Golden Boy

by Rosemary Friedman

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’ Jane returned the handkerchief.

  ‘I’ve been there, darling. I’ve got the T-shirt!’

  Bingo put her arms round Jane in a warm and compassionate hug before putting on her ridiculous hat and securing it with a pearl hatpin. ‘If you won’t do lunch, how about tea? I’m taking the day off.’

  ‘I’m going to see Piers this afternoon. Don’t say anything to Freddie!’

  ‘I’m at my wits’ end,’ Jane said. ‘I can’t bear to see Freddie like this. I came to see if there’s anything constructive I can do.’

  ‘I thought you came to see me.’

  ‘Piers, this is serious.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t for Freddie,’ Piers said. ‘How’s that for serious?’

  ‘Now he needs one from you.’

  ‘Do you think I’m not trying, Jane? Merchant banking is in the merde. There are no big deals. Clients quibble at the fees. The recession has had a catastrophic effect on the sector. Freddie was one of the lucky ones. He clocked up some extremely useful profits. He was a survivor. That’s what I don’t understand. Some people in his position have so little work to do that they sit around in their offices all day twiddling their thumbs. He’s not panicking, is he? He has friends, people he can trust. He has contacts. He had a first-class network…’

  ‘He also has a £600,000 mortgage and a whacking great overdraft. I thought you might be able to suggest something I could do to help.’

  ‘What I would strongly recommend is that Freddie gets in touch with some headhunters. They’re always on the lookout for first-class people. Spencer Stewart, Russell Reynolds, or Heidrick and Struggles off the top of my head…’ He wrote the names on a piece of paper. ‘Get hold of a copy of the Executive Grapevine, it’s the outplacement bible, there must be dozens of specialist firms.’

  On her way out, Jane said, ‘You won’t tell Freddie? He’d kill me.’

  ‘If he did, I’d kill him.’

  She knew that Piers was being serious.

  ‘Thanks anyway.’

  Piers put his arms round her. ‘I only wish there was something I could do.’

  When Jane got home Freddie was standing by the door.

  ‘I was worried about you. Where have you been?’

  ‘Out and about.’

  He didn’t pursue the matter.

  ‘Come upstairs and sit down.’

  Pouring Jane a gin and tonic and helping himself to the Black Label, Freddie came to sit next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t mean to shout.’

  ‘It’s okay. I know.’

  ‘I know I’m a shit. I can’t help it. I thought we might go to the cinema. Forget everything. Like old times.’

  ‘Like old times.’ She leaned back in Freddie’s arms. ‘I ran into this friend,’ Jane lied. ‘Her husband was made redundant. He went to an outplacement consultancy.’ She opened her handbag. ‘Spencer Stewart, Russell Reynolds or something; I wrote it down.’

  ‘Those people don’t offer anything an intelligent person can’t do for himself.’

  ‘You don’t know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be worth a telephone call? They’d probably jump at the chance to have an executive from the highest echelons of banking on their books.’

  It took Freddie several days to pick up the telephone. As if his name were not known in the City, he was informed that Spencer Stewart, Russell Reynolds were not able even to consider an enquiry unless it was accompanied by a curriculum vitae.

  Jane, who felt that Freddie was almost glad to report the headhunters’ unenthusiastic response, drew his attention to the ‘Computerised Professional CVs’ advertisements, printed daily in The Times. Thanking her for her trouble, Freddie left the room to listen to Les Huguenots. The matter was not referred to again.

  Twenty-three

  On the squash court, Freddie was engaged in mortal battle with James. They had been slugging it out for forty-three minutes. The score was 11-10 in the deciding game. Wiping his forehead with his wristband, Freddie got himself into position to serve what he was determined would be his winning match point. Noting the decisiveness of his opponent’s stance, the grimness of his expression, James guessed that more than the match point was at stake.

  With a snap of the wrist, Freddie hit the ball pugnaciously into the front wall. Drawing back to receive it, James countered craftily with a shot which, having hit the wall, dropped deliberately short, forcing Freddie to surrender the T. Hitting with all his strength into the far corner, Freddie leaped back to bump ‘accidentally’ into James and dislodge him from his stronghold. With a powerful volley against the front wall, right to left, James now forced Freddie to move smartly left. Reaching out for it, Freddie smacked the ball ferociously against the side wall where, just as he had intended, it lost its pace, ricocheted half-heartedly onto the front wall and dribbled to the floor before James, considerably flabbier and marginally less fit, could redeem either it or the match.

  ‘Got your fighting boots on today, boyo!’ James held the door of the court open for the next couple in their pristine whites.

  ‘I’ve got to win at something.’

  ‘Feeling sorry for ourselves?’

  ‘Sorry for Jane. I’m bloody awful to her. I can’t help it.’

  What bothered him more than anything was that he had been bloody awful to Lilli who had tried his patience more than usual. Although he felt as much like having his Tuesday dinner with Lilli as flying to the moon, he had turned up with his customary champagne and flowers at the Water Gardens the previous night for his weekly rendezvous with his mother. Mrs Williams had ‘put a roast in the oven’, which was no more, and no less, than the words implied, and had packed her bags.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Freddie demanded, as he walked into the frigid silence. His mother and Mrs Williams addressed him simultaneously.

  ‘She’s a thief,’ Lilli said.

  ‘I’ve never been so insulted in my life,’ Mrs Williams sniffed. ‘I just waited to hand in my notice.’

  Freddie glanced at the suitcases. ‘It doesn’t look as if you’re giving Mrs Lomax any notice.’

  ‘I’ll forgo my wages.’ Mrs Williams eyed the champagne and the flowers. ‘Such as they are.’

  ‘I had it in the bathroom,’ Lilli said. ‘She knows very well I put it in the soapdish when I wash my hands. She was making the bed. It’s for Rosina…’ Lilli eyed Freddie ‘…when I’m gone,’ she said provocatively.

  ‘Mrs Williams,’ Freddie’s voice was unaccustomedly curt. ‘Kindly explain.’

  ‘Your mother has mislaid her ruby ring, Mr Lomax. She has accused me of taking it.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been the steward…’ Lilli said.

  ‘We think we’re on a world cruise,’ Mrs Williams sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘…He didn’t come into the cabin,’ Lilli looked at Mrs Williams. ‘So it must be you.’

  ‘There she goes again!’

  ‘There’s no one else here,’ Lilli said reasonably. ‘If you didn’t take it who did, may I ask?’

  ‘You’ve lost it.’

  ‘We’ve searched high and low.’ Lilli looked at her watch. ‘And I’m to dine at the Captain’s table. Afterwards I shall play the Liebesträume in the Starlight Lounge.’

  ‘I’m worn out with looking,’ Mrs Williams said.

  Freddie thought that the poor woman did look extremely tired. He turned on the television, which was transmitting a quiz show accompanied by canned laughter, and while Lilli and Mrs Williams stared at the screen in stony animosity as the contestants carried off prizes of washing machines and three-piece suites, he carried out his own search.

  He ransacked Lilli’s dressing-table with its ivory-handled brushes, and upended her many pill bottles, and looked in the sewing basket, and felt round the edges of the carpet which he illuminated with a torch. Brushing the fluff f
rom his trousers he returned to the sitting-room and turned out the tangled contents, the necklaces and bracelets, the jewelled buckles and the paste brooches, that spilled from ‘Lilli’s Box’.

  ‘Strauss,’ Lilli announced, as the quiz master asked a London Electricity Board employee, who had patently never heard of either the composer or the composition, who had written the ‘Tritsch-Tratsch Polka’, adding for Freddie’s benefit, ‘You won’t find it there.’

  Freddie ignored the comment. He gathered up the trinkets, which seemed to comprise every stone but a ruby, and returned them to the box.

  While he sat down beside Lilli to establish the last time she had seen the ring, Mrs Williams picked up the vase containing last week’s wilting flowers and the budding freesia Freddie had bought, and in the manner of one carrying out a last rite, ostentatiously left the room.

  Freddie was listening to Lilli’s rambling reconstruction of the events which preceded the loss of the ring, including an account of the weather in the Bay of Biscay, when there was a triumphant shout from the kitchen. Mrs Williams appeared at the door with something in her handkerchief.

  ‘I’ve found it. It was in the flower vase.’

  Lilli sniffed. ‘Take no notice. She put it there.’

  ‘You see!’ Mrs Williams looked in triumph at Freddie.

  ‘A lot of nonsense,’ Lilli said. ‘What would my ring be doing in the flower vase? It wasn’t in the flower vase this morning.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘I forgot it was Tuesday.’

  Freddie was lost.

  ‘I gave them an aspirin. It perks them up.’

  It was clear to everyone but Lilli that it was her ruby ring, and not the aspirin, which she had dropped into the flower vase.

  Freddie gave Mrs Williams five pounds to take herself to the cinema. When she’d gone, Lilli complained that he had given her far too much. Mrs Williams was a senior citizen. She could get into the cinema for fifty pence. She could have her hair cut too, so long as it was a Monday or a Tuesday.

  Freddie had spoken more harshly than he intended. He told his mother that she would positively have to stop making Mrs Williams’ life a misery. That if she did not behave herself he would have no alternative but to send her to a home. That he had no intention of replacing Mrs Williams, who had a good heart – he heard Lilli snort – even if he could afford it, which he could not, and that if he did manage to talk Mrs Williams once again into staying, it would be Lilli’s last chance.

  ‘I’d rather put an end to it all than sit round the walls with a lot of stuffed dummies,’ Lilli said. ‘I gave up everything for you, you know, Freddie. I sacrificed my career. And that’s all the thanks I get!’

  ‘It’s up to you.’ Freddie did not rise to the bait.

  Lilli went for the jugular. ‘You wouldn’t like it if I was in a home, Freddie. You wouldn’t have a moment’s peace.’

  ‘You can’t go on like this, upsetting everybody.’

  ‘Me?’ Lilli said. ‘I haven’t done a thing. You don’t know what it’s like. Anyway I think she’s a member of the CIA. What do you mean you can’t afford it? I’ve never kept you short. Does your father know you’re the chairman of the bank…?’

  ‘I am not the chairman of the bank.’

  ‘Who would have thought it? Do you remember those paintings you used to do? Yellow rivers. Grey trees. Blue stones. She sends messages in code.’

  ‘I want you to listen to me,’ Freddie said. ‘There must be no more nonsense. When Mrs Williams comes back I want you to apologise to her.’

  ‘That’ll be the day…’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’ Freddie spoke sharply. ‘If you say one more word about Mrs Williams I shall have to go.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s Tuesday. We haven’t had our dinner. Felicity Lott is on Radio 3. I saw it in the paper, Rosenkavalier. You like Rosenkavalier.’

  When Mrs Williams returned from the cinema, Lilli’s first words to Freddie were: ‘She got in for fifty pence, you know.’ And to Mrs Williams: ‘Give Mr Lomax the change.’

  ‘Only the first two houses,’ Mrs Williams said. She smelled of drink, and it took Freddie almost thirty minutes to persuade her to give the job one more chance.

  ‘You’re not a bit kind,’ Lilli said as he was leaving. ‘Not like Rosina. When I’m gone, Rosina will have my ruby…’ She looked at Mrs Williams. ‘She’s a thief, you know. She stole my engagement ring –’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Freddie was angry.

  ‘You’ve no right to shout at me.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about the ring, neither does Mrs Williams. People have feelings…’

  ‘I suppose I haven’t. I gave up everything for you, you know, Freddie…’

  Without kissing her goodnight, Freddie walked out of the flat. His mother’s response to his telephone call this morning had been monosyllabic. Her words, as they were intended, resurrected the painful feelings of rejection which had followed the withdrawal of her love after the misdemeanours of childhood.

  ‘I should not have taken it out on her,’ Freddie said to James in the bar over his Black Label.

  ‘She has you by the short and curlies.’

  Freddie twirled his worry beads apprehensively. ‘For as long as I can remember. Now she can’t help it. Growing old and losing your marbles is a punishment for some crime you haven’t committed. I don’t want to bang her up in one of those Stalags before I have to. It would kill her.’

  ‘Kill her, or kill you?’

  ‘I should not have shouted at her. Perhaps I’m losing my marbles. Perhaps it’s hereditary.’

  ‘Anything on the horizon?’ James changed the subject.

  ‘Possible. Not a job exactly. Charles has put something extremely good my way. I’m working on it. It’s early days.’

  Following his confrontation with Jane about the telephone, Freddie had finally called Susan. When his ex-personal assistant walked into the Café Royal he scarcely recognised her. Without her customary chignon, without her high heels, without the silk scarf at her neck, the life seemed to have gone out of her. She had put on weight and looked miserable. Freddie suspected that she had been drinking.

  ‘I had no idea it would hit me so hard,’ she said over lunch for which she had little appetite. ‘I’ve been gainfully employed every since I left school. I don’t know what I’m going to do…’

  ‘You should have called me.’ Freddie thought that she was strapped for cash.

  ‘…with myself. No deadlines, no schedules, no meetings. I spent the first week sleeping. Then I washed the curtains. Twice. All my friends are out at work all day. They come round in the evenings to commiserate. I went back to Sitwell Hunt, you know, to sort out my pension. It was horrible. Everyone pretended to be pleased to see me. They were perfectly civil, but I felt like an interloper. I no longer had a function. I was furious with Gordon. I suppose you read about him in the newspaper? I couldn’t care less if he goes to prison. What right has he to “waste” conscientious and experienced people like me as if they were numbers on a balance sheet? To deprive me of a position I worked extremely hard to achieve? I’ve registered with an agency. I’ve signed on. That took some doing. There’s nothing “suitable”. Not at my age. I’ve no intention of being a Girl Friday to some yuppie estate agent. I went to see my doctor. She says that I am going through…what was it?…“a crisis period of re-evaluation”. She gave me some pills. I’m so pleased to see you, Freddie.’

  They got through two bottles of wine between them. Over coffee, Freddie mentioned to Susan, casually, that Charles Holdsworth had happened to put him in touch with a client who wanted to buy into the food business. As if Freddie had put a penny in the slot, Susan’s mask of despondency was displaced by a spark of her old dynamism, her old managerial flair. Realising straight away that it would be unethical for Freddie to contact a former Sitwell Hunt client directly, in the hope of a prospective deal, she said, almost as if
talking to herself, ‘I wonder would Bowker & Page be interested? I hear they’re still looking for a buyer. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Dennis Bowker didn’t get in touch with you one of these days.’

  Outside the Café Royal, Susan said, ‘By the way, they found out who was responsible for the leak.’

  ‘Leak?’

  ‘Bretton Corporation. Conrad Verger. It’s all been covered up, of course.’

  As Susan was swallowed up by the crowd which drifted towards Piccadilly, Freddie was shocked to find that the desolate woman who had once oiled the wheels of his life was not only a stranger but an object of pity. Because she had lost her job.

  Two days after his lunch with Susan, Dennis Bowker had called Freddie at home to see if, by any chance, he happened to know a buyer for his cake business. Freddie had told him about Harvey Peters, and a meeting between the three of them had already been set up.

  ‘Sounds promising,’ James said, as Freddie related his story in the bar of the squash club.

  Freddie stood up. ‘So did Universal Concrete. So did Hans Wichmann. I don’t know what the opposite of the Midas touch is, but I certainly seem to have a large dose of it.’

  ‘Drink?’ James reached for Freddie’s empty glass.

  Freddie looked at his watch and shook his head.

  ‘I’ve got to dash. Thanks for the game.’

  ‘Where are you rushing off to?’

  ‘The Berkeley. I’m meeting Sidonie.’

  Twenty-four

  Freddie approached the concierge’s desk, to be brought up short by the fact that he was uncertain whether Sidonie had checked in at the Berkeley as Ms Newmark or Countess Orsini. His problem was resolved by Sidonie, who appeared from the direction of the lifts and shot across the hall like a high-velocity bullet to intercept him.

  ‘Freddie.’

  ‘Sidonie.’

  Their hesitation, as each of them assessed the changes wrought in the other by the years, lasted for only the briefest of moments before it was dissipated in a bearlike hug. Sidonie, who was always on a diet – the Cambridge, the Hay, the grapefruit, the Pritikin – was considerably thinner than Freddie had remembered her. The feel of her body in his arms, aided by the olfactory trigger of the scent which she always wore and which she had liberally applied, took him back to Hong Kong and the last time they had seen each other.