“And I wonder how many of you have since had your exposure to Westfield Bradley reduced at the recommendation of Jackson and Bond? I see. None. And no doubt when you got the ‘down to your last cuff link’ speech, you were told that apart from two people in 1963, no one could remember any Name losing a lot of money.”
More laughter; this time braver and louder.
He’s good, this chap, Simon thought, really good. Better even than he’d hoped. He could see he would be good to deal with, and he could also see that Elizabeth was impressed.
“Now,” said Meyer, “how many of you think that at the time you were recruited, there was no one, absolutely no one, working at Lloyd’s who had any idea there was serious trouble ahead.”
Not a hand went up.
“Right,” Meyer said. “I’m not a lawyer, but if Lloyd’s knew there were big problems looming and they deliberately withheld that information when they recruited us, then I believe we’ve been the victims of deliberate fraud. And therefore have some legal redress.”
The silence was intense.
“I am, I suppose, raising the flag of rebellion, saying in fact that I intend to take urgent and, if necessary, drastic steps. Heaven knows how difficult it will be to collect evidence that will stand up in a court of law, but I’m determined to have a bloody good try.
“Now I’d like to hear from you. If anyone has a story which they would like to tell, please go ahead. I think it’s important we share experiences, get to know what others are up against. After which I suggest a coffee break, and then we can move on to the next key question, which is: Where do we go from here? So…anyone want to speak?”
There was the usual awkward silence while people looked at their feet, round the room, up at the ceiling—and then Flora stood up. She would, Debbie thought.
“Yes, the lady in the blue jacket,” said Meyer, smiling across at her. “Do you want to come up here, or…”
“Yes, if you like,” said Flora, and she made her way onto the platform and stood there, looking at them all, pushing back her wild hair. She was wearing a blue embroidered velvet jacket over her long skirt, and high-heeled black boots; she looked wonderful, Debbie thought, with an unwilling stab of pride.
“Hello,” she said, “and can I first thank George Meyer for having this marvellous idea in the first place. And for being good enough to contact us all. I simply wanted to tell my story very briefly; it’s in no way unusual, I fear, but it will probably explain why I for one would like to explore his idea further.”
And she went on to talk about how her husband had made her a Name so that their assets were limited, and then when he died six years ago, she had inherited everything anyway.
“It was a double whammy,” she said with her wonderful smile. “I’m alone and I’ve got a lot more to lose. So, Mr. Meyer, I’m with you.”
She went back to her place; after a pause a grey-haired man came up, probably in his mid-fifties, rather red-faced, dressed in a very shabby tweed suit. He was, he said, a farmer, with a “thousand acres or so in Suffolk;” he had become a Name twenty years earlier, “and I must admit, several of those years were good. But now—well, I would seem to be destitute. Almost.”
Destitute, Debbie thought, with a thousand acres? Honestly…
“Everything I had and valued is going. The farm, which my family has owned for generations, my livestock, my horses; in theory, of course, we could keep the house, but the farm’d be worth much less without it, so my wife and I are moving into a small cottage, with no income except our state pension to look forward to. I simply don’t know what we’re going to do. And what angers me most is they must have known this was happening, must have seen it coming, and at no time did my agent warn me of anything. In fact, he had the gall to encourage me to increase my underwriting for next year if I could find the assets.”
Nigel thought of his own land in Norfolk, very much under threat, and felt sick.
And then the line of people wanting to tell their stories grew longer: a couple in late middle age stood up. If things didn’t get better in the next year, they said, standing on the platform together, they’d have to sell the family home, sell all they had; the wife actually started weeping at this point, clinging to her husband’s arm. Meyer gently ushered them off the platform.
And then there was a young widow. She’d been living out in Hong Kong, her husband had died, and left her enough money to allow her to become a Name at Lloyd’s, which had been suggested to her by a charming and helpful young man.
“I met him when we got home. He was connected with my husband’s business in some way, and he said Lloyd’s would see me and the children through. Now they’re asking for more than I can possibly give them. I really don’t know what to do.”
And so it went on. Story after story of broken lives, of ghastly fear, of lost homes, of what had seemed secure futures wiped out. Debbie felt very shaken and oddly ashamed of herself; she avoided Richard’s eyes. Finally, Meyer came back onto the platform and thanked everyone who had spoken for their honesty and courage.
“Coffee break follows. All are welcome to that, but could I ask anyone totally out of sympathy with my proposition to leave afterwards.”
Coffee was served at the back of the room. Everyone moved in that direction, smiling rather awkwardly at one another. Nigel found himself in the queue behind the young widow: she was rather pretty, he thought, with light brown hair and large, anxious grey eyes. He held out his hand to her.
“Nigel Cowper. Well done for speaking. Don’t think I’d have had the bottle, quite honestly.”
She smiled back at him, a rather pale smile. “Catherine Morgan. I wouldn’t have expected it either, but suddenly I felt I had to. People need to know. And what’s the point of us all being in it together, if we’re not honest?”
“You look awfully tired,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down there, with my wife.” He waved at Lucinda, called, “We’ve got company, darling,” and returned to the coffee queue.
“Come and join me,” said Lucinda. “Jolly brave of you, that. And what an awful story. I’m so sorry, I never realised how bad things could be.”
“Oh well,” said Catherine, “I’m not the only one. As you heard.”
“No, but…well, anyway, I’m Lucinda. So nice to meet you.”
Nigel passed Flora Fielding on his way back to the table; she smiled at him.
“Hello. My lot are over there. Do you want to join us?”
“No,” said Nigel, “but thank you for the invitation. We’ve set up camp on the other side of the room. With that poor girl, the widow.”
“What a nightmare for her. I don’t know when I felt sorrier for anyone.”
“But you’re a widow yourself,” said Nigel, surprised at his own bluntness.
“Yes, I know, but I’m a tough old bird and I haven’t got a young family. I feel so sorry for her.”
Catherine smiled at Nigel and Lucinda over her coffee. “It’s jolly nice to be with people, you can’t imagine. It’s pretty lonely, my situation. This is the most fun I’ve had for ages.”
“Oh dear,” said Lucinda, “that doesn’t sound too good. I’m so sorry. How old are your children?”
“Caroline’s six and Freddie’s eight. Oh Lord, now look what I’ve done.” Her coffee cup was lying on its side, the contents spilling out across the table and dribbling down onto the floor. Lucinda’s bag lay in its path; she snatched it up.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Nigel, why don’t you go and see if you can find some paper napkins.”
Nigel went obediently off; Catherine smiled awkwardly at Lucinda, and tried to dab some of the mess up with a couple of small tissues.
“Oh, I get so cross with myself, it’s so embarrassing. I am just awfully clumsy. And accident-prone, come to that. My dad always said I was a walking disaster.”
“Nonsense,” said Lucinda. “Of course you’re not. You can make wonderful speeches, for a start. And here’s Nigel now,
with a great stash of napkins. Well done, Nigel.”
“There, that’s better,” he said, mopping rather ineffectually. “No harm done. And—where do you live, Catherine? May we call you Catherine?”
“Of course. I’ve got a flat in Fulham, but I’m afraid that’ll have to go if things get any worse. It’s my only asset.”
“Well…let’s hope,” said Nigel without much conviction.
“Indeed.”
“Tell me, Catherine,” said Lucinda, “do you work?”
“Oh yes. I work part-time as a secretary at a local estate agents. It’s pretty tedious, but they let me leave at three thirty each day, in time to get the children.”
“And—and when did your husband die?”
“Just over four years ago. I was still getting myself sorted out, trying to cope with everything, when this chap approached me, obviously saw me as an ideal victim for Lloyd’s and their merry men. I can’t imagine now how I could have been so stupid, but I suppose I was still a bit shocked…”
“That is terrible,” said Lucinda. “I think you’re just so, so brave. God, they should all be strung up. More coffee, Catherine? To replace the other? I’ll go, Nigel, you talk to Catherine.”
She headed over to the queue; it had certainly been a very distracting evening.
Simon sought out George Meyer, leaving Elizabeth talking to some poor woman who was almost in tears.
What he had seen of Meyer, he liked very much. He held out his hand.
“Simon Beaumont. See you went to my old school.”
“Charterhouse? Yes, I was there from fifty-four. What about you?”
“Bit later.” Meyer was obviously older than he’d thought. “Now I just wanted to say I’ve been very impressed indeed by what you’ve had to say so far. Can’t wait to hear the rest. Well done.”
“Thanks,” said Meyer. “And I must say I’m delighted by the uptake. I hadn’t expected to get so many.”
“Well, we’ve all got our backs to the wall. It’s nice to see something that holds out some promise of a move forward. However slight.”
Simon made his way after that to the coffee queue and found himself standing next to the most stunning girl. She was dressed in full Sloane regalia: white ruffled shirt, Liberty print skirt—bit too long, Simon thought, covered most of what were clearly the most glorious legs—pale beige Gucci shoes with a chain, hair held back with a velvet band. Elizabeth was very scornful of the whole Sloane tribe, said they were dinosaurs. Simon had always thought the girls at least were lovely.
“Hello,” he said.
She smiled at him. “Hello.”
“Have you sampled the coffee yet?”
“Yes, unfortunately. I’m having tea this time. I’d advise you to do the same.” She held out a small hand, complete with gold signet ring (naturally). “How do you do. Lucinda Cowper.”
“Simon Beaumont. Extremely nice to meet you, Lucinda. Er, are you here with your husband?”
“Yes. We’ve been fairly lucky so far, but goodness, what terrible stories we’ve heard. Come and meet him—we’re over there, see, with that dear girl, the widow.”
“Oh, thank you. Yes, I will. May I collect my wife, bring her over?”
“Of course,” she said pleasantly.
She had a sweet, rather careful smile, showing very pretty teeth; there was something altogether careful about her, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, she was slightly subdued, not as bubbly as her breed usually were. But lovely and so sexy…Oh, for God’s sake, Beaumont, get a grip.
He went over to Elizabeth.
“Come and meet some new friends,” he said.
“I saw you talking to one of them. She didn’t exactly seem to be wearing a three-piece suit and stout boots.” But she smiled and followed him just the same.
Simon studied Nigel with some interest. Here was a classic Name, very public school, tall and slim, fair-haired, formally dressed, possibly a bit dim—a most unlikely husband for the delicious Lucinda.
He liked Catherine Morgan very much; she was rather pretty too, he thought, with her great grey eyes, and in spite of looking exhausted, she managed to chat to him quite cheerfully about what she was doing and how she was coping. Which wasn’t very well, she said; she had had to make a decision to take her children out of their private schools the term before, and send them to the local state primary.
“Of course, I know that’s not exactly the end of the world, but they both loved their other schools and were doing so well, and had lots of nice friends, and it’s very different for them. Especially Freddie, he’s quite bright and wants to do well, and he’s constantly teased for being a swot. I feel so guilty.”
Simon said he couldn’t imagine anything worse. “And at that age, it’s so hard for them to understand. God, what a mess. Do you work?”
“Well, I do. But it’s very, very low-calibre work, I’m afraid. And terribly badly paid. It was the only job I could get that let me be home after school. But at least it’s something. It gets me out of the house, and it helps a bit.”
“How old are your children?” asked Elizabeth.
“Freddie’s eight and Caroline’s six.”
“How lovely. Perfect ages, I always think. They must be such a comfort to you.”
“Yes, they are, of course. Er…what about you, what do you do?”
“Oh, I work in advertising.”
“Goodness, how interesting.”
“Yes, it is sometimes,” she said, and Simon loved her in that moment, for making it sound nothing special in front of this sweetly unfortunate girl.
“And Lucinda, what do you do?”
“I work in publishing. I’m just a PA, nothing the least bit clever.”
“Oh, come on, darling, don’t put yourself down,” said Nigel, adding rather pompously, “she’s always doing that.”
“I’m not,” said Lucinda, and her voice was intensely irritated suddenly. “And don’t talk about me as if I wasn’t there.”
Ah, discord in paradise, thought Simon.
“Sorry, darling. Sorry.”
“And where do you live?” said Catherine.
“Oh, Chelsea. Yes. Cadogan Square.”
Simon couldn’t remember when he had met anyone quite so delicious.
Debbie was sitting with the nice hand-holding couple from the row in front. They had remained in their seats at the start of the coffee break, looking quite shell-shocked. It was Flora who had smiled at them, invited them to join their party for coffee; the woman had been pleased and said how nice that would be, but her husband said nothing, simply followed her.
Flora and Richard went off to get the coffee; Debbie smiled rather awkwardly at the couple.
“Hello, I’m Debbie Fielding.”
“Mary and Michael Gardner,” said Mary.
“So—what did you think?”
“About going to court, do you mean? Oh, we were quite impressed by Mr. Meyer, weren’t we, dear? But we don’t think we’d contemplate any further risks. Trouble enough already.”
“Yes, I can understand that,” said Debbie.
Michael stood up. “I’m just going to the cloakroom, Mary. Won’t be long.”
“All right, see you later.” She looked after him anxiously, then confided in Debbie: “He was very reluctant to come, but I said we should. See if we could gain anything from the evening.”
She certainly wasn’t what Debbie had expected; her voice was pleasant, but in no way posh, and she wore a twinset and a pleated skirt, and rather old-fashioned, highly polished court shoes.
“And you?” she said to Debbie. “Are you and your husband Names?”
“Er, no,” Debbie said. “We’re here with my mother-in-law, Flora Fielding, the first to speak.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “You must be very proud of her.”
Debbie longed to say that she wasn’t, but it seemed necessary to be polite.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Well, you’r
e very fortunate,” said Mary, “not to be directly involved. It has been so dreadful for us. And the worst thing—Oh, I do hope you don’t mind my talking to you, but I’ve been bottling it up for so long—Michael won’t let me talk about it.”
“No,” said Debbie. “No, of course I don’t mind.”
“The worst thing of all has been his pride. The loss of his pride, rather. He was so proud of being invited to become a Name. His parents were quite—quite modest people. For him it was a great honour, a bit like getting his Member of the British Empire…”
“Oh really?” said Debbie politely.
“Oh yes. Perhaps not quite as good; that was really wonderful, going into Buckingham Palace, sitting in that wonderful room, watching Michael actually being spoken to by the Queen, and you know, she pins on the medal herself. I always thought some—some lackey would do that. Anyway, Michael was invited into Lloyd’s when his firm went public. He was managing director, you see, and there was a lot of publicity in the paper about it, and someone who’d known someone on the board had rung him up and said he was a Members’ Agent at Lloyd’s and had Michael ever considered becoming a Name. Oh, he was so excited! The day he joined, he came back terribly impressed. He said they’d really made him feel like someone, and he’d seen the underwriting room, and Lord Nelson’s telescope, and then they served him lunch and congratulated him on becoming a Name. They gave him a certificate and, oh dear, he was so proud of that, he hung it on the wall of his study. I don’t need to tell you it’s not there anymore.”
“No, I’m sure not.”
“And of course they told him the risks were negligible and for several years, we did get quite a lot of money. And Michael liked to boast about it a bit. I’d hear him saying, ‘Oh, I’m a Name at Lloyd’s, you know’ when we were entertaining and it seemed quite harmless to me. But that’s what I mean about his pride. When they started demanding money—oh, two years ago—he didn’t even tell me at first.”
An Absolute Scandal Page 11
