Christmas in the Snow Read online

  Sam shook his hand briefly, unimpressed by the joint attack, his eyes straight back to Allegra. ‘You’re just running scared,’ he said, making the colour drain from her face.

  She glanced nervously at Bob. Was Sam alluding to them? ‘What?’

  ‘You’re worried about gravity in the market when the ball’s still going up in the air.’

  ‘It’s my job to worry. Our investors do very well out of my worry, and Renton’s a highly leveraged bet on continued fixed-asset investment growth in China.’ Her silver pen ticked irritably between her fingers.

  ‘And I’m telling you, Pierre thinks it’s still too early to move.’ He shrugged lightly, letting her absorb the insinuation that he had Pierre’s ear. ‘What are you so frightened of? Surely your success with the Lindover Watches stocks showed you there’s still room in the market to turn a buck.’

  ‘Lindover?’ She sneered at him. ‘What are you talking about? We passed on it.’

  ‘You sure about that? Think again.’ He arched an eyebrow, staring at her with a cocksure arrogance that he could just come into her meeting and start calling the shots, undermining her decisions, which were backed up with a ten-year success rate.

  She scowled. ‘I don’t need to.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve forgotten.’

  ‘I never forget.’

  He stared at her through darkened eyes and she wondered whether they were both remembering the thing that was unforgettable. ‘Well, the ledger says differently.’

  The ledger? She inhaled shallowly as she realized he’d been checking up on her, going through her past trades, trying to see how she worked. A small smile curved her mouth. He was scoping out the competition, more threatened by her than he’d wanted to show. Maybe she wasn’t the only one losing sleep over this after all. He knew he’d have to rely on more than just contacts to keep his job.

  ‘And I clearly recall we discussed and dismissed it. I suggest if you’re going to come in and throw your weight around in my meetings, you get your facts straight first.’

  His eyes flashed at her put-down, a long moment drawing out between them, with Bob caught in the middle.

  ‘Well,’ Sam said finally, checking his watch, ‘we’ll have to pick this up later.’

  How convenient, she thought to herself, sitting back in her chair and watching him. Just as she was beginning to dominate proceedings. ‘Why’s that?’

  He stood up, pulling down his cuffs smartly. ‘I’m having brunch with Zhou and his father. I’ve got a plane to catch.’

  ‘What? To where?’

  ‘Paris.’

  She stood up abruptly. ‘You’re not meeting him without me.’

  Kemp looked across at her coldly. ‘Pierre was clear, Fisher. You take the investment lead. I deal with the client.’

  He turned and walked out of the door, Allegra open-mouthed and speechless behind him.

  ‘Well, what a lovely dick-swinging tosser he is,’ Bob said, replacing the cover on his iPad.

  A smile broke out across her face and she laughed lightly. Bob, as her closest ally, could always be relied on to pull out the right fact or comment at the pertinent moment. ‘Isn’t he, though?’ she asked, her arms crossed. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as her fingers began to tap on her arms.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Bob asked, seeing the telltale signs of cunning on her face.

  She turned back to him. ‘Did it seem to you like he let me take the lead on investment strategy in that meeting?’ she asked, her eyes still on the empty doorway.

  Bob shook his head.

  ‘No, me neither.’ She smiled, her eyes glittering fiercely. ‘So then why the hell should I let him take the lead with the client? Yong owes me that second meeting; he can’t refuse it. It’s a matter of honour.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Bob smiled.

  Allegra pressed a button under the desk and a second later Kirsty put her head round the door. ‘Kirsty, speak to Sam Kemp’s PA. I want to know where he’s meeting Zhou for brunch and when. And book me on the next flight to Paris that isn’t Kemp’s flight. If he’s Heathrow, I’ll go from Stansted or City, so get a driver on standby.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Fisher.’

  Allegra pointed at Bob. ‘Get me the newest numbers for everything we just discussed in that meeting, including a full report on Mexico. Send it through to the Paris office. They can bike it over to me at the restaurant. My name, but cc Kemp, as the reservation will be in his name.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  She stopped for a moment. ‘And get me the ledgers for his trades on the Besakovitch pot.’

  Bob frowned. ‘Why do you need those?’

  ‘You heard the man. He’s been reading up on me. I think I should return the compliment, don’t you? Let’s see how his brain works.’

  Bob nodded and hurried past with a smile.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’ she asked after him as she shuffled her papers.

  He stopped and turned, pushing his glasses up his nose again. ‘You’re great when you get mad.’

  Allegra swept from the cab to the doors of the restaurant without pause. Ten fifty-four a.m. It was tight and she had to hope the Yongs were slightly behind time.

  It was lucky the driver had known of the restaurant. There were no signs outside to wit and she could have walked past it fifty times without ever knowing what was inside. The facade seemed deliberately obscure – a voluminous wisteria espaliered against white stuccoed walls and covering even the windows, the wide, arched oak doors more like the entrance to a boat shed or wine store than a restaurant.

  ‘Monsieur Kemp, onze heures,’ she said in perfectly accented French to the concierge, her eyes on the blackened glass of the verre églomisé mirror behind him, trying to spot her brunch companions. The space inside was large, with mossy stone walls and generous spaces between the tables. It had obviously once been a courtyard and was now enclosed by a vaulted lantern roof from which hung modernist white bulbs on long chains, like pearls on a gold necklace. The chairs were a dusty-pink velvet, upholstered chesterfield style, the tables round.

  She moved right slightly, looking round a large stone urn of black roses, and saw Sam’s bright hair easily. He was sitting with his back to her, alone still, the shape of his shoulders suggesting he was reading his BlackBerry.

  ‘Ah oui, Kemp. Trois personnes,’ the concierge read back to her from his reservation book.

  ‘Non, quatre.’ She kept her smile small to make him run all the quicker to put out the extra setting.

  The concierge didn’t argue. If there was a mistake, the mistake was theirs. ‘Mais bien sûr. Voulez-vous me suivre à la table?’

  ‘Non, je préfère attendre Monsieur Zhou ici, merci.’

  ‘Je vous en prie.’

  The concierge inclined his head and hurried away to have the extra setting laid. Allegra kept her back to the room, watching the action unfold in the mirror. She observed as Sam’s head jerked up as the waiter came to the table to lay down the cutlery and glasses. She saw him stop the waiter, the waiter talking to him in a low voice and then Sam turning, his eyes scanning for the mystery person who had added one to their number. Could he guess it was her? He couldn’t see her, not from where he was sitting. The glass of the mirror was too dark and too far away for him to catch her reflection, and as she slid left again, she was obscured by the roses. He could only see her now if he stood and walked over.

  A dull clunk outside caught her attention and she turned. Mr Yong was emerging from a limousine, walking towards the restaurant with his head bowed, his son matching his slow stride.

  Allegra straightened up as she positioned herself just inside the doorway, giving both father and son a moment to register her presence. She would grant them that courtesy at least.

  ‘Mr Yong, Mr Zhou Yong. It is a pleasure to see you again,’ she smiled, bowing her head and forcing them to do the same.

  They shook hands, smiling graciously, manners gagging the men from asking what s
he was doing here.

  ‘Mr Kemp and I are honoured that you have agreed to see us again so soon. My colleagues and I felt that the meeting in Zurich was mutually interesting for both parties. I trust your office received the photograph of our meeting, by way of thanks?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mr Yong said, on the back foot that Allegra was here and he, yet again, had no gifts ready to reciprocate hers, something that pleased Allegra immensely; the more indebted he was to her, the better. ‘The honour is all ours.’

  ‘Shall we go through? Mr Kemp is waiting for us,’ Allegra smiled, leading both men through the restaurant.

  Allegra deliberately kept her eyes away from Sam’s as she led the two men to the table – she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of being able to land his furious glare on her. Instead, she took off her glossy black ponyskin coat, handing it to the maître d’, and tugged the hem of her black peplum-skirted shell top, matched with narrow cigarette trousers (the spare ‘work-to-evening’ outfit she kept hanging on the back of the door in her office).

  It was a more feminine outfit than she ordinarily would have worn for a meeting with Yong. Ordinarily she would have gone to her usual lengths to obscure her gender, or at least negate it as much as she possibly could – high collars, buttoned-up jacket, sober colours, short hair, briefcase-style bags, even flat shoes – but where had that got her on this account? She had delivered the pitch of her life with number guarantees that would make most clients’ heads spin off, but it had all come to nothing with them because she was the wrong gender. To all intents and purposes, she was off the account, to be hidden away at her desk making the numbers work while Kemp and his cronies bumped up the expenses account.

  Well, not today. Today she was going to face them all down. Honour would force them into sitting with her, returning her good manners, and they could sit face to face with her femininity, the very thing they apparently found so impossible to work with.

  She also started smiling a lot, not caring for once about the girlish gap between her teeth – smiling as she let the waiter hold her chair, smiling as the waiter handed her the menu, smiling even as she placed her order.

  She could almost see the puzzlement in Sam’s expression as he watched this new relaxed Allegra, so different from the one he’d encountered in the conference room in London only hours before, his eyes flitting to her every few seconds, though she didn’t look back at him once.

  She saw the shiny helmet of a bike courier by the concierge desk and smiled even wider. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve been able to meet with us again so soon. We’re very excited about Sam joining the team, and I know he was keen to discuss with you a key change that we’ve decided upon.’ Finally, she looked at him, her smile wider than ever, genuine glee in her eyes. ‘Do you want to present it Sam, or shall I?’

  Sam glared at her. He knew she knew perfectly well he had no file, reports or numbers to hand with which to do the presentation, but he couldn’t dissent in front of the client. It would make the PLF team look fractured and disorganized and propel them in the direction of their competitors.

  ‘Why don’t you, Allegra, since you led discussions in Switzerland,’ he replied, one arm outstretched on the table, his middle finger occasionally tapping the table the only sign of his intense irritation.

  He watched suspiciously as the concierge stopped at their table and handed a large brown envelope to Allegra with a nod.

  Allegra took it with a smile that could have lit the room. ‘OK, then,’ she beamed, the papers inside still warm from their run off the printer, as she distributed the reports to the men round the table. ‘Sam saw the wisdom of this approach the moment we began going into harder detail on Renton’s accounts. You see . . .’

  An hour later, they were standing on the pavement, waving off the Yongs through tinted windows.

  ‘Bravo,’ Sam murmured as the limo pulled away from the kerb, filling the width of the narrow steel-grey street before turning out of sight. ‘That was quite a show.’

  Allegra had stopped smiling now the clients were gone. She didn’t need to waste her vibrancy and energy and good cheer here. She was unapologetic and triumphant. If they won the account, it would be her strategy they’d be following, not Sam’s – regardless of whether she fronted the meetings – and that gave her the ammunition she needed for the promotion. ‘Would you have done any different?’ she asked, finishing buttoning up her coat.

  Sam watched, his face impassive, his body still. Snow was in the air, but he seemed impervious to the arctic temperatures. ‘No.’

  She gave a small shrug, as if to say, ‘There you are, then,’ looking down the road for a cab. Her last-minute dash here meant Kirsty hadn’t been able to arrange a driver in time. Sam’s was standing waiting for him, outside the car, further down the street.

  ‘But you can’t sabotage me every time I meet with them. You may have got away with it this time, but if you think I’m going to let you pull that stunt on me again—’

  ‘What? You’ll what?’ she asked, one eyebrow arched defiantly.

  He was quiet again. ‘I don’t agree with you about pulling out of China, but we have to present a united front. Zhou told me his father’s agreed to a meeting with Red Shore.’

  ‘What? Shit!’ she tutted angrily, stamping her foot lightly on the ground and looking away.

  ‘We’re going to have to come up with something more.’

  She looked back at him. ‘How can there be more? We’re guaranteeing him thirty-six per cent returns!’

  ‘And Red Shore will be going to them with something close to that too. Maybe even better. They’re bigger than us.’

  ‘There isn’t better than what I’m proposing,’ she said fiercely. ‘I’ve looked at it from every angle.’

  ‘We need something big, something no one else is on to yet,’ Sam said, watching her hair swaying as she moved agitatedly.

  ‘Yeah, well, good luck with that.’

  There was a small pause. ‘Apparently there’s talk of Garrard hooking up with Harry Winston,’ he said in a quiet voice.

  She whipped round. ‘A merger?’ They were two of the biggest names in the precious jewellery firmament: Garrard had the British pedigree and royal warrant, Harry Winston a Beverly Hills celebrity clientele that was every bit as prestigious, especially in this day and age. ‘Why haven’t I heard about it?’

  He shrugged noncommittally.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ she asked, stepping closer, scrutinizing his face. This was her market. She knew every single one of the guys at the US private equity firm that had bought Garrard. She was one of their go-to fund managers. No way was this information in the public domain yet.

  He looked up at her through lowered lashes. ‘I know someone who knows someone.’

  She raised an eyebrow. Was he kidding? She stared at him in confusion. What kind of game was he playing here? What rules did he break? Was this how he got his returns? ‘I’m sure you don’t need me to point out to you that that’s illegal,’ she murmured, checking no one was within earshot.

  ‘If I acted on it, yes.’

  ‘I can’t act on it either!’ she hissed furiously. ‘You just basically admitted that information is privileged!’

  He shrugged. ‘It could be what gives us the edge over the others. Don’t you want to nail this deal?’

  ‘Of course I do! But not . . . not like that.’

  She turned away, but he came and stood behind her.

  ‘What option have you got?’ he asked, his voice brushing past her ear, and she suppressed a shiver.

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  She saw a taxi come round the corner and held up her arm. It headed towards her.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  She looked back at him. ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘I can give you a lift back to the office if you like. I’m on my way there myself. Thought I’d introduce myself to the Paris team while I’m here.’

 
More schmoozing. ‘No. I’m going shopping.’ She wasn’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to encourage him to underestimate her. After what she’d just heard, she had to get her hands on that report from Bob as soon as possible. At the very least, he was flexible with the industry’s governing rules.

  ‘Well, would you like to meet up later? In the interests of trying to’ – he gave a small sigh – ‘clear the air, start over, make amends? We could go for dinner.’

  The taxi stopped in front of her and she stared at him for a long moment, wishing she’d never been on that damned plane. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Great. I’ll pick you up from your hotel.’

  ‘No, I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The Ritz. Book a table for eight p.m.’

  ‘OK, then.’ He flashed her a smile that belonged on a Diet Coke model and which she refused to return. She slid into the seat and shut the door.

  ‘Où?’ asked the driver over his shoulder.

  ‘L’aéroport Charles de Gaulle, tout de suite.’

  Chapter Eight

  Day Ten: Lavender Sachet

  ‘You can go in now.’

  Allegra looked across at the PA – redhead with a designer ponytail and a first in modern languages from Bristol – who was the last line of defence to the inner sanctum.

  She stood up and walked briskly across the carpet without a word. Nothing of the outside world permeated the executive suite – the walls were soundproofed, the windows bulletproof, everything around here armoured up, Allegra thought, to deliberately heighten your sense of human vulnerability, of flesh-and-blood fragility, to feel like Daniel as he walked into the lion’s den.

  She gave a quick tug on the hem of her Saint Laurent jacket – the only armour in her arsenal besides her extraordinary ability to decode numbers – before firmly rapping once on the door and walking in.

  Pierre was sitting behind his desk at the far end of the room. He didn’t look up as she entered, continuing to write whatever he was writing, but she wasn’t fazed. They had had these state-of-the-nation chats many times before and they were like old warhorses hoofing the ground before they went into battle.