Silver Bay (6 page)

I made my expression bland. I’m good at that. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, Neville. Did you have a question?’

‘I heard this was planned for South Africa and that you lost your site. There’s nothing on this document about where it’s going to be now. You can hardly expect us to consider investing in a holiday resort that has yet to find a site.’

The flicker in Dennis’s jaw betrayed his own surprise. How the hell had they found out about South Africa?

My voice cut through the air even before I knew what I was saying: ‘I’m not quite sure where your information has come from, but South Africa was only ever an option for us. Having examined our potential location there in some detail, we decided that it couldn’t provide our clients with the kind of holiday we had in mind. We’re looking at a very specialised market and we—’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why was South Africa unsuitable? My understanding is that it’s one of the fastest-growing holiday destinations in the world.’

My Turnbull and Asser shirt was sticking to the small of my back. I hesitated, wondering if Neville had any knowledge of the failure of our previous financing deal.

‘Politics,’ interjected Dennis.

‘Politics?’

‘It would have been an hour-and-a-half transfer from the airport to the resort. And whatever route we took would have brought us through some of the . . . shall we say less . . .
affluent
areas? Our research tells us that when they have paid a premium for a luxury holiday, clients don’t want to be confronted by abject poverty. It makes them . . .’ Please don’t smile sympathetically at their secretary, I pleaded silently. Too late. Dennis’s empathetic beam was as treacly as it was misjudged. ‘. . . uncomfortable. And that is the last emotion we want clients to feel at this resort. Joyous, yes. Excited, yes. Satisfied, of course. Guilty, or uncomfortable, at the plight of their . . . coloured cousins, no.’

I closed my eyes. I felt, rather than saw, the black secretary do the same.

‘No, Neville, politics and luxury holidays just do not mix.’ Dennis shook his head, sagely, as if delivering some oracle. ‘And that is the kind of detailed research on which we at Beaker Holdings pride ourselves before we embark on a major project.’

‘So you have an alternative site in mind?’

‘Not just in mind but signed and sealed,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit of a departure, but it avoids all the potential minefields of South Africa, and other parts of the third world. It’s full of English-speakers, it has a superb climate and it is, I can truly say, one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen. And in this line of work, Neville, you know as well as I do that there are some very beautiful destinations indeed.’

RJW Land had stolen the site from under our noses. Someone there must have tipped off Vallance. My mind raced: if RJW was attempting a similar development, would their people also have approached Vallance for funding? Were they attempting to sabotage our deal?

‘I can’t go into more detail,’ I said smoothly. ‘But I can tell you – in confidence – that there were other things we discovered about the South African site that suggested much lower future revenues. And, as you know, we’re all about maximising profit here.’

In truth, I knew almost nothing about the new site. Out of desperation we had used a land agent, some old mate of Dennis’s, and the deal had been closed only two days previously. I hated the sensation of flying blind.

‘Tim,’ I smiled, ‘you know I’m a boring sod when it comes to research, that there’s nothing I like better for my bedtime reading than a pile of analysis. Believe me, if I’d thought the South African site was going to work better in the long run, I wouldn’t have been so glad to let it go. But I like to go a layer deeper –’

‘Your bedtime reading is all very interesting, Mike, but it would be useful if—’

‘– and it’s really all about the margins. That’s the bottom line.’

‘No one cares about the margins more than us, but—’

Dennis held up a pudgy hand. ‘Tim. No. Not a word – because there’s something else I’d like to show you before we go any further. In fact, gentlemen, if you’d like to follow me through to the next room, we have a bit of fun lined up before we tell you exactly where it is.’

Venture capitalists, I mused, as we followed them, didn’t look as though fun was a high priority on their agenda. Some were positively disgruntled at having been uprooted from their comfort zone of boardroom table and leather-backed chair, muttering uneasily to each other. Then again, having come in half an hour late, I wasn’t sure what Dennis had in mind. Please don’t let him have asked Tina to dress up in a bikini, I prayed. I was still haunted by memories of the Hawaiian Hula Proposal.

But what Dennis had planned was quite different. Boardroom Two had been emptied of its table, chairs and pull-down screen. There was no two-way video link, or a tea trolley in the corner. What sat, huge, squat and foreboding, in the centre of the floor was a large piece of machinery, surrounded by inflatable blue tubing, its centrepiece a florid yellow surfboard.

We were all stunned into immobility by the sheer unlikeliness of the thing.

‘Gentlemen. Remove your shoes, and prepare to hang ten!’ Dennis held out an arm towards the machine. ‘It’s a simulator,’ he announced, when nobody said anything. ‘You can all have a go.’

The room was silent, bar the low hum of the surf simulator. It sat, an alien creature in this sea of grey, its flashing buttons gamely advertising that, should they want it, their surf experience could be accompanied by a Beach Boys tune.

I registered their expressions, and decided that the best way to rescue the situation was to divert them. ‘Perhaps the ladies and gentlemen would like a bite to eat first? A drink, perhaps? Tina, would you mind?’

‘Whatever you say, Mike,’ she said, catching my eye lazily. I could have sworn there was a sway to her walk as she left the room, but Dennis didn’t notice.

‘I just want to give you gentlemen an idea of how irresistible our proposal is. I had a little go earlier,’ he said, kicking off his shoes. ‘It really is quite good fun. If no one else is brave enough, I’ll show you how it works. You stand on here and . . .’ He had removed his jacket and the barely restrained bulk of his stomach hung over the waistband of his trousers. I was grateful, not for the first time, that Vanessa had inherited her mother’s genes. ‘I’ll start off with some little waves. See? It’s easy.’

To the strains of ‘I Get Around’, my boss, who in the past three years had overseen seventy million pounds’ worth of property investment, and has on his desk photographs of himself shaking hands with Henry Kissinger and Alan Greenspan, stood on the surfboard. His arms were raised in a parody of athleticism to reveal two dark patches of sweat. His buffoonish exterior was renowned for masking a razor-sharp business brain – although sometimes I had to wonder.

‘Switch it on, Mike.’

I glanced at the men behind me, trying to smile. I wasn’t sure that this was a good idea. It wasn’t the image I thought we should portray.

‘Just switch it on at the plug, Mike, and I’ll do the rest. Come on, Tim, Neville, you can’t pretend you don’t want to have a go.’

With a low whine, the surfboard jolted slowly into life. Dennis bent his knees and stuck one hand forward, wiggling his fingers. ‘What – I – haven’t – told – you, gentlemen, is that simulators will also – be – whoops!’ He struggled to keep his balance. ‘There we go . . . The simulators will be on site for clients to learn on before they go out on the water. It’s a complete – package.’

Even those who had never been on the water in their lives, he said, gasping with the effort, would be able to practise in private before exposing themselves to the gaze of their fellow holidaymakers. I don’t know if it was the bizarre improbability of this machine forming part of the proposal, or Dennis’s evident enjoyment, but within a few minutes even I had to admit that he was winning them over. I watched as Tim and Neville crept closer to the machine, sipping the champagne that Tina had handed to them.

Their finance man, a florid heavyweight called Simons, had already taken off his shoes, to reveal surprisingly threadbare socks, and the two junior members of their team were quoting at each other from the pages of surfing slang that Tina had prepared.

Dennis had imagination, I had to hand it to him.

‘What happens if we turn it up, Dennis?’ Neville was smiling. I wondered if that was a good sign.

‘Tina has given you – a – list,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I believe – I’ll be – whoops! “Catching a pounder.”’

Neville had moved closer. He took off his jacket and handed his glass to his secretary. ‘What level will you go to, Dennis?’

He was, I had guessed, one of nature’s competitors.

But so was Dennis. ‘Any you want, Nev. Turn her up,’ he cried, his face beaded with sweat. ‘We’ll see who can catch the biggest wave, eh?’

‘Go on, Mike,’ Neville urged. I smiled. They were all enjoying themselves. As Dennis had guessed, the simulator had drawn away their attention from the South African rumours.

‘I’ve always fancied a bit of the old surf,’ said Tim, removing his jacket too. Before them, the simulator whined and juddered under Dennis’s weight. ‘What level you on there, old chap?’

‘Three,’ I said, glancing at the dial. ‘I really don’t think—’

‘Come on, we can do better than that. Turn him up, Mike. Let’s see who can stay on longest.’

‘Yes, turn him up,’ the grey suits of Vallance Equity Financing chanted, the veneer of restraint peeled away by amusement.

I looked at Dennis, who nodded, then motioned towards the dial. ‘Come on, Mike old boy, bring on the waves.’

‘You’re stoked, Dennis!’ Tim was checking the surfing terminology. ‘The waves are gnarly, but you’re stoked!’

Despite his apparent gaiety, Dennis was now sweating profusely. He tried to smile, but I saw a hint of desperation in his eyes as he tried to stay aloft the now rapidly undulating board. ‘Want me to take you down a notch, Dennis?’ I offered.

‘No! No! I’m – stoked! How long have I been at level four, chaps?’

‘Take him to five!’ yelled Neville, stepping forward and grasping the dial. ‘Let’s see how he rides the – ah, the crunchers!’

‘I’m not—’ I began.

Afterwards, no one was sure how it had happened. Dennis was one of the few people in the room who had not drunk any champagne. But somehow the simulator was booted up to its highest level at the moment when Dennis’s balance failed him. With a terrible cry he was hurled clear of the surrounding inflatable cushions and across the boardroom, more swiftly than someone his size should have been, to land heavily on his hip.

It broke, of course. Those who hadn’t guessed that the impact would do it heard the sickening crunch. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that sound. It removed, for me, even the slender desire I’d felt to try the machine. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not one of nature’s risk-takers.

There was pandemonium. Everyone crowded round. Over the exclamations of concern and cries of ‘Call an ambulance!’ the surfboard gyrated and the Beach Boys sang on.

‘Australia, eh?’ said Neville, as Dennis was stretchered towards the lift. ‘Unforgettable presentation. We’re definitely interested. When you’re out of hospital we’ll talk more about the site.’

‘Mike will send you a copy of the site report. Won’t you, Mike?’ Dennis spoke through clenched teeth, his face grey with pain.

‘Sure.’ I tried to look as confident as he had sounded.

As he was loaded into the ambulance, he beckoned me closer. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll have to compile one.’

‘But the timing – the wedding—’

‘I’ll square it with Vanessa. Best you’re out of the way for most of the planning anyway. Book yourself a flight this afternoon. And for God’s sake, Mike, come back with a plan that’s going to make this site work.’

‘But we haven’t even—’

‘I’ll stall them as long as it takes for you to pull it together. But this is our biggest ever development. I want to know I was right to promote you, that you can bring it in.’

It didn’t occur to him that I might refuse. That I might put my personal life before the needs of the company. But, then, he was probably right. I’m a company man. A safe pair of hands. I booked the flight that afternoon. Business class in one of the Asian carriers was cheaper than economy in both my initial choices.

Four

Greg

What’s an okay time of day to start on the beer? According to my old man, any time after midday. He used to sink them like my mother sank cups of tea, cracking open a Toohey’s every couple of hours or so when he took a break from whatever house he was building.

He was a big bloke, and you’d never have known he was drinking that much. My mum reckons that was cos he was permanently drunk; cheerful in the afternoons, ebullient at tea, a little muzzy in the mornings from the night before. We never had the misfortune to deal with him stone-cold sober.

I believe the right time is around two p.m., unless I’m working, in which case it’s whatever time I bring
Sweet Suzanne
back in. You wouldn’t catch me drunk at the helm – whatever my faults, I’d never put my boat or my passengers at risk. But a cold beer at Kathleen’s, with the sun high in the sky and a few chips on the table, that’ll do me. Can’t see how anyone could object to that. Apart from my ex.

According to Suzanne, there’s never a good time for me to drink beer. She said I was a mean drunk, an ugly drunk, and drunk too often to make up for it. She said that was why she could no longer stand the sight of me. She said that was why I was losing my looks. She said that was why we’d never had kids – although she’d refused point-blank when I suggested she and I head for the doc to see if he could work it out. And I told her – I might not be an angel and I’m the first to admit I’m not the easiest bloke to be hitched to – there’s not a lot of men in Australia would volunteer to have their tackle tampered with, especially by another bloke.

But that was how bad I wanted kids. And that was why, as I left my solicitor’s office at eleven twenty-five – amazing how you keep track of time when you’re paying by the hour and it’s Saturday rates – I decided that, as far as I was concerned, eleven twenty-five a.m. was the perfect time to crack open a cold can of VB, even though it was chilly enough for me to be wearing my sweater, and the wind was too high to sit outside without turning blue.