddie sat down on the sofa and picked up the Independent from the glass-topped table. ‘Gloom over sales and job cuts: Early recovery hopes dashed by double blow. Dwindling hopes of an early economic recovery in Britain were dealt two further blows yesterday with the release of figures showing a decline in retail sales and a sharp drop in confidence among financial service firms…’ He turned to the City pages. ‘Jobs shakeout in the financial services sector still has a considerable way to go.’

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ He jumped up from the sofa.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Mr Mason does know you’re here.’

  ‘Try him again!’

  ‘Mr Lomax is still in reception,’ the girl said obligingly into the nylon tube attached to her headset, and to Freddie, ‘Mr Mason won’t keep you long.’

  Freddie resumed his seat. Dominic Mason had never before kept him waiting. Not once in the past five years of calling on his legal advisors had he been directed to the sofa. He had not even been aware that there was a sofa.

  The Guardian was no more cheery than the Independent. The fact that banks and building societies were the most pessimistic business category in the financial sector augured badly for the whole economy. Not too bothered by the gloom and doom which, failing any dramatic upturn in the economy which they could get their teeth into, was the bread and butter of City editors, Freddie confronted the switchboard girl once more, demonstrating his chronograph as if he had to get back urgently to his office.

  ‘Kindly tell Mr Mason that I am unable to wait. I shall have to make another appointment.’

  ‘Mr Mason will see you now. Mason, Detroit and Fitch. Will you hold?’ And to Freddie. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  ‘So sorry.’ Dominic Mason, wearing a pink moiré cutaway waistcoat, was all apologies. Taking off his half-glasses, he came from behind his desk to greet his client. His effusive handshake did little to dispel Freddie’s vexation.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s been one of those days.’ Dominic resumed his seat and replaced his glasses as Freddie took the carved, fruitwood chair. ‘How’s your game coming along?�
��

  Freddie had been playing golf with Dominic since his family firm, who were the legal advisors to Sitwell Hunt, had also undertaken his personal affairs – at an advantageous rate. He had not come to discuss golf.

  ‘I assume you are au fait with recent events?’

  ‘I have spoken to Gordon.’

  ‘Then you’ll know why I’m here.’

  ‘I can take a pretty shrewd guess.’

  Freddie had the impression that Dominic was not enjoying the interview with him any more than had Derek Abbott.

  ‘I have been employed by Sitwell Hunt International for five years. I have been responsible for £100 million of trading in the past six months alone. I feel that I have been treated extremely badly. Kindly tell me what my legal position is. Do I have any remedies in law?’

  ‘Let me refresh my memory, Freddie. Service agreement. Was there any service agreement?’

  Freddie’s service agreement (the directors’ contract of employment) with Sitwell Hunt International, had expired three months ago.

  ‘You know very well there was a service agreement. I had not got round to renewing it.’

  ‘I understand that Gordon has offered you a certain package… £130,000, I believe, was the amount discussed?’

  ‘Less tax.’

  ‘Less tax, of course. A not inconsiderable sum. My advice would be to take it, Freddie. Legal costs these days are, as you know…well, I don’t need to tell you about legal costs. You don’t qualify for legal aid. If you want my opinion, I see very little point in fighting.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘You know, Freddie…’ the waistcoat had silver buttons ‘…there could possibly be a conflict of interests here.’

  ‘Am I to understand, Dominic,’ Freddie came straight to the point, ‘that you do not wish to act for me any more?’

  ‘As far as this particular matter is concerned, I think it might be better all round.’ The glasses came off again. ‘Why don’t I introduce you to a colleague of mine in another firm? I was thinking in particular of Paul Judd. Christopher Hudson, Wingfield, Bancroft and Judd? Paul would look after you extremely nicely.’