Klein glanced at his partner. They had spent hours discussing the ramifications of Proctor domination, and Kinloss had pledged to stand foursquare with him. He had no reason to doubt the Scotsman’s word. ‘I don’t think that—’
‘No, no, of course not,’ the weedy man cut the American short, ‘but we are just advising you on all possible scenarios. In effect, to defeat any takeover bid, the management has to convince the shareholders that their best interests lie with the existing management rather than the company making the bid. This process cannot start too early and should certainly start well before any takeover begins.’
The second adviser then cut in. ‘The management-shareholder relationship should be a continuous process so that when support is needed, early shareholder education will not take too much time and can quickly focus directly on the takeover issues. Communication isn’t always easy and it largely depends on who your shareholders are. In your case, the majority apart from yourselves are institutional. This can be both a blessing and a curse, depending on whom they have the most confidence in.’
‘At the end of the day,’ the first man counselled, ‘money normally sorts these situations out. But if the pros and cons of a bid are marginal, then the situation cannot be too clearly put to the shareholders and an effective media campaign could win the day.’
Gobbledygook, thought Klein. Basically, as long as the main players stood firm, Proctor could take a hike.
‘There is, of course, always the poison pill defence,’ the first pinstripe went on. ‘But that’s pretty rare in the U.K.’
The American’s quizzical look spoke volumes. He was a scientist, and the only poison pill he knew about came in tablet form.
The consultant smiled. ‘In certain circumstances, you might want to take action before or during negotiations to make the business less attractive for the bidder.’
‘Like what for instance?’ Kinloss asked, as if he didn’t already know. It had been Klein’s idea to bring these jokers in, and if it gave his partner a false sense of security, then so much the better.
‘Well, there are a number of things you might do,’ said the visitor, clearly warming to his subject. ‘You could sign large-scale, long-term contracts, extend personal service contracts for all the main board directors, make a bid for, or actually buy, other companies.’
The second man, not to be outdone, cut in eagerly. ‘You should always ensure that assets are reflected accurately in the balance sheet and that there’s constant communication with stockbrokers and financial journalists who’ll help maximise your share price.’
Abe Klein sat through a further hour of the anatomy of fighting and defending takeovers with the patience of a scientist who had just discovered how to regenerate brain cells. His own brain was almost dead with the effort of listening to his two fee-charging guests. He distrusted all pinstripes and knew they were really only interested in the bottom line for themselves. Eventually, the American glanced at his partner with a look that said he had heard enough.
‘Thank you, gentleman,’ the Scotsman said firmly, ‘I think we get the gist.’ As Kevin Kinloss began to rise, he accidentally nudged his half-full cup of tea. ‘Drat,’ he blurted as a few drops splattered onto his trousers. They were his best pinstripes.
Further south, two predators were formulating policy for the struggle that lay ahead. While Klein was more or less an amateur at takeover tactics, Jack Proctor and his wife were past masters at corralling all the internal and external forces that came into play in a game where the stakes were so high. The Yorkshireman was an arch manipulator. Trade unions, the Stock Exchange, media, competitors and pressure groups would all have to be addressed, and it was inevitable that a few palms would need to be greased, some old and some new. The Government was already in his pocket. Every man had his price and the Secretary of State for Health was no exception. However, there was one flaw in Jack Proctor’s character that could prove fatal. And no one was more aware of this than his good lady. While Sharon Proctor was equally as driven by greed and ego, she possessed a ‘reality’ filter, a cynicism born from being raised on the wrong side of the tracks. Hostile takeover battles were costly and the failure rate high. She believed in always having an insurance policy and had already begun to set one in place.
‘Be careful, Jack,’ she counselled. ‘Rumours are bound to push up their share price.’
‘Sure, sure. We’ll let Klein enjoy his moment of glory. Let him think he’s safe. Our Scottish woodworm will play along for as long as he can. When Klein and the media find out the truth, there’ll be a massive lack of confidence. That’s when we step in and take over. Simple.’
But Sharon Proctor knew that nothing in business was ever that easy. There was any number of things that might go wrong. She did not underestimate her fellow American. He was a Yankee kike, and they were clever and dangerous. In the normal run of things he might eat a dumb blonde Southerner for breakfast. But this Southerner was no dummy, and she was not about to become anyone’s hash browns.
CHAPTER 11
Food was furthest from Kieran Kelly’s mind as he sat pensively in his car outside a bungalow in northwest London. He knew he shouldn’t be there. Years of practising subterfuge, of calculating the risk-benefit ratio of every action, screamed a warning that what he was about to do might somehow put his scheme in danger; that unnecessary friendships might influence his decisions and eat into his resolve. But he was human. He needed the comfort of a woman. Teresa would have wanted it for him. It was not so much sex that he craved, but the sound of a woman’s voice, the sound of compassion, of caring, of warmth. Ever since he had met the Countess he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He’d kept asking himself why he should be attracted to someone who was suffering the same agonies as his beloved wife. What possible benefit could be achieved by starting a relationship with anyone when there was a distinct possibility that that relationship would have only one outcome: a sad one?
The Irishman sighed deeply and opened his car door. The decision was made and there was no going back. He trod slowly up the front garden path and rang the doorbell. The chimes played Big Ben twice and it seemed an age before he heard the noise of the lock being opened. He chided himself for bothering her, thinking that she had had to struggle in pain to reach the front door.
‘Who’s there?’ came a strange voice from behind the portal.
‘Kieran O’Donaghue,’ he replied quickly, adding, ‘a friend of Magda’s.’ Then the visitor heard another voice, its Germanic tone instantly recognisable. ‘It’s okay, Christine, please let him in.’
The door opened wide and Kelly found before him a pretty fresh-faced black girl with eyes as wide as saucers. Dressed in an overcoat that appeared two sizes too large for her, she looked as though she had just arrived or was about to leave. Standing a few feet behind her and leaning on a stick was the strikingly beautiful Countess Magda von Esterhazy.
‘Hello, Kieran,’ she said warmly. ‘This is Christine, my carer, please do come in. It’s okay, Christine, you can go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
The carer’s saucer eyes narrowed as she gave Kelly a suspicious look on her way past him. ‘Bye, Magda,’ she called out and walked down the path without looking back.
‘Come in, Kieran,’ Magda said warmly. ‘It’s lovely to see you again. I was just making a cup of tea. Would you like one?’
‘Thanks, milk and no sugar. I was just driving through the area and thought I might pop in. I hope it’s not inconvenient.’
‘Nein, nein, of course not. Wilkommen. Please go straight through into the lounge. The kettle’s nearly boiling.’
Kelly walked into the lounge and was immediately stunned by its decor. Completely at odds with the plainness of the hall, the room in which he now found himself was a microcosm of the great salon of some eighteenth century French chateau. The wallpaper was red velvet flecked with gold and the furniture appeared to be reproduction Louis XV. Two magnificent crystal chandeliers hung down from the
ceiling to add to the total incongruity of the setting. He sat on a grand chaise longue. A Bach violin concerto playing in the background was almost de rigueur. ‘Strange, isn’t it,’ she called out. ‘Not every one’s cup of tea, as the English say.’
‘It’s amazing,’ he called back. ‘Not exactly what one would expect to find in this neck of the woods.’
‘The furniture’s real antique,’ she said, appearing suddenly in the doorway and carrying a tray bearing two cups of tea.
Kelly sprang to his feet. ‘Here, let me take that.’ He took the tray from her and placed it gingerly on the eighteenth century equivalent of a coffee table, thinking that any mark he might make would be a desecration.
The Countess hobbled over and half-slumped next to him. ‘This furniture was the only thing my family managed to get out of Hungary before the Communists took over. It’s worth a fortune and would solve all my money problems, but I could never part with it. It’s the only link I have now with my past.’
‘It’s all magnificent,’ said Kelly patting the settee, ‘and comfortable.’ The Irishman spent the next few minutes listening to a fascinating history of eighteenth century French furniture. The woman was as erudite as she was beautiful, and he could feel himself becoming more and more captivated by her. He hung on her every word as if it was a polished gem, wondering whether the feelings he was harbouring towards her were being reciprocated.
What Kelly could not know at that moment was that the mind of the Countess was in turmoil. Magda felt herself slipping into automatic mode. She had given scores of lectures on period furniture and so the words that came from her lips were as well rehearsed as they could be. Meanwhile, she could feel a tingling in the pit of her stomach that she hadn’t felt for years. Her visitor was so extraordinarily handsome and he exuded a kind of magnetism she had never experienced before. Yet she knew her personal ethics would never allow herself to entertain a relationship with a married man, especially one whose wife was a fellow sufferer.
Kelly paused to sip tea, taking it as an opportunity to change tack. He told her how he had gone online to the America-based help group and how the stories of the sufferers had angered him intensely. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘so many of them are on morphine. There’s a grandmother’s tale that sufferers become addicted, but those who are in chronic pain don’t become addicted. Only someone with an addictive personality does.’
‘You mean it’s the mind that causes the addiction and not the drug.’
‘Yes –’
The Countess stopped short, suddenly realising that she hadn’t asked about his wife. ‘Oh, how remiss of me,’ she said, ‘I haven’t asked you yet how Fräu O’Donaghue is. I hope she’s having a low pain day.’
Every cell in the Irishman’s brain shrieked a warning that he should beware of revealing the truth to her. There was a possibility that she might regard any confession as an attempt by him to ingratiate himself with her, to play on her sympathy. There was also the fact that he had lied to her, and honest people did not take kindly to liars. Kelly lowered his eyes.
‘I would love to meet her,’ she went on. ‘Perhaps I could offer her some comfort. What procedure did she undergo and what symptoms does she have?’
Kelly, who sheltered the hardest of hearts when it came to those he perceived as enemies, suddenly found himself overcome by the emotions that he had kept pent up for so long. Despite himself, he felt a tear begin to trickle down his cheek.
Magda silently chided herself for being so inquisitive. ‘I’m so sorry, Kieran, if you’d rather not talk about it, I’ll understand. I know how devastating this can all be to those closest to us.’
The Irishman sighed heavily. He so wanted to open his heart to this brave woman, to unload his pain onto her, however unfair. ‘Magda—’
‘You know,’ she went on, cutting short his confession, ‘many people ask me for advice about sustaining relationships when this terrible disease hits. I can only pass on what I have gleaned from others. Never assume what your loved one feels or thinks. That is the road to nowhere, except heartache. Always keep the channels of communication open. Chronic pain twists the soul, and if you don’t communicate, a chasm will appear and grow ever wider until it cannot be bridged.’
Kelly remained silent. She might have been with them during Teresa’s final days; the long silences; his wife’s hopelessness feeding his helplessness; the chasm that could now never be bridged.
‘Please tell your good wife that being disabled doesn’t mean she is unable. She should avoid using the word invalid for it has a more sinister meaning, in-valid, and that she’s certainly not and never will be. Tell her to concentrate on what she can do and not what she can’t. Tell her that we all get depressed and have our moments or days when the future looks bleak. But she should remember that the future only happens one day at a time. Grab hold of the good days and cherish them. If you agree, I’d like to meet her. I’d like to help, but only if you agree.’
Kelly felt like someone who had missed the last bus. He felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He’d not done enough for Teresa, not searched for support groups like Magda’s. He had always protected his wife, always been the macho Irish husband who had all the answers. Nothing could happen to Teresa Kelly while he was around. He looked into Magda’s eyes and saw the earnest goodness shining through the patina of pain. It was time to end the charade. ‘Magda, my wife is dead,’ he said dully.
There were a few moments silence as Magda von Esterhazy was engulfed by a succession of emotions: first compassion, then a fleeting thankfulness followed by flash of guilt that a stranger’s demise might be her gain. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said at length.
The Irishman took a deep breath. ‘Teresa committed suicide a few months ago after an epidural they gave her before the birth of our fourth child. She couldn’t stand the pain anymore.’
‘Oh, mein Gott,’ sighed the Countess, cradling his hand in hers. ‘Es tut mir so leid. I’m so sorry.’ She continued holding his hand as he poured out his heart to her. It was more a gushing. Everything he told her surrounded Teresa: how they met, how they fell in love, how they decided to come to London to look for work, how their lives were devastated, how he had sent the children to live with her sister even though it made him feel as guilty as hell, and, finally, how he now felt like jetsam in a sea of loneliness. It must have been all of twenty minutes before he fell silent.
The Irishman felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. In reality, Magda was the only person to whom he could relate the tragedy of Teresa’s death. Only a sufferer could truly understand what his wife had gone through. Try as he might, he would never be able to put himself in their place. Pain that was beyond normal comprehension, the pain of a body at war with itself, was unfathomable to those whose life had always been healthy. He gripped her hand tightly and looked into kindly eyes that seemed to flicker from green to blue in the light refracted from the chandeliers. He stammered her name, his mind once more in turmoil.
The Countess, almost overcome by the poignancy of his grief, brought his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. She felt the hormones flood her entire being, driving the pain of her illness to a remote corner of her mind. Nothing was consuming her more than desire for this man she hardly knew.
The Irishman moved closer to her. He slowly released his hand from hers and, putting his arm around her shoulder, cradled her head in the pit of his neck, the smell of her long, newly-shampooed hair further adding to the senses raging within him. For what seemed an age they sat in that position, both desperate to take the initiative but neither sure of the other’s true intentions. Kelly then lifted her head gently so that their eyes could meet. They became diffused in recognition of their mutual need. The crimson bow of her own delicate lips parted almost agonisingly slowly, as if in final affirmation that she was prepared to accept the caress of his. The kiss was long, its tenderness almost unbearable, the salt of her tears sharpening itself on her tongue. He
was still kissing her as he placed his strong arms under her thighs. In one movement he lifted her and stood erect.
Magda gasped as a lancinating pain ran through her spine to the tips of her toes. But she was determined that this would offer no excuse to resist his advances. She would not allow it to happen. She would not permit the pain to invade the heady feelings of womanhood that had lain dormant for too long.
There might not have been a word between them as they entered the bedroom, but there was a dictionary of understanding. He laid her gently on the bed. Despite their mutual abstinence almost demanding an animal-like response, Kelly unbuttoned her plain turquoise dress slowly and deliberately. He then leant over and again kissed her lips, followed by the hollow of her neck and then the gentle curves of her full and heaving breasts. He undressed her slowly and with the utmost care, knowing that any sharp movement might cause her agonies. He was still fully clothed when she lay before him naked and vulnerable. She was truly stunning, a milky oasis on a duvet of flamingo pink. Only the legs, slightly thin and lacking muscular tone gave any hint of her illness.
Unashamed of her own nakedness, Magda watched him undress. She knew her body was perfect apart from her legs. She also knew that this gentle man would explore it with the utmost care. He seemed to her to be incapable of hurting anyone. Within a few seconds, he was standing before her. His body was taut and sinewy and he was already fully erect. For a fleeting few moments their eyes were locked onto their respective forms, revelling in the splendour of the human anatomy.
The Irishman then slid alongside her. He felt himself hard against her, but then pulled away. Rising on all fours, and making sure not to be rough in any way, he began kissing her all over her body, starting with the neck, then into the cleavage of her breasts whose pink pinnacles were already as hard as steel. He then descended to the mound of venus and luxuriated in its downiness for a few seconds before proceeding onto the legs which were the recipients of so much referred agony. These he kissed from thigh to toe.
Cry of the Needle Page 14
