The Triple Goddess (49 page)

The personal nature of these encounters was initially limited: one could not address the gentlemen as other than “sir” because nobody knew their names, their signatures were illegible, and it was too late to inquire without appearing rude.

Perhaps intuiting that there was something nonconformist about the pair, and because it was after four-thirty—marine underwriters typically stayed open longer than those upstairs—and they were tired, and they could smoke, and they were in no hurry to get back to the office, the brokers soon found themselves telling the avuncular couple everything about themselves, and seeking their advice on matters relating to their personal lives.

Mr Nysely was a little man with a crinkly smile and ill-fitting dentures, and wispy hair that stood up again on his gnome-like dome the moment he smoothed it down. One imagined him living in a lattice-windowed cottage wreathed with roses and honeysuckle, and bicycling down the lane to the post office, wobbling as he tipped his hat to the ladies.

Mr Duesitt had an erect bearing and lustrous auburn locks, and, despite his public-school accent and military tie, a soft voice and ready wit. He probably had a capable wife who organized parish outings and coffee mornings.

Arbella bent down to speak into Nysely’s fuzzy ear.

‘Hullo!’ he said, pleased to see her. ‘How are you, my dear? Lovely day.’ Over his shoulder, Arbella caught sight of a broker entering who, having left his office without an umbrella, was wet through from the steady rain that had been falling since well before sunset—it was nearing the shortest day of the year.

She went through her story, including a great deal more about Sir Walter Ralegh than it was necessary to impart for the sake of a half per cent line; but she did not want Mr Nysely to feel that he was receiving less information than much bigger syndicates demanded, or that he should not feel free to ask any questions he might have. It was, after all, an unusual placement.

When she finished, Mr Nysely smiled broadly. ‘Goodness me, this is one for the record books, eh? Privilege to be asked, really. Brings back my history lessons.’

There followed a disjointed discussion of the life of Ralegh, and Tudor and early Jacobean times in general, matters in which Nysely was well versed. Then he reached a knotty hand into the bulging side-pocket of his jacket, which was centrally buttoned over a grey V-necked pullover, and withdrew his—or somebody’s—stamp, along with a tangle of string, a penknife, a packet of carrot seed, a stick of sealing wax, and an unwrapped sweet covered in fluff.

After breathing on the stamp and putting it down, Nysely was unable to find his pen, until Arbella pointed to the stain on his breast pocket that had leaked through from inside. The ink was less forthcoming in public, and he had to trace his line several times before he could coax it forth.

‘It’s not as much as I should like to write, my dear. But you can always come back at the end, if you need a little more to finish.’

‘Thank you very much, sir, I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Arbella, knowing that she would never impose upon him by doing such a thing. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

Mr Nysely took off his reading glasses and squinted at Mr Duesitt as if he were a whale blowing on the horizon. ‘Have you already seen the gentleman over there? I’m not sure what he writes, but he might take a fancy to this one.’

‘What a good idea. I’ll go and see him right away.’ As Nysely went into a trance, Arbella turned to where his neighbour had been optically touching up a few spaces on the ceiling that the artist, in his haste to complete the commission, had left blank.

When she coughed gently, Mr Duesitt started and greeted her with equally friendly courtesy. She repeated her summary word for word, and received the same contribution to her slip as she had from Duesitt’s unacknowledged colleague.

Next she visited the underwriter known as Cadger. Cadger begged, “borrowed”, and stole personal items from everyone, and brokers had to resign themselves to giving up something in return for a line every time that they went to him.

Objects that were most at risk were valuable accessories that they had forgotten to remove, such as rings, tie-pins and ties, cuff-links, watches, and pens. Those who had not taken precautions to leave them locked in the safe, which was provided for the purpose, in the office, and had only recalled the peril as they approached the box were quickly found out: flapping French cuffs, for example, or those secured with paper-clips, or the sight of a white strap-shaped patch on a broker’s wrist—even a similar line where a wedding band had been—would prompt a reprimand and a request that one empty one’s pockets onto the desk, so that Cadger could shroff the contents for the missing links or items.

Because Cadger wrote a substantial account, his larcenies were reluctantly regarded by the brokerage houses as a cost of doing business. Firms permitted their employees to submit their inadvertent losses, up to an amount determined according to a sliding scale formula with a maximum per single item, and per occurrence in the case of multiple objects, less depreciation, expressed as a ratio in proportion to the size of line secured and the premium and the contract limit, with one annual reinstatement only, for reimbursement on their expense reports.

The taking of a piece with an appraised value above a certain amount, or one that was irreplaceable, or an heirloom, or of sentimental significance, meant that an executive had to sign a personal letter to Cadger requesting its without-prejudice (i.e. it would be deemed not to create a precedent) ex gratia return in exchange for a complimentary dinner for two at the five-star restaurant of his choice.

More immediately recompensed was the short-sighted Chandler broker whose tortoiseshell Armani spectacle frames Cadger so admired—though he did not wear glasses himself, he knew someone he could flog them to—who, when he stumbled back to the office with a large line, en route sending a lorry on Leadenhall Street swerving into a lamppost, though the broker was in breach of the no-fault rule because he had unthinkingly taken his glasses off and twirled them as he was broking, was taken by a company driver to Visioncraft—Specsavers was undergoing refurbishment—fitted with a pair of National Health-quality frames and in-stock lenses, which roughly (this was pre- the Sight Testing Regulations 1989) compensated for his acute myopia and double astigmatism, and dropped back at Lloyd’s to continue the good work.

Broker-sympathetic syndicates in Cadger’s vicinity hung cloth bags on the backs of their boxes, where pedlars could park their wallets, watches, Hermès handkerchiefs, cigarette cases, hip flasks, and fountain pens, obtain a receipt from the entry boy, and reclaim the items afterwards. Cadger, however, was wise to the tricks that were played to deprive him of his dues. He made one spotted-in-the-act offender, whom he had never been able to relieve of so much as a pencil stub, remove his Turnbull & Asser shirt; and the individual was only able to avoid a debagging as well by promising to bring a leather travel humidor full of Havana cigars by the box the following day.

Cadger’s eyes were as bright as searchlights when he picked Arbella out on her way to see him, and roamed her person with greater than usual thoroughness as lust and avarice compounded within him.

‘Aha!’ he said, ‘and to what do I owe the pleasure? Not that I owe anything to anyone. I am debt free and it is the world which owes me, what a pleasure it is to be sure, to be sure. (Cadger was Irish) Tell me, young lady, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette about your lovely person, would you? I know you smoke. I could help you look, if you like, it would only take me an hour or so.’

Wisely Arbella had left her monogrammed cigarette case, which had been a present from her father, in the office; but she perched on the deliberately small amount of seat that Cadger made available next to him and insisted that she use, delved into her shoulder-bag, took out a box of handmade cigarettes, opened it and proffered them.

‘Well, well,’ said Cadger, cosying up as close to her as possible; ‘Morland Specials, not your usual brand. Very Double-O Seven.’ He closed the box and put it in his jacket pocket on the other side.

‘Do keep them if you want.’

‘Now then, darlin’, how about ten per cent in return for a kiss?’

The grapes of the petitioner’s lips became prune-like as she turned away. ‘You haven’t seen the slip yet. I’m sure your Names wouldn’t be happy to know—sir—that you’re prepared to play as fast and loose with their fortunes as you are with your morals.’

‘That’s a lovely blouse you’ve got on, but I’m not sure it’s my colour...what do you think, Sean?’ Cadger looked at his deputy, who affected to think before shaking his head.

Arbella mimped again. ‘From what I hear about your after-hours activities, sir, I gather you already have a sizeable wardrobe of women’s clothing. If you like, I’ve another I could bring you tomorrow which might suit you. It’s pink and frilly, the gift of a maiden aunt. You could wear it at one of your parties, with a short skirt and fishnet tights.’

‘Miaow!’ said Cadger, scratching the air. ‘That’s no way to get a line from me. And I’ll have you know I’m a happily married man.’ Those on the box laughed: their underwriter’s permanent state of marital disharmony was well known.

‘How many is it now?’ said Arbella, ‘I understood your last wife, the fashion model, got the house and you took her clothes and footwear in the settlement. It might have been an equitable split: you need the brassieres and you have dainty feet.’ Simon the entry boy, who was in love with Arbella, snickered, reddened, and went back to inventorying the day’s unofficial takings.

Cadger, aroused, gave Arbella a crafty look. ‘Come on, sweetheart, gimme a kiss. You can’t deny it to me now, it’s not like you to say such things. Better still, let me kiss you, just once, and I’ll write you a big line.’

‘Okay, for seven and a half per cent. But you must put the line down first, without reading the slip.’

‘Hm.’ Cadger’s eyes shifted from side to side. ‘Very well... there can’t be too much wrong with my agreeing to that. You only get small non-contentious stuff to place, don’t you, Arbella?’

Arbella unfolded the slip and covered the text with pads of A4 and blotting paper off the desk, and Cadger wrote his line. As soon as he was done, she snatched the document and presented it to Simon, who took it with reverence as if she had given him a love-letter. So faint did Simon feel at the slight scent arising from it, that he had difficulty focusing on the writing.

‘All righty then.’ Cadger obtruded his loach-like lips towards Arbella. ‘Pucker up.’

‘I’d rather be osculated by a frog. You may kiss my hand, briefly. I agreed to a kiss, that’s all, we never said where. Good underwriters understand the importance of definitions. Our word is our bond, but today it’s the back of my hand.’

A sick smile of defeat crossed Cadger’s face. Arbella held out her arm and looked away, as if she were about to have blood drawn, and when she pulled it back she took a bottle of Purell sanitizer from her shoulder-bag, squirted it on the affected area, and wiped it with a lace handkerchief.

Simon the entry boy, who had covered his eyes during the ghastly performance, uncovered them and found that he could see again sufficiently well to read.

‘What is it, damn you?’ Cadger, perplexed, was still trying to understand why Arbella should want to oscillate with a frog as Simon, who was looking at her more lovelorn than ever, had nudged his boss.

‘I think you’d better read this, sir.’

‘Why? Her business is so uncontentious that even a moron like you could deal with it.’

‘Oh, cool! Thank you, sir. I’m already allowed to do scratches and put down promised lines, so my initials and signature are already registered with the Bureau.’

‘Don’t be so bloody stupid,’ said Cadger, ‘she’s far too attractive to hand over to you. Anyway, what the hell are you talking about?’ He grabbed the slip.

After he had scanned it, Arbella plucked it from his nerveless fingers and went on her way. Her hand was clean, but she wished that there was time to go home and take a shower.

Chapter Thirty-Three

That was as much of the marine floor as Arbella could take. After a sandwich at the greasy spoon in the Fenchurch Street railway station forecourt, she returned to Lloyd’s and went upstairs, a maid on a mission. She saw immediately that the individual known as Ego, was open at his box.

Ego had one “lazy” eye that wandered independently of the other’s normal movement, and higher; so that, unless one could stay with the predictable one when addressing him, without getting distracted, one could not be sure whether Ego was looking at his interlocutor, the slip, out of the window, or at the ceiling or floor.

“Understandably the I-Man’s very sensitive about it,” said the Chandler broker who had been charged with introducing Arbella to the market when she joined; “so it’s important to act naturally with him, and to watch…well, you know…what you say.”

Ego was practising origami when Arbella arrived, but he put paper and scissors aside to give her his divided attention, goring himself slightly in the process. He did not seem to notice the injury, and judging from the many hairline scars on his hands, it happened a lot. By the time that Arbella had concluded her narrative, his unpredictable iris was crisscrossing the frying-pan of his face like an egg yolk on Speed.

‘I thought, sir,’ she said tentatively, ‘that someone like you who has a reputation for being so commercially
farsighted
...I mean, that is to say, who always has an
eye
to the main chance, might like to…