I was a little surprised that I got through directly. I mean, I was expecting some sort of answering service, at the least a voice-mail message but what I got was Ruth herself. Albeit Ruth apparently on a train – from the background noise – and about to go into a tunnel, I gathered as the signal cut out. Quite a long tunnel, too – 50.5km, in fact, under the Channel – but to an extent that was a relief, in that it gave me a chance to realise that I hadn't a clue what I'd been intending to say. Or, come to think of it, why. Then again, as I doubted that she'd call back, I could probably claim some sort of moral high ground just from making the attempt to talk to her.
 
Or so I thought. I was constructively engaging with one of my new found minions – OK, Maggie, and her news regarding Simon's activities across the rest of the 'community' – when Ruth, did, in fact, return the call.
 
"Hello," she said, and left it at that.
 
"Hello, indeed," I replied, trying not to sound flustered while simultaneously wondering why I'd ever thought this was a good idea. So.
 
"I thought you'd like to know that we had a visit from your family goons, this morning, and I was wondering whether there was anything you'd like to share with us on the subject?"
 
It was a lame sort of question, I knew, and it didn't get an immediate reply. Then, after a brief burst of almost static type noise over the connection and some sort of announcement over the train PA system, Ruth came back on line.
 
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," she said, matter of factly. "Also, I'm a bit engaged at the moment, what with my job and stuff, but ... Well, my father is not happy with you – as you've clearly noticed – but, I think I can say, he's not that confident in his position. Trust me, if he were, the 'family goons', as you put it, would now be in possession of everything you hold to, probably up to and including your grandmother.
 
"So what I'd suggest – if I was minded to help, of course – would be for you to ..."
 
And then there was another brief burst of PA-type noise ... and the connection cut out. Obviously, I immediately tried phoning back – and more than once – but all I got was the voice mail I'd originally expected. So I shoved the phone back in my pocket and returned my full, or almost full, attention to Maggie.
 
Whose news was, well, mixed. Which is to say, quite a few of our colleagues – or competitors, as we'd called them a few days before – had had visits similar to ours, including one group who'd never done more than talk to Simon on the phone. At least no-one had been stupid enough to agree to anything that had been proposed to them and, even more of a relief, even if from a slightly solipsistic viewpoint, no-one seemed to be blaming us. Which last point Maggie also seemed to take particular heart from – possibly because she'd been the one actually doing the ringing round – and we were thus more or less cheerful as we trooped downstairs to fill Tim in on the latest.
 
He, of course, was doing something with machinery – the data was safely secured and at least a copy of everything was off site, he told me – but we dragged him away for long enough to have another conversation. This time it was a little more focused and, given that the situation was a little clearer, by now, actually achieved something of a result.
 
So, before we all went down the pub, in search of what we unanimously agreed was a well deserved pint, we all hit the phones again and started to set up an actual, face to face, flesh and blood type meeting with as many of our fellow entrepreneurs as possible. Which seemed to me, in my new Great Leader persona, to be a good idea ... but which clearly seemed to be a much better one to a lot of the people we spoke to, given the enthusiasm with which they responded, and the ease with which arrangements were made.
 
And then we did all head off to drink copious quantities of proper beer, where a pleasant time was had by all. And where I was reminded of why I'd wanted to work with Tim in the first place, where Mag and he seemed to restore their relationship to something like its previous, mysteriously committed level and Maggie and I ... perhaps achieved a degree of understanding. It was a good enough time that I wasn't even that bothered to emerge at the end of the evening to discover that I'd missed a call back from Ruth while we were carousing. 
 
No matter, I thought, with the sort of nonchalance that comes with being half plastered, there'd be another time ... and, anyway, the voice mail she'd left me said no more than, 'I'm in Strasbourg, bit busy, will call when I can.'
 
So I stashed the phone away, again, and went home, slightly sinuously.
 
+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +
 
Next morning, I was actually woken – and I'm a naturally early riser – by Ruth's promised call. It was just gone five, I noticed, muttering something about still being in bed even as I tried to squeeze the residual alcohol out of my brain and get myself together for what I assumed would be a challenging conversation.
 
Except that Ruth went off at tangent and started asking me what my bedroom was like. I mean, what? I was so surprised that I told her – carefully ignoring the large pile of dead socks and wearable-if-desperate T-shirts cluttering the floor – and then she threw me once more by giving me some detailed observations about my local neighbourhood and the state of the housing stock therein.
 
OK, I thought, so she knows where I live – not that hard to find out – and Simon's researches had been really rather detailed. Which I suppose I could have construed as ominous if not actually threatening, but there was nothing of that in Ruth's tone of voice. In fact, it sounded like she'd just phoned for a friendly chat, which was ridiculous, given the circumstances ... and the bloody time, come to think of it. I said as much, as coherently as I could, and got thrown again.
 
"Actually, its just my way of indicating that I'm still interested in you, and not just your technological innovations, and that I think I could be very helpful, if you were as interested in me ..."
 
Which didn't compute at all – and by this stage I was thoroughly awake and not remotely hungover – so I grunted something I hoped sounded both non-committal and vaguely inquisitive(it probably just sounded dumb) and, thankfully, she went on relentlessly.
 
Well, I wasn't sure about the 'thankfully' after about the first sentence ....,
 
"Thing is, I am my father's daughter. And, like him, I tend to get what I want. Also, as Favourite Daughter, I tend to know a great deal about what he's doing, what he has planned and all that sort of thing. Much of which, I think – actually, I know – could be very useful to you and your various associates. Unfortunately, were I to tell you any of that it probably wouldn't do the loving father/daughter thing a whole bundle of good. So what I'd like you to think about is just what that's worth to you, what sort of transaction we could come up with that would benefit us both ... or possibly just me, if I were working to the Family Rules. So, give it some thought, and I'll call you back."
 
And then she rang off. I got up, pulled on some clothes, made some breakfast – coffee with a coffee chaser – and gave it all some considerable thought.
 
+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +
 
I got into the office to find that a hundred or so e-mails had arrived overnight, most of which, a quick scan revealed were from people confirming their various availabilities for our putative meeting. There were also a few from Simon, which I devoted rather more immediate attention to. Each of these, it turned out, was a forwarded message from one of his potential backers and each mentioned an eye-wateringly large amount of money. Unfortunately, they were also heavily censored, in that all the headers and other potentially useful information had been carefully stripped out, so ... Well, so we couldn't approach any of these guys directly, of course – or, indeed, confirm the veracity of the offers, or the very existence of the supposed contacts. After a moment or two's thought I decided that the most interesting aspect of the whole thing was the lack of any sort of covering note from Simon himself. Quite what that meant, though, was anyone's guess. So I added it to the pondering pile and got on with other things.
 
And was thus productively occupied when Maggie and Tim arrived, together and entwined, for want of a better word, and things moved up a notch. Or, to be precise, we had a brief confab regarding dates – Tim was all for building a small database to analyse the possibilities and ensure maximum attendance, but we swatted that idea and went for the intuitive approach. And then we set about finding a short notice – and cheap – venue and then we got to phoning around, finalising arrangements which was work enough that even Tim was allowed to make some calls.
 
Carefully supervised, of course.
 
+ ++ +++ ++++ +++++ ++++ +++ ++ +
 
It was, thus, early in the afternoon before things calmed down enough for me to even mention Ruth's early morning call. By that stage, we had a venue and a damn' near 100% attendance list. What we didn't have was any clear idea what we were going to do with them all on the day, so we sent Tim off to bash bits of metal together, while Maggie and I set about coming up with a plan.
 
She looked positively glowing, I noted, as she bustled about finding some flip chart paper and sundry requisites for a corporate brainstorm, and I wondered quite how she'd take the news, quite how I was supposed to explain the situation. I mean, I could, obviously, only give her my impressions of the conversation, or my memories of it, given that we'd all been rather busy in the interim. Nonetheless, before we started with the business in hand, I did my best to give her as objective account of Ruth's call as I could ... and once again her reaction was not what I'd expected. Or, at least, it didn't fit with any of the responses that I'd vaguely mapped out as being likely, given my presumptions and assumptions regarding her basically Catholic upbringing, such as outrage, horror and revulsion. What I would never have expected was amusement – or, more accurately, a belly laugh.
 
"Well," she said, grinning broadly, "you are a fine figure of a man and she's a woman wityh ambition to say the least. So what's your problem?"
 
Well, immediately, my problem was that Mag had just been rather more complementary about me than I'd ever have expected, but then I had another problem to go with it.
 
My phone was ringing – and it was Ruth. Of course ....
 

