by PJ Skinner
***
The next day Sam went down to the bay for her morning swim. She had to swim around the yacht, which was moored beside the best snorkelling area. She had an interesting hour, diving down to search amongst the rocks for a shy octopus that was a master of disguise. Then she turned back to shore. As she swam back past the yacht, she heard someone shout. She looked up at the prow. The man who had greeted her the night before was leaning over the railing and waving to get her attention.
‘I thought it was you,’ he said.
‘Hello,’ said Sam. ‘You were in the restaurant last night, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m here on a friend’s yacht for a week. If you wouldn’t mind, we’d like you to join us tonight for dinner?’
Sam was not a very social being but she had been alone for a couple of weeks, so she decided that she would make an effort.
‘That would be nice. Same place?’
‘We’re meeting up there to eat and then on to Lindos-by-Night for dancing, if you fancy.’
‘What time?’
‘Is eight o’clock alright?’
‘Yes, I’ll be there.’
Sam had forgotten to ask him his name. But it was too late as he had gone back into the yacht’s cabin. She swam to shore and walked up to the studio. She sat down to work but found it hard to do any drawing as she was preoccupied with the evening to come. Although she had come here to work and relax, she was open to a little fun, too. She looked forward to dinner with others.
Later, alarmed by her sparse wardrobe and not wanting to be shown up by the two elegant women in the party, she walked down into the narrow streets and looked for something light, but not see-through, to wear. Most of the shops had their dresses hanging outside, so it was easy to search for a suitable one. Sam chose a white dress with brocade on the bust, which looked as if it came from India. It was perfect for the balmy evenings in Lindos. It was very cheap but was stylish enough to disguise its humble origins. She inwardly thanked her mother for her thrifty shopping gene.
When the time came to get ready, Sam tried to style her hair but ended up putting it up in a messy bun as usual. Wearing the dress, she looked in the mirror and liked what she saw. She was five foot six in her socks and had an athlete’s body. She had mousey brown hair, green eyes and skin that had tanned easily to a mocha colour. Stray freckles marked her nose and cheeks, making her look even younger than she was. Swirling around in her dress, she stood on her toes to make herself look thinner. She had only an old pair of Greek sandals for her feet but they would come into their own if they went dancing.
Trying to imagine what the relationships were on the yacht, she could not come up with a satisfactory formula. She would have to wait, watch and learn.
She walked to the restaurant at half past seven, judging that she would be the first to arrive and could sit with her back to the wall at the big round table. She went up the stairs to the roof garden and walked across to the table. The older of the men was already there, apparently expecting her.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Mike Morton.’
Sam tried to keep her face neutral. She knew exactly who Mike Morton was. She smiled and held out her hand.
‘Sam Harris. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Mike Morton was the walking, talking definition of an entrepreneur. Born in the East End of London, he was obsessed with making money to leave his tough childhood in the past. He was always working on some new project that would leave all his former schemes in the shade. Notorious in London business circles, he had the unfortunate habit of abandoning projects still unfinished and leaving his investors to flounder around without him. He must have had the occasional success because he had done well enough to stay in business and was often in the news. He featured in the gossip columns and had once been profiled by the Sunday Times magazine. Most of his ideas succumbed to economic or market reality. His personal life was also a bit incontinent but his long suffering wife was still on the scene despite tabloid reports of his various dalliances. Sam found it hard to believe that he was interested in her for any reason.
Mike stared at her for a time as if deciding what to say next. Sam looked closely at his handsome face. She could very imagine why women liked him and also knew already why she would steer well clear. He practically had ‘trouble’ tattooed across his forehead.
‘Sam, I’m glad you came early. I thought you might. I want to tell you a story if you will let me. Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes please, a gin, lime and soda would be nice.’
Mike ordered their drinks. Sam wondered if it was so obvious that she was punctual to everyone. He started to speak, picking up speed as he went along as if afraid of being interrupted.
‘A year ago I picked up some information on Sierramar - that’s a small country on the west coast of South America - at a cocktail party with some oil executives. An acquaintance of mine told me that when he worked for a large petroleum company in Sierramar during the sixties, members of local tribes used to wander into camp and offer large gold nuggets for sale. I was fascinated by this information and went to research Sierramar in the British Library. It turns out that there were several productive gold-mining districts in the country during the 1950s but they ground to a halt due to a lack of investment. No mining has been undertaken for the thirty years since then, due to the unfavourable legal framework. I discovered that the Sierramarian government was on the brink of bringing in a new mining law to liberalise mining and encourage foreign investment in the country. I was very excited by this revelation. This type of new lead is like manna from heaven for a man like me.’
Mike paused and looked at her.
Sam was nonplussed. Mike Morton, the famous entrepreneur, was talking to her about mining. It was hard not to get excited but she did her best not to show it. Why was he telling her this story? He knew that she was a geologist. Maybe he wanted her opinion on something?
‘That’s some detective work,’ said Sam, realising that he was waiting for praise and encouragement to continue. ‘What did you do?’
‘Well, at the end of last year, I packed my bag and set off for Calderon, the capital city of Sierramar. I arrived in town the Monday after the national holiday week Las Fiestas de Calderon. It’s a celebration of the liberation of Calderon from the Spanish by General Vasquez. There are bullfights every day for a week and the entire population indulges in a seven-day orgy of drunkenness that has to be seen to be believed. When I arrived in Calderon, I was greeted by the aftermath of that party. The streets were littered with cans and bottles and sleeping revellers. I’m no slouch myself when it comes to parties, you know.’
‘I’ve read about you in the past,’ she said, unable to prevent herself from smiling. Sam was determined to hold her own in this conversation, despite his reputation.
‘You’ve read what?’ he asked.
‘I’ve read that you like to party and go out with pretty women, if the papers are anything to go by,’ said Sam, her tongue loosened by the gin. She did not want to seem naive.
He took this as a compliment and went on. ‘I was most impressed with the obvious mania for partying in Calderon and I decided that it was my kind of town. It was not until the next week that I discovered the scope of my mistake. The average weekend in Calderon is much more sedate. However, undaunted that I’d missed the biggest partying week of the year, I got established in Sierramar with the help of contacts at the British embassy and set about trying to acquire mining properties. I was led like a lamb to the slaughter in the beginning. My first venture didn’t go well. I was conned out of a large sum of money and wasted a lot of time digging very large holes in a barren riverbank on the fringes of the Amazon Basin.’
‘I’ve been told that alluvials are best avoided by amateurs,’ said Sam, ‘along with wild women and homemade whiskey. I probably don’t know any more about them than you do but all these deposits have their particular pitfalls.’
‘In truth, I hadn’t ant
icipated that I was an obvious mark for swindlers. Gringos were prime targets in Sierramar. The national hobby in Sierramar is stealing. The more they steal, the more macho they are. Their favourite scam is relieving dumb foreigners of their cash. I couldn’t resist staying in the most expensive hotel in town to try to impress people. People in Calderon noticed all right. They assumed that I had lots of money and fell over themselves trying to be the first to swindle me. I consider myself to be pretty sharp and I’m not averse to a bit of double dealing myself from time to time. But I’d never imagined that the locals would get the better of me.’
Sam thought that any partner of Mike’s might not be pleased by the way he spent the company funds on luxurious hotels and boozy dinners instead of in the field on exploration. But she did not comment.
‘Gringos? What are they?’ she asked
‘Gringo is rumoured to come from “Green Go” graffiti in the Mexican wars, referring to green uniforms worn by American mercenary troops. It refers to Americans and some other foreigners, although not often the British. They have a slight advantage over other foreigners in Sierramar, because several British officers fought with Simon Bolivar, the Liberator. They never left his side, even when he went into exile and died. Most people from Sierramar know their history from school so if someone calls me a gringo, I set them straight. I’m not a gringo, I’m English.’
‘I’ve always been a fan of Bolivar,’
‘Anyway the upshot of it all is that I’ve decided that I need a geologist to sort the wheat from the chaff before I spend any more of my investor’s cash. I think this is some weird sort of karma, us meeting like this. I need a geologist and you appear just like that. It’s Kismet.’
‘I don’t believe in fate but I hope that meeting you was a happy coincidence for both of us.’
The hairs on her arms stood up in anticipation of what he would say next.
‘Would you work abroad if you got the chance?’
‘I’d work anywhere. I want to get experience and build my career.’
‘I can offer you that.’
Sam beamed with joy but before they could continue, the rest of the party arrived and there was a tacit agreement not to talk any more business. The group consisted of Edward Beckett, the man who owned the yacht, his wife Ophelia, her brother and his daughter. Mike was a guest on the yacht, as Edward was one of his main clients and the two were good friends.
After the introductions, they got down to the serious business of eating and drinking and having a good time. At the end of dinner Mike asked Sam for her phone number in London and told her that he would be in touch.
‘I’ll think about the sort of arrangement I can make for you to come out and work with me in Sierramar. I presume you’re interested?’
‘Absolutely. I’ll give you my aunt’s number, if that’s okay, as I don’t have a flat at the momen.t’
‘Perfect. Good luck with your dissertation. I’ll see you in London.’
The yacht pulled anchor the following day and set off for their next port of call, so Sam did not get another chance to discuss Sierramar with Mike in Lindos. She was excited about the prospect of a real job but tried to be realistic. Mike was not the sort of man she could rely on. She would not count her chickens, especially those from Sierramar, before they were hatched. And yet, she could not help hoping he would get in touch. Everything he had told her about Sierramar intrigued her. And how often was she going to get opportunities like this?
Knowing there was nothing she could do about it now, she got on with her dissertation, which suddenly seemed superfluous and boring. It was a grind to finish it when the bay was sparkling below her studio, beckoning her into its warm crystal waters.
II
On her return to London, Sam stayed in her godmother’s house in Chelsea. She finished her dissertation a couple of days later and went to hand it in at the university. When she got back to the house, her godmother told her that a man had called, asking her to lunch.
‘Mike Morton, I think he said his name was. Is he a new boyfriend, dear?’
Her aunt had not been told about the reasons for Sam’s breakup with Simon and was unaware of her niece’s determination to avoid boyfriends for the foreseeable future. Sam ignored the question. She flushed with excitement. So Mike Morton was serious. He had called her after all.
‘No, auntie. I’m hoping he might offer me a job.’
‘A job? How splendid! Do I know him?’
‘I met him in Greece. He was on a yacht.’
‘Sounds like a good boyfriend to me.’
‘Too old, I’m afraid. And too married.’
‘Ah, that is a bit of a problem. The job will have to do instead.’
‘When did he want to meet me?’
‘Tomorrow at one o’clock at that little bistro in the King’s road.’
‘I know the one you mean, auntie. Thank you.’
‘Maybe he’ll get divorced,’ said her aunt, who was the eternal optimist where Sam was concerned.
‘Maybe,’ said Sam, who had no intention of ever getting married but had given up telling people this, as they seemed to think that it was compulsory, like being born and dying.
***
The next day, Sam waited at the restaurant for a full twenty minutes before Mike arrived. She sat in the corner at a table with a red, checked tablecloth and a candle holder made from an empty bottle of Mateus Rose. She picked at the wax until she realised that the maître d’ was glaring at her. She turned her attention to the breadsticks instead. Mike strolled in just as she had finished the last one.
He did not apologise. Sam doubted if he even realised that he was late. He was already extremely animated. She took the precaution of ordering their food before letting him speak, because she had no sympathy with people who preferred talking to eating and knew she was only going to be listening once he got going. While they waited for their food, Sam made him go through the rituals of asking her how she was and what she was doing, even though she could tell that he had no interest in anyone or anything other than his new scheme.
Mike was desperate to explain his plan to her and unused to being manipulated by an amateur.
‘I handed in my thesis today,’ said Sam.
‘You did?’ said Mike. ‘That’s good.’
‘It was about the analysis of palynofacies’
‘Really?’
‘Yes it’s very interesting too. Would you like me to tell you about it?’
‘Well, I’m not too sure I’d understand it.’
‘And you? How are you? And your wife and family?’
‘What? Oh yes they are all fine thank you? And you?’
‘Oh, I am fine but my aunt is suffering from an injured foot,’
‘An injured foot. Gosh, is it serious?’
‘I think her shoes were too tight.’
‘Oh.’
‘She’s limping.’
Only when the food had arrived and Sam was making almost orgasmic love to her rack of lamb, was Mike allowed to speak about the job.
‘I’ve been thinking about our chat in Lindos and I’ve decided that you should come to Sierramar and work with me in Calderon,’ said Mike.
Sam noticed that he did not ask her if she wanted to work for him. He appeared convinced that Sam would jump at the bait, as if he knew she needed the job.
‘Have you?’ she asked.
The sarcasm went right over his head.
‘I’d like you to work as my Project Manager, reviewing the exploration projects I get offered in Sierramar and ruling out the scams and worthless properties.’
‘That sounds like a fantastic opportunity. I’d love to do it,’ said Sam. ‘When would I go?’
‘Straight away. As soon as I can organise you a ticket. You can go on a tourist visa for the time being. We’ll see about getting you a work visa once you have settled in.’
‘Can you tell me how much I’ll be paid?’
‘I know that it’s a bit unusu
al but I can’t afford to pay you a salary in cash. I’ll give you shares in the venture, which will be worth a fortune when the company floats on the stock exchange. I’ll pay your round-trip ticket to Calderon and put you up while you’re there. I’ll also cover your expenses and pay for the occasional trip to the disco.’
‘And when do you plan to float the company?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Probably in a year’s time.’
Mike looked irritated. He had not expected any pushback. He was banking on Sam being desperate. From their chat in Lindos, he could tell that she was honest to a fault, a character trait not common in Sierramar and not one that Mike himself was overly familiar with. He needed to work with someone he could trust.
‘I see.’ She paused. ‘I am interested, of course, but I have a bank loan. I’ll need to cover that if I’m to accept the position.’
‘How much a month do you pay the bank?’
‘One hundred pounds.’
‘Okay give me your bank details and I’ll organise a monthly transfer. Does that suit you?’
Sam did not know Mike well enough to question the likelihood of him actually setting up a monthly payment into her bank account. She also doubted the chances of a rich haul from one of his schemes. But the alternative was temping: a temporary secretarial job in London.
Before getting the call from Mike, Sam had decided that if he did not ring her, she would have to work as a temp until something better came along. Her parents had insisted that she take a secretarial course when she had finished her geology degree so that she would always be able to get work. Whilst she resented every day she spent in the course, she knew they were right. Temping paid relatively well and Sam was very good at adapting to the new environments and cultures that she found in the offices to which she was sent. She prided herself on her flexibility. Typing the dissertation was good practice. She knew that a good typing speed meant more money. But she could not face an office or the nylon stockings that went with it. There was never any chance of her turning down Mike’s offer.
