Takeover

by Brian Freemantle

“What?”

  She shrugged, her back to him. “Whatever there is.”

  “Wine or booze?”

  “Wine. White.”

  Glad of the activity, Rudd went into the sectioned-off bar, took a bottle from the cooler and poured. Giving her the glass meant she had to look at him again. There was another brief smile.

  “I’ve got some food. Just cold, until I’ve settled in. Salad and stuff like that,” said Rudd. He couldn’t remember feeling so nervous.

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Neither am I. I just thought you might be.”

  She shook her head. “I almost didn’t come.”

  “I wasn’t sure that you would.”

  “I’ve never …” she started, but he felt out, putting his finger to her lips. “You haven’t,” he said.

  There was a padded window seat and she sat down. He lowered himself beside her, then leaned forward and kissed her. Touching her, he was aware of her trembling.

  “What did you tell Ian?”

  “I didn’t” said the woman. “He’s gone gambling. Probably at Ellerby’s place. He goes most evenings.”

  The telephone jarred into the room, making them both jump. “Damn!” said Rudd. He recognized Bunch’s voice immediately.

  “What the hell are you doing in an apartment?” demanded the lawyer.

  “There’s a reason,” said Rudd.

  There was silence from the other end of the line. Then Bunch said: “Do you want me to come around?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “Is everything fixed?” said Rudd.

  “I waited in Paris until I got confirmation from Texas of the re-zoning and then made payment of a bearer cheque against the Crédit Lyonnais. The Liechtenstein people accepted it without any argument. They were expecting me.”

  “So we’ve got him,” said Rudd.

  “Guess so,” said Bunch. “Do you want to call him and tell him the money’s deposited?”

  “You do it,” said Rudd.

  “You all right, Harry?”

  “Of course I am. The deal here’s been approved.”

  “So Hallett told me. Suddenly it’s all looking good, isn’t it?”

  Rudd looked across to where Margaret was sitting. She was gazing out of the window again. “There’s going to be the formal business tomorrow, deposit-signing, contractual exchanges, things like that. I want surveyors’ reports on all the ships and the draft contracts prepared.”

  “Who do you want to use?”

  “Why not go on with the lawyers we’ve got?”

  Rudd went back to where Margaret was sitting. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Ian doesn’t allow business calls at home.”

  “It’s become some sort of habit with me. More wine?”

  She nodded and he refilled both their glasses.

  “So it’s all going through?” she said.

  “Looks like it.”

  “I want to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “That night in the casino. I.…” she frowned, searching for the expression. “… I acted up for you,” she said. “I wanted to be interesting.”

  “Why?”

  She humped her shoulders. “I don’t know. I was as embarrassed as hell afterwards.”

  “It worked,” he said. “I wanted to impress you, too.”

  She smiled. “We’re not very good at this, are we?”

  “No,” he agreed.

  They became very serious and this time it was Margaret who kissed him. “I want to,” she said. “I’ve thought about it and I want to.” Would it be like the fantasy? She wasn’t positive she’d ever had a proper orgasm.

  “Sure?” What if he failed her? There was no reason why he should, after Joanne. But Joanne was different. Professional. Christ, he didn’t want to fail.

  “I’m sure,” she said, and the telephone rang.

  “Shit!” he said.

  He snatched it up angrily, the irritation obvious in his voice, so that Hallett said, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” said Rudd, trying to recover. “I was thinking about something else.”

  He watched as Margaret stood purposefully from the seat, put her glass down and walked across the room towards the stairs that led to the upper level.

  “Buckland called,” said the personal assistant.

  Rudd swallowed: this was getting too involved for belief! “What did he want?”

  “Said it was a social call, but wondered if you’d like to have dinner with him at some casino: talk through tomorrow, he said.”

  “Just social?” queries Rudd. Normally he would have gone. He should go now.

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Get back to him and tell him I’m tied up. That I’ll see him tomorrow,” said Rudd.

  “You’re not going?” The surprise was obvious in Hallett’s voice.

  “No.”

  There was a pause from the other end of the line. Then Hallett said, “OK. I’ll tell him.”

  “Hold any more calls for me,” said Rudd.

  There was another silence. “How long for?”

  “I’ll call you,” said Rudd. He stayed for several moments by the telephone. Then he went out into the corridor and climbed the stairs, purposely loud so that she would know he was coming.

  “I didn’t know which was your room: I had to look in the cupboards,” she said. She was already in bed, the covers pulled up completely to cover her. He couldn’t see her clothes and guessed she’d undressed in the bathroom. She looked frail and lost in the bed.

  It was never obvious, but there was always an eroticism when Joanne undressed. She.… He stopped, angry at himself. It was wrong to compare Joanne with Margaret, just as it was wrong to compare Margaret to Angela. No, that was wrong too. They should all be separate: marked-off places in his mind, boundaries that were never crossed.

  “What’s the matter?” she said.

  “Nothing. Really.” He hurried from his clothes, aware of her attention and made awkward by it. At the bedside he pulled the covering back to look at her. She lay uncomfortably, stiffly almost, arms by her side, her body tensed. She was big-breasted, the nipples brown-surrounded, her stomach soft-downed until the pubic wedge; her legs were tight together.

  “You’re embarrassing me.”

  “I want to see.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to.”

  “Please don’t.”

  He got in beside her and covered them both, leaning on his arm so he could look down at her. Their bodies were close, so close they could feel each other’s nearness but not actually touching. She snatched up for him, grabbing his mouth to hers and he lay over her, her body shuddering at the physical contact. They bit and snatched at each other’s faces and then he pulled his head lower over her breasts and she lay back, letting him explore her. He’d never realized Joanne’s expertise, because if he had it wouldn’t have been expertise: how she guided and let him think he was controlling, the pauses and the waits, the gentle touch and the brutal touch, the.… He slammed the door shut in his mind. Margaret’s legs were still tight together, the muscles hard.

  “I won’t be good enough.”

  He came up to kiss her lips. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I know I won’t.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  She relaxed slightly and he was able to feel she was wet. He thrust suddenly hard like he’d been taught, and she mewed and parted further.

  “What should I do?” she said.

  “Nothing.”

  “I want to please you.”

  “You are.”

  He put himself over her and she parted completely. He stopped, pressed against her very entry, looking down at her. Her eyes were damp and her face was flushed, almost swollen. He felt her move, trying to pull him inside, he moved with her so they started in
time. It was more than a mew, a groan, and he felt her close around him, a positive muscle movement. She relaxed and contracted, smiling up hopefully at him.

  “That’s wonderful.” he said.

  “Sure?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “So are you.” She closed her eyes and forced her head back, so that her neck corded. “Christ, you feel good.”

  The muscles snatched at him tighter, and she began to hurry. He wasn’t ready but he tried to move with her. She rose up from the bed, her whole body coming up towards him, and then went down again, straining him into her, and he felt her warmth burst over him and then he came, quickly enough for her not to know that he had missed her.

  “Oh God,” she said. “That was good. That was so good.”

  She was completely wet now, with love and tears and sweat. “Was it good for you?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.” He started to move from her but she whimpered a protest, turning with him so that he stayed inside her. She gripped him, proud of her trick and said, “I’m never going to let you go.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “I’m not sorry, Harry. Really I’m not.”

  “God.”

  “It’s not like this between …”

  “… I don’t want to know,” he said, stopping her. “This is just us, no one else. Nothing else.”

  “All right,” she said. She let him go but they still remained tight together.

  “How often can you get away?”

  “Whenever I want to.” She pulled back so that she could see his face. “How often do you want me to?”

  “All the time,” he said.

  “How long will you stay in London?”

  He thought of the reason for his remaining and looked at her sweat-damp face only inches from his. What would happen, when she learned? “I don’t know yet,” he said.

  “Make it a long time.” It had been better than the fantasy; fantasies were dreams. This was better than dreaming.

  “I’ll try.”

  “What about New York, Harry?”

  “What about it?”

  “Who’s there?”

  He moved further away from her. “No one,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “There must be.”

  “No,” he said uncomfortably.

  Growing bold in their intimacy she said coquettishly. “Do you mean to say that you’ve lived a monastic, celibate existence, just waiting for Margaret Buckland!”

  “No,” he said shortly. He wouldn’t lie: not any more than he had to. She’d remember the lies.

  “So who …? “ she began and then stopped. She giggled, bringing her hand to her mouth and said, “You don’t mean …?”

  He smiled back at her shyly. “It’s a very practical arrangement.”

  She went to laugh more and then was suddenly serious. “Oh my God!” she said. “And you said it was wonderful.”

  “It wasn’t the same.”

  “I bet it wasn’t!”

  “I didn’t mean that, either.”

  Her head was down in the pillow, but turned so that she could still look at him. “I must have been awful.”

  “You know you weren’t.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

  “It was marvellous. I mean it.”

  “You must have compared.”

  “I didn’t,” he lied.

  “Is there just one? Or lots?”

  “Just one.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Why are you so embarrassed?”

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  “Tell me her name then.”

  “Joanne.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” said Margaret. “Is she pretty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beautiful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Better than me?”

  “I told you it wasn’t the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Screwing,” she said. “How do you do it differently?”

  “We don’t.”

  “You must do, if she’s professional. She must know everything … do special things.”

  She was excited, Rudd realized. She was moving against him, one leg over his. “The secret of being professional,” he said, “is convincing the man afterwards that it was the best it had ever been, that’s all.”

  “Was that what you were doing with me?”

  “You know it wasn’t.”

  “Will you teach me, Harry? Teach me to be really good. To do everything you want?”

  “We’ll teach each other,” he said.

  “Tell me everything you want,” she insisted.

  “Yes,” he said. “And you.”

  “I promise.” She was quiet for several moments and then she said, “I’m very happy.”

  “So am I,” he said.

  Margaret knew she’d never be the same as Fiona or Vanessa: she wasn’t that sort of woman. But she was glad she’d done this.

  Herbert Morrison had the copy sheet and was following the figures that Gene Grearson dictated from the master portfolio assembled on the desk in front of him. In his impatience the hotelier kept lifting the pages, trying to assess the total percentage of his holdings rather than progress through them pedantically. Morrison stopped at a cross-heading and interrupted the lawyer.

  “There’s no Initial share purchase,” he said.

  Grearson shook his head. “I had the enquiry made, like I said. “It’s a restricted issue.”

  Morrison held back from showing the superior knowledge he’d learned from Rudd. “I thought there might have been some,” he said.

  “We did pretty well as it was,” said the lawyer, imagining criticism. “We’ve amassed a total of 1200 Preferential holdings and more than 10,000 Ordinary.”

  “What does that give me, in percentage holdings in the parent company?”

  Grearson made a quick calculation on a jotting pad and said, “Within a percentage point or two I work that out at something around nine.”

  Morrison conceded that within the time limitations, that was remarkably good. “How tight is the shell?” he demanded.

  “You’re absolutely protected,” assured Grearson. “I placed the orders through New York brokers: none here in Boston. Everything goes from the exchanges to European brokering houses, from there to New York and then from New York to me.”

  “I’m indebted to you,” said Morrison.

  The lawyer ignored the gratitude. “But only for $2,250,000. We didn’t have to go into your stock.”

  “I’m going to England soon,” said Morrison. “But there’ll be a need for us to keep in touch.”

  “You’ve got the numbers.”

  “If there were an emergency … if I had to unload in a hurry, for instance, what would be the delay?”

  Grearson shook his head slowly. “A good three days, with the time difference.”

  “That’s the risk I’ll have to take,” accepted Morrison.

  Morrison was early for the appointment, half-way through the imported Guinness when Patrick Walker arrived at the Locke-Ober. Like Morrison he was a regular. Unasked, a bottle of Bushmills and a glass was brought, within minutes of his sitting down. Walker’s face was brick-red, but that was the only indication of his intake that day: there was no slur in his voice.

  “Contractual agreements tomorrow then?” said Walker.

  “That was the message from London,” agreed Morrison.

  “And Texas is all tied up: there wasn’t really any cause to worry, was there?”

  Morrison didn’t reply.

  “The ships will be an unusual addition to what we’ve already got,” said Walker.

  “I’ve been looking at the figures,” said Morrison, taking some notes from his pocket. “It wouldn’t need a substantial reverse to affect us badly.”

  Wa
lker sipped, savouring the flavour of the whisky. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I’m not sure the board has been properly briefed about what might happen if this takeover attempt goes sour.”

  Walker put down his glass, concentrating upon what his friend was saying. “Why should it go sour?”

  “Why does anything go sour?” said Morrison. “All we’ve heard about so far are the advantages if everything goes right. What happens if there’s a concerted opposition to the take over?”

  Walker laughed. “There’s usually opposition from some people,” he said.

  “It would only take a four per cent margin increase on the value of Buckland House stock and we’d have to raise a loan of something like $20,000,000 to complete.”

  “That’s peanuts,” said the other Irishman.

  “The Saudi investment fund isn’t available,” said Morrison. “And we’re contractually committed in Texas.”

  “You worry too much, Herb. You always have done.”

  “This time I think there’s proper cause,” said Morrison.

  21

  It was a formal, posed occasion, of repeated handshakes and feigned contract-signing for the benefit of the photographer who flustered about them, arranging and grouping. Rudd obediently took his place and obediently smiled, concealing the confusion of feelings that had come as he’d entered the boardroom and hardened with the initial hand contact with Buckland. The takeover was a contrived, calculated affair but there was a business morality and so it was acceptable. There wasn’t any justification with Margaret. He’d tried to find it, recognising the aridness of their marriage, telling himself that what was happening couldn’t worsen an already collapsed relationship, but it hadn’t worked. Cold-bloodedly, he had cuckolded a man. And just as cold-bloodedly he intended going on doing it. As strong as the guilt was, the balance came down on the side of his determination to carry on seeing her. It wasn’t sex and the excitement of the illicit. There was Joanne, for sex. And she was better than Margaret. He wanted Margaret for … His thoughts went into a cul-de-sac, unable to complete the reasoning. Or perhaps he was frightened to complete it, too frightened of the barriers and the walls and the locked doors to imagine himself ever able to feel love. Was the emotion the same for Margaret as it had been for Angela? He found it difficult now to recapture the feeling. There were the memories and the nostalgia; but he didn’t know. So what did he know about Margaret? That he thought she was beautiful, not because of any similarity with Angela but in her own right. That his mind was consumed with her, with seeing her and being with her and exploring her, not just sexually but everything about her. That she made him laugh and made him think. That with her he felt a complete, proper man, not some business figurehead like the carved statues they used to put on the front of sailing ships. That he was being an absolute and utter bloody fool. And that he didn’t care.