by Peter Rimmer
“Because I have a track record and the right kind of track records are very important.”
“Can I have two tickets to Shelley Lane’s concert?”
“Certainly. I’ll have them sent to your hotel.”
“I think we understand each other,” said Paul Mwansa.
“I rather think we do.”
Annabel’s that night was full. At Byron’s first count, London’s arguably most exclusive supper club was entertaining two Tory cabinet ministers and their wives, the chairman of the Baltic Exchange, the vice chairman of Lloyd’s of London and two well-known British film stars. Obtaining his entrée had required the full force of the Stanmore Old Boys’ Association and the pedigree of the Langtons of Langton Manor. The man with him at the table was a South African with considerable copper investments in Northern Rhodesia.
“Nationalisation of the mines won’t cause a hiccup,” said Byron. “They don’t give a damn about making a profit. They want a percentage of sales for me to handle and if the price goes down, they’ll dig up more copper and flood the market. If you have any shares in Chilean copper, sell them; they are going to be the losers. You’ll get your copper for your American and European factories at a price less than it costs to mine the stuff. Probably bring a run on all base metals and make Western industry more profitable. Drop the inflation rate. Any country who’s a primary producer will suffer, Australia included. The new management in Africa just won’t understand business and will dump at any price and blame colonialism.”
“You think the British government worked this all out beforehand?” asked the South African.
“Don’t be silly. They don’t know what they are going to do next week let alone think years ahead. What I like is so much money going offshore as we don’t leave it in sterling or in any country with exchange control. When the politicians have finished playing around with other people’s lives and money they won’t even control their own economies. The fund managers will control the movement of more money than governments. You know something, you can always make a lot of money in a period of turmoil. Either when the price is going up or coming down. Stability keeps the establishment in power and the likes of you and me out. If it wasn’t necessary to create a fund in Switzerland, they wouldn’t need me to launder their copper sales. The real money is in the product that comes out of copper, not the raw material. The new Africa will remain a basket case until it builds its own products and exports them. The Japs are getting rich on the world’s raw materials, very little of which comes out of their own soil… You tell your clients that we can guarantee the continuity of their supply at the present price. Later, we will offer them forward contracts. There are large stocks of copper ingots in Northern Rhodesia and my guess is the new administration will put them on the market straight away. Fact is, you can be certain. Your job is to line up the buyers. My job is to get the copper.
“Now shall we go to the Mayfair and meet the ladies? One of my friends from EMI will be joining us. The record business is booming in England. Should be a good evening. The three girls are in show business so you won’t be disappointed.”
Byron worked on the principle that when a man is middle-aged, rich and has a wife and children the only unspoken bribe that works is young women. It helps if he is away from home. Whores, Byron had found out to his business cost, were no good as the kind of man that went to whores went there on his own accord. But even the most conservative, the most faithful of husbands were susceptible to flattery provided they were doing nothing wrong at the beginning, before the booze took effect. All the hard work, drudgery and wifely hen-pecking seems to need something else when for the first time in many years a young, attractive girl without an ulterior motive takes a keen interest in the middle-aged man’s life.
In the music industry, Byron was known as a rich bachelor, good-looking, good in bed and fun to be with; and for the girls in their early twenties who had no wish to settle down he was perfect. Byron, the word said, never grew serious and was always willing to help a friend.
Bob Shackleton, the man from the EMI record company who had signed up Shelley Lane, was interested in keeping Byron willing to renew her contract each year and socialised with him whenever possible. Byron was not sure whether Bob had a wife at home but the subject was never broached. There were always young, aspiring artists more than happy to eat good food and with television, the singers had to be as good on the eye as their songs on the ear. The combination of Bob and Byron for an artist was fame and fortune eight times out of ten. The cross-pollination of Byron’s banking and music business was a constant source of amusement to him and one of the cornerstones of his financial success. The staid businessman really thought he had arrived in the world when the young and potentially famous joined him for dinner. The first time the metal broker from South Africa dined with Byron, Shelley Lane had dropped by the table and sat down for a drink.
The three girls were dressed to turn heads in the Mayfair. The dancing partners alternated around the table and the South African had not enjoyed an evening more since he became engaged to his wife. All the talk of famous names made him truly believe he had arrived. The evening was a great success for everyone.
“We’ll do this again when we have the papers signed,” said Byron, standing up. “Now, Tammy, do you think you could see our South African friend back to his hotel in a taxi?… Have a safe flight back to Johannesburg,” he said to the man. “Karen, if you come on over to my office at five o’clock tomorrow afternoon we can look at London Town Music managing your career. My car is back at the office so it’s a taxi for everyone. Bob has been trying to tell me something all evening so do you mind if we have a few minutes alone while you ladies go to the girls’ room?”
Byron stood away from the table and shook hands with the metal broker, certain they would be doing business. The girls went off together.
“Better get that taxi,” said the South African.
“You better do that,” agreed Byron.
The man was quickly gone in pursuit.
“Now,” said Byron turning to Bob Shackleton. “What’s the matter?”
“Shelley. She’s burnt out. She collapsed on stage tonight.”
“Why the hell wasn’t I told?”
“She’s in hospital. Couldn’t talk in front of the girls. Byron, this one is serious. She’s been taking pills to get her up and pills to get her down and the lady drinks. She doesn’t have any support at home. She says you’ve been avoiding her of late and that’s not right for a manager. We have a lot of money in that girl and it’s your job to keep her singing. We put her in a private nursing home. I’ve written down the address. Get over there now. I’ll say goodbye to the girls. You got to build that girl up again, Byron. You know she loves you. All the fame and money hasn’t changed that. The one thing you must never forget in business is that people are human.”
The nursing home said the lady had booked herself out a few minutes after midnight and what could they do? A doctor had made a note on the card telling the accounts department to bill the lady for a full day, a house call and a packet of aspirin. All the lady complained about was a headache. It was all on the card.
The night nurse reluctantly called Byron a taxi and twenty minutes later he was running up the steps to Mrs Page’s house where he rang the bell. A muffled sound came from the other side of the door. The door opened to a smiling Shelley Lane.
“Bingo,” she said. “Spot on time. You’d run to the moon to save some money. I didn’t want Mrs Page woken up by the door. Come on in if you still remember the way.”
“What’s this all about, Shelley?” Byron was thoroughly annoyed.
“Keep your voice down.”
He followed her down the passage and through the open door into the same two-roomed apartment with the French windows that opened onto the small garden and the bench under the tree.
“I’d sit outside but voices travel at night. You want a drink?”
“No.”
“Don’t have to be rude.”
“You can’t walk out on an audience.”
“Oh, but I did. Every performer gets sick some time or another. Mine was rather theatrical.”
“Are you high or something?”
“Probably.”
“Bob was telling me ―”
“Four years is a long time and yes I am sick but not sick in the body as that damn doctor soon found out but sick in the head. You try being the me you have publicised and you’ll try LSD and any other damn thing to make you feel good and when the one damn man you care for won’t return your calls, you take a damn sleeping pill to make you go to sleep or you get drunk on your own as the adoring bloody fans mustn’t see the money machine flat out on her back in public.”
“Shelley, I have a big meeting at the newspaper tomorrow and I don’t have time for this. There are other people in this world who need some sleep to function properly. They told me you were sick, and I ran over fast but this is plain childish. I can’t run around holding everyone’s hand who works for me, I can’t. I’m sick of other people’s problems. Just because I run the bloody company no one stops to think good old Byron might have a problem. I can handle the business problems, I think, but I won’t play nursemaid, shrink and everybody’s friendly barman. The office girls get pregnant and want an abortion and run to you know who. The air force wants to lock them up and I have to sort out the shit. Some old fart of a journalist who can’t write a word any more cries on my shoulder while I pay for the booze, feel sorry though for the life of me I don’t know why and only afterwards worked out what to do with the man when he comes back from Alcoholics Anonymous, if he does. They’d squeeze the blood out of me if they could and then smile me a superficial smile that says I’m rich and must be a crook and where’s their increase?”
“Have you finished?”
“Almost.”
“You need a wife.”
“Oh, now you really are out of your mind. You want me to come home to little dots of LSD, Dexedrine in family-size bottles and the smell of pot permeating through the house and then be told it’s all my fault because I come home late from work but please buy me a fur coat or whatever bloody bauble comes to mind. I’ve got enough problems in my life without saddling myself with a wife who takes more than she gives and can’t handle life unless she’s the centre of attention. Shelley, find one of those hangers-on and have yourself screwed properly.”
“You’re going to end up a rich lonely old man.”
“Probably. And right now I could think of a lot worse things than being on my own. The word ‘lonely’ has a rather nice ring to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going home to sleep. On my own. And there’s another thought, use some of your money to get out of this dump.”
“It’s the only place in my life that makes sense.”
“Women. I give up. Get yourself a holiday. Cancel this tour. I don’t care. But get off my back.”
Remembering Mrs Page at the last moment, Byron refrained from slamming the front door. The taxi driver had gone.
“Shit, shit and more shit,” said Byron and began the walk up to the Bayswater Road.
Inside the flat, Shelley put her hand out for a pill and then fell back on the bed. Nothing ever came up the way she wanted. Her real parents had run away from her at birth. The ones she called Mummy and Daddy she had as much feeling for as a sick headache. Neither had come to a concert, thinking public singers and dancers were one rung up from a whore.
If she had the guts she would shoot herself, but she didn’t have the guts. Well, he had given her one good idea. She would cancel the tour. The idea of a holiday, of a holiday as far away as possible, stretched out to her misery. There had to be a point to it all somewhere.
He was right, of course. She’d make a lousy wife just as he said.
“I want someone to look after me,” she said to the blank walls and then she began to cry. She felt sorry for herself. When she stopped, she found the brandy bottle and poured herself a tot.
“You’re a fool. He’s right. You’re a fool. Oh, what the hell. Bloody men, who needs bloody men anyway?”
After the third tot of brandy she felt better.
By the time he got home, he found he couldn’t sleep. All the accumulated business problems poured through his mind and Byron tried every position on the pillow but could not fall asleep. He was worried he was going too fast and the muscles in the pit of his stomach tightened up at the thought. Cash flow. It always came back to cash flow, which meant the income to pay the interest to the banks. Every time he bought a new business there were problems as the seller would not sell without a problem. He had too many ping-pong balls up in the air, looking for huge future income. Shelley cracking up was all that he needed in his life but trying to hold her hand and run the business was equally impossible. If he tried the social circuit with Shelley to keep her nicely on the stage, he would never get any sleep.
After an hour of tossing and turning, he turned on the light and went to his desk and emptied the files from his briefcase. At three in the morning, Byron nodded off at his desk with the light still burning. He woke just before dawn and got into bed to immediately fall into a deep, dreamless sleep. At seven o’clock the alarm rattled him awake and the business chase began all over again.
The Garnet group of newspapers were losing twice as much money as Heathcliff Mortimer had indicated to Josephine just before she went out to Africa. The company was classically insolvent with the liabilities exceeding the assets by twenty-two per cent, even if the old machinery was able to fetch the amount listed in the balance sheet. Byron viewed the machinery as scrap metal if the company were to be liquidated and the greed of the trade unions as the reason why all the staff were going to end up without a job. For Byron to lay his hands on an international newspaper chain there had to be insurmountable business problems as even the biggest fool in a democracy knew the real power rested with the media. People followed like sheep to the polls and did what they were told by the newspapers. Of course the majority voted for their father’s party, but they made no difference. The difference came with the swing vote, the plus or minus ten per cent who knew nothing about politics but did what they were told by their favourite newspaper. They decided the government of the day. Byron knew perfectly well that no one bought a tube of toothpaste that his subconscious mind did not dictate.
Byron’s problem was to stem the red ink in the balance sheet until the computer industry found a way to do away with hand typesetting and three-quarters of the union-led staff. In the meantime he was forced to live with the unions and his only way out of the morass was increasing circulation, something that television was stopping.
Byron had not gone in blindly when he bought Lord Manningly’s family company. He and Johnny Pike had talked for hours. The excitement was the prize, a prize normally guarded with care by the establishment. If they could salvage the company, something no one else in the world was willing to do, they would be able to compete with the establishment. The idea of Jack Pike, Johnny’s father and Byron’s mentor, the peep show man and peddler of mild pornography, having a say in one of Britain’s traditional newspapers was too good to pass up.
The old man, Jack Pike, saw things more simply than most.
“Attention span, see,” he had said to Byron. “The bloke in the street don’t have no attention span so to speak. This TV makes ’em used to pictures so give ’em pictures. Too many words in the Garnet. Cut out ninety per cent of the words and put in a lot of pictures, specially the ones of nice girls with big tits, see. People want to be entertained not bored stiff. All we got to do is work out what the bloke in the street wants and bingo. Keep it simple, Byron, always keep it simple.”
With prompting from Jack Pike, Byron had a habit of looking at problems from the other perspective. Manningly had wanted a smart newspaper he could talk about in his club. That was one thing Byron had never done in his life. He had never joined a club of any descripti
on that did not have the flavour of ‘night’. The exclusive British male club, in Byron’s opinion, was where he would find the blinkers to cover his vision of business, his way past the establishment.
Heathcliff Mortimer stood up in front of fifty people and said he was a drunk which was meant to make him feel better. He then proceeded to tell them how he had become a drunk which was a pen sketch of his life, mingling a variety of women, two of whom he had married, with newspaper reporting and booze. Even if his newspaper colleagues had found out his membership of Alcoholics Anonyms, it would not have been news. Everyone knew he was a drunk. Some of his best reports during the war had been sent over the wire when he was three-quarters drunk. For heaven’s sake, he said to himself when he sat down to that special blend of ‘do-gooder’ applause, Winston Churchill was close to a bottle of brandy a day and even with all the cigars he was still alive and the greatest Englishman he had ever known. And more importantly, what was a lonely old man going to do without the comfort of fuddling his brain with booze?
A week after the speech, which had been followed by seven miserable days off the booze, he presented himself to the new man’s office and was greeted by an unusual good-looking redhead who vaguely reminded him of someone back in his past. He gave her the best smile and when he was told to wait sank his large backside onto the leather-bound bench that went for a chair. Heath was mildly sweating and ran a finger round his collar. All he wanted right then was a drink as the clock over the door said five o’clock, and that was the time he had his first drink. To Heath’s surprise, Byron came out of his office in person.
“Shit, you look awful,” said Byron to which Madge O’Shea, the redhead, did not look up. “Come on into my office, Mr Mortimer. When did you last have a drink?”
“Seven days ago.”
“I’m impressed. Couldn’t last that long myself… Now before we start, would you like a drink?”
