‘Don’t you think Tom just might like to have a little triumph of his own, one that hadn’t been double-checked by the great Nat Cartwright? It was you, after all, who decided to trust her.’
‘I take your point,’ said Nat, as Luke clung to him as the plane touched down. ‘But do you mind if I phone him on Friday afternoon just to find out if our bid on the Cedar Wood project was successful?’
‘No, as long as you do leave it until Friday afternoon.’
‘Dad, will we travel in a sputnik?’
‘You bet,’ said Nat, ‘why else would you go to LA?’
Tom met Julia off the train from New York and drove her straight to City Hall. They walked in to find the cleaners just leaving after the debate the previous evening. Tom had read in the Hartford Courant that over a thousand people attended the event, and the paper’s editorial had suggested there wasn’t much to pick between the two candidates. He’d always voted Republican in the past, but he thought that Fletcher Davenport sounded like a decent man.
‘Why have we arrived so early?’ asked Julia, breaking into his thoughts.
‘I want to be familiar with the layout of the room,’ explained Tom, ‘so that when the bidding starts, we can’t be taken by surprise. Don’t forget, the whole thing could all be over in a few minutes.’
‘Where do you think we should sit?’
‘Half-way back on the right. I’ve already told the auctioneer what sign I intend to use when I’m bidding.’
Tom looked up towards the stage and watched as the auctioneer mounted the rostrum, tapped the microphone, and stared down at the tiny audience, checking everything was in place.
‘Who are all these people?’ asked Julia, looking around the hall.
‘A mixture of council officials, including the chief executive, Mr Cooke, representatives from the auctioneer’s, and the odd person who’s got nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon. But as far as I can see, there are only three serious bidders.’ Tom checked his watch. ‘Perhaps we should sit down.’
Julia and Tom took their places about half-way back on the end of the row. Tom picked up the sales brochure on the seat beside him, and when Julia touched his hand, he couldn’t help wondering how many people would work out that they were lovers. He turned the page and studied an architect’s mock-up of what the proposed mall might look like. He was still reading through the small print when the auctioneer indicated he was ready to begin. He cleared his throat.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘there is only one item to come under the hammer this afternoon, a prime site on the north side of the city known as Cedar Wood. The city council is offering this property with approval for commercial development. The terms of payment and regulatory requirements are detailed in the brochure to be found on your seats. I must stress that if any of the terms are not adhered to, the council is within its rights to withdraw from the transaction.’ He paused to allow his words to sink in. ‘I have an opening bid of two million,’ he declared, and immediately looked in Tom’s direction.
Although Tom said nothing and gave no sign, the auctioneer announced, ‘I have a new bidder at two million two hundred and fifty thousand.’ The auctioneer made a show of glancing round the room, despite the fact he knew exactly where the three serious bidders were seated. His eyes settled on a well-known local lawyer in the second row, who raised his brochure. ‘Two million five hundred thousand, it’s with you, sir.’ The auctioneer turned his attention back to Tom, who didn’t even blink. ‘Two million seven hundred and fifty thousand.’ His eyes returned to the lawyer, who waited for some time before he once again raised his brochure. ‘Three million,’ said the auctioneer, and immediately looked in Tom’s direction before saying, ‘Three million two hundred and fifty thousand.’ He returned to the lawyer, who seemed to hesitate. Julia squeezed Tom’s hand between the chairs. ‘I think we’ve got it.’
‘Three million five hundred thousand?’ suggested the auctioneer, his eyes fixed on the lawyer.
‘Not yet we haven’t,’ Tom whispered.
‘Three million five hundred thousand,’ repeated the auctioneer hopefully. ‘Three million five hundred thousand,’ he repeated gratefully as the brochure rose for a third time.
‘Damn,’ said Tom, taking off his glasses, ‘I think we must have both settled on the same upper limit.’
‘Then let’s go to three six,’ said Julia. ‘That way at least we’ll find out.’
Although Tom had removed his glasses — the sign that he was no longer bidding — the auctioneer could see that Mr Russell was in deep conversation with the lady seated next to him. ‘Have we finished bidding, sir? Or...’
Tom hesitated and then said, ‘Three million six hundred thousand.’
The auctioneer swung his attention back to the lawyer, who had placed his brochure on the empty seat beside him. ‘Can I say three million seven hundred thousand sir, or are we all finished?’
The brochure remained on the seat. ‘Any other bids from the floor?’ asked the auctioneer as his eyes swept the dozen or so people who were seated in a hall that had held a thousand the night before. ‘One last chance, otherwise I shall let it go at three million six hundred thousand.’ He raised his hammer and, receiving no response, brought it down with a thud. ‘Sold for three million six hundred thousand dollars to the gentleman at the end of the row.’
‘Well done,’ said Julia.
‘It’s going to cost you another hundred thousand,’ said Tom, ‘but we couldn’t have known that two of us would settle on the same upper limit. I’ll just go and sort out the paperwork and hand over the cheque, then we can go off and celebrate.’
‘What a good idea,’ said Julia, as she ran a finger down the inside of his leg.
‘Congratulations, Mr Russell,’ said Mr Cooke. ‘Your client has secured a fine property which I am sure in the long-term will yield an excellent return.’
‘I agree,’ said Tom, as he wrote out a cheque for three point six million dollars and handed it across to the council’s chief executive.
‘Is Russell’s Bank the principal in this transaction?’ enquired Mr Cooke as he studied the signature.
‘No, we are representing a New York client who banks with us.’
‘I am sorry to appear to be nitpicking about this, Mr Russell, but the terms of the agreement make it clear that the cheque for the full amount must be signed by the principal and not by his or her representative.’
‘But we represent the company, and are holding their deposit.’
‘Then it shouldn’t be too difficult for your client to sign a cheque on behalf of that company,’ suggested Mr Cooke.
‘But why...’ began Tom.
‘It’s not for me to try and fathom the machinations of our elected representatives, Mr Russell, but after the debacle last year over the Aldwich contract and the questions I have to answer daily from Mrs Hunter,’ he let out a sigh. ‘I have been left with no choice but to keep to the letter, as well as the spirit, of the agreement.’
‘But what can I do about it at this late stage?’ asked Tom.
‘You still have until five o’clock to produce a cheque signed by the principal. If you fail to do so, the property will be offered to the under-bidder for three point five million, and the council will look to you to make up the difference of one hundred thousand dollars.’
Tom ran to the back of the room. ‘Have you got your cheque book with you?’
‘No,’ said Julia. ‘You told me that Russell’s would cover the full amount until I transferred the difference on Monday.’
‘Yes I did,’ said Tom, trying to think on his feet. ‘There’s nothing else for it,’ he added, ‘we’ll just have to go straight to the bank.’ He checked his watch, it was nearly four o’clock. ‘Damn,’ he added, painfully aware that if Nat hadn’t been on holiday, he would have spotted the sub-clause and anticipated its consequences. On the short walk from City Hall to Russell’s Bank, Tom explained to Julia what Mr Cooke had insisted on.