As promised, Marcus assigned an analyst to the Skilld project and a week later Lottie found herself sitting in the Marylebone mews house of Riya Choudhury for the fourth night in a row. They were about to put the finishing touches to a welcome presentation when Lottie heard a cork pop in the kitchen and rolled her eyes. Seconds later, Riya approached with a glass in each hand.
“Can you believe we’ve been working solidly on this for four days – and nights? We’re nearly there. I think that deserves a little celebration.”
Lottie took one of the flutes and clinked it against Riya’s.
“It’s only Prosecco, I’m afraid.” Riya apologised. “I had some friends over at the weekend and we cleared the place out of the decent stuff.”
“Prosecco is just fine,” Lottie smiled. “And thank you for letting me spend the evenings at your place. Mine is completely upside down at the moment, what with the renovations and everything.”
“Don’t mention it. Just invite me over when it’s all finished so I can have a good nose round,” Riya laughed.
Lottie pushed the thought of Riya discovering Lottie’s meagre and distinctly unrenovated flat to one side and let herself relax, feeling the sharp bubbles pop against her throat as she swallowed. The deck had really come together. She’d created a killer marketing plan which began with opinion pieces by trusted columnists about the outdated nature of the current recruitment industry. It would be complemented by a report highlighting the rising number of graduates unable to find work; they had skills but no experience. That would be followed by case studies of businesses over-paying for experience that was fast becoming outdated because the workforce wasn’t developing new skills.
She’d proposed offering the platform free to small businesses and boutique, ethical recruiters, allowing the client base to build organically through word of mouth. All advertising material would be led by client testimonials. Skilld would never blow its own trumpet; that’s what clients would be for. It was a bold proposal.
Riya’s investment strategy complimented it perfectly. The Series A round would pay for final development and some press networking. It would fund server capacity, marketing and increased headcount. A new portfolio offering was designed around the brand. Investors who took on the platform themselves would be awarded larger shares and greater return on their investment. Skilld was radical; it needed some big fish to convince others it could work. Lottie wasn’t sure how Riya had pulled it all together, but it seemed to make a lot of sense.
“Did you record the interview with your niece?” Lottie asked Riya.
“Yep, I just need to download it and save it to the deck.”
“That’s how it will end,” Lottie mused. “The voice of the next generation, begging us to think about the future. Our biggest employers can’t keep hiring people just because they did a year at Coutts. There are good people out there with amazing skills who can’t find work. And so many businesses are stagnant because their recruitment practices are still in the dark ages.” She sighed, then caught Riya staring wide-eyed.
“Wow. You really are a believer,” she laughed. “In all seriousness, you need to close with that. Kind of. Maybe leave out the bit about the dark ages. But if that parting sentiment doesn’t win them over, nothing will.”
Lottie smiled and gulped down the rest of her prosecco. She’d liked Riya from the minute they were introduced. With both parents respected private doctors, Riya enjoyed the same kind of privileged upbringing that most of Lottie’s old-moneyed colleagues at Falcon had. Riya, however, was far less pretentious than most of them and just as career-minded as Lottie. She was talented too, having graduated with a first-class degree in economics from King’s College, Cambridge just a year prior. And not only that, she had a home that Lottie could have died for.
Riya’s house had been decorated in a minimal, Scandinavian style with crisp white and pale grey walls, a mixture of understated antique and Danish-designed furniture, waxed floors and artfully worn Moroccan rugs. The sizeable kitchen – unusual for a mews house – was stocked with little other than bottles of prosecco, artisan gin and empty bottles of Laurent Perrier, Bollinger and Taittinger. And the bedrooms were filled with pure white linens, thick sheepskin rugs and the deliciously fresh scent of lemon and rosemary. Lottie felt a pang of regret that the meeting with Skilld was just a day away and the late nights of planning at Riya’s house were coming to an end.
“You really are passionate about this, aren’t you?” Riya said, softly.
Lottie nodded, gazing into her now-empty glass. “It’s an incredible business idea. It deserves to be given the best shot, and I really think Falcon is the right fit. I hope he chooses us,” she said quietly.
“Well, whether he does, or he doesn’t, one thing I know for sure is this: Lottie Matheson is a kick-ass marketer and Riya Choudhury is one shit hot analyst. Morecambe-Cheney would be bloody lucky to have us!”
Lottie laughed as Riya clapped her hands, grabbed the prosecco bottle and emptied it into both their glasses.
Lottie dressed carefully for the meeting with Skilld. She chose a plain black Whistles shift dress – a bargain from the Oxfam shop in Notting Hill – which skimmed over her breasts and hips and nipped in her slim waist. She spritzed herself with Chanel Coco Mademoiselle and studied her reflection in the mirror. Professional but elegant and a little bit sexy, she thought, smiling back at herself. She applied a little mascara and blush, finishing with the tiniest bit of gloss; her clear skin and big blue-grey eyes didn’t need any more make-up than that. She didn’t have an aristocratic family like the rest of her colleagues, but she could certainly give them a run for their money in the looks department. She thought back to the kids she’d grown up with, to the others serving time at Dogsmoor, to Jacob, to her mum. She was a world away from her past now; would anyone even recognise her?
She’d received a note through her door from Mrs. Ali, saying simply: Jacob Kavanagh - do you know him? And a mobile number scribbled beneath. It had confirmed Lottie’s worst fear. She would have to call him, if for no other reason than to tell him again and for the last time, she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, or her mother, or any of her mother’s idiot boyfriends. She made a mental note to buy a cheap pay-as-you-go mobile after work and call him later. Then she pushed Jacob from her mind and rehearsed her introduction one more time in the mirror. She was ready.
It was 7am when Lottie arrived at Falcon’s reception, thankfully too early for most people to be in the office; Carmel had sworn her to secrecy until a deal had been struck.
“Oh! You’re here! Thank God I caught you.” Riya appeared out of nowhere and bundled Lottie into the lift.
“What?” Lottie gasped. “Where are we going?”
“There’s a meeting room on floor two. I need to talk to you.”
“Riya, I can’t …” Lottie tried to press the button for floor five – the executive floor. “The meeting’s in an hour. Marcus will be expecting us for a pre-brief.”
Riya blocked her arm. “There’s been a change of plan,” she hissed. The lift doors opened, and Riya led Lottie straight into the nearest meeting room. A few analysts were at their desks, their heads buried in numbers. Two of them looked up, curious, as Riya hastily pulled Lottie inside and closed the door.
“What’s going on?” Lottie demanded.
“Dan isn’t coming.” Riya sighed, bracing herself.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. I just got a message from his PA.”
“But he’s your boss, isn’t he? Why wouldn’t he tell you himself if he can’t make such an important meeting?”
Riya shook her head. “I don’t know, Lottie. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks.”
Lottie thought quickly. Dan had barely been involved with the planning. Riya could easily present the analysis on her own.
“Well, you know the numbers inside out; we don’t need Dan,” Lottie said.
“But here’s the thing. I can’t come either.” Riya said, nervously. “I have to be at another meeting at the same time; a really important one.”
“More important than this?” Lottie was incredulous. She wanted Falcon to win over this entrepreneur so badly, but with no analyst in the room it was looking highly unlikely. The founder would want funding expertise and they weren’t going to accept that from a marketing exec.
“Can someone else come from your team?” Lottie tried to hide the panic from her voice.
“They’re all in Dubai,” Riya said. “There’s only me and Ed here from the analysis team.”
Lottie tried to picture Ed. A short, portly young man - a boy, really - with pink hamster-like cheeks and a penchant for wearing waistcoats that made him look forty-eight as opposed to eighteen. He was the son of Theodore Montgomery, one of the board directors. Unfortunately, that didn’t make him any good. In fact, Ed’s arrogance and ineptness were already legendary.
“I can’t take him,” Lottie replied, horrified Riya had even suggested it. She looked at her watch; it was 7.15. She still had forty-five minutes before Zac Morecambe-Cheney was due to arrive. She wouldn’t be as impressively early as she’d have liked, but she needed this time now.
“You need to tell me everything you know: how you created the investment strategy and the portfolio proposal, how the calculations were worked out, the principles behind it …”
“Okay, but I also have to go and prepare for …”
“No. This is too important, Riya.”
Riya stopped, noticing a new air of determination in Lottie’s face. They’d only known each other a few days but Riya had already got a sense that this meeting meant everything to Lottie.
“Just thirty minutes,” Lottie reasoned. “Otherwise, I won’t be able to do justice to all the hard work you’ve put in over the last week.”
That did it. Riya nodded. “Wait in here.” She returned seconds later with her MacBook and a folder. “Not to insult your intelligence, Lottie, but I can’t teach you everything I know in half an hour. But I can explain how I pulled this strategy together.” Riya smiled and re-booted her laptop.
“He’s what?” Marcus growled into the phone.
Henry Carlisle, Falcon’s CFO and Marcus’s right-hand man looked out of his hotel window at the sun reflecting off the Burj Khalifa and kept his voice calm.
“He’s not well, Marcus. He’s not coming in for the meeting.”
“What the hell is so wrong with him that he can’t come in to meet a potential investment? Possibly a highly lucrative one?” Marcus demanded. “If it’s a fucking cold, Henry, he’s finished here.”
“It’s not a cold,” Henry replied. “It’s quite serious, but I’m dealing with it.”
“You’d better be. I assured Zac and his team we’d have our best FD on the pitch. I’m lying to them already. Who else can you send?”
Henry paused and Marcus, who knew his friend inside out, clicked immediately. “Are you telling me I have no-one? What about that girl, Dan’s junior …?”
“Riya. I’m afraid not. She needs to put out a small fire with Jettison.”
“What?” Marcus was furious. “What the hell’s going on, Henry? What fucking fire?”
Henry sighed. He couldn’t keep a lid on it any longer. “I need to talk to you about Dan but now’s not the time. I can’t let Riya go with you. I only have Ed.”
“Theo’s boy.” Marcus deflated. He allowed the silence to linger. Just the sheer insinuation that Theodore’s thick, arrogant, petulant son could even contribute to the pitch was an insult. Henry should have known better.
“If this isn’t fixed by the time you get back, we’ll need to talk. I can’t run a business like this.”
At the other end of the phone Henry went white. He and Marcus had been thick as thieves ever since they’d worked together as grads at Merrill Lynch. Henry had the sharpest financial brain, but Marcus was the entrepreneur. It was always going to be Marcus who left to head up his own firm, but there was never any question about Henry joining him as soon as he could.
Henry had a young family and a wife who’d been attracted to him by the lavish lifestyle, the huge house in Holland Park and the baby Aston Henry had gifted her on their third date. They lived the high life and revelled in it, so Henry had been reluctant to leave his large salary to take a risk on a new business. Instead, he’d waited until Falcon was up and running and staying afloat before jumping ship. Nevertheless, he’d supported Marcus all the way, working late with him on forecasts and projections, designing portfolio structures, passing him names of industry talent he could poach.
As soon as Marcus had made his first million, Henry came on board. He lived on a comparatively meagre six figure salary for the first eighteen months, then before the two of them could comprehend what was happening, Falcon had boomed, making them richer than they’d ever dreamed possible. And famous for it. They were City’s upstarts; the younger, nimbler, feistier outfit snatching up all the hip tech start-ups through sheer passion and street-smart understanding of the real challenges faced by small businesses post-recession. They’d become poster boys for a new type of investment, oozing charisma through sheer ambition and success. Henry might have been spoken for, but he didn’t let that stop him. While Marcus never entertained the corporate groupies, Henry lapped them up. This was his life; he’d earned it and he was taking full advantage of it.
“Marcus,” Henry reasoned. “I’ll fix it. You know that.”
Marcus wasn’t listening. “I mean it, Henry. See me as soon as you land. Now, what the fuck am I going to do about this meeting?”
“It’s okay.” Lottie appeared at Marcus’s doorway, her voice soft but her face determined. “We can do this without Dan.”