Two Women

Two Women

Brian Freemantle

To Charlotte, who said it was her turn.

With love.

We will use the full weight of the law to expose and root out corruption … When abuses like this begin to surface in the corporate world, it is time to reaffirm the basic values that make capitalism work. There can be no capitalism without conscience, no wealth without character.

US President George W. Bush, demanding ‘new ethics of personal responsibility' from American business leaders after a series of Wall Street scandals. 10 July, 2002

One

A
lice said: ‘It's all right.'

‘It's not. I love you.'

‘We don't have to
make
love every time to prove we're
in
love. That just makes it screwing. Ugly.'

John Carver turned away, his back to her.

She said: ‘It's not just this, is it?'

‘This didn't help.'

‘Do you want to talk about it?'

‘It's business. Boring.'

‘Business's never boring.' Alice Belling had graduated from Harvard Business School with a letter of introduction to a Boston stockbroking firm and the overly confident and quirky idea of turning her degree thesis on corporate avarice eroding American entrepreneurialism into an Op-Ed commentary for the
Wall Street Journal
. Unable to decide which to try first she wrote off to both at the same time. The Op-Ed piece, which prompted two more articles and two days of top-of-the-page correspondence, was published three days before Alice got an invitation to join the stockbrokers. Her choice was a freelance media career, specializing in analyses and commentary on global finance and corporate stock market movements and trends. In the past year she'd exposed insider dealing and profit inflation in two multinationals just prior to new bond issues.

‘Business and family,' further qualified Carver.

‘Involving Jane?'

‘It's complicated.'

‘Turn around and talk to me properly,' insisted Alice. ‘And hold me. I like it when you hold me.'

He turned back, reaching out for her, and she came easily, comfortably, into his arms. She said: ‘You're wonderful.'

‘So are you.'

‘You know what I'd like?'

‘What?'

‘To go up to the cabin again soon.'

‘I've got the annual conference.'

‘I didn't mean
now
. Just soon. It's been more than two months.' They'd taken a long time finding the perfect wood-built cabin in the Bearfort Mountains, alongside a small river feeding into one of the West Milford lakes. On the bedroom bureau Alice had a time-release photograph of herself and Carver there – she with her hand in front of her face because she hadn't been ready when the shutter clicked – and another in the living room. Carver was by himself in that shot, wearing a lumberjack shirt and hiking boots and proudly displaying the fish he'd caught, his first ever, on their initial visit.

‘Let's get the conference out of the way. One or two other things. We'll make a long weekend out of it. And you can take the toy.' One of the rituals involved in the visits to the Catskills was their going in Alice's carefully preserved Volkswagen, her proudest souvenir of her college days.

‘Thank you. And you can fish again.'

‘I'm sorry that today …'

‘Stop it!'

‘You know what I wish?'

‘I don't want to go that route, either,' refused Alice. ‘You can't, we both know it and I accept it. I'm happy the way things are with us. It's enough.' She clamped his leg between both of hers, bringing them tightly together, she slightly on top of him. ‘How was George's birthday this weekend?'

George W. Northcote was Carver's father-in-law and founder of the Wall Street accountancy firm that bore his name and represented a forty-year symbol of propriety and rectitude. Carver said: ‘He came over for dinner. Jane gave him some golf clubs which he looked at as if they'd come out of an Egyptian tomb.'

‘How is he?' The affair between Carver and Alice had developed from their meeting when she had come to Wall Street to interview Northcote for a profile for
Forbes
magazine. Northcote had a copy framed.

‘Not so good. He even sometimes forgets the end of his sentences and gets mad when anyone tries to help.'

‘He told me he was frightened of retiring. Of atrophying with nothing to do,' Alice remembered, from their interview.

‘The problem is his still trying to do too much: he's refusing to let go of a few clients to give himself the reason to come into the city at least two days a week.'

‘His firm, his name?' she anticipated.

‘No one can ever be as good as he is, in George W. Northcote's opinion,' Carver agreed. Holding her like he was, naked, was enough for him today, too.

‘What are the other partners saying?'

‘So far there haven't been any major mistakes for them to discover but I am going to have to keep a check on what he does to make sure it stays that way: he hasn't yet realized I'm doing it but I feel like a goddamned spy going behind his back, conspiring against him.'

‘You're talking the firm:
his
firm, with his name on it.'

‘That's exactly what I'm talking about,' agreed Carver again. ‘A firm he might be endangering!'

‘You're just putting off confronting him: postponing it.' They never discussed it, secure as they were with each other, but Alice knew that despite self-confidence verging on arrogance Carver would always be intimidated by the overwhelming personality of George Northcote – the sheer physical presence, even, of someone 6'5" tall and weighing almost 200lbs.

‘You imagine I haven't worked that out!'

They'd never before seriously argued – fallen out – and Alice, who had never felt intimidated by anyone, was unsettled by the unexpected vehemence in his voice. ‘So when's it going to happen?'

‘Maybe even today. He's in town. And there are things he needs to explain.'

‘Then demand an explanation.'

‘I will.'

‘You talked to Jane about it?'

‘Not like this.'

Alice felt a brief warmth of intimacy. ‘Shouldn't you? She's his daughter.'

‘She's been proposed for the charity secretaryship at the country club. He's agreed to help her with the accounts. That's what the golf clubs were for, to try to get him to spend more time at the club.'

‘It'll get in the way of his other hobby.' One of the accompanying photographs in Alice's
Forbes
profile had portrayed Northcote in bib-and-brace overalls astride a tractor mower on which he frequently relaxed, supervising the gardeners at his weekend estate in upstate New York. The caption had given his Wall Street nickname of ‘Farmer George.'

‘Jane's not happy at his doing that any more, either. Thinks it's dangerous at his age.'

‘You don't think golf's going to be the alternative?'

‘He hasn't played regularly for years.' He hesitated. ‘Charity secretary will mean Jane staying up in the country more.'

Alice didn't say anything.

‘I could stay over sometimes.'

‘I'd like that.'

‘Would you?'

‘You know I would. When will she know?'

‘Soon. Certainly by the fifteenth.'

‘Let's hope she gets it.'

‘It's pretty guaranteed.'

‘Can you make Friday?'

He shook his head. ‘All the overseas executives are starting to arrive from Wednesday onwards for the conference.'

‘I've got another
Forbes
commission I can work on.'

‘You're soon going to need your own accountant!'

‘I thought I had one.'

‘You have.'

‘Call me. Let me know what we can fix.'

‘Of course. And it's a promise about the cabin.'

She shifted slightly, looking beyond him to the bedside table. ‘It's gone three already.'

‘These business lunches get longer and longer.'

‘You should be going. And I should be working.'

‘I'm sorry … I …'

‘Stop it!'

‘I've got a feeling that there's a serious problem,' he suddenly blurted.

Alice pulled away from him. ‘What?'

‘I want to be sure first.'

‘You're not making sense.'

‘That's the problem: it doesn't make sense.'

She separated from him entirely, going up on one elbow. The sheet fell away from her but she didn't try to cover herself. ‘Has George made a bad mistake?' She'd eulogized him in the profile, put her own judgement on the line.

‘He could have done.'

‘Then you've
got
to talk to him today.'

‘I know.'

He had chosen to talk it through with her, decided Alice, feeling a warm intimacy again. ‘Can you put it right?'

‘I don't know, not yet.'

‘It might help if you told me about it and we tried to think of a way together.'

‘I can't involve you.'

‘Darling! What
is
it?'

He shook his head, not speaking.

‘So it's bad?'

‘It could be.'

‘Could you be in serious trouble?'

‘It depends what I do.'

‘You know the answer to that – you've got to do the right thing. That's all you can do.'

‘It might not be that simple.'

‘Please let me help!'

‘I won't involve you any more than I already have,' he refused again. He twisted abruptly out of the bed but stayed sitting on its edge, his back towards her again. ‘I shouldn't have said anything.'

‘But you did. Now it's stupid to stop.'

‘I've got to speak to George.'

‘Then will you speak to me?'

‘I don't know. It depends.'

‘On what?'

‘Too many things that even I don't know about, not yet.'

‘You've frightened me.' That wasn't true. She was irritated at his refusal.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean … oh shit!'

‘We are going to talk about it,' Alice insisted. ‘If not now then soon. Talk about it and fix it.'

‘I'd like to think we could: that I could.'

‘We can.'

‘I have to go.'

‘Talk to him this afternoon.'

‘Yes.'

‘Call me later, if you can?'

‘If I can.'

Alice remained in bed, watching him dress, loving him. As he moved to leave she said: ‘Whatever it is, it can't be the end of the world.'

Carver kissed her, holding her tightly against him for several moments, but left without replying.

With the concentration upon the annual conference it was easier than usual for Carver to plan his days to include Alice, leaving himself with only two, easily satisfied clients and the morning's dictated letters to sign.

When he called his father-in-law, George Northcote said: ‘You just caught me. Got a meeting here in town tonight: staying over.'

‘We need to talk, George.'

‘Tomorrow. My meeting's at six, so we'll talk tomorrow. Lunch maybe?'

‘Now, George!' insisted Carver. ‘It's important.'

‘What the hell are you talking about?'

‘You. Me. The firm. Everything. That's what I think I'm talking about. Everything.'

Two

‘T
here'd better be a hell of a good reason for this!' greeted Northcote. The voice was big, like everything about the man. He remained seated at the antique desk, hunched over it, bull-shouldered beneath a mane of white hair. It was a familiar, confrontational pose Carver had seen the other man adopt dozens of times with IRS inspectors and company tax lawyers and opposition, challenging accountants.

‘I think there is,' said Carver. Or was he over-interpreting, imagining an aggressive defensiveness about the older man? Maybe. Or maybe not. There was enough for him to question this man who had always been unquestionable. Again the qualification came. The problem was that there wasn't enough. There was a huge, gaping black hole that had to be filled with something he could understand.