Guilty Pleasures

‘But what’s more likely is that she would go quietly. Without the support of the other shareholders or financial institutions she’d have little choice but to roll over. There’s no point hanging on to 70 per cent of a company which can’t even get a fifty pound overdraft. I suspect she’d return to America and be happy to sell her shareholding to you – probably for a song.’

Roger licked his lips at the prospect.

‘So … what does that scenario rely on?’

‘First. When she comes to see the bank on Friday we make it clear that we are not prepared to back the company with her as CEO. We’ll lend to Milford on the condition that a more experienced executive is in charge.’

‘Me?’ said Roger eagerly.

William’s smile was sphinx-like. ‘We could even make things doubly difficult and suggest there are a couple of loans that are dangerously close to being called in. It would put her in a very untenable position.’

Roger smiled and popped a spear of asparagus into his mouth.

‘Of course,’ mused William, ‘we are assuming that no other bank will lend to her.’

The smile dropped from Roger’s face.

‘And how likely do you think that is?’

‘Very. Banks can have a sheep mentality. They want to support who everyone else is supporting. If they know that Milford’s existing bank isn’t prepared to lend they will understandably be nervous. Emma’s lack of experience in the

sector and the appointment of a similarly inexperienced head designer won’t help either. Frankly I’d be surprised if anyone else is prepared to back her.’

‘So we wait for her to come to you.’

William tapped his glass against Roger’s.

‘You have my faith and my full support. Now, shall we order some dessert? The poached pear here is wonderful.’

12

She was almost there. Five miles into her six-mile jog, she picked up the pace, her eyes focused on the road as it went over a gentle rise and downhill. Every Saturday Emma took the same route in a long, wide loop around the village. She was particular like that. Back in Boston she had pounded the same route around Back Bay every day if she could; Mark used to laugh at her, said she had a touch of OCD and sometimes Emma thought he might be right. But she enjoyed the routine and the challenge, and each run she pushed herself faster and faster. She had an athlete’s physique. Small breasts, long legs and lungs built for stamina, and she was now completing the course ten minutes quicker than when she first came to Chilcot. But today wouldn’t count, because today she was taking a detour. Emma veered off her usual route and down a narrow lane, squeezing her hands into tight fists as she ran. Then she saw it: a bend in the road that made her shiver. It was a pretty stretch, dappled in the shade of an oak tree, but it was a bend that had changed her life forever, claiming the life of her father twenty-two years ago in a car accident. Emma had spent every day of the last two decades missing her father. Jack Bailey had been an Economics Fellow at Oxford University. Brilliant and charismatic, at 35 he was destined for even greater things; government think tanks, a rumoured advisory role in the Treasury. Emma hadn’t cared about any of that, of course, she’d just loved her father because he was gentle and funny. Emma was a classic daddy’s girl. She was like him in many ways with her logic and intelligence, her thirst for knowledge. A big bear of a man, Jack had a big laugh and a fierce mind and Emma could still remember clearly their games of chess, the trips to zoos, castles and museums and the nuggets of information he’d scatter about to make them fascinating as well as fun. How the elephant is the only mammal that can’t jump. How the Egyptians had invented paper aeroplanes. In the ink-black country sky they’d gaze at the stars through Jack’s old telescope as he told her about the planets and pointed out the shapes: a bear, a plough, a dog. She slowed to a stop in front of the tree, looking up through its branches towards the cornflower blue sky. It had been a cold September night that had ended it all. She was seven years old. Tucked up in bed she’d thought nothing of the police sirens whizzing through the village until an hour later there had been a knock at the door followed by the sound of sobbing. Emma would never forget her mother coming to her bedside, not bothering to turn the light on. She could just make out her mother’s tear-streaked face, just a shape in the dark telling her the news that her father had been killed, of how his Volvo had crashed into a tree on the outskirts of the village.

Today was his birthday. Would have been, she corrected herself. Jack Bailey would have been fifty-seven. Looking down, Emma noticed with surprise that there was a fresh bouquet of flowers by the oak tree. Emma wondered who could have put them there. Her mother? She’d seen her yesterday and she hadn’t mentioned it. In fact Emma couldn’t remember when the last time her mother mentioned Jack; with her new life with Jonathon it was as if she had forgotten the existence of her first husband entirely. Anger bubbled up, but she fought it down. That was no way to remember him. She walked over to the tree and put her ear against its bark. Happy birthday, Dad. I wish you were here.

She paused for a few more moments, then set off back towards Winterfold, the thought of a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums tied to a tree making her run faster. Who had left them? Who had beaten her to it? She veered off the road onto a wide grassy open space. In the distance she could see the edge of the village, the church steeple soaring into the sky. As she made for a path which would take her back towards the house, her foot caught on a rabbit hole and she stumbled forward, twisting her ankle. ‘Ouch. Shit!’ she muttered.

Her ankle was throbbing – not broken, she thought – but too weak to run on. A few feet away was a felled tree and she hobbled over and sat down on the trunk.

Emma took a swig from her water bottle and tipped her head back so the sun warmed her face. She was wriggling her foot around trying to loosen it up, when she heard footsteps behind her. She looked up, squinting into the sun. There was a man standing in front of her. He was wearing shorts and vest and she could see he had the firm physique of someone who worked out regularly. Tall, a strong chin, a crop of dark brown hair and narrow eyes, he was also out of breath.

‘Are you OK?’ he panted, hands on his knees. ‘I saw you trip.’ He was American: an East Coast accent, she thought. Not quite hard enough for a New Yorker or rounded enough for a Bostonian she thought trying to place it.

‘No, no. I’m absolutely fine,’ said Emma, ‘My ankle went a bit wobbly there, but it’s OK.’

‘You’re pretty fit,’ said the man admiringly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ snapped Emma coldly.

‘Just saying that you’re fit,’ said the man frowning. ‘Have I said something wrong?’

Emma laughed. ‘Oh, sorry. It’s an expression we used to use as kids. Over on this side of the pond “You’re fit” means “You’re attractive”, “You’re sexy”.’

‘Dumb American,’ he smiled, pointing to himself and shrugging. He pointed down to the heart monitor strapped to her arm.

It read sixty-five.

‘Pretty good. For a woman.’