Christmas in the Snow Page 7

  Isobel turned round, a silver spoon in one hand, the green-gunged saucepan in the other. ‘I don’t understand why we have to rush into this now.’

  ‘This is not rushing.’ That wasn’t strictly true. Allegra had sped straight here from seeing their mother, finally wielding the paperwork her lawyer had drawn up for them several months ago. ‘We’ve had our heads in the sand for too long now. It’s been nearly three years since diagnosis, six since she started having real problems, and the situation is deteriorating badly – you know that. Mum had four minutes’ lucidity with me, tops, today. And she had no recollection at all of having seen you this morning.’

  Isobel sighed, dropping the spoon into the pan. ‘But I thought the whole point of putting her into that flat and having Barry there twenty-four seven was to avoid this – at least for a little while longer.’

  ‘Iz, there is no avoiding this. Barry is an excellent nurse and we’re so lucky to have found him—’

  ‘We’re so lucky you can afford him, more like.’

  Allegra missed a beat. It was true. She had earned good money for a decade, barely dipping into the pot for her work wardrobe or the Poplar flat, and she’d bought the Islington house almost out of embarrassment that she didn’t have anything to spend it on. Her long business hours precluded a social life or exotic holidays and she didn’t care about ‘toys’ like cars or boats. It was sad to admit that paying for a live-in nurse to share the flat in the sheltered village with Julia was one of her greatest extravagances. She knew Isobel felt guilty that she couldn’t contribute to their mother’s care equally, in that way. ‘That’s irrelevant. All that matters is Barry knows how to make Mum feel relaxed and safe. He makes her laugh like no one else can, and he’s the only one who worked out that singing calms her down during an episode. He’s brilliant and she’s happier than she’s been for a long time. But even with all that, there is no way back from here. Mum’s condition will continue to deteriorate, and the bald truth is, she can’t now make the big decisions – be they legal, medical or financial – that need to be made for her own safety and protection. We have to be her voice now in these matters.’

  ‘I know, I know. I just . . .’ Isobel sighed again, dumping the pan back on the hob and wiping her hands on her apron as she walked over to where Allegra was sitting and slumped in the chair opposite. ‘Well, why do we have to split the power of attorney between us?’

  ‘You mean, why can’t I do it all?’ Allegra asked bluntly.

  ‘No! I mean, isn’t it better if just one person does the property and affairs bit, as well as the health and welfare stuff? Won’t splitting it up just complicate things?’ In the sitting room beyond, they could hear Lloyd cheering as Chelsea scored a goal against Arsenal. He was supposedly bonding with Ferdy, who – having discovered the freedom that came with crawling – was doing laps of the sitting room before bed.

  ‘Look, I’m out of the country every week. I work round the clock. Sometimes I go into the office on a Saturday in my suit because I’ve forgotten that it’s the weekend. If something happened to Mum, medically, and a decision had to be made, can you imagine how awful it would be if I wasn’t even in the country? Or contactable? I spend more time on planes than you do in cafes. But you’re here. You’re an hour down the road if something happens and the doctors need a decision. The property and finances side of things, well, that all works to scheduled hours. I can cover that easily. Legally, under the terms of the lasting power of attorney, we’ve got to keep Mum’s bank account separate to mine, so I’ve already set up a standing order to her account for . . . well, more than enough to cover all her expenses, put it that way.’

  Isobel looked down at the form, a desolate expression on her face. Selling and clearing out the house had been hard enough – it was something that usually happened following a bereavement, and that was how it had felt, emptying their family home of their past. But to become the signatories of their mother’s entire life . . . it was like they had become the parents and she the child; it was like losing their mother day after day after day.

  ‘The time has come, Iz. It’s the best way to protect Mum now.’ She made sure her voice was level. ‘She’s not coming back.’

  Isobel’s face crumpled at the words, but they did their job and she nodded quickly, picking up the black pen and signing her name along the dotted line in a rush.

  Allegra picked up the form and blew on the ink to dry it as Isobel got up and marched to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of wine – her preferred coping mechanism. ‘When are you going to see her next?’

  ‘Tomorrow, I guess.’ Isobel shrugged, splashing the wine carelessly into two large glasses. ‘Today was such a washout I thought I’d try again.’

  Allegra nodded. ‘Well, can you take these contracts with you and get Mum to sign? You’ll need to get someone to witness it – a professional, so a doctor, accountant, teacher . . .’

  Isobel was quiet for a second as she twisted the screw cap back on. ‘My friend Sara’s a GP.’

  ‘Great. Would she go with you?’

  Isobel looked thoughtful. ‘RHS Wisley is just down the road from the accommodation. I guess I could treat her to lunch there afterwards.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  Isobel nodded, bringing over both glasses and taking a large gulp of wine. They both knew it was anything but.

  Isobel slumped back in the chair, her hair falling loose from the ponytail she had scrunched it into at whatever ungodly hour Ferdy had woken this morning. Her skin looked pinched, and her boyfriend jeans were baggier than they were supposed to be.

  Allegra watched her little sister. It was only Thursday, but the weekend’s carefree high spirits had long since evaporated. ‘Listen, why don’t you and Lloyd go out tonight? Grab a quick supper somewhere on Northcote Road.’

  Isobel raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘You’re kidding, right? Do you have any idea how impossible it would be to find a babysitter at this short notice?’

  Allegra shrugged. ‘I’m free.’

  Isobel frowned. ‘You’d babysit Ferdy?’

  ‘Sure. Why not? You look like you could do with a bit of fun, and I don’t have anything else planned.’ Her laptop was in her bag. She could work as well from this sofa as her own.

  ‘But don’t you want to go out? That’s the whole point of being footloose and fancy-free, isn’t it? You can go out on a whim.’

  ‘It’s fine. I went out last night.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, somewhere mega-glamorous as usual. Drinks in Monaco, dinner in Paris?’

  Allegra shrugged. ‘Cocktails at the V&A.’ Isobel’s eyes widened, but Allegra didn’t want to open up a conversation about any of last night. Pierre and Sam’s joint betrayal had run on a loop through her head for twenty-four hours now and she’d barely slept, not remotely fooled by Pierre’s assurances. Sam was never just going to be the ‘face’ of the team for this deal; if Yong didn’t want to work with a woman now, he wasn’t going to want to work with a woman after they had secured his investment either. And Sam – with Besakovitch off to pastures new – was a fund manager in need of a fund. No, she knew exactly how this was going to play out. She would be marginalized, she would be reporting to Sam, and he would get the job that was rightfully hers. And the question that she couldn’t get out of her head was, what was she going to do about it?

  She forced a smile. ‘Go on. Let’s tell Romeo he’s taking you out tonight before I can change my mind.’

  ‘Legs, you are the best!’ Isobel squealed, hugging her sister delightedly. ‘Lloyd!’ she cried, running to the knocked-through double reception room where Ferdy was reaching for a lump of smokeless coal, Lloyd oblivious and almost on his haunches on the edge of the sofa as someone took a free kick. Isobel lifted Ferdy clear of the coal scuttle with inches to spare and set him back down on the floor in the farthest corner. ‘We’re going out. Allegra’s offered to babysit.’

  Shock, panic and disbelief ran across Lloyd’s face in a marble of
emotions and Allegra wondered whether he was more concerned about her babysitting their child or him missing the end of the match.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Allegra smiled, perching on the arm of the sofa. ‘If I can manage an eight hundred and seventy-five million pound portfolio, I think I can manage a ten-month-old,’ she said drily.

  ‘I’ll run his bath!’ Isobel hollered, dashing up the stairs.

  ‘That’s very decent of you, Allegra,’ Lloyd said, talking to her with his eyes still glued to the screen.

  ‘It’s the least I can do. Iz looks exhausted,’ Allegra said pointedly. ‘A night out with you should be just the tonic. It’ll be nice for her to get dressed up and feel special again.’

  ‘Uh, right, yes . . . exactly. I’d been thinking along the same lines myself. Something . . . something special.’ His voice drifted off as the players entered the goal box.

  Allegra rolled her eyes. She had honestly never understood what her sister saw in Lloyd. He was good-looking in that bland, English way, like Nick Clegg: pale skin, symmetrical features, mid-brown hair. Everything neat and tidy, a choirboy grown up. There was nothing alarming about his face – no broken nose or cauliflower ear – but nothing amazing either. But that wasn’t what got her antennae twitching – it was the inertia that he gave off; he was always permanently ‘exhausted’ (even before Ferds) or ‘jet-lagged’, while poor Iz managed all the broken nights and round-the-clock childcare on top of the shopping, the cleaning, the ironing, the cooking . . . Didn’t he remember how special her sister was? Didn’t he see how far he’d out-reached himself getting her?

  She looked at the screen. Someone in blue was rolling around on the pitch, clutching his leg. She looked away again, already bored. She spent enough time around men talking sport during the week.

  Isobel flew back into the room, her colour already improved. ‘Right, where’s my little man?’ she asked brightly, scooping Ferdy out of touching distance of the coal shuttle again. ‘Is Daddy taking Mummy out for dinner? Oh yes he is, oh yes he is . . .’ she cooed, her voice growing faint as they disappeared up the stairs.

  Allegra watched as Lloyd twitched agitatedly, swearing under his breath at the ref and clearly willing the match to hurry up. There were still over forty minutes left on the clock, but Isobel would be ready, and with Ferds down, in twenty.

  She watched him in suspicious, disapproving silence as Isobel clattered around upstairs, banging shut wardrobes and chasing after Ferds, who was no doubt crawling on the cream carpets without a nappy. This was the Happy Ever After everyone was sold: the beautiful London house, the gurgling baby, the boyishly handsome husband. Even their black-and-white studio photographs on the shelves perpetuated the myth of familial bliss. But it revealed nothing of the TV on as a substitute for conversation, the crumpled bed linen in the spare room where Lloyd now slept ‘so that he’s fresh for work’, the rigid taking turns of sleeping in at the weekend as they competed for who was the more exhausted . . .

  Yes, this was the dream.

  Little wonder she didn’t want it.

  Chapter Seven

  Day Six: Felted Gingerbread Man

  ‘Bob, where are we on Demontignac?’

  Bob lifted a ream of papers, one finger tracking down the centre of a page. ‘Up four points since Friday to seventy-eight dollars. It’s looking good. We bought at thirty-six dollars, and the analysts are—’ He stopped as he saw Allegra narrow her eyes. He knew that look well. ‘No?’ he asked.

  ‘I keep going over their accounting approach. I don’t like the way they’re flicking their assets into off balance sheets. It’s unsustainable.’

  ‘The analysts are predicting the shares to head towards a hundred dollars.’

  ‘Based on confidence in the overall growing market and lower commercial entry prices for coloured diamonds. But it’s the company itself I’m worried about. They don’t seem to care what they pay for the infrastructure assets they’re acquiring through the unlisted and listed funds. They paid well above the odds in my opinion for the Zimbabwean processing plant. I think they’re trading on an inherently unstable platform.’

  ‘So you think we should short?’

  She nodded. ‘I do.’

  Bob hesitated a moment before nodding too. ‘OK, then.’

  The door opened, but Allegra didn’t look up. Catering came in with breakfast on the dot of seven. ‘And I’ve still got concerns about—’

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ an unapologetic voice said, interrupting.

  Allegra looked up in irritation as Sam walked into the small conference room. ‘I didn’t get the memo that the meeting was seven a.m.’ His tone was short and unfriendly; they hadn’t seen each other since their confrontation on the steps on Wednesday, and she’d heard from Kirsty that he’d been with Pierre all day yesterday. It made her nervous that Pierre was so obviously grooming him for this account.

  ‘Six thirty, actually,’ Allegra said, clipped. ‘And there is no memo. You just get with the programme.’

  Sam’s eyes flicked up to hers as he sat himself in the empty chair between her and Bob – in the chairman’s seat. A deliberate show of arrogance? ‘Well, then I’m afraid you’ll have to bring me up to speed on whatever it is that I’ve missed.’

  Allegra didn’t reply – she didn’t report to him – so Bob did it for her. ‘We’re selling Demontignac.’

  ‘Why? They’re booming, especially after that actress picked up her Emmy wearing one of their necklaces. What was her name?’

  Allegra looked at him like he was mad. He was asking her the name of an actress? ‘They’re unstable,’ she said dismissively, making a tiny flick of her index finger to indicate for Bob to move on.

  But Sam was having none of it. He leaned in on his elbows. ‘You were one of the first in. You bought at, what – low thirties?’

  ‘Thirty-six dollars,’ Bob replied for her.

  ‘And they’re seventy-eight dollars now,’ Sam said, his eyes never leaving her. ‘You’ve already doubled the investment and everybody agrees they’re going to continue to climb. They’re nowhere near the ceiling yet.’

  ‘In my opinion, they’re going to tank,’ Allegra said calmly. ‘Their business model is flawed. We’re getting out. The market may be growing, but the way they’re operating is unsustainable. Like you say, we’ve doubled our money. It’s time to move on.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The decision’s made, Kemp. It’s off the table. If you want to contribute, get here on time.’ She looked at him coolly. ‘Bob?’

  ‘Uh . . .’ Bob scanned his file, nervously pushing his square glasses up his nose. ‘Renton.’

  ‘Oh yes, their push into China.’ She shook her head again. ‘I think it’s a value trap. If Prada and Gucci are down—’

  ‘You’re a China bear?’ Sam looked almost amused as he sat back in the chair.

  Her eyes appraised him, betraying none of her anger at the way he kept speaking over her. ‘You’re not? They just defaulted on their bonds payments. They’ve had the biggest currency sell-off in years, a slide in the equity markets and multiple growth forecasts downgraded.’ Her tone suggested he was the fool.

  ‘But commodities are up. Iron ore’s well past a hundred and fifty dollars a tonne.’

  ‘Because of panic-buying,’ she asserted calmly. ‘But as soon as the cyclones stop and local supply is restored, they’ll find themselves with a surplus and it’ll drop below the hundred mark.’

  He watched her for a moment. ‘I couldn’t disagree with you more. I think Renton’s expansion into Asia is a classic value story – high profit margins, low costs and plans to triple production by next year. And I’ve heard LVMH are sniffing around them.’

  Allegra reached forward for her glass of water and took a sip, taking her time. If they were, that was the first she’d heard of it. She could see Bob stiffen in her peripheral vision. They both knew it was his job to know these things first. ‘China is done. The market contracted fifteen per
cent last year – partly from brand fatigue, partly thanks to the new government’s anti-corruption drive, which isn’t going away anytime soon. This year is all about stabilization and keeping prices level, which will mean flat profits yet again.’

  ‘But China still accounts for over a quarter of revenue at Louis Vuitton.’

  ‘Yes, except the Chinese aren’t buying it in China. More than sixty per cent of the country’s luxury goods are now bought outside of the country. They’re going to New York, Paris, London . . .’

  Sam shook his head, sitting back in the chair, his hands laced together, fingers pointed into a steeple. ‘You’re a catastrophist, Fisher. In the few minutes I’ve been in here, you’ve talked about dumping shares in two booming companies.’

  Allegra didn’t react, even though the way he’d called her by her surname had made her want to wince. It sounded wrong coming from him, even though she had told him to. She wanted him to treat her like a man like all the others, even though he alone in this building was the only one she’d ever been with as a woman. The fact shamed her. Had she known he’d ever be in this building, it would never have happened, but at the time, Zurich had seemed sufficiently far away, his exit from the company all but a guarantee.

  ‘I’m not a catastrophist; I’m a realist. The market has changed. Luxury’s splitting into tiers, and the big growth now is in America. It remains the world’s number-one luxury consumer market, with “accessible” luxury in particular performing strongly. In addition, Bob’s got his team looking at the emerging markets. South America’s the new luxe frontier – most notably Mexico – and if we’re going to keep a toe in Asia, then it should be Thailand and Vietnam; and India’s better insulated against a Chinese flatline.’

  ‘Also we’re keeping a close eye on Africa,’ Bob interjected. ‘It’s a niche and pocketed market, but our analysts have identified Nigerians as the fourth largest luxury spenders in the UK, and Zegna, Boss and MAC have all opened in Lagos recently.’ He rose from the desk and offered his hand. ‘Bob Wagstaff, by the way. We haven’t met.’