‘Our new brand,’ smiled Simon, looking at Jim with pride.
‘If I get the green light . . . If you trust me.’
‘When my beverage company launches a new drink, of course I try it. But I don’t design the can, or concoct the flavour. I have a team that I trust to do that, and with Omari, if you believe this is the right property to kick-start a new diffusion brand, then I will support you, provided your decisions are professional ones, not sentimental.’
‘Sentimental?’
‘Connor is a childhood friend, Jim. I do my research too. I know his New York business is in trouble. I know this is essentially a fire sale.’
‘I knew Connor when I was twenty and I wouldn’t call him a friend,’ said Jim, feeling as if he had been caught out. ‘But I happen to think RedReef represents an incredible opportunity for us to do something different.’
Simon nodded, and Jim felt a palpable sense of relief.
‘I want you to negotiate hard on price. He’s desperate. We need to take advantage of that.’
Jim smiled unconvincingly as Simon glanced at his watch, making it clear that their conversation was over.
‘I’m going back to my room. Catch up on emails.’
‘Do you ever stop?’
‘Remember the shack in Jaipur, Jimmy. I didn’t get from there to here sitting back and watching the sunset.’ Simon smiled, lifting his hand to wave goodnight, and disappeared in the direction of his suite.
Jim grabbed a beer and wandered down to the shore, enjoying the sour sensation of the cold drink on his tongue. He had never been one for beach holidays. His perfect vacation was motorcycling along a stretch of coast or scuba diving in the warm waters of Thailand or Australia rather than lazing on a sunlounger pretending to read. But as his mind drifted to whether he too should be checking his em
ails or making some calls, he admitted to himself that he’d forgotten how to relax. The act of doing nothing had been filed away under self-indulgent and prohibited, a problem that he suspected was exacerbated by being surrounded by people who lived life in exactly the same way.
He tried to remember the last time he had been scuba diving, but the answer, for the moment, eluded him. Somewhere over the course of time, work had become inseparable from being somewhere hot and sunny. He didn’t go anywhere these days without doing a site visit, researching an area for commercial opportunities or at the very least sitting on a veranda with his laptop.
Squinting up, he saw a teenage boy, maybe twelve or thirteen.
‘Coconut, boss?’ The smiling youth had already cracked one open, with a straw poking from the hole.
Jim gestured to his beer. ‘Got a drink, thanks,’ he said.
‘No, no,’ said the kid. ‘Alcohol’s no good for you in the sun. You need real refreshment. And coconut only two American dollar.’
Jim liked the kid’s moxie and handed him a five. His name was Victor and he had been working the beach since he was old enough to walk: jewellery, sunglasses, rugs, anything he could lay his hands on.
‘Beats paying tax, I guess,’ smiled Jim.
‘Oh no,’ said Victor. ‘I still pay tax, everyone does. Unless you want to wake up with a rock tied to your feet.’
Jim turned as he heard Connor call him. He circled back to the beachside bar, where Connor was waiting for him.
‘I hope you like seafood. I’ve ordered the fruits de mer platter,’ he said, sitting back in his Adirondack chair.
‘You sure you really want to sell this place?’ said Jim. ‘I mean . . .’ he waved his glass in the air, ‘it is pretty special.’
‘No choice,’ said Connor. ‘It’s this or . . . Well, there isn’t really an alternative.’
‘Does Jennifer know we’re here? You said she had issues about Casa D’Or. I don’t want any more awkwardness.’
‘That was different,’ said Connor, not looking at him.
‘I’m grateful for this,’ he said after another moment. ‘You know I really don’t want my business to go the way of my father’s.’
‘What happened there?’ asked Jim, remembering how Robert Gilbert had been the Deep South hotshot.