The Truth

by Peter James

  Archie turned on the shower, adjusted the temperature, tilted his face up into the spray. ‘Tell me your friend Sarotzini’s terms.’

  John’s lungs were aching – he had really tried in this game today. But his mind hadn’t been on it. ‘They’re crazy,’ he said. ‘I mean, the guy’s not in the real world.’

  Archie soaped his hair. ‘You seem pretty pissed off with him.’

  ‘I am pissed off with him. He made me look a fool.’

  ‘So what does he want to do? Sleep with Susan?’

  John had been on the verge of telling Archie, but he held back. What if – and he knew it was a crazy notion – but what if they decided to accept Sarotzini’s terms? Susan wouldn’t want any of their friends knowing, and neither would he. And, in any case, someone else had come into the shower room.

  ‘No, not that kind of a scene. It’s – it’s guarantees,’ John said. ‘Percentages. Control.’

  Archie turned off the shower and began to towel his hair. ‘Better to have ten per cent of something than a hundred per cent of nothing, isn’t it?’

  John did not reply. As he sat on the locker-room bench, tying his shoe laces, Archie sat down beside him and patted his thigh gently. ‘Listen, it might not seem that great a deal, after you’ve had this long run owning the business yourself and doing what you please. But this is the real world, John, and few people get to hang on to their businesses. Sarotzini is offering you a deal. Would it enable the business to survive?’

  John nodded.

  ‘Would it enable you to keep your house?’

  John hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you be able to draw out the same income you’re currently getting?’

  ‘I don’t know, I presume so.’

  ‘Do you get to keep shares?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then what the fuck are you worried about? Go for it! Bite the man’s hand off!’

  They dressed, went up to the bar, and ordered their usual beers. John drank his straight down and requested another. Archie, puffing on a cigarette, reminded him that Mr Sarotzini was the only game in town.

  John knew this. He’d lain awake thinking about it all last night, and he’d been thinking about it all day today. Susan had told him this morning that she could do it. Sure, she could do it. He wouldn’t be affected, physically, but –

  And that was where his thoughts hit the buffers each time.

  After her initial anger had subsided, Susan seemed to have taken the proposition better than he had, and he admired her for that. But he didn’t know how she felt now about motherhood. They hadn’t talked about it for a long time, and on the rare occasions he’d thought the subject might rear its head, he had quickly steered the conversation away. Did she still feel the same way as he did?

  He suspected not. When they had got engaged, he’d tried to encourage her to be sterilised, but she’d resisted. He had made no big deal about that, and she took the pill instead. But he had seen the way she had been looking at babies recently. The way she had held Liz and Alex’s new baby at their barbecue last week. The way she doted on Kate Fox’s two small children. Maybe Sarotzini’s proposition had touched a nerve inside her. That this would give her the chance to experience pregnancy and, perhaps, to be a fulfilled woman.

  Did he still feel the same way?

  Uncomfortable, suddenly, he tore that thought straight out of his mind, balled it up, threw it in the bin. Are you going crazy, John Carter?

  But the money was sitting there. One and a half million pounds under Mr Clake’s lock and key.

  All they had to do was say yes.

  But Archie didn’t know the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  John stayed downstairs long after Susan had taken her manuscript up to bed. He went out into the garden and sat there for a while, Archie’s advice resounding in his head. The skies had cleared and the air was fresh and cool. Then he went into the kitchen and poured himself a whisky on the rocks. Gloomily he looked at a pile of interior-decorating magazines, that, only a month ago, they had been leafing through, tearing out pages of anything that interested them.

  At last he went upstairs, dragging his weary legs up each step. Susan was sitting up in bed in a baggy white T-shirt, reading the manuscript. He could tell that she was finding it hard to concentrate.

  As he came in she smiled, her face pale with tiredness and stress. Some loose strands of hair, which she hadn’t bothered to flick away, hung down over her forehead. She looked so vulnerable, and he felt an almost overwhelming tenderness towards her. She was so lovely. He adored her. There hadn’t been a day, an hour, a moment since they’d met when he had faltered in his love for her. Susan was everything to him.

  He still had the card in his briefcase that she’d given him soon after they were married. There was a soppy-looking bear on the front, and inside was printed: I LOVE YOU MORE THAN I DID YESTERDAY, BUT NOT AS MUCH AS I WILL TOMORROW.

  And he felt the same way. After seven years, he still found himself loving her more every day.

  Mr Sarotzini’s presence hung in the air so strongly, it could have been written on the walls in Dayglo lettering. All evening, between long silences in which Susan had read and John had channel-surfed the television, they had talked about Mr Sarotzini’s offer. Shortly before going up to bed, Susan told him that she would do it. John had not replied.

  Now he sat on the end of the bed. He was still holding the tumbler and shook the ice cubes around before he drained the last of the whisky. ‘There’s no way,’ he said. ‘I’m telling him no. I could get the backing to start again, and you can get some freelance work if you lose your job. And if we lose the house, we lose it. What the hell? We were happy before in our little house. Right?’

  ‘And Casey?’ she said.

  The way she said the name startled him. It was a rebuke. It was a reminder that, to Susan, Casey mattered more than anything else – including him.

  He remembered all the times he had sat with Susan at Casey’s bedside in the clinic. That stunning apparition, lying there, ventilator tube cannulated into her windpipe, drip line in her wrist. Her eyes were mostly closed, and even when they were open she couldn’t see the fine view of the canyon right outside her window, and she was never going to see it. He knew in his heart, but dared not say it, that it would make no difference to Casey whether she was in a state home or a luxury clinic. Casey had no idea where she was; she was never going to know where she was.

  In the morning, Susan sat at the breakfast table, The Times unopened in front of her, toying with a grapefruit. She looked up at John, who was spooning yoghurt onto his cinnamon crunch cereal.

  ‘You’ll tell him,’ she said. ‘Hon?’

  He pushed a slice of wholemeal bread into the toaster.

  ‘Please?’ she said. ‘If it’s not for us, it’s for Casey, OK?’

  But it was not OK. John had made up his mind too. He was not going to put either of them through this humiliation. Mr Sarotzini must have a heart, he was thinking. Perhaps he could buy time by dangling the bait that he and Susan might agree at some point in the future if he would help DigiTrak now.

  He rummaged around inside The Times and pulled out the Interface section, which he propped against a tub of Flora. They just needed time. If the Microsoft deal came good they would be out of the woods – a couple of months, tops, that was all they needed.

  Avoiding Susan’s eye, he scanned the pages of computer and Internet technology, forcing each mouthful down to give himself some energy, aware that he was feeling a little weak from having eaten barely anything lately.

  He needed to be alert today. In his judgement, he would get just one shot at bringing Mr Sarotzini round. It was not going to be easy.

  He gulped down his apple juice, his vitamin pills, his tea, then kissed Susan goodbye.

  ‘You’re going to say yes?’ she pleaded.

  ‘I’ll sort something out,’ he said grimly, and left.

  At five past ten Mr S
arotzini telephoned John and asked if they had come to a decision.

  In spite of his preparation, John found himself breaking out in a nervous sweat, and shaking. ‘I’d like to meet,’ he said. ‘I have a proposal to put to you.’

  His reply was greeted by a long silence. When Mr Sarotzini spoke again, his tone was icy. ‘My car will collect you from your office at a quarter to one, Mr Carter. We will lunch at my club, which I trust will be convenient.’

  John wondered if he ever ate anywhere different. He had planned to suggest that they met somewhere else, in a restaurant of his choosing, but before he could respond, the banker had disconnected.

  The Mercedes collected John, and he rode alone, but for the silent chauffeur. Although at the club he was now on increasingly familiar territory, the place made him feel uncomfortable, to the point of intimidation, and some of his remaining confidence left him.

  He was greeted politely by the staff and wheeled straight through to the dining room, as if his arrival had been rehearsed.

  More people were eating there than he previously remembered, and there were strong aromas of food in the room, of roast meat and, more pungently, of garlic. Above the general murmur of conversation he heard the sharp pop of a cork.

  Mr Sarotzini was already at his table, sipping a glass of mineral water and checking through a wodge of documents. He rose to his full height to greet John, and John noticed for the first time an almost reptilian feel in his handshake: it was cold, moist and bony.

  In surprising contrast, Mr Sarotzini’s voice was warm and sincere, as was his expression ‘Mr Carter, a pleasure to see you again. It was enchanting to meet your wife, such a remarkable young lady, truly remarkable.’

  ‘Thank you,’ John said. ‘I think so too.’ A steward held his chair for him to sit down, unfolded a starched napkin and placed it on his lap.

  ‘Would Sir care for a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Mineral water, please,’ John said. ‘Perrier or Badoît.’

  ‘You are a very lucky man, Mr Carter,’ Mr Sarotzini said, sitting down. ‘A most fortunate man.’

  Now, seated across the table from him, John remembered the banker’s awesome presence. He wondered about Mr Sarotzini’s wife and tried to form a mental image of her, but could not. Was she a tall, steel-haired aristocrat? A small, dumpy little hausfrau? A beautiful young gold-digger?

  He made himself concentrate on his reason for being here. Mr Sarotzini looked relaxed: life would go on for him whether DigiTrak survived or not; he would find someone else to provide a surrogate baby, no problem. He did not look the type of person to be unduly concerned by anything. He would go to Ascot, to polo, to the opera, to private art galleries, to great dinner parties and banquets regardless of whether John and Susan were a part of his life or not.

  A menu was presented, but John gave it hardly a glance. He wasn’t hungry, and eating wasn’t the point of this meeting. He ordered the same as he’d had before, smoked salmon and then sole, no wine, he said in response to Mr Sarotzini’s offer, although he could have happily drunk a bottle straight down. He needed to keep a clear head.

  When the waiter had moved away, Mr Sarotzini leant across the table towards him, and asked, quietly, ‘You would not mind if I were to take your wife to the opera, Mr Carter? I have the impression that you yourself are not particular about opera.’

  ‘No,’ John said, momentarily thrown by the question. He had been expecting Mr Sarotzini to get straight down to business. He took this as an encouraging sign. ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘Please do, she’d love it. I’m afraid it’s rather wasted on me.’

  ‘The next time I come to England, I shall arrange for tickets.’ Mr Sarotzini seemed almost childishly pleased. Maybe he was lonely, John wondered. As rich as Croesus but lonely. He clung to this dreary club because he was known here. He bought friendships, and he thought, even, that he could buy a family.

  Let’s keep the illusion going.

  Then, very calmly, Mr Sarotzini said, ‘I have prepared the documents.’

  John watched as he spread them out into neat piles, wondering if the banker had misunderstood him earlier.

  ‘There is a clinic here in London, Mr Carter, close to Harley Street. It is owned by the Vörn Bank and offers the finest medical care in this country. There is nowhere more discreet, more private. This is where the insemination will take place.’

  The smoked salmon and quails’ eggs arrived. John said nothing as Mr Sarotzini continued, ‘You are no doubt aware that it is not against the law in England to have a surrogate child, but it is illegal for money to change hands in such an arrangement, other than for expenses.’

  John, squeezing lemon onto his salmon, nodded. He’d had a brief word earlier with his lawyer about surrogate law, wanting to understand at least the basics.

  ‘This documentation acknowledges myself to be the legal father, which will circumnavigate the law.’ Mr Sarotzini raised his eyebrows and received acknowledgement. ‘Now, who knows what emotions can take place during a pregnancy?’

  John said nothing, watching Mr Sarotzini’s face, listening carefully, waiting for his chance.

  ‘You will understand that I need to protect my investment, Mr Carter. So, your house, and all but the ten per cent of the shares in DigiTrak owned by your partner, Mr Gareth Noyce, will be transferred into my ownership until the infant is in my possession. At this point the house will be transferred back to your ownership, together with thirty-nine per cent of the shares in DigiTrak. I trust this will be acceptable.’

  John cut a piece of salmon, playing for time while he thought out his reply. He put down his knife and fork and played with his napkin. ‘Look, there’s a problem we need to discuss. Susan is finding this difficult. I think I can persuade her, but I’m going to need time. We can’t rush into this.’

  Mr Sarotzini shook his head, looking relaxed. ‘I don’t have that impression, Mr Carter. I don’t think your wife finds this difficult at all. I think you are misreading her. On the contrary, I think it is you who finds it difficult, perhaps.’

  John was taken aback by the certainty in his voice. Taken aback because the man was right.

  The banker gestured to John’s plate. ‘Please, Mr Carter, eat.’

  John ate his salmon, like a child scolded by a parent, while he tried to find a way back into the negotiations.

  ‘This lawsuit that you have with your composer still worries me, Mr Carter.’

  ‘My barrister feels it’s unlikely that Danziger will go the distance. He feels we have enough evidence to show a judge that we didn’t deliberately set out to steal someone else’s work.’

  ‘But at what cost?’

  John was surprised that the banker was bringing all this up again. He relayed everything his barrister had told him, pointing out that copyright was a grey area of the law, nothing was certain, and maybe if they had a bank like the Vörn behind them, Danziger would back off or, at worst, accept a small out-of-court settlement.

  They reached coffee without any further mention of the surrogacy, and John was feeling a little more hopeful. He had been able to turn the conversation into a serious discussion about the future potential of DigiTrak, and to demonstrate to Mr Sarotzini the company’s viability. The man was a banker, after all. He might be desperate for a child, but surely he wouldn’t want to let a good business opportunity slip past? Of all the pitches John had made during the past four weeks, none had been so receptively received as the one he was making now. He was certain that he had swung Mr Sarotzini into believing in the merits of DigiTrak in its own right. Bolstered by this, he made his play. ‘This is my proposition, Mr Sarotzini. If you will put up the funding for DigiTrak, just on an interim basis, I will give you my undertaking to do my best to persuade Susan. I’m sure I can, given time.’

  Mr Sarotzini raised his tiny coffee cup, holding the handle between his forefinger and thumb in a dainty manner. This was not matched by his expression, which had turned to steel. His voice had turned
hard also, and impersonal. ‘You do not appear to have registered what I said to you earlier, Mr Carter. It is not your wife who has objections to my proposal, it is you. Let me make it clear to you that my terms are not negotiable. You will understand, if you ever do business with me, that I am fair to the point of generosity but I am firm. I have offered you a solution to your problems. You have to take it or leave it.’

  John’s heart sank. He stared back into the grey eyes, and felt clumsy because Mr Sarotzini had seen through him. Clumsy and cheap. Even his suit, which was from Paul Smith and had cost a fortune, felt cheap in Mr Sarotzini’s presence.

  He took a breath, hating this man now with all his heart. ‘I appreciate your offer, but it’s not acceptable. My wife and I aren’t for sale.’

  Without any visible reaction, Mr Sarotzini slowly scooped up the pages of the documents and tidied them. There was a matter-of-factness about the way he did this, as if he really did not care one way or another, and John watched him helplessly, aware that he had badly misjudged the banker.

  ‘Mr Carter, please realise that I do understand the complexities of emotions in this situation. It was a thought, an idea I had to help you out of your dilemma. We will talk no more of it. I will transfer the funds back to Switzerland and that will be the end of the matter.’ He paused to wave away a waiter, who was trying to refill his cup. Mr Sarotzini smiled. ‘I have enjoyed our brief friendship, Mr Carter, and perhaps our paths will cross again one day. Who knows?’

  From beside his chair Mr Sarotzini produced a slim black briefcase. He opened it, put in the documents, and closed each of the catches with a sharp click. Then he downed the remnants of his coffee, nodded at the head waiter and got up from the table.

  As John rose also, the finality hit him. Mr Sarotzini was moving towards the door at a speed that startled him, as if John already belonged in his past. Hurriedly following him out past the porter’s desk, he thought about the expression on Susan’s face this morning. It had been that of someone looking forward to a challenge.