Читать книгу The Account - Roderick Mann - Страница 16

As they entered the theatre lobby, crowded with people, some elegantly dressed, some in jeans and sweaters, Brand appeared tense. When a dark-haired young man nodded to him and said, ‘Good evening, Mr Brand,’ he affected not to notice. Then, as they walked towards the stalls entrance, a photographer who had overheard the exchange approached. ‘This way, Mr Brand,’ he called, raising his camera.

Brand quickly turned his back, steering Julia past the usher taking the tickets. She saw the photographer frown – hadn’t she seen him somewhere? – before turning his attention elsewhere.

‘I’m sorry,’ Brand said, as they made their way to their seats. ‘I don’t like to be photographed.’

Julia said nothing. It was not, she guessed, that he minded being photographed. He didn’t want to be photographed with her! In case his wife saw the picture? What was wrong with taking a friend to a first night? It wasn’t as if they were seen entering a backstreet hotel.

At the interval, a champagne cocktail and a tonic water awaited them at the bar – arranged beforehand, obviously.

‘Enjoying it?’ Brand asked, as they moved to a quiet corner.

‘Very much,’ she said, deciding to put the incident with the photographer from her mind. So he didn’t want his picture taken? So what?

‘Writes good dialogue, Pinter,’ Brand said.

‘So they say. I’ve never met anyone who actually talks like that.’

‘The pauses, you mean? Most people don’t pause when they’re talking, do they? They shoot off at tangents. It’s interesting replaying a conversation on tape, as I have to sometimes.’

When they left the theatre, Brand’s Daimler was waiting outside with Parsons, his elderly driver, at the wheel. By the time they reached Mayfair, Brand and Julia were laughing together. The car pulled up in Berkeley Square beside a small canopy.

They descended the steep steps to Annabel’s. Brand seemed to be well known there, and nods and smiles greeted them as they proceeded along the hall towards the restaurant. The maitre d’ welcomed them effusively before leading them to a table against the wall. It was still fairly early. The club was not even half full. Brand ordered drinks. ‘I’m sorry the evening got off to a bad start,’ he said.

Julia shrugged. ‘I understand. You’re a married man.’

‘That’s not it.’ Brand seemed surprised that she had stated it so bluntly. ‘My wife knows I have a social life here. It’s just … well, I have a great antipathy towards the Press. Photographers in particular.’

‘They’re just doing their job,’ Julia said.

‘They must do it without my help.’ Their drinks arrived. Brand held up his glass and touched it lightly against hers. ‘Look,’ he said, turning to face her, ‘you don’t understand and I can’t expect you to. It isn’t that I didn’t want to be photographed with you. Dammit, you’re a beautiful woman, Julia; there isn’t a man on this planet who wouldn’t want to be pictured beside you. I just don’t want to be photographed, period.’ He looked into his drink. ‘I’m known to be a wealthy man. And the only way I can have any kind of a private life is for people not to know what I look like. Then I can’t be pestered. As it is, we get a hundred begging letters a week. Everyone wants something from me.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I took it personally.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘It has absolutely nothing to do with you.’

Julia shook her head. ‘We’ve already had several enquiries about you from newspapers.’

‘Were you able to stall them?’

‘I said you weren’t registered, which is true.’

‘If you have any problems refer them to my office in Grosvenor Square.’ He shrugged. ‘You know what they want? To sit down with me and waste hours of my time asking what it feels like to be wealthy. Either that or it’s financial editors wanting me to forecast the market. I haven’t got time for any of that nonsense. I work a long day. For me time is money.’

The club was beginning to fill up. When the waiter came over with the menus they both ordered the rack of lamb. From the wine list Brand selected a bottle of ‘66 Mouton-Rothschild.

Julia was still puzzled. ‘If you never give interviews and don’t have your picture taken, how did that photographer know who you were?’

‘He didn’t until that fellow called out to me.’

‘There must be some photos of you about?’

‘Not many. Paris-Match once staked me out in New York and Acapulco. Acapulco was no problem. I use a helicopter when I’m there; land right on the roof of my house. In New York I leave through the underground garage.’

‘They never got the picture?’

‘All they got was a picture of the car leaving the garage.’

‘It doesn’t sound too much fun, being you.’

‘It has its moments.’

Julia glanced around the room. In one corner an elderly Englishman was pressing champagne on a young, heavily made-up woman, who was giggling. Suddenly Julia remembered. ‘I forgot to thank you for the roses and the champagne you sent after the party.’

‘I hope you’ve drunk it already?’

‘I’m saving it for a special occasion.’

‘You must drink it immediately. One thing I learned from my father was to live for today.’

‘What did he do – your father?’

Brand looked at her for a moment as if trying to decide whether to confide in her or not. ‘He was a financier. When he was quite young he set about making money.’

‘Just like that.’

‘All you need is the confidence to take risks.’

‘I’ve met a few wealthy men at the hotel,’ Julia said. ‘None of them seemed particularly happy.’

‘Did you ask them?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Why did you assume they weren’t happy? Because they didn’t go around smiling?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Making money is a serious business,’ Brand said. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t trust people who go around smiling.’

The food arrived and they ate contentedly for a while, listening to the music coming from the dance floor. Julia had to remind herself to take it easy when the wine waiter approached to refill her glass. It wasn’t every night she got to sample ’66 Mouton-Rothschild.

‘Your father must have been proud of you,’ she said.

Brand shook his head. ‘He died before I really got started. When I was twenty-one he gave me a large sum of money. I had a penthouse on Park Avenue, a butler, a chauffeur-driven car. And I was desperately unhappy.’ He paused. ‘Then I got a real kick in the stomach. My best friend killed himself with a shotgun. You know why? He was bored with life. He was twenty-five years old and he was bored with life. That jolted me to my senses. I decided to try my hand at business. Then my father died and left me his fortune. I used it well.’

‘You make it sound so easy.’

‘It is easy – if you have some capital and are prepared to take chances. Most people don’t try to make money with all the risks that entails; they just want to have money. I take risks all the time; speculate in currencies. Ten years ago I bought heavily into Deutschmarks. A month later the Deutschmark rose five per cent in one day against the dollar. I made $50 million overnight.’

‘Fifty million?’

‘Thereabouts,’ Brand said. He smiled at her astonishment. ‘I don’t say that to brag. Just to make the point about taking chances.’ He picked up his wine glass and then, having second thoughts, put it down again. ‘Incidentally, I bought the Canaletto.’

‘You did?’

‘A million and a half,’ Brand said. ‘A steal. That man Delevingne doesn’t know as much about art as he thinks.’

‘From what you told me,’ Julia said, ‘nobody does.’

Brand turned to her. ‘What painters do you like, Julia?’

‘Oh, Utrillo, I suppose. Cézanne. Monet.’

‘You’ve been to Giverny?’

‘A long time ago.’

‘When I was very young my father wanted me to be a painter,’ Brand said. ‘I had a tutor to teach me the basics but I had no eye for perspective; no talent at all. I went to Giverny too, and sat in that garden of Monet’s, looking at the water lilies, trying to absorb something of what he must have felt. When I got home I painted a couple of water lilies. They looked exactly like fried eggs. I gave up.’

‘So now you collect. The next best thing.’

‘I suppose so. I get a lot of pleasure from my collection. When you come to New York you’ll see it’

‘When I come … ?’

He leaned forward. ‘I want you to join my team at the Raleigh.’

She laughed. ‘You know nothing about me. How do you know I’m any good?’

‘I know.’

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I can’t do that. I have a contract.’

‘I’m sure if I talk to George we can work something out.’

‘George?’

‘The Sultan of Malacca.’

‘His name isn’t George.’

‘We call him that. Nobody can pronounce his real name. We do business together.’

She looked around the dark, elegant room, listening to the murmur of voices from other tables. Incredible, she thought. A job interview in Annabel’s.

‘Well?’ Brand was looking at her intently. She felt suddenly adrift; unsure of herself. Life had always seemed to her just moving from one set of problems to another, never getting ahead, never actually arriving at the point where she could say: I’m ready to start living. Was Brand offering her the chance?

‘What exactly would joining your team entail?’

‘You’d be doing just what you do now.’

‘Tim Perrin would have something to say about that.’

‘Julia,’ Brand sounded exasperated, ‘I own the damn hotel.’

‘I understand that. But I know Tim and I like him. I won’t be forced on him.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘If Tim wants me he must ask for me. It shouldn’t come from you.’

Brand looked at her hard. ‘But it was George Malacca who arranged your contract.’

‘That’s true. But it was Andrew Lattimer who hired me. The Sultan arranged my contract only because he wanted me to work for the Royal Malaysian in Kuala Lumpur, which he’d bought at the same time.’

‘You didn’t like the idea?’

‘Not just then.’

The music from the dance floor at the far end of the room was getting louder. Julia wondered if he would ask her to dance.

‘Will you think about it?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘You’d be such an asset,’ Brand said. ‘Bobby Koenig says you speak Italian. Was that from school?’

‘I spent six months in Italy when I was seventeen. My mother’s idea.’

‘Rome?’

‘With a family. Then I took a summer job at a hotel on Como.’

She noticed that some of the juice from her rack of lamb had spilled onto the tablecloth. Glancing at Brand’s still almost full plate she felt guilty that she had enjoyed her meal so much.

Brand held up his hand and ordered coffees. ‘I have to fly to Scotland tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Something’s come up. You know where Silicon Glen is?’

‘Somewhere near Edinburgh?’

‘Biggest concentration of electronic manufacturing plants in Europe. We have a factory there making microprocessors.’

The idea that this hugely wealthy man should actually be visiting one of his factories astonished her. Surely he had people to do that sort of thing? ‘Will you be there long?’

‘A few days.’

‘Do you need help at Heathrow? We have someone on duty …’

‘Thanks,’ Brand said. ‘I’m leaving from Luton. The plane’s there.’

Of course. He didn’t fly like other people. There would be no lining up for him, no search of hand baggage. He would drive straight out to his private plane, climb aboard and be airborne.

‘A real luxury,’ she said. ‘A private plane …’

Brand nodded. ‘It makes life easier when you move around a lot.’

‘You have a yacht too?’

He glanced at her, amused. ‘You’re interviewing me?’

‘I’m sorry. I’m just interested. I don’t usually meet people with private planes and yachts.’

‘I’m sure that’s your choice,’ Brand said. ‘An attractive woman like you …’

The insinuation annoyed her. ‘Some women do use their looks to meet wealthy men,’ she said. ‘I’m not one of them.’

Brand leaned forward. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I put that badly.’ He laid his hand briefly on hers, then withdrew it. ‘May I call you when I return from Scotland?’

‘I won’t walk out on the Burlington.’

‘Don’t be too sure.’

He finished his wine and glanced towards the dance floor. ‘I have a mediocre sense of rhythm,’ he said, ‘but perhaps I can persuade you to take a whirl around the floor with me?’

Julia smiled. ‘I’d love to.’

He held her close, in the old-fashioned way, so that their bodies locked together and she could react to the slightest pressure from him. He was not a great dancer but he was more than competent. As they moved around the edge of the floor he executed a few elaborate dance steps that she did her best to follow.

‘Well,’ she said when they returned to the table, ‘that was something.’

‘A pitiful attempt to convince you I’m more lively than I look,’ he said.

‘You’re a much better dancer than you admit.’

‘But no Baryshnikov.’

‘Few men are.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘May I ask a personal question?’

‘Of course.’

‘What’s she like, your wife?’

‘Ah yes,’ he said, ‘back to reality. Well, you’re probably right. Mustn’t get carried away.’ He paused, almost as if he had not been asked the question before and was unsure how to reply. ‘She’s very attractive,’ he said at last. ‘In my estimation, at least. She is not what you might call, well, affectionate, but perhaps that is my fault. She has not been entirely well for some time, unfortunately.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Remembering a friend’s claim that all married men, intent on seduction, had stories ready about their wives – how unkind they were, how lacking in understanding, how frigid – Julia was relieved that Brand, at least, did not fit the pattern.

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Thirty-five years. We met when I was just starting out. I was not a sophisticated young man. Grace was a photographer for National Geographic at that time, widely travelled. She had been down the Yangtze, gone overland to Lhasa in Tibet, driven through the Khyber Pass from Afghanistan to Pakistan. I had done nothing but spend money. It was she who gave me ambition.’

‘You have no children?’

‘We decided against it. We were both wrapped up in our careers. And, indeed, in each other. A mistake, perhaps.’

‘You said she spends most of her time in Acapulco?’

‘She likes it there. She has many friends.’

‘And you?’

‘There are a couple whose company I enjoy. One is a fisherman; the other a Polish sculptor, a great bear of a man: Voytek Konopka. He’s quite well known there. You’d like him, I sense. When is that conference in Acapulco? The one you’re invited to?’

‘The end of next month.’

‘I might arrange to be there. Show you around. What’s the organization called?’

‘The International Travel and Tourism Research Association.’

‘Let me see what I can do.’

‘I’m still not sure I can leave things here.’

‘I’ll pencil it in anyway.’

Taking a slim memo pad from his pocket he scribbled something on it and handed the note to Julia. ‘That’s Jill Bannister’s address and phone number. If you ever want to get in touch with me you can do it through her.’

‘She sounds very efficient, your Miss Bannister.’

‘She is. I’m lucky to have her.’

By the time they had finished their second cups of coffee it was after midnight, the club was crowded and the dance floor was packed. Brand called for the bill, signed it and, taking Julia’s arm, led her out to the waiting car.

As he dropped her off at her home he said, ‘I’ll tell Tim Perrin to expect you sometime soon.’

‘You can’t do that,’ she said, laughing.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Brand said. He closed the door and the car slid away down the street.

The phone was picked up on the third ring.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Well.’ Grace Brand’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘We haven’t heard from you in a while.’

‘There was nothing new to report.’

Grace Brand paused. ‘And now?’

‘There’s a new face on the horizon. I think your friend may be about to stray again.’

‘Who is it this time?’

‘Her name is Julia Lang. She works at the Burlington Hotel.’

‘What is she – a maid?’ There was a sneer in Grace Brand’s voice.

‘She’s the hotel’s Publicity Director.’

‘He’s been seeing her?’

‘A couple of times. Lunch. The theatre.’

‘I see.’ She paused. ‘Keep me informed of developments.’

‘Of course.’