Corruption's Price: A Spanish Deceit (15 page)

She felt her phone vibrate. She would check it later when she had some privacy. It was probably her Aunt Annie's weekly message enquiring how she was.

Friday: Madrid and Alcobendas

Marta aspired to be calm and relaxed on the AVE. When boarding in Valencia she was in a model state of mind. That peace of mind had lasted for a good hour but was smashed by the expected call from Estefanía. As her carriage was full, it being the morning commute AVE to Madrid, their conversation had needed to be full of indirection on her part.

It had been a longer discussion than anticipated. Estefanía had initially been irritated that Marta had taken it upon herself to expose FyP, as Estefanía had characterised it, in front of ORS. For nearly forty minutes her objections had gradually dissolved into a reluctant agreement by which Marta could find out, on behalf of FyP, whether it was possible to negotiate some reduction.

The long and short of Estefanía's position appeared to be that she really did not want to repay anything from her personal funds because it would give her soon-to-be ex-husband cause to be even more suspicious, as well as greedier, and thereby expect more from their divorce settlement. Similarly, she could not authorise FyP to pay; loan refinancing negotiations were ongoing. FyP, like so many Spanish retail companies, had expected
la crisis
to be short-lived and had taken on piles of short-term debt in order to offer cheap financing to encourage customers to buy. Unfortunately,
la crisis
persisted longer than anticipated, along with the need to finance customers to sustain sales and despite rising failure rates where too many consumers were not repaying on schedule, if at all. For FyP this was a cash flow nightmare. Estefanía's only consolation was that FyP was not unique, though this did not help when European banks had turned lending averse, even to established and profitable businesses like hers.

After the call had finished, Marta's smartphone immediately beeped again, this time warning her that the battery was down to 30 per cent. She had searched for her phone charger. This would not be a problem. One of the best aspects about the AVE was that it featured a power socket with or between most seats.

Suddenly realisation dawned. She had left the charger at home. She remembered putting it out to bring with her. Yet she had inexplicably failed to pick it up. She cursed her stupidity. Now she carried a smartphone with less than 30 per cent life. Bitter experience said that the last third always disappeared faster than the first 70 per cent. This was probably an illusion, like with petrol in a car's tank. But she knew it would unnerve her, at least until her smartphone was recharged. The solution was essentially simple: buy another charger. But this could not be until after the ORS meeting.

She felt tendrils of fluster and unease. This was what she did not need, especially after working so hard to gain Estefanía's approval.

The AVE pulled into Atocha. There was the usual long walk from the platform through the raised Arrivals concourse. She had originally decided to take the local connector train through to Charmartin, as this was included in the AVE ticket price, followed by a cab to ORS. What she had forgotten was that the C4 train went directly from Atocha to Charmartin before going through to Alcobendas. Even better, it was a C4 train that came first. She boarded, knowing she would still need a taxi at the far end, given Alcobendas' sprawl.

Drawing into Alcobendas station she saw taxis waiting. Before long she was in a small café not far from the ORS address. She ordered a
café solo
and some water to take to a table. She had 45 minutes in hand, enough for a quick call to Salvador, thus allowing time to gather her thoughts and watch the battery percentage relentlessly count down. She could not keep her eyes away.

Forty minutes later she paid for her coffee and crossed the road to the ORS offices. She took the elevator to the third floor thinking it was not an impressive building, more like 'just another modern, tasteless office edifice', which she supposed described most of Alcobendas. What was it somebody had said on the radio? Was it, "The only product of note to originate from there was Penélope Cruz"? She knew she was trying to distract her nerves.

In the ORS reception she asked for Señor Garcia-Martín and was greeted with a smile before being taken to a conference room. The assistant explained that Señor Garcia-Martín would join her in five to ten minutes but meantime she would be looked after by two ladies working on laptops on opposite sides of a large round table. They were introduced to her as Emilia and Caterina. They looked in their mid-thirties, spoke awkward Spanish with an accent she could not place. Politely they offered her refreshments. She declined, explaining about the café.

What Marta did notice was Caterina recharging a smartphone from the USB port on her laptop. Tentatively she asked Caterina if it was a microUSB cable she was using and, if so, whether she might recharge her own smartphone during the meeting. Caterina obligingly unplugged her own smartphone and connected Marta's. The red light indicated charging had started just as Felipe Garcia-Martín walked in. He introduced himself, offering a business card and asked how ORS might help.

Ninety minutes later Marta reeled out of the conference room. She almost forgot her smartphone and would have if Caterina had not held it up, showing her the green light of a full charge before disconnecting and handing it back. Marta thanked Caterina, who had said little compared to Felipe Garcia-Martín. It was he who had directed the discussion, with the other lady providing supporting detail and documentation.

On exiting the building the two main impressions she had were that ORS was unable to agree any reduction without formal authorisation from each of its clients. This made business sense. On the other hand, ORS was prepared, given
la crisis,
to recommend that its clients accept any offer that represented a substantial percentage of what ORS believed was owed. It was up to FyP to make the offer.

Regarding the other impression, Marta was convinced that these people were serious. Emilia had the documentation, even suggesting additional areas, like invoicing for goods supplied at prices higher than negotiated, were open for investigation. Marta knew this was an issue that Estefanía definitely would not want ORS to pursue.

She hoped she had been convincing. Now she needed to sit back and consider, before talking to Estefanía and later Alfredo with Puri. She waved down a taxi, which took her to the Hotel Santo Mauro, where she could, metaphorically, catch her breath. At least she now had a fully-charged phone which should last until returning home. That was one positive outcome from the meeting: she would not have to search for, or pay for, a charger.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Unexpected Bounties

Saturday: Marta

Marta awoke feeling good. The beds in the Santo Mauro were delectably comfortable, the temperature was right and she loved the sheer luxury of the room. Everything was thought through although, she had to confess, the bedclothes were a mess.

That was not the hotel's fault. She guessed it was inevitable after the excitements that she and 'her mister' had enjoyed before he had graciously returned to his room next door. Salvador did arrange things well.

First things first. The time? Just after eight in the morning. Now was a good moment to call home and confirm that she would be back on a late afternoon train and should be ready to leave at nine for the socialite dinner her husband insisted they attend. It would keep her husband happy, though in her view it made no difference to either of them. Salvador's consideration in booking separate rooms and leaving her in the early morning meant each could respond discreetly to family demands as needed without creating embarrassment.

Her next task was the bathroom and that wonderful-looking Jacuzzi. Twenty minutes were available before needing to start her preparation for Salvador. He would come to share breakfast at ten, after which they would have all morning in bed before a late lunch and taking the train back. Even better they would be able to travel together, though they would turn up at Atocha separately. They had reserved seats apart and would 'encounter' each other as if by accident in the bar carriage. All was planned.

Marta stepped into the Jacuzzi, set the controls and relaxed into its swishing waters. She thought back over yesterday. It had not started well, with the Estefanía conversation being compounded by the absence of the smartphone charger. The ORS meeting was going to require deeper consideration but it was at ORS that the day changed as her battery problem was solved. That had been such a relief. Indeed, not having to devote time to buy a new charger enabled her to frequent some of those delightful shops in Barrio de
S
alamanca and buy a dress and new 'sub-surface accoutrements', plus some lovely shoes, expressly for yesterday evening.

Arriving at the Santo Mauro she found she had her own room, along with a note stating that Salvador would meet her in the bar downstairs at eight, plus he had booked a place for paella nearby. Her nose had been put a touch out of joint regarding the last item. Paella in Madrid? Paella was the only Valenciano food speciality, and that was being generous.

Estefanía had been called to arrange to meet on Monday. The next call to Puri had confirmed that talking to her and Alfredo would be possible on Sunday. Finally her husband had been happy to hear that she had been busy Friday evening because he had been offered a late ticket to join a box at the Mestalla to watch Valencia play someone – Villareal, she seemed to recall. The game was at 10 p.m. and he had expected prolonged drinking afterwards, especially if Valencia won. Football and talking about football was not for her.

Next she had chosen to spend a short time working her abs and toning her legs before embarking on a languorous shower. Dressing for eight o'clock had alone taken almost an hour, but it was worth the effort. By the time she arrived at the bar she knew she was gorgeous. Not only Salvador but the gallant, elderly couple at the next table had all conveyed their appreciation.

The paella turned out to be far better than anything she had ever had in Valencia. What an irony.

Furthermore, other than the glass of cava in the bar, Salvador had taken control, forbidding any alcohol with dinner, alleging that mutual deprivation would only enhance what was to come. And it had, especially later when Marta discovered a bottle of Bollinger in her room awaiting deployment, and not necessarily from a glass.

Yes, all was almost well with the world. She could look forward to more hours of hedonism before having to face the world outside. She supposed she should finish her Jacuzzi, not wanting to resemble a prune when Salvador appeared, however delightfully perfumed the prune might be.

Now all Marta had to decide was what to wear for breakfast. Hmmm. She smiled in inner appreciation of what they proved so ably and so often to be able to do for each other.

Saturday: Caterina

Coincidentally, around the same time as Marta was stretching out in the Santo Mauro bed, Caterina was waking up with Davide gently snuffling beside her with a beatific smile on his face. That must be one nice dream. She hoped it included her but decided not to wake him to find out. She needed to arrange her head.

On Thursday Caterina had been simply too embarrassed to think of telling Emilia anything. If Emilia knew what really had happened on Wednesday night she would never let Caterina live it down. The whole world, at least back home, would know in nanoseconds: that was Emilia for whom all personal indiscretions were public property.

Settling back, now fully awake, she recalled leaving Emilia before entering Davide's room on Wednesday night. She hoped it had not shown but she had been nervous. She'd had no need to be. Davide was already in bed, dead to the world.

From extreme nervousness she had passed to feeling stupid. Instead of breaking the ice as intended, she was faced with a comatose companion, which was hardly surprising given the amount of wine they had drunk. Caterina knew, intuitively, she could not return to the
salon
or her own bedroom, at least not until Emilia was asleep. Not knowing what next to do she had lain down, fully dressed, on Davide's other side.

The next thing she knew was Davide waking her on Thursday morning. He was fully-dressed, clean-shaven and disgustingly alert. To her astonishment she had no hangover. That water must have helped. Maybe it was, as Davide always argued, because good wine did not produce horrible headaches.

She sat up, astonished. When lying down on top of the bed Caterina was sure she had been fully dressed. Now she lay between the sheets in bra and knickers only, while her other clothes were folded on the chair beside her.

Davide remained silent, handing her a bathrobe and towel, indicating towards his bathroom before leaving her to decide what to do. She headed for her own bedroom, bathroom and toothbrush, praying that Emilia was as late getting up as usual.

Afterwards the three of them had gone for their usual breakfast in a local bar before heading to ORS.

Thursday had passed in a blur. At no point did she find an opportunity to be with Davide alone. What did he think? Was he angry, offended, upset? She had run out of possibilities. Damn him for being a Brit, impossibly polite to the point of being maddening and unclear.