In the Rich Man's World

‘We can wave to each other,’ Amelia suggested, then, taking a deep breath, figured it was time to set her ground rules. ‘Look, Vaughan, the last thing I want to do is crowd you. I’m thrilled you’ve entrusted me to do this piece, but if at any time over the next few days you need your space, then just say so.’

‘Likewise,’ Vaughan agreed, a flicker of relief washing over his face.

‘So…’ Amelia grinned as still he stood there.

‘So?’ Vaughan questioned.

‘I’d like to unpack, and get better acquainted with that divine shower…’ Her voice trailed off as Vaughan shook his head and glanced at his watch. ‘Later?’

‘Later.’ Vaughan nodded. ‘Much, much later.’

His staying power was formidable.

Even the chauffer-driven car constantly on call didn’t suffice for his impossible schedule. Half an hour negotiating traffic was a sheer waste of Vaughan Mason’s time, and if a helicopter ride across the city meant an extra few minutes could be crammed into his schedule, then that was the means of transport.

Amelia held her breath as she saw the Melbourne skyline from an entirely different angle, then barely had time to drag her fingers through her chopper-tousled hair before breezing into meeting upon meeting. She was completely aware that these meetings had been scheduled weeks if not months in advance, that a slice of Vaughan Mason’s acumen was an expensive commodity, but over and over he delivered—commanding the entire room, ramming home his points. Most surprisingly of all for Amelia, she was allowed in to each one.

If Vaughan had okayed it then apparently it was fine…

‘She’s doing a piece on me,’ Vaughan would shrug arrogantly. ‘Not you, Marcus.’ Or Heath, or any other poor soul whose business was being put through the shredder.

And she watched—watched the nervous, sweating faces around the boardroom tables as Vaughan, utterly composed, completely unmoved, sliced through their reams of excuses, their reasons, their attempts to justify the mess that had led them to this point, as easily as a hot knife through butter, cutting directly to the chase, exposing raw truths, absolutely ruthless in his assessments.

‘Some of these staff have been with us for years!’ Marcus Bates visibly reeled at the brutal proposal Vaughan had outlined, balking at the prospect of laying off so many staff. ‘We can’t just throw them onto the dole queue. Some of these people are in their fifties…’

‘Which means they’ll receive a decent pay-out,’ Vaughan pointed out, his voice like ice, watching as Marcus took a shaky drink of the cup of coffee in front of him, staring him down, until Marcus finally admitted to his directors the absolute, unsavoury truth.

‘We can’t afford to pay anyone out,’ he said, his voice a hollow whisper, his shirt drenched in perspiration and his face like white putty.

Amelia actually felt sorry for this man she had never till now even met, as she glimpsed the impossible weight of the truth he had been carrying for months, perhaps even years, and the silence seemed to go on for ever.

‘Finally,’ Vaughan said slowly, ‘we’re getting to the truth. The fact is you can’t even afford the coffee beans in your expensive machine.’

He stared around the table, stared at each nervous person in turn, and despite the smell of fear in the room Amelia could almost taste the respect as each pair of eyes looked to Vaughan for an answer, looked to the legend for a last-minute reprieve.

‘The staff we lay off will be paid out,’ Vaughan responded finally, and an audible sigh of relief went around the room as Vaughan Mason took on the impossible and the you became we as he flicked through the mountain of papers in front of him, hurling a chosen few across the table. ‘And if that means you have to forgo your extended lunches and bring in your own cheese sandwiches for the next twelve months then it’s a small price to pay, given the direness of your situation—these expense claims are deplorable! I want every member of staff entitled to a company car driving the same model and vehicle, at least while I’m running this ship. Believe me, guys, I want every last teabag accounted for in this place…’

Despite the brand-new stilettos which had rubbed the skin off the backs of her heels, and despite the utter exhaustion of the whirlwind that had blitzed her life seventy-two hours ago, over and over he impressed. Over and over she pressed the button on her digital Dictaphone to record a genius at work, even while knowing it was useless. Unless you were there, unless you actually witnessed him at first hand, holding the floor, utterly commanding, then it would take more than a degree in journalism to capture his formidable presence—the might that was Vaughan Mason could never be confined to a single article.

Yet she ached to try, her fingers literally itching to pound her keypad, to somehow get down the jumble of thoughts in her mind, and she was infinitely grateful for that fact as, for maybe the twentieth time that day, she found herself in the confined space of a lift with him. Only this time it was gliding them back up to their hotel rooms.

The hum of the lift was a blissful contrast to the lively chatter of the Japanese restaurant Vaughan had chosen for Mr Cheng, and Amelia was infinitely grateful for the fact that she could force her mind to focus on the work ahead and push aside the nerve-racking yet vaguely delicious feeling of claustrophobia that had seemed to hit her at various moments through the day, and was now peaking with alarming ferocity as the evening gave way to night.

‘Interesting evening?’ Vaughan asked, restless eyes scanning the lift numbers as he smothered a yawn.

‘Very.’ Amelia nodded. ‘Especially the dessert.’

‘I was talking about—’

‘I know you were.’ Amelia grinned. ‘Actually, I’m still reeling from the fact that they all let me in. You’d hardly think a journalist would be permitted in some of those buildings, let alone in the meeting rooms. Look at Noble and Bates—I mean, I know there’s been a few whispers, but why would they take the risk of allowing me in? Obviously I’m not going to name names, but why on earth would they allow a journalist in to hear that their business’s back is against the wall.’

‘But it isn’t,’ Vaughan answered as the lift door pinged open and they walked along the thickly carpeted corridor to their adjoining rooms. ‘At least not any more.’

‘You heard the figures, Vaughan!’ Amelia responded, hobbling along on heels that were seriously killing her now, not quite comfortable enough to slip them off in his presence!

‘I’m sure they’re far worse!’ Vaughan answered easily. They were at his door now, and she watched as he swiped his access card, pushing the door open and holding it that way with his wide shoulders. ‘Look, Amelia, today had nothing to do with trust or risk, at least not on Noble and Bates’s part. You’re right—there have been whispers, and they’re getting louder by the day and the directors know it. Their quarterly figures are about to be released and there are going to be a lot of shareholders baying for answers. Now they’ve got one.’

‘What?’

‘Me,’ Vaughan answered without a trace of modesty, and somehow it suited him. ‘I don’t take on no-hopers and everyone knows that.’

‘But their figures are appalling,’ Amelia answered, genuinely confused. ‘Do you really think they can recover?’

‘My word, they’re going to. Especially given the fact that for the next three years Noble and Bates will be paying me ten per cent of their profits—and, given that I intend to keep right on living well, I’m going to make damn sure they’re healthy ones. My team and I will whip their sorry butts into shape, get rid of all the dead wool that’s been holding them back, and everybody knows it.’

‘Wood,’ Amelia corrected. ‘The dead wood.’

‘Wool.’ Vaughan gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘Growing up on a sheep farm taught me a lot of things, and one of them is that underneath that tired-looking old sheep is a little lamb waiting to skip off—and I intend to expose it.’

And he would. Amelia didn’t doubt it.

Confidence was contagious, and Vaughan Mason epitomised the word. The mere fact he was taking them on, the mere fact he was prepared to invest his time in the ailing company, would be more than enough to appease the shareholders.

He’d never been wrong.

Amelia’s mind raced for one exception to the rule, but admitted defeat almost instantly.

‘Lucky Noble and Bates, then.’ Amelia smiled up at him, but it faded midway. Nothing, nothing in his stance had changed—his shoulder was still blocking the door, his face was exactly the same as the last time she had looked—yet everything had shifted. Business was clearly over; senses were trickling in. Shifting her weight on her tired aching feet, self-conscious under his scrutiny, her voice was slightly croaky as she wrapped up what she was saying. ‘Having you to rescue them…’

Again she shifted her weight, and Vaughan gave her the gift of another small smile.

‘New shoes?’

Amelia grimaced. ‘They’re too small. They didn’t come in my size.’

‘Then why on earth did you buy them?’ Vaughan asked, clearly completely bemused.