On Tuesday, leaving Bill Olson at my desk, Val went with me to the airport to see me off.
‘Wait for me, Val,’ I said. ‘It’s only for a year. Then we can set up home.’
But it wasn’t to be. I wrote every day. She had warned me she was no good as a letter writer and I didn’t get many letters from her. What I did get were affectionate and she seemed happy.
After six months in London, I moved to Paris. I found a furnished one-room apartment near the office and wrote, giving Val my new address. I hadn’t heard from her for the past three weeks and I was getting worried. A week later, just as I was about to telephone her, a registered packet arrived. In it I found the engagement ring and a brief note:
Dear Clay,
I am leaving Boston for good. I hate hurting you, but I must tell you there is someone else There will be someone else for you too. I’m sorry. It happened so suddenly. Forgive me and forget me.
I was in a pretty bad way for some months. I did my work automatically, resisted the temptation to get drunk every night and led a lonely, miserable life. Finally, I returned to Boston. I asked Olson, as soon as we met, if he could explain why Val had thrown up her job.
‘Not an idea Clay,’ he said. ‘I wish I had. She said she was leaving for personal reasons: that’s all. You know how remote she can be. I just had to accept it.’
Four years drifted by. The ache was continuous. Then I met Rhoda. I wanted desperately to lead a normal life again and to forget Val, but my marriage to Rhoda proved no solution. It was now six years since I received the letter that took the fun and happiness out of my life and the ache for Val was still with me.
‘Clay!’
I started. My mind had been so occupied with the past I had forgotten Rhoda.
‘I’m hungry.’ She swung her pretty legs off the lounging chair. ‘What’s biting you? You look like something the cat’s sicked up.’
‘Let’s eat,’ I said. ‘Nothing’s biting me.’
I had never told her about Val. She had never asked me if there had been any other woman before I met her. She just wasn’t interested enough to bother with the past. The present was as much as she could cope with.
We went down to the coffee shop for the inevitable hot dogs and then returned to the apartment for the inevitable goggle box yawn until bed time.
Two
The following morning, as I was going through the mail, Humphrey Massingham telephoned.
‘I’ve checked out Vidal.’ he said. His voice lacked its usual breezy tone. ‘The bankers, of course, give a glowing report and so do the brokers. That was a smart idea of yours to query the Credit Rating people. Believe it or not, Vidal doesn’t seem to own a thing! I don’t know if it means anything, but it is odd. The house, furnished is hired, his six cars, including the Rolls and the yacht are hired. He has six TV sets in the house as well as five electronic I.B.M. typewriters all hired. Even his wife’s jewellery is hired from Luce & Fremlin and he changes the stuff every month. The Credit Rating people tell me he has six month’s credit with all these creditors and he pays on the nail when the accounts come due. What do you make of it?’
‘A pretty convenient arrangement if you want to skip suddenly,’ I said.
‘That’s right. I got the same thought. I queried Mr. Ryner. He’s talked to one of the A.E. directors who admits they are glad to get rid of Vidal’s account because of its nuisance value and the big discount, but says there’s nothing wrong with Vidal money-wise. Ryner also talked to other leading travel agencies. Apparently Dyer has approached a number of them before us but they turned him down. They’re not big enough to carry Vidal for six months, Ryner says if you can talk Dyer out of the five percent discount, we go ahead, but we don’t if Dyer won’t play.’
‘Do we give him six months’ credit?’
‘I guess so. All Vidal’s other creditors are giving him that. It seems to me we have Dyer where we want him. He either accepts our terms or he is without an agency. We seem to be his last chance for a deal.’
‘Fine. Okay, leave him to me.’
A little after 10.30, Vernon Dyer came on the line.
‘I’ve got your schedule,’ he said, a rasp in his voice. ‘What’s the idea? What do you think you’re playing at? Your prices are ten percent ahead of the American Express quotation.’
‘They quoted you eighteen months ago, Mr. Dyer,’ I said smoothly. ‘Prices have gone up since then and they are likely to keep going up. The price I’ve quoted you is present day rock bottom.’
There was a pause, then he said, less sharply, ‘Those formalities completed yet?’
‘Yes. The account is now open.’
‘Then we had better get together and talk terms. Be at the Coq d’Or restaurant at 13.00. Right?’
The Coq d’Or restaurant was the most expensive and exclusive restaurant in Paradise City. It cost you $1.50 just to check your hat.
‘Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Dyer, but you must excuse me,’ I said blandly. ‘I never go out to lunch. I’ll be here any time convenient to you.’
‘You never go out to lunch?’ His voice shot up. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I take a desk lunch, Mr. Dyer. I’m too busy to eat out.’
‘Harkness always lunched with me!’
‘That was his privilege. When do you think you could drop in, Mr. Dyer?’
There was a long pause, then he said, ‘I think you should have the courtesy to lunch with me.’
‘It’s not a matter of courtesy, it’s a matter of having the time, Mr. Dyer. You want top class service: by having a desk lunch, I am able to give it to you.’
‘Oh, very well!’ I could tell by the tone of his voice he was angry and frustrated. ‘Then this afternoon at 15.00,’ and he hung up.
I looked over at Sue and winked at her.
‘No more expensive lunches for Vernon,’ I said. ‘We’re getting away to a good start.’
Dyer didn’t show up until 16.00. I was busy with a client and he paced up and down outside my office. From time to time, he paused to glare at me and look at his watch. I paid no attention. When my client left, I waved to Dyer to come in.
‘Sorry to have kept you, but your appointment was for 15.00.’
He grunted and sat down.
‘So the account’s open,’ he said. ‘I take it you have talked to Harkness?’
‘I’ve talked to him.’
‘We’ll be satisfied with the same terms as we got from him.’ He stared at me. ‘You know the terms?’
‘I know them but unfortunately we can’t accept them.’
He stiffened.
‘What the hell do you mean? What’s good enough for the American Express is surely good enough for you.’
‘The arrangement you made with them was eighteen months ago, Mr. Dyer. We are trying to keep prices down. We can still give you six months’ credit, but I regret no discount.’
He leaned forward, his face flushed, his eyes glittering.
‘So you don’t want our business?’
‘I didn’t say that Mr. Dyer.’
‘That’s just what you are saying! You either give us the same terms as the American Express gave us or you don’t get our business!’
‘Then regretfully we don’t get it.’ I put on a sad expression. ‘If you are able to find another agency who will give you the terms you want, Mr. Dyer, then obviously it is your privilege to go to them.’
He sat back, glaring.
‘Are you serious? Are you telling me you won’t take business worth two hundred thousand for the sake of an absurd five percent discount?’