It is a wondrous thing for a man to feel young again. Doreen obliged Harry when he woke, and in the middle of the day, on a couple of occasions when he was able to tear himself away from progressing Dreamstone’s bid, and then again when he got back to the flat in the evenings, before they set out to eat, and again on their return to his flat. They came together on his bed, crumpling his sheets very thoroughly, and on a thick Chinese rug in front of his giant television, breaking off from time to time in mid engagement to watch a few bars of some soap, before taking up again, and once as she bent over the table in his dining area. She quite enjoyed the exercise, for it helped pass her day. She had already learned that being a lady of leisure meant accumulating lots of spare time and being most attentive, and had also learned instantly to match herself and her body most precisely to Harry’s needs. She was engaged in a game, where a skilled player needed to penetrate the mind of a counterparty, forever to stay one move ahead. She counted herself a fast learner, and prided herself on playing with verve.
Harry lived in a state of bliss. He walked to Dreamstone’s office every morning from his flat with shadows under his eyes, but with his adrenalin pounding. Dreamstone’s bid was going well. He had talked to a number of corporates interested in buying Elegance, the Wide Horizons store chain, and settled a deal. He had also lined up a couple prepared, possibly, to take on group engineering contracts at cost. Nobody wanted Wide Horizons’ engineering plants, nor their workforce, but developers had begun sniffing around the sites.
He lunches with two of his favourite pet wolves in the middle of the week. They ate at Simpsons, somehow always an imprimatur of respectability, though Harry recalled with a pang how Boulestin at Covent Garden had always been very much tastier. They discussed Wide Horizons across the board.
‘Of course Elegance is the plum.’ John Tidyman already owned a fast-growing High Street retailing empire, but wanted Elegance to take him up market. He was a big man, bald, with small sharp eyes that looked as though they might disappear into his rolls of flesh. ‘That girl Barbara is going to be a real star.’ He beamed, he could afford to sound bullish because he and Harry had already agreed a price. ‘We’ll put some more muscle behind her, maybe expand across the Atlantic.’ He cut himself a chunk of fillet steak and engulfed it happily. ‘Nice meat this, Harry.’
Harry smiled. They had put together a good deal. Tidyman would cover a good chunk of Dreamstone’s cash cost by paying cash for a nice smart debt-free fashion chain with exciting potential, leaving Dreamstone paying out junk bonds for Wide Horizons’ hi-tech and engineering. The Pentagon would roll hi-tech along, and Dreamstone could bust the engineering operations by foreclosing a bit sharpish. No cash flow, no credit. Dreamstone would collar the factories, sell the contracts at cost, close everything down as fast as possible, and knock all the equipment out for a bob or two, or flog it for scrap. Sad for the workforce, of course, but the division was way past its prime. Maybe Whitehall would help out a bit, or perhaps the European Union. Maybe somebody would retrain Wide Horizons’ workers to cut grass verges, or scrub hospital floors: the papers were full of tatty Britain stories. Some deft footwork would also dump all the debts in Underwood’s tame companies, and leave Underwood explaining just how he had come to break pretty well every rule in the book. Meanwhile Dreamstone would be busy knocking out the sites and laughing all the way to the bank.
Rupert Dalland, the third man at the table, poked at a thick slice of roast lamb. ‘Reckon you’ve done better than me, John.’ He spoke a little sourly: he was a choleric sort of man, with a high colour and short bristly hair, a man quick to complain. ‘I like my lamb on the pink side. I’d call this well done.’
Harry beckoned to a nearby wine waiter. Dalland always found something wrong, but always mellowed under the influence of good claret. ‘Wash it down well, and it’ll taste a lot better.’ He was careful not to drink too much himself. Dalland was a developer, and handled most of Dreamstone’s property deals. Harry counted on Tidyman both buying Elegance and helping develop some of the best factory sites.
He eyed the fat man. ‘We reckon we’ll start in Brum.’
Tidyman shrugged. He was a Londoner himself, and tended to regard civilisation as petering out somewhere north of the Watford Gap, about thirty miles out from Hyde Park Corner.
‘Wide’s got a nice big site close to Spaghetti Junction. It’s pretty tatty, but covers fortyfive to fifty hectares, maybe a bit more.’
Tidyman sniffed. ‘Can’t you talk English?’
Dalland looked up from his lamb. ‘He means a hundred and ten to a hundred and twenty acres, or thereabouts.’
Tidyman’s eyes gleamed, just a little. ‘Access?’
‘No problem.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
Harry nodded to Dalland. The developer bent to rummage in a briefcase, and held up a sheet of paper with some sketches. ‘We’re thinking of a mixed development. Perhaps one really big superstore on two levels, with a raft of shops, boutiques and such, lots of places to eat, nice concourse down the middle. Or maybe two big stores. We’ll have the room.’
‘Something like Brent Cross?’
‘Plus a bit.’ Now it was Dalland’s turn to gleam. ‘We’ll be smart, cutting edge. We’ll build a magnet for the Midlands.’
Tidyman was silent for a moment. Then he smiled, a big fat smile. ‘Like it. Magnet for the Midlands.’ He savoured the word. ‘Has a nice feel to it. I’ll get someone to look at it. But you can count me in if access really is good.’
The three men ate on contentedly, for good deals, big deals, are often cut over good meals. Then they pushed their plates away, silent as the wine waiter refilled their glasses, for even waiters could sometimes be spies. Harry signalled for the dessert trolley.
‘Hmm.’ Tidyman cleared his throat. ‘Who have you got for the big store?’
Dalland shrugged. ‘We’ll ask everyone to bid.’
‘Hmm.’ The fat man pursed his lips. ‘How about one of the big Continental chains?’
Harry and Dalland both looked at him sharply.
‘I’ve got some friends, people who’ve been looking for a project like this.’
Harry felt his throat dry out. ‘Good friends?’
‘The best.’ Tidyman reached to close a great meaty hand around his wrist. ‘They take my advice when they look this side of the Channel. They’ll come in, if I go in.’
Harry swallowed. Tidyman might be promising a fortune.
The fat man held on to him. ‘They’ll want something fairly soon. How fast can you produce some detailed plans, build a nice little model, and clear the site?’
Harry eyed Dalland. The developer thought for a moment. ‘A month for plans and a model, then maybe another nine.’
‘What about the local authority?’
Dalland rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Planning committees could sometimes be bought, and prestige projects always impress councillors.
‘They won’t go soft on the workers?’
Dalland shook his head. ‘They can all retrain. Out one door and in another.’
‘No union bother?’
This time Harry shook his head. ‘We’ll bankrupt the plant and close the doors. The unions won’t know what’s hit them.’
A waiter approached, pushing a trolley, and the three men were silent again. They were now about to choose their desserts, and lesser matters could wait on their decisions.
Harry chose a crème caramel, because Simpsons crusted them nicely with caramelised sugar, and Tidyman opted for spotted dick. He wondered how the fat man could handle such stodge. One day Tidyman would eat himself out of a life, but hopefully not before Dreamstone ha pushed through all its plans. Dalland opted for Stilton and water biscuits. Then they drank coffee with brandies, but port for Dalland, and gossipped about retailing and property market trends, with some politics thrown in for good measure. They were three prosperous men in their middle age, enjoying the last moments of a very pleasant and successful lunch, and they glowed with bonhomie. Wide Horizons’ workforce, and everyone else in the world, could all go hang, because the three of them stood to make big, big money.
Lunchtimes are always good plotting times, particularly when property deals simmer. Whilst Harry entertained Tidyman and Dalland at Simpsons, Steve Calshot lunched Cliff Heyman at the Bell House between Gerrards Cross and Beaconsfield. They were discussing the fields that bordered the Manor House in Tithing St. Mary.
‘He’s got to pay more than sixty.’ Calshot knew that Heyman had his eye on the Hendry land, maybe to replace the farmhouse and outbuildings with a nice little estate. But he also wanted a good price for the fields around them, even thought they might only be classed as pasture. They were no use to Heyman, but Calshot knew that Harry Chapman has set his heart on them, not least to prevent encroachment. Harry was very rich, and a hundred thousand or so would be nothing to him. He knew Heyman had dined at the Manor House, but he seemed to have come away empty-handed.
Heyman frowned. Harry had showed no sign of moving on his offer, and lunch at the Bell House was not much of a bribe. The steak was a touch on the tough side, and the claret rather sour. ‘Why should he? Pasture only fetches four grand an acre. Six grand is top whack.’ He almost called the land ‘scrub’, because that was all that it was. But he had no wish to spin Calshot into a bad mood.
Calshot looked aggressive. ‘Jim Hendry wants to start a pig farm.’
‘Pig farm?’ Heyman was baffled.
‘He can put pigs on the land, and build styes.’
A light shone in Heyman’s brain. Pigs were smelly, and he was sure the styes would be right along the boundary with the Manor House garden. ‘He’ll run to Jack Carnes.’
Calshot smiled thinly. He was very much a solicitor, thin and dry, in a dark suit and neatly striped tie. ‘Carnes has problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘Bill Grant.’
Heyman finished his steak, pushing a small chunk of gristle to the side of his plate, finishes his last mouthful of sour claret, and waits.
‘Grant’s a poofter.’
Heyman knew Grant by sight, but had little to do with him: he had his BMW serviced by a BMW dealer in Reading. He had always thought of him as a man in the motor trade, tubby and anonymous, polite, but perhaps a bit slimy, a bit close on his corners. But he had never thought of him as a homosexual, and Carnes was a pillar of rectitude. ‘We live in an enlightened age.’
‘Grant runs around looking for boys, and then farms them out.’
‘To Carnes?’ Heyman was not sure that he could believe what he was hearing.
‘They’re very close.’
‘But Jack’s a married man. He and Emma were with us at Harry’s on Saturday.’
‘She’s desperate for a man.’
Heyman stared at Calshot, and wondered whether the solicitor had taken leave of his senses. Steve had a sharp tongue, and could sometimes be poisonous. But now he was really reaching out. He stared at the dessert menu, but his mind had taken off into overdrive. Carnes in shadow might well prove Carnes somewhat castrated, and Calshot might be able to deliver on the Hendry farm and outbuildings. He must mobilise some funds, draw up some plans. Many clouds possessed silver linings, and he was even tempted to offer to pay his share of the Bell House bill.
Harry stood in the Strand after his lunch, enjoying the sun. Dalland and Tidyman had gone off on their separate ways with much goodwill, and he thought of returning to Dreamstone. He should, by rights, be working. But the bid was chugging along nicely through its statutory steps, the sun was hot, and the claret in him was starting to foster drowsiness. He knew he would doze at his desk for certain if he went back to work, regardless of how many cups of strong black coffee he might drink at Christine’s bidding. He rummaged for his mobile, stuck safely in an inner jacket pocket, stabbing at it.
‘Doreen?
The mobile laughed at him, and Harry felt generosity well up in him like a fountain. ‘Where are you?’
‘Selfridges.’
‘Fancy some shopping?’
‘Here or there?’
He grinned. Doreen made him feel young. ‘Meet you in Fenwicks.’
Her voice was cautious. ‘I’m only casual.’
Harry beamed. He had cut a good deal, and he was in a good mood for spending. ‘I’ll posh you up.’
They met at Fenwicks’ main Regent Street entrance. Harry thought the store might fall some way short of Doreen’s general expectations, but it was a convenient place for a rendez-vous. They could drift in and out of John Lewis and Selfridges and House of Fraser, then down South Molton Street towards Bond Street, and take a cab to Harvey Nicks if she still fancied hunting. He eyed her appreciatively, judging her more semi-smart than casual. She was dressed in a nice little pale blue linen dress that made her look both neat and classy, and he wondered for a moment whether it had come out of Sylvia’s wardrobe. But he had not seen it before.
Doreen caught his look, and beamed. ‘Don’t ask, because it didn’t.’ She held up a Miss Selfridge bag. ‘I just bought it, about ten minutes ago, it was budget. I thought it would give you a nice surprise, so I changed into it straight away, and stuck what I was wearing in the bag.’
She puts the bag down carefully on the pavement between her feet, and then straightened again to link her arms around his neck and kiss him softly on his mouth, pressing herself lightly against him. Harry felt like a conqueror, and smiled the smile of a winner at a passing young man. The young man scowled in jealousy, and he felt even better. He waited for Doreen to retrieve her bag, and they began to stroll towards Oxford Circus. Doreen’s fingers closed on his, and he was also a young man. She was a nice girl to have on his arm, and he would posh her up, and be proud of her.
Poshing up took all afternoon and early evening. Harry lost count of the number of times Doreen disappeared into changing cubicles to reappear looking cute, and casual, sexy and smart. He seemed to spend a good deal of time signing credit card slips, and knew Doreen was well past three grand and climbing. But he reckoned he was making a good investment. Doreen bought big tickets and smaller tickets, and even some relatively tiny tickets, until they both filled their arms with a small army of bags bearing smart and sometimes rather expensive names.
They stopped when they reached Piccadilly. Doreen’s purchases balance precariously in his arms, and he had a feeling one or two might topple free if anyone bumped into him. He took a deep breath. ‘Let’s give it a break, and go back to Canary Wharf.’
Doreen sighed with the pleasure that comes from slaking ambition for the first time. She had spent more in three hours on nice things to wear than she had spent in her whole lifetime, and was now well on her way to ranking as a fully paid-up member of smart society. But she judged she still has some credit to go, for she was laying out hundreds where his other woman might well have gone for thousands. She pretended disappointment. ‘What about Harvey Nichols and Harrods?’ She did not mention Beauchamp Place, though she had heard talk of it as super-smart.
Harry groaned. He has a feeling he was not made for shopping. He knew that his feet were not. ‘Try me again on Saturday morning, before I go back to Tithing. You can have until lunchtime.’
Doreen made eyes at him. ‘You won’t regret it.’
They were both silent in the back of the black cab as it crept eastward through rush hour traffic, each with their own thoughts. Harry stretched luxuriously. It had been a good day. Dalland’s magnet would bank Dreamstone a fortune, and Tidyman and his continentals – Harry expected them to be French or Germans – might well line up for other Wide Horizons sites as well. He had a vision of millions mounting in a steady progression, with a sizeable slice heading his own way. He wondered lazily how he might spend it. He was fond of tropical beaches, and Doreen would look good with a tan. Perhaps somewhere exotic, like the Venezuelan coast, or even a South Seas island. Somewhere to run away together, and be young. The thought caught him short. He knew that he was starting to grow increasingly fond of Doreen, almost to a kind of dependence, even though he had only known her for a few days. She seemed to possess an ability to read his mind, and to want nothing but to please him. She was a far cry from Anne, with her social ambitions, forever striving to influence and impress. Perhaps, and a new thought crept into his mind, perhaps Doreen might come to replace Anne, and build him a new future. Anne had refused further children after Delia, refused him a son. Harry would have liked a boy, someone to build on his winnings. Now he was rich, and looking to be richer, he needed to build a succession. Delia’s two boys were her husband’s sons, with Delia as vehicle. They were not his seed. Doreen might bear him a son.
He reached across to touch her hand, and felt himself warming with affection. Perhaps it was time to start dreaming dreams.
Doreen closed her own fingers on his. She knew that she had got off to a good start, and judged that she held the keys to open many more doors. She would play Harry carefully, in the way Jason had taught her to play a fishing line. Maybe Harry would pay for her to learn to drive, and buy her a car. Maybe he would fix her up with a place of her own. Maybe she would meet popstars and such. She was young, and deserved a bright future. She was already starting to grow a little bored with being on her own during the daytime, and having to spend most of the rest of her time flat on her back. She deserved to spend time flaunting. Perhaps she could persuade Harry to spend his weeknights in London and go back to Tithing on Fridays, to allow her exploration time. Girls with sugardaddys deserved some adventures as well. For a moment, just a very brief moment, she also wondered what she should do if Harry grew serious, and wanted her around permanently. But she pushed the thought from her mind. She had hooked her fish well, and now she could play her line. She would wear her silk kimono and her silk undies after they have eaten and make them work hard. He was eating out of her hand, and soon he would do whatever she wanted.