Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“How very kind of you.”

“Excellent. Will Friday suit you?”

“It certainly will.”

“Then let’s say one o’clock at the Athenaeum Club in Pall Mall.”

David returned to his City desk, picking up his tablets on the way. He took one immediately. He was beginning to enjoy his stay in London. Silverman seemed pleased with him, Prospecta Oil was doing well and he was already meeting some interesting people. Yes, he felt this was going to be a very happy period in his life.

On Friday at 12:45 P.M., David arrived at the Athenaeum, a massive white building on the corner of Pall Mall, overlooked by a statue of the Duke of York. David was amazed by the size of the rooms and his commercial mind could not help wondering what price they would fetch as office space. The place appeared to be full of moving waxworks who, Robin later assured him, were in fact distinguished generals and diplomats.

They lunched in the Coffee Room, dominated by a Rubens of Charles II, and talked about Boston, London, squash, and their shared passion for Katherine Hepburn. Over coffee, David readily told Robin the details of the geologist’s findings on the Prospecta Oil site. The shares had now climbed to £3.60 on the London Stock Exchange, and were still going up.

“Sounds like a good investment,” said Robin, “and as it’s your own company, it might be worth the risk.”

“I don’t think there’s much of a risk,” said David, “as long as the oil is actually there.”

“Well, I’ll certainly consider it most seriously over the weekend.”

They parted on the steps of the Athenaeum, David to a conference on the Energy Crisis organized by the Financial Times, Robin to his home in Berkshire. His two young sons were back from prep school for the weekend and he was looking forward to seeing them again. How quickly they had passed from babies to toddlers, to boys; soon they would be young men, he thought. And how reassuring to know their future was secure. Perhaps he should make that future a little more secure by investing in David Kesler’s company. He could always put the money back into blue chip shares once the strike had been announced.

Bernie Silverman was also pleased to hear the possibility of a further investment.

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“Congratulations, my boy. We’re going to need a lot of capital to finance the pipe-laying operations, you know. Pipe-laying can cost $2 million per mile. Still, you’re playing your part. I’ve just had word from head office that we are to give you a $5,000 bonus for your efforts. Keep up the good work.”

David smiled. This was business in the proper Harvard tradition. If you bring home the results, you get the rewards.

“When will the strike be officially announced?” he asked.

“Some time in the next few days.”

David left Silverman’s office with a glow of pride.

Silverman immediately contacted Harvey Metcalfe on the red phone, and he set the routine in motion once again. Metcalfe’s brokers released onto the market 35,000 shares at £3.73 and approximately 5,000 each day onto the open market, always being able to feel when the market had taken enough and thus keeping the price steady. Once again, the shares climbed when Dr. Oakley invested heavily in the market, this time to £3.90, keeping David, Robin and Stephen all happy. They were not to know that Harvey was releasing more shares each day because of the interest they had caused, and that this was now creating a market of its own.

David decided to spend some of his bonus on a painting for his little flat in the Barbican, which he felt was rather gray. About $2,000, he thought, something that was going to appreciate in value. David quite enjoyed art for art’s sake, but he liked it even more for business’s sake. He spent Friday afternoon tramping around Bond Street, Cork Street and Bruton Street, the home of the London art galleries. The Wildenstein was too expensive for his pocket and the Marlborough too modern for his taste. The painting he finally picked out was at the Lamanns Gallery in Bond Street.

The gallery, just three doors away from Sotheby’s, consisted of one vast room with a worn gray carpet and red faded wallpaper. As David was later to learn, the more worn the carpet, the more faded the walls, the greater the success and reputation of the gallery. There was a staircase at the far end of the room, against which some unregarded paintings were stacked, backs to the world. David sorted through them on a whim and found, to his delight, something that appealed to him.

It was an oil by Leon Underwood called Venus in the Park. The large, rather somber canvas contained about six men and women sitting on metal chairs at circular tea tables. Among them, in the foreground, was a comely naked woman with generous breasts and long hair. Nobody was paying her the slightest attention and she sat gazing out of the picture, face inscrutable, a symbol of warmth and love in indifferent surroundings. David found her utterly compelling.

The gallery proprietor, Jean-Pierre Lamanns, advanced on him, adorned in an elegantly tailored suit, as befitted a man who rarely received checks for less than a thousand pounds. At thirty-five, he could afford the little extravagances of life, and his Gucci shoes, Yves St. Laurent tie, Turnbull & Asser shirt and Piaget watch left no one, especially women, in any doubt that he knew what he was about. He was an Englishman’s vision of a Frenchman, slim and neat with longish, dark wavy hair and deep brown eyes that hinted at being a little sharp. He was capable of being persnickety and demanding, with a wit that was often as cruel as it was amusing, which may have been one of the reasons why he had not married. There certainly had been no shortage of applicants. Customers, however, saw only his charming side. As David wrote out his check, Jean-Pierre rubbed his forefinger backward and forward over his fashionable mustache, only too happy to discuss the picture.

“Underwood is one of the greatest sculptors and artists in England today. He even tutored Henry Moore, you know. I believe he is underestimated because of his dislike of journalists and the press, whom he describes as nothing more than drunken scribblers.”

“Hardly the way to endear oneself to the media,” murmured David, as he handed over the check for £850, feeling agreeably prosperous. Although it was the most expensive purchase he had ever made, he felt the picture was a good investment and, more important, he liked it.

Jean-Pierre took David downstairs to show him the Impressionist and Modern collection he had built up over many years, continuing to enthuse about Underwood. They celebrated David’s first acquisition over a whiskey in Jean-Pierre’s office.

“What line of business are you in, Mr. Kesler?”

“I work with a small oil company called Prospecta Oil, who are exploring prospects in the North Sea.”

“Had any success?” inquired Jean-Pierre, a little too innocently.

“Well, between the two of us, we’re rather excited about the future. It’s no secret that the company shares have gone from £2 to nearly £4 in the last few weeks, but no one knows the real reason.”