Winner Takes It All (3 page)

‘
It’s always
been my intention to leave the running of the company to Michael,
with him being my only son. But…’ He looked at Alex, reaching out
and grasping her hand. ‘Alex has proven herself to be a competent
businesswoman in recent years and I feel as though I cannot leave
her out completely. So…’ He laughed. ‘And yes, I did get this idea
after watching
The Apprentice
. I am setting my two children
a one year challenge. I want Sheridans to move into hotels and
holidays. Alex, I want you to acquire three hotels for me – they
can be anywhere in Europe. Michael I want you to set up a package
holiday company. That means buying an airline as well. I don’t mind
what the destinations are, but we want to aim for the mid-market.
Cheap but decent, no Club 18-30 shenanigans.’

‘
Dad have you
lost your mind!’ Michael cried. ‘Why are you doing this? Sheridans
was always going to be mine.’

‘
Because your
sister shows great potential,’ Christian replied. ‘It would be
immoral to let you take over just because you’re my only male
child. That notion is old fashioned and out moded. It’s the twenty
first century and I want my company to be in the hands of someone
capable, regardless of their sex. If you really want to be the head
of Sheridans Michael, you’re going to have to prove to me you’re
worthy of it.’

The two men went on
bickering, while the other board members looked on in
embarrassment. Alex zoned them out and took stock of what her
father had just said. He was throwing her a lifeline; a chance to
snatch Sheridans from Michael’s grasp and stop him ruining
everything her grandmother had fought for and her father had built
up. Whatever it took, she would do it. Sheridans would be hers in
four years time and that she vowed to herself.

Two

Tom Montague opened his
eyes and the first thing that hit him was a wave of disappointment.
All his failures came up to greet him and caused him to groan and
stick his head back under the duvet, hoping he could make them
disappear. He could hear his housemates Jez, Mo and Stuart
chattering away in the kitchen and their noise was even more
irritating than usual today. All their presence did was remind him
of how poor he was - needing to rent out rooms in his house just to
keep afloat.

Desperate for the toilet,
he had to venture out of bed, running into his shabby en suite
bathroom, and as the urine flowed from him, so did any hope he held
in his heart that things might turn out well. What sort of idiot
was he to write a musical version of
Venus in Furs
by
Leopold von Sacher-Masoch and think it could be a hit? It was
hardly a feel good show like Mamma Mia or Billy Elliot. Not many
people liked to even acknowledge sado-masochism existed, let alone
watch it and sing along.

He washed his hands and
stumbled back to bed, deciding there was no point in getting up.
There would be another performance tonight, but he had no intention
of attending. What was the point?

Any hope of sleep was
dashed when his mobile started to ring. Deciding it was probably
one of the actors from the show offering their resignation, he let
it go onto voicemail. It was all so horrible he couldn’t bear to
face anyone. When the phone bleeped to say he had a message, he
dared to pick it up and on checking to see who’d called him, saw it
was his cousin Jackson. Tom’s blood ran cold – Jackson had financed
the whole thing and word would have got back to him in New York
that it had all been a spectacular flop and he’d be baying for
blood. Jackson Pearce wasn’t the sort of person you let down and
got away with it.

Tom dared to call his
voicemail service and prepared himself for his cousin spitting
venom.

‘
Hi Tom,’ he
began, sounding remarkably chipper. ‘Sorry to hear about the play
and all that. Look, I’m in London for a while. Can we meet up? We
need to discuss getting you out of your current situation. Call
me.’

Tom ended the call and
lay staring at his phone, wondering why Jackson was so upbeat about
the whole thing when he’d just lost a hundred and fifty thousand
pounds. He couldn’t ring him now; it was too early for his brain to
work. He’d only end up saying the wrong thing.

Tom and his mother Fiona
were the blacksheep of the family. Sorcha, his grandmother had
disowned her daughter when she became pregnant at twenty two, out
of wedlock and even worse, to an Irish catholic! Fiona had rebelled
against all that was expected of her and went to art college
instead of finishing school like her sister Annabel. When she met
Irish journalist Declan O’Keefe, all of Sorcha’s worst nightmares
came true. O’Keefe had been in prison for writing against British
involvement in Northern Ireland and the fiercly protestant Sorcha
had gone apoplectic. Even though Declan walked out on her before
Tom was born, Fiona was quickly written out of Sorcha’s will and
given a small trust fund by her father Lord Montague and a house in
Camden to live in. From then on she’d had to make her own way in
life. Unlike his wealthy cousins, Tom had gone to state school and
had only come into money at twenty one when a trust fund set up by
his grandfather came to fruition. It gave him enough money to buy
his house in Fulham and by renting out rooms, he didn’t have to
work and could dedicate himself to his writing.

And how illustrous this
writing career had been. A play rejected by the BBC; a stage play
that had achieved moderate success on the fringe and now this, ‘My
Venus’, a musical written by him and his best mate Kev, and
financed by cousin Jackson. His Aunt Annabel defied Sorcha and
remained in contact with the exiled Fiona, therefore Tom had grown
up knowing his cousins Jackson and Anna and was always made to feel
grateful for being allowed contact with them – after all, he was
soiled with Irish Catholic blood.

Before calling Jackson,
he decided on some breakfast. Getting out of bed and dragging
himself into the bathroom, he had a shower and then looked at
himself in the mirror, deciding not to shave. His beard was almost
designer now, the dark hair looked good against his blue eyes. He
was still good looking in a certain light, if not a little craggy.
He brushed his teeth then threw on a t-shirt and jeans and stumbled
down to breakfast. The only person left in the kitchen was Mo. She
was a loudmouthed, hard-drinking Scots girl who looked like
Chrissie Hynde but spoke like Rab C Nesbitt. She funded her way
through life by working as a lap dancer and on lonely nights (which
were often), Tom would find himself fantasising about
her.

She was making herself
some toast and singing along to the radio, wearing just an apricot
coloured silk teddy that showed off her magnificent body. The
reaction it had on Tom made him realise he’d been without a woman
for too long.

‘
Do you want
some?’ she asked and it took him a moment to realise she was
talking about toast.

‘
I’d love
some, and a mug of tea if you’re making it.’

She looked round at him
with those smoky dark eyes and a sly smile on her face and he could
swear she was flirting with him.

‘
How did last
night go?’ she asked.

‘
Three people
turned up,’ he groaned. ‘Three fucking people Mo, and the first
reviews that came in for the opening night were atrocious. I’m done
for.’

‘
Lots of shows
start off bad.’ Mo said. ‘It might improve.’

‘
It’s been
like that for three nights Mo, and each time the people who had
managed to stay till the end booed.’

Mo slumped down at the
table beside him, passing him a plate of hot buttered
toast.

‘
It’ll be
okay,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Lots of playwrights have shit
beginnings but they go onto be massive. You’re going to be the
same, you trust your auntie Mo.’

Even breakfast in the
company of the lucscious Mo did nothing to raise Tom’s spirits. He
returned to his bedroom with the intention of spending the day in
bed once he’d phoned Jackson. Maybe the time had come for him to
get a proper job. He thought about all the shitty things he’d done
before inheriting the house – selling popcorn in a cinema, working
behind the bar of a scruffy pub in the middle of a council estate,
cycle courier on a bike that didn’t work properly. He’d hated every
single minute of it. He was creative and witty – surely there was a
job out there he could do that required those skills.

Jackson answered the
phone almost immediately, making Tom jump.

‘
Tom hi,’ he
chirped in that strange mid Atlantic accent of his. He’d spent the
first three years of his life in Sydney before the family relocated
to London. Finally settling in New York when he was thirteen.
‘How’s it going?’

‘
Pretty
bad.’

‘
Now that’s
not the attitude. Look, I’m a loose end, why don’t you join me for
lunch?’

‘
I’m skint
mate.’

‘
Please, don’t
insult me. Come over to the Carlton. Lunch is on me.’

Tom felt strangely choked
by Jackson’s benevolance. After all, he’d just lost him a
considerable amount of money.

‘
Thanks, I’ll
see you in an hour.’

‘
And you’d
better put on a shirt Tom. They’re a bit fussy here.’

Tom walked to Fulham
Broadway, hoping he had enough money on his Oyster Card to get him
over to Marble Arch. His housemates’ rent wasn’t due for another
three days and until then he was skint. He looked in every window
he passed, checking out his appearance, hoping he looked smart
enough. Tom didn’t have much call for suits and the only smart
clothing he owned was a pair of black trousers and a white shirt he
wore when he’d done some waiting at The Ivy. He ruefully recalled
his time at the celebrity restaurant; twenty one and cocky,
convinced it would be like in the movies and he’d save some rich
actor or producer from choking on their escargot and they would
repay him by offering to help him with his big Hollywood break.
Instead, all that had happened was that he’d spilt a glass of wine
over Sir Michael Caine and had been promptly sacked.

Jackson was waiting for
him in the Club Room of the hotel. It was the area for VIPs only;
men rich enough to afford the ridiculous prices charged for drinks
and food. Jackson Pearce cut a dashing figure; his suit was
designer, his dark hair was swept from his brow and he had
inherited his Australian father’s rugged complexion. Next to him
Tom felt more scruffy than ever. After shaking hands with him, Tom
sat down, looking around at the other well dressed men in here,
wondering what they thought of him.

‘
Are you
eating Tom?’ Jackson asked.

‘
No thanks
mate, I had some toast before I came out thanks.’

‘
Bet I can
tempt you with a drink though.’

‘
Scotch would
be good.’

With a click of his
fingers, Jackson summoned over the waiter, ordering two scotch on
the rocks. He then turned his full attention to Tom, smiling
wolfishly, like the cat who’d got the cream.

‘
So how much
have you taken in total?’ he asked.

‘
Three hundred
and fifty pounds,’ Tom replied quietly. ‘I can’t pay the cast
beyond Friday, it’s going to have to close.’

‘
These things
happen,’ Jackson shrugged. ‘First rule of business, accept
failure.’

‘
It’s
different for you,’ Tom couldn’t help but snap. ‘Your father gave
you an advertising agency to run for your twenty first birthday. If
one of your campaigns doesn’t work, it won’t affect the rest of
your life. For me, everyone will remember me as the guy who wrote
the attrocious play no one wanted to see.’

‘
Well it’s no
wonder you haven’t got anywhere with that sort of defeatest
attitude. Do you think Shakespeare’s first play was a major
success? I doubt it. What we’ve got to do now is work out how
you’re going to get out of this mess.’

‘
Pay you back
you mean?’

‘
I don’t want
your money Tom,’ Jackson said with a wave of the hand. ‘I paid
myself that one hundred and fifty thousand as a bonus at Christmas.
What I’m interested in is how you can repay me in other
ways.’

‘
I don’t
understand.’

The waiter brought the
drinks and Tom drank his rather too quickly, feeling the need for
something to steady his nerves. He was rather nervous about what
Jackson was going to ask of him.

‘
Word reaches
me that Christian Cusack is giving up the running of Sheridans in
four years time.’

‘
Oh yes? Who’s
going to take it over?’

‘
Well it was
always going to be Michael, his son. But seeing as he’s a complete
waste of space, Christian has set a challenge between Michael and
Alex, his eldest daughter and the one who proves themselves is the
one who gets to run the company. But, seeing as Michael is an
alcoholic and Alex is just a silly girl who doesn’t know very much.
I think this is the perfect opportunity for Sheridans to return to
its rightful owners.’

‘
Who?’ Tom
frowned, a sick feeling in his stomach telling him he was about to
be dragged into his family’s machinations.

‘
Us of
course.’ Jackson leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Fire was in his eyes and he was obviously excited at the thought of
revenge. ‘Come on Tom, you must know some of the family
history.’