The Billionaire Banker Page 5

  ‘Wake up, Bill,’ Lana says.

  Billie mutters something. It sounds very much like fuck off, but Lana is persistent.

  ‘I’ve got something to tel you,’ she says, and gently shakes Billie’s shoulder.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly ten.’

  Billie extracts her crown of white hair from under the pillow. ‘This better be good,’ she grumbles and hangs her head off the side of the bed with her eyes still shut.

  ‘Come on, Bill. I’ve only got thirty minutes.’

  ‘Pass me a fag,’ Billie mumbles, and makes a silent snarl with her lips. Lana takes a cigarette out of a box she finds by the bedside, lights it and puts it into the curve of Billie’s snarl. Billie inhales lustily.

  Lana stays silent until Billie has sat up, propped up some pillows behind her, and is leaning back against them.

  ‘OK,’ she says, ‘did you do it?’

  Lana nods.

  Billie’s eyes pop open. ‘Whoa…. You did….? And you got the money?’

  Lana nods and grins.

  Billie almost chokes on her cigarette. ‘I don’t believe it!

  The fat bastard agreed to cough up fifty grand?’

  ‘Actually, it wasn’t him.’

  Billie holds a palm up. ‘Back up, back up. What?’

  ‘OK, I did ask him, but he turned out to be a total perv; you won’t believe what his idea of a good time is.

  Fortunately, someone else cut in and offered double what I had asked him.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ screams Billie.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Lana whispers. ‘Your mother’s in the kitchen.’

  ‘Double, as in a hundred thousand pounds?’

  Lana nods a lot.

  ‘So who is this guy then?’

  ‘Have you heard of the Barringtons?’

  ‘Who?’

  Lana walks to the laptop sitting on Billie’s messy desk and, flips it open. When the familiar Google emblem pops up on the screen she types in Blake Barrington. As the page starts to load she takes the laptop over and holds it out to Billie. Billie grinds out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and takes it wordlessly.

  She whistles low and long and looks up at Lana with shining eyes. ‘Oh! Mr. Bombastic, call me fantastic. I thought all the best-looking males were gay?’

  Lana blushes. ‘Pick the Wikipedia entry,’ she advises.

  Billie hits the Wikipedia link and proceeds to read aloud from the screen.

  ‘The Barrington banking dynasty, also referred to as the House of Barrington is one of the world’s oldest existing banking dynasties with a history spanning over four hundred years. The family is descended from Lord John James Barrington.

  ‘Unlike the courtiers of earlier centuries, who financed and managed European noble houses, but often lost their wealth through violence or expropriation, the new international bank created by the Barringtons was impervious to local attacks.

  ‘Their assets were held in financial instruments, circulating through the world as stocks, bonds and debts.

  Their strategy for success was to keep control of their banks in family hands through carefully arranged marriages to first or second cousins. Similar to royal intermarriages, it allowed them to maintain full secrecy about the size of their fortunes. By the late nineteenth century, however, almost all of the Barringtons had started to marry outside the family into other great, old families.

  ‘The name Barrington is synonymous with extravagance and great wealth. The family is renowned for its vast art collections, palaces, wine properties, yacht racing, luxury hotels, grand houses, as well as for its philanthropy. By the end of the century, the family owned, or had built, at the lowest estimates of forty-one palaces, on a scale and luxury level perhaps unparalleled even by the richest royal families. In 1909, the soon to be British Prime Minister Lloyd George claimed that Lord Charles Leon Barrington was the most powerful man in Britain and America.

  ‘The Barringtons are elusive. There is no book about them that is both revealing and accurate. Libraries of nonsense have been written about them. An author who planned to write a book entitled Lies About The Barringtons abandoned it, saying, “It was relatively easy to spot the lies, but proved impossible to find the truth.”

  Billie pauses and lets her eyes skim down the screen.

  ‘Well, the rest seems to be stuff about their international investment banking activities, the mergers they have been involved in, and is as interesting as a man in a wet T-shirt.

  Yup, and more shite here about them being one of the oldest institutions operating in the London Money Market.’

  Billie yawns hugely. ‘It just goes on and on about their…hedging services…worldwide assets… Boring, boring… Holding companies…Swiss registered. Boring, boring, primarily a financial entity but…largest shareholders in the DeBeers…a virtual monopoly of quick silver mines. Ah! Here is something a little more meaty.

  In 2008 the group had one hundred billion in assets! God!

  Can you imagine having that kind of money? No wonder the great, great grandson is spending it like water.

  ‘Oh look. Some pictures. Wow! Get an eyeful of how the rich live.’ She turns the laptop around so Lana can look at the images as she scrolls down. ‘Just some of their chateaus, palaces, castles, garden-mansions and city houses.

  Wow! Look at this one in St James’s Park.’ There is silence for a while as the girls gaze in wonder at the photos.

  ‘Do you think you will get to visit any of these places?’

  ‘Definitely not. I have to sign a confidentiality agreement.’

  ‘Still, it’s an unbelievably exciting prospect, isn’t it? Just don’t fall for him.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Lana says confidently.

  ‘Let’s skip back to Google and go to about…page three…and see what the conspiracy theories have to say about this august family. Oh dear…blood-sucking crew.

  “If my sons did not want war, there would be none.” His grandmother said that. Very nice. In 1865, President Abraham Lincoln stated in his statement to Congress, “I have two great enemies, the Southern Army in front of me, and the financial institutions in the rear. Of the two, the one in my rear is my greatest foe.”

  Billie shuts the laptop. ‘OK, quite enough of this. Let’s not spoil a good thing. Let’s celebrate your total brilliance, instead.’

  Lana opens her mouth to protest. She knows exactly what Billie means by celebrate.

  ‘Aaa-aaa… Don’t say another word,’ Billie says, reaching under the bed to pull out a bottle of vodka. She opens the drawer of her tiny bedside table and rummages around until she finds two dirty shot glasses. She puts the two glasses on her bedside table, which is marked with leftover circles from other vodka full glasses. These glasses will make new moons that overlap the other moons.

  She fills them to the brim and holds one out to Lana.

  Lana laughs. ‘So early in the morning?’

  ‘Are you kidding? This is an un-fucking-believable turnaround. You go out of here in borrowed plumes to snare a fat bastard and you come back with not just the most eligible bachelor on either side of the Atlantic, but the son of the richest family on earth. You’ve pulled off the deal of the century, girl. We have to celebrate,’ Billie says firmly.

  ‘I haven’t pulled him, Bill. He wants to have sex with me in exchange for money.’

  ‘So? Would you rather be having sex with the hunk or the perv?’

  Lana says nothing.

  ‘Look, I know you are into that deluded saving yourself for the special guy nonsense, but honestly, love, you really are getting too old to be playing virgin. Every puss needs a good pair of boots otherwise it shrivels up and dies.’

  Lana smiles. ‘You don’t have one.’

  ‘Ah, but I have Mr. Rabbit. Nothing dies when he is around.’ She opens the second drawer of her bedside cabinet to expose her huge and colorful dildo.

  Lana gasps. ‘With your mum in the next room
?’

  Billie shrugs. ‘I use it when she’s at the supermarket.’

  Lana takes the proffered glass, still shaking her head at her friend’s total lack of inhibitions. They clink glasses.

  ‘Here’s to…’ Billie grins wickedly. ‘hot sex with anyone.’

  They down the vodka and Billie thumps her chest. So early in the morning the alcohol has an immediate effect on Lana. Heat spreads quickly through her veins and makes her feel light-headed. The future seems exciting suddenly.

  Billie’s mother yells, ‘Breakfast is ready,’ from downstairs.

  Billie lets her head hit the pillow behind her in disgust.

  ‘God, she does my head in. If only she wouldn’t do that.

  Every fucking morning she goes on about breakfast. You’d have thought after nineteen years she’d know I don’t eat that shit.’ She twists her body and reaches out to the little cupboard under the drawers of her bedside cabinet and takes out a jar of strawberry jam and a spoon. She unscrews the lid and feeds herself a spoonful of jam.

  Lana simply looks at her.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Billie warns.

  ‘I won’t, but really, Billie, your mum’s right. How can you eat jam for breakfast?’

  ‘For the one thousandth time because it’s delicious.’

  She spoons another mouthful in, and commands, ‘Now, tell me every inappropriate thing that happened last night.

  Don’t leave a single thing out.’

  Lana tells her everything except for the kiss, which she herself cannot make sense of and cannot bring herself to talk about. Billie’s eyes alight on the orange coat and she smiles smugly. ‘I told you the dress and coat were lucky.

  This is what you wanted, right?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s what I wanted. More than anything else in the world. You’re still OK to travel with my mum, aren’t you?’

  ‘Of course. I love your mother too, you know.’

  ‘Thanks, Bill,’ Lana’s voice breaks.

  ‘Don’t thank me. I’m going on an all expenses paid trip to America! Yee…haa…’

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you and Jack.’

  ‘Talking about Jack, what and when are you going to tell him?’

  Lana sighs. ‘Everything, this weekend.’

  ‘He won’t be happy.’

  ‘I know, but he’ll understand. I’ve got no choice, Bill.’

  ‘I know, babe.’

  ‘Bill, thanks again for agreeing to accompany my mum.

  I really don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘There’s a big, black car parked outside,’ Jane’s mother hollers.

  Billie leap-frogs to the end of her bed and, standing on her bed with her palms resting on the windowsill, cranes her neck to look out into the street below. ‘Jesus, Lana, that’s a Bentley with a driver in a peaked cap.’

  Lana looks at the clock face. ‘That’ll be my ride. Got to go. Call you later.’

  Billie sits on the windowsill, exhales and, through the smoke says, ‘Say hello to banker boy for me, won’t you?’

  Lana runs down the stairs and finds Jane standing at the bottom of them. Her round, red face looks quite animated. ‘Is that car here for you?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Lana says as she disappears into her own home. She picks up her rucksack, makes sure her ID is in it, kisses her mother and runs out towards the waiting Bentley.

  Eight

  he driver is standing outside the car by the time she Tgets to it. He touches his cap. ‘Miss Lana Bloom.’

  She nods breathlessly.

  ‘Good morning. Peter Edwards,’ he says, by way of introduction and opens the back door for her. She sinks into the fragrant, immaculately pale interior and he shuts the door after her. Along the building she sees the heads of all her neighbors. The leather under her palm is soft and cool. Peter gets into the front and looks at her in the rearview mirror. He has soft brown eyes that crinkle in the corners. He takes a white envelope from the passenger seat and twists around to hand it to her. ‘Our first stop is the doctor. This is for him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Lana says, and takes the letter. It has her doctor’s name written in blue ink. It is unsealed. The glass that separates them closes and the engine hums into life.

  She opens the letter and reads it. It is a request for her medical records.

  Her mobile lights up. It is Jack.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. His voice is bright and full of life.

  ‘Hey,’ she replies matching his brightness.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘Come on… I know you better than that. Spit it out, Lana.’

  ‘OK, but not on the phone. Are you coming down this weekend to see your mother?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you then.’

  ‘No, you won’t. I’ll come by my mum’s for dinner.

  You can tell me then.’

  ‘I’ve got a date.’

  There is a silence. ‘Really? That’s great. Anyone I know?’

  ‘You don’t know him, but you might have heard of him.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Blake Law Barrington.’

  ‘The Blake Barrington.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ve got a date with a Barrington? How? What are you not telling me, Lana?’ He sounds worried.

  ‘It’s not really a date, but I can’t tell you on the phone.’

  ‘You’re not doing anything stupid, are you?’ he asks apprehensively.

  ‘No, Jack. I’m not. I’m doing the only thing I can do.’

  ‘It’s something to do with your mum, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh! Shit, Lana. You didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You’re better than this.’

  ‘Jack, my mum’s dying. She’s stage four. She doesn’t have months to live. The doctors have given her weeks.’

  ‘Oh, Lana. Can’t we borrow the money?’

  Lana’s laugh is bitter. ‘Who can I ask, Jack? Tom?

  And if I ask Tom what will I need to do for the money?’

  ‘What do you need to do for the money now?’

  ‘What I am doing won’t land me in prison. It’s just sex, Jack.’

  Jack goes silent.

  ‘It won’t be for long.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘It’s for a month.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘It’s a lot of money, Jack.’

  ‘Don’t give the shit a day more than a month.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ve got to go, but I will see you during the weekend. And thanks for caring about me.’

  ‘It’s just a bad habit.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I miss you, you know.’

  ‘Just be safe, Lana.’

  ‘Bye, Jack.’

  ‘Bye, Lana,’ he says and there is so much sadness in his voice that Lana wants to call him back and reassure him that it isn’t so bad. She is not selling her soul, only her body.

  In the doctor’s surgery Lana passes over the envelope and is ushered into a room with the nurse who asks and does the necessary with brisk efficiency. Afterwards, she discusses several options and recommends Microgynon.

  ‘Take it from today. Since your last period ended two days ago you should be protected immediately, but just to be safe use a condom for the next seven days,’ she advises.

  Twenty minutes after Lana entered that small blue and white room she has a prescription for three months’ supply of contraceptive pills.

  The receptionist has an envelope addressed to Mr. Jay Benby for Lana. This letter is sealed.

  Lana thanks her and goes outside. Peter jumps out of the car and opens the door for her. He goes around the back of the car and gets into the driver’s seat.

  ‘If you give me the prescription, I’ll pick it up for you while you are at the solicitors.’

  For some st
range reason Lana feels the heat rush up her throat.

  ‘I have daughters your age,’ he says kindly, and Lana leans forward and hands him the prescription. ‘Thanks, Mr. Edwards.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘Er… How long have you been working for Mr.

  Barrington?’

  ‘Going on five years now.’

  ‘Is he… Is he a fair man?’

  Peter Edwards meets her eyes in the mirror. ‘He’s as straight as a die,’ he says, but by his tone Lana realizes that he will volunteer no more than that. She turns her head and watches the people on the street.

  The solicitor’s offices are in an old building in the West End. She is surprised to note that it is not the slick place she had expected. The hushed air of importance, mingled with an impression that nothing much ever happens here, makes it feel more like a library. A receptionist shows her into Mr. Jay Benby’s room.

  The room smells faintly of polish. The carpet is green, his table is an old antique inlaid with green leather, and the old-fashioned, mahogany bookshelves are filled with thick volumes of law books. Behind Mr. Benby there is a dark, rather grim painting of a countryside landscape in a gilded frame. The painting is so old that the sky is yellow in some parts and brown in others. Mr. Benby rises from the depths of a deeply padded black leather chair. His grip is very firm and his smile serves as a polite welcome. He is wearing a dark, three-piece suit and a red, silk tie. And his hair—what little is left of it—has been carefully slicked back.

  He waves his hand towards one of the chairs in front of his desk and she sees that he is wearing a ring with a large, opaque, blue stone on his little finger. It strikes her as incongruous. She remembers a story her mother once told her. He was rich and wore a turquoise ring from Nishapur on his little finger.

  Everything else about Mr. Benby and his office says, Trust me. I’m good for it. The opaque ring alone screams, I’m a liar.

  After exchanging brief pleasantries he pushes a stapled, thin bunch of papers towards her. ‘Here is your contract.’