I powered up my computer and, with my cup of coffee already drunk, got down to work. Work was a huge spreadsheet, a computer model of all the flows of gas, steam, electricity and money in and out of a proposed electric cogeneration plant in Colombia. It was a gigantic beast, literally thousands of numbers all linked together that attempted to recreate all the variables involved in building, financing and operating the plant. I had started the model on my laptop computer six months before when Giles and I had visited the Swiss offices of the firm that was bidding to construct the plant. The thing had grown since then; grown, but still remained under my control. If you wanted to change the dollar — peso exchange rate in 2002, I could do it. Oil prices falling in 2005? No problem. Borrowing in fixed-rate Swiss francs rather than floating-rate dollars? Give me a minute and I’ll print off six pages analysing the results.
Working on a computer model like that for as long as I had, I had developed a good feel for the key variables of the project: those risks that mattered and those that didn’t. Giles and I had come up with what we thought was an ingenious financial structure that would allow our client to put in the lowest bid for the contract.
Giles came in, pink shirt, loud tie and sharp pinstriped suit beneath a dull brain.
‘Morning,’ I said.
‘Oh, morning, David,’ he said nervously.
I looked up sharply. Bosses shouldn’t be nervous, certainly not at eight-thirty in the morning.
His eyes dodged mine and moved to his own computer.
‘Giles?’
‘Yes?’
‘What’s up?’
Giles looked at me, looked backed at his computer, realized there was no refuge there, and let his shoulders sag.
‘Giles?’
‘They’ve pulled their bid.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the Swiss have pulled their bid. They are convinced they won’t win. Apparently the Americans have the best local partners, and our boys have lost confidence in their own people. You know what Colombia’s like.’
‘No! I don’t believe it.’ I glanced at my spreadsheet. At the box-files stacked three feet high and two feet wide beside my desk. ‘So we just drop it?’
‘I’m afraid so, David. You know how it is. We only get paid if we back a winner.’
‘So I was right. Remember when we first saw them in Basel? I told you they were flaky then. They never were serious about making a bid.’
‘We don’t know that. Look, I know you’ve done a lot of work on this, but you have to get used to these things not coming off.’
‘Oh, I’m getting used to it all right. This is, what, the fifth in a row?’
Giles winced. ‘It will give us a chance to look at that sewage project in Malaysia. We can go to Dusseldorf on Friday and pin the deal down.’
‘Pin the deal down! Face it, Giles, you’ve never pinned a deal down.’
I had gone too far. I was right, of course, but because I was right I shouldn’t have said it. Giles appeared more hurt than angry.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
Giles closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, wincing under the strain. Then he opened them. ‘Get Michelle to book those flights, will you?’
We sat there staring at each other. We’d never get the Malaysian deal. I knew it and Giles knew it. Suddenly everything became very clear.
‘Giles.’
‘Yes?’
‘I resign.’
7
July 1987, Côte D’Azur, France
I awoke about nine, with the worst hangover I had ever experienced in my short drinking career. Guy was still asleep and I tried to stay in bed, but once I had woken up there was no going back. Besides, I needed to do something about my head. I wasn’t sure what — water, coffee, food, pills — but I had to do something.
I pulled on a T-shirt and some shorts and staggered out of the guest cottage. The morning sunshine was absurdly bright, and I stood still for a full minute with my eyes shut, gently swaying. Delicately I opened them, and saw that the table we had eaten at the night before was now laid for breakfast. Ingrid was sitting there, with some coffee and croissants. I stumbled over to her.
‘Morning,’ she said.
‘...’ I opened my mouth and no sound came out. I tried again. ‘Morning.’ It was a hideous croak.
Ingrid tried to suppress a smile. ‘Are you always this sprightly in the morning?’
‘God,’ I said. ‘I’m never going to drink Pimm’s again. How come you look so good?’
And she did. She was wearing a light denim dress. Her skin shone golden in the morning sunlight, and her pale-blue eyes smiled at me. ‘Practice.’
‘Really?’
‘Actually, not really. I think I must have a good head for it. I got myself in quite a lot of trouble last year over drinking so I try to stay clear of it.’
‘Trouble? What kind of trouble?’
‘Big trouble. I got thrown out of Cheltenham Ladies’ College.’
‘You did?’ That explained why she had arrived at Broadhill in the middle of the A-level syllabus. I squinted at her in the strong morning sunlight. ‘You don’t look much like a Cheltenham Lady to me.’
‘I beg your pardon? You haven’t seen me in my uniform.’
‘That’s true.’ Broadhill didn’t have a uniform. Or rather it did, but it was imposed by the pupils and was far too complicated to be written down. I wasn’t even sure I understood it. Guy did, of course. So did Mel. ‘I bet your parents were proud of you.’
‘I think my mother thought it was quite funny. My father was furious, though. And since my mother doesn’t talk to my father her support didn’t help much. It was a bit unfair. It was a first offence and it was my birthday.’
‘And Broadhill didn’t mind?’
‘You know they have an appeal going for a new library?’
‘Yes.’
‘They got quite a large anonymous donation.’
‘Ah.’
The young North African gardener appeared on the other side of the pool and began weeding. Shirtless. Ingrid happily watched him, but I closed my eyes. The sun shone pink through my lids. A grasshopper started up somewhere very close. I winced. ‘Is anyone else up?’
‘Mel’s awake, but she’s still getting herself ready. She’s in a pretty bad way too. I haven’t seen Tony or Dominique. Or Owen. What about Guy?’
‘Asleep. Where did these come from?’ I asked, glancing at the croissants.
‘Miguel. Here he is.’
And he was. ‘Orange juice, monsieur?’ he said, bearing a large jug of the stuff.
‘Yes, please.’
He poured me a glass and I drained it, realizing that it was orange juice I craved. The cold sweet liquid made me feel very slightly better. Miguel understood and refilled the glass.
He noticed Ingrid’s glass was almost empty. ‘A senhorita aceita um pouco mais?’
‘Sim, por favor.’ He filled it. ‘É o suficiente. Obrigada.’
‘De nada.’
‘What the hell was that?’ I asked, as he withdrew.
‘Miguel’s Portuguese,’ she said.
‘Of course. Silly me.’ I sipped some more juice. ‘I can’t get over this place, can you? I mean having someone bringing you your breakfast in the morning.’ Then I paused. I really had no idea what Ingrid’s background was. ‘Sorry. Perhaps you’re used to it. You probably have a dozen places like this.’
She saw my hesitation and laughed. ‘You’re right. This is a nice place.’
‘Where do you live?’