This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles 7)

Virginia smiled sweetly up at her stepdaughter. She was about to walk back to the taxi, but paused for a moment to give the two vases one last look. She then bent down, and with all the strength she could muster, lifted one of them high above her head like an Olympic weightlifter. After holding it there for a moment, she allowed it to slip from her fingers. The exquisite five-hundred-year-old national treasure bounced down the stone steps, before finally shattering into a hundred pieces.

Lights began to go on all over the house, and the words “fucking bitch” were among the more restrained of Camilla’s opinions.

Warming to her task, Virginia stepped forward as if to take a curtain call. She picked up the second vase and, like the first, raised it high above her head. She heard the door open behind her.

“Please, no!” shouted Clarence, as he leapt forward, arms outstretched, but Virginia had already let go of the vase and, if anything, the second irreplaceable Chinese masterpiece broke into even more pieces than the first.

Virginia walked slowly down the steps, making her way carefully through a mosaic of blue and white broken porcelain, before climbing into the waiting taxi.

As the driver began the journey back to Chelsea, he looked in his rearview mirror to see his passenger had a smile on her face. Virginia didn’t once look back to survey the carnage, because this time she’d read the legal document clause by clause, and there was no mention of what condition the two Ming vases should be in when they were returned “on or before October 19th.”

As the cab turned right out of Eaton Square, the clock on a nearby church struck twelve.

SEBASTIAN CLIFTON

1984–1986

39

“YOU ASKED TO SEE ME, chairman.”

“Can you hang on for a moment, Victor, while I sign this check? In fact, you can be the second signatory.”

“Who’s it for?”

“Karin Barrington, following her triumph in the London Marathon.”

“Quite right,” said Victor, taking out his pen and signing with a flourish. “A fantastic effort. I don’t think I could have done it in a week, let alone in under four hours.”

“And I’m not even going to try,” said Seb. “But that wasn’t why I needed to see you.” His tone changed, once the small talk the English so delight in before getting to the point, had been dispensed with. “I need you to step up to the plate and take on more responsibility.”

Victor smiled, almost as if he knew what the chairman was about to suggest.

“I want you to become deputy chairman of the bank, and my right hand.”

Victor didn’t attempt to hide his disappointment. Seb wasn’t surprised, and only hoped he would come around, if not immediately, at least in the long term.

“So who’ll be your chief executive?”

“I intend to offer that job to John Ashley.”

“But he’s only been with the bank for a couple of years, and rumor has it that Barclays are about to invite him to head up their Middle East office.”

“I’ve heard those rumors too, which only convinced me we couldn’t afford to lose him.”

“Then offer him the deputy chairmanship,” said Victor, his voice rising. Sebastian couldn’t think of a convincing reply. “Not that there would be much point,” continued Victor, “because you know only too well he would see that role as nothing more than window dressing, and rightly turn it down.”

“That isn’t how I see it,” said Seb. “I consider it to be not only a promotion, but an announcement that you are my natural successor.”

“Balls. Have you forgotten we’re the same age? No, if you make Ashley the CEO, everyone will assume you’ve decided he’s your natural successor, not me.”

“But you’d still be in charge of foreign exchange, which is one of the bank’s most lucrative departments.”

“And reports directly to the CEO, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Then I’ll make it clear that in future you report directly to me.”

“That’s nothing more than a sop, and everyone will know it. No, if you don’t feel I’m up to being managing director, you’ve left me with no choice but to resign.”