Sparkles

He was standing in the conference room of Lowell Epstein, one of America’s newest investment banks. Despite this fact, and the secondary fact that they operated out of Boston, instead of the centre of the world, New York, the room radiated confidence. It had cost a lot of money to bring antique oak panelling to the walls of these offices, located on the sixty-second floor of a brand-new skyscraper; the carpet was overlaid with an Aubusson rug; there was a Turner hanging in the corridor outside; the secretaries all wore Donna Karan; everywhere he turned there was the quiet, reassuring hush of money, and lots of it.

“Where’s the head of your M&A department?” Montfort asked, once they had waved him to a seat. Mergers and acquisitions, the lifeblood of big Wall Street deals. House Massot would be both.

He hated that epithet. But it was better than the first, the Axe Man. The business press gossip columns had christened him that when he’d first arrived at Mayberry and had immediately laid off over 30 percent of the workforce. The company was insanely overmanned then, and he had not regretted it. No more had he regretted closing ten money-sucking stores.

In time, of course, with greater success, they had expanded. He had created three times as many jobs as he had cut. That was natural market economics.

Even with the success, the new jobs, the publicity for British design, few outside his company regarded Hugh Montfort with any affection. He knew it, and did not care. The soubriquet Boy Wonder conveyed it exactly: a calculated mixture of admiration and contempt.

“You know, apart from the financials, we think this is a perfect deal,” Edgar Lowell said. He was fifty, perhaps, a Boston Brahmin, pale skinned and weak chinned, no trace of the regional accent. “Massot is over, but perhaps you can make something of it. I used to buy Massot jewels for my wife.”

“And Mayberry ones for your girlfriend,” Strachan cackled. He was fleshy, and Montfort had heard tales of dissipation—a paler version of Pete, then.

“I am only interested in expanding our brand. This deal is about logistics and supply; Massot has them, we need them,” Montfort said coolly.

“I’m sure we can structure something of interest to the shareholders,” Karl Epstein said. He was bookish, and the man Montfort preferred to deal with.

“It needs to be more than of interest; it needs to be unmissable. There is only fifty-five percent floating out there. I need everyone. Every institution, fund manager, individual holder. I need them all.”

“There is no room for mistakes,” he said. “If your bank wants this business, you will be exposed; the press will be watching. The consequences of failure will be as bad for you as for us.”

Willoughby Strachan felt himself begin to sweat. The limey was threatening them. It was a powerful threat, too. As a new bank, hoping to attract M&A business, they simply could not afford to fail in public. But the rewards of masterminding such a high-profile takeover . . .

Strachan was driven by the two gods of the market: fear and greed. The Englishman with the hard jaw and uncompromising manner apparently knew this.

The meetings took all day, and when he was finished, he went back to the hotel. The Ritz was the finest in the city and provided, amongst the many amenities of his splendid rooms, a comprehensive guidebook: entertainment choices in one of the oldest cities in America. He could have attended the theatre, concerts, a fine museum of the Revolutionary War, had he chosen to have his face rubbed in it. Or sports: Boston had prominent teams in basketball and baseball. His taxi’s radio had announced the presence of the New York Yankees at Fenway Park, and the callers were full of excitement and bile; it was one of the oldest rivalries in American sports.

It might have tempted him under other circumstances. Hugh took frequent trips to the States on business, and he had, from long stays in hotels, begun to watch baseball; it seemed preferable to the news, which was depressing, and mostly, to him, irrelevant. He was rather surprised to find he loved the game. It was far faster than cricket, and very strategic.

Hugh inventoried his feelings, as he always did. Excitement, need, disgust. His conscience putting up its usual feeble struggle. You shouldn’t do it . . . you’re no better than Pete. This is beneath you . . . you’ll hate yourself tomorrow. . . .

Not tonight, though. He enjoyed the sensations, but the temptation was too urgent. He was ashamed of himself, but made excuses: you fought it for so long . . . for weeks . . . you can’t help yourself . . . nobody’s perfect.

He swathed himself in the voluminous white bathrobe they provided and removed his address book. The number for Boston was listed, like the rest of them, under a single name—Karen.

He summoned her from memory. Karen, she was the brunette, the former Miss Wisconsin. Five foot eight, about a hundred thirty-five; her breasts were real, although he thought she might have had them lifted. She was thirty-four—he never saw a girl under thirty—and lived in a luxurious condo in Back Bay, a full-service, doorman building, the kind that comes with its own pool and health spa. Karen told him she owned the condo herself, which meant she was relatively affluent; that she’d be getting out of the life shortly.

All these things reduced his guilt. The women he picked were never too young, nor too poor; Montfort hated to think of the girls as vulnerable.

But of course it was all a joke. They did it because they needed to. Possibly this girl had debts—gambled, most likely, did cocaine. He picked the ones who at least didn’t seem to be hurt, but it was the same as adding diet gin to your tonic. Well and good, but in the end, just window dressing.

His pulse quickened as her telephone started to ring. Maybe she wouldn’t be there, and the need would be ignored, this time, because he had no choice.

“Baby.” He could hear the smile in her voice, and no wonder. He never asked what the girls charged; he left an envelope with a thousand dollars on the bed once he was finished.

Memories started to crowd him now: the hollow in her long neck; the scent of her expensive shampoo; her white, straight teeth; eyes brightened by drops; the carefully toned body.

“Fine by me, sugar.” Karen purred into the phone; he remembered her as like a cat, sleek and sinewy. “You sound tense. Maybe we should start with a massage. I have all these different oils. . . .”

Hugh looked over his shoulder at the girl, lying naked and unembarrassed in the middle of her satin sheets, her eyes, a kind of muddy green, flickering appreciatively over the taut muscles of his body, the scars along his back. She didn’t ask about the scar, being sensitized to Hugh, which was half, more than half of what made a good hooker. But he knew it turned her on; when she was bucking underneath him, her fingernails always went there, scratching, tracing the line.

“That’s a pity.” She stretched luxuriantly, arching her back, displaying herself for him. “I could give you another hour, two even. No charge.”

Montfort wondered if that was true. Afterwards, he felt as though something had died. Pride, perhaps, or hope. Just a little, every time; death by inches.

Karen’s condo had floor-to-ceiling windows with a fabulous view of downtown Boston: the skyscrapers jabbing upwards, silhouetted by neon against the night sky; many windows still ablaze; like all American cities, it didn’t sleep.

He dressed quickly, but still neatly. Montfort had a soldier’s habit about that. His bed was always perfectly made, his shoes always gleamed.

She used a kind of diction that made him imagine this was rote, her customary send-off. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the envelope, laying it gently on the bed beside her.

“Hey—it was fun.” She lay there and looked up at him, and a slight gleam entered her eyes. “I get a lot, and you’re one of the best.”

“We could try some other stuff next time you’re here. Dress-up maybe. Or toys . . . you ever used props? I got friends, too. Girls, boys . . .” she shrugged. “I guess just girls, for you. . . .”

As he stood waiting for the elevator, he thought he heard her laughing, back in the apartment; yes, she was definitely laughing. But it didn’t sound amused, it sounded bitter. They were sometimes like that, particularly when the sex had been especially athletic, or passionate. Because no matter what happened in bed, he was up and dressing seconds after he had finished. It offended some of the girls; too brutally honest, perhaps, about the transaction.

Karen had revenged herself nicely, though, if that had been her intent. Talk of sex toys and other girls . . . boys . . . dressing up.

Because it was just sex, wasn’t it? Any kind of friction or titillation, she didn’t care, and she didn’t see why he should care. He found every such suggestion disgusting, and felt cheapened, completely, by it. They were the same motions, the same sensations, as with Georgie, but that had been so precious to him. There was nothing in common except the relief.

The elevator came and he climbed into it, pressing the button for the lobby. He wished he wouldn’t have to think of Georgie at times like this. But he always did. This time seemed worse than usual.

He wouldn’t use this girl again, but it made no difference. There was that vile sense of having betrayed her, somehow; yet he had never cheated on her, never wanted to, not even for a minute.

It was a balmy night, and he decided to walk back to his hotel instead of taking a cab, to breathe and think, and work through the disgust. He was tempted to promise himself he would never do it again, but that resolution was so shallow, this time he didn’t bother even to make it.

The street lights beckoned him on. WALK, DON’T WALK . . . everything spelled out. He wished life were that easy. Oh well, at least, if his pattern were to repeat, he would not need a woman again for at least two months. Karen had been unusual, for him to succumb quite so soon after the last girl. He wondered what the trigger had been; the deal, the stress? Montfort doubted it. He lived for work.

After a few moments it came to him. He had been restless, charged, since the night of the benefit gala, since his meeting with Sophie Massot.

Hugh was relieved to find himself ravenously hungry. Karen had been supple and enthusiastic, and the physical act of sex for him was as strenuous as a workout. He rang room service and ordered a steak and fries. He polished off everything and was enjoying the coffee when the phone rang. He sighed; it was late, and he had wanted to get to sleep. This could only be Pete.

The flight back to London took an eternity. Montfort could not sleep, and the distractions of films, indifferent meals, and champagne had no power for him. He took out a notebook from his briefcase and began to jot his thoughts down on paper.

Sophie Massot was “on the rampage,” Maitre had said—an image that made him smile, despite the blackness of his mood. That woman in the dress of raven silk, with the briolette diamonds, as cold and proper as a dowager queen—he could not see her “rampaging” for anything or anybody.

And yet the facts were there. A few phone calls had confirmed them. House Massot stores in London, Paris, New York, and Tokyo, closed—shutting their doors to visitors. Nothing but their lacklustre brand of fashion and accessories was trading. Staff had been fired across the globe—not made redundant, but dismissed for cause. The predictable lawsuits had been filed; the company had hired a London firm—Brocket, Sterns—to take care of those cases.

Montfort knew Brocket, Sterns; they were sharks—ruthless—the kind of firm he might have selected himself, in the circumstances.

The chief executive, the indolent Gregoire Lazard, had been escorted from the Paris offices by security guards. He too had filed a multimillion euro lawsuit. Meanwhile, at Sophie’s request, Brocket, Sterns was apparently investigating compensation and expenses for the rest of the board of directors.

Maitre’s network of informants told him House Massot’s bankers were nervous. Their stock had dropped a full 3 percent and continued to slide. Meanwhile, shareholders and analysts were demanding information, but the PR department had not released so much as a statement.

He glanced out of the window; the thick clouds below him meant it was dull over the Atlantic, but up here, above them all, it was as clear and sunny as ever. Usually his mind worked best on planes; no phone calls, no distractions.

“I could fetch you a portable video unit if none of our selections appeal,” she said, unwilling to move away from him quite so soon. Some girls married people they met on flights. Look at Lisa Halaby, she’d met the king of Jordan and turned into a queen. This guy was so sexy, with that clenched jaw and strong body. I could relax him some, she thought wickedly.

Against his wishes, Montfort was tired when they touched down. The temptation was to go straight to the office, possibly stopping by the Massot showroom in Bond Street, but he did not want to make any moves when he was exhausted. He had the driver deliver him home, took a long bath, and went straight to bed.

When he awoke, he considered everything again. It was 2 p.m., so he made himself a Gruyère omelet and a large pot of coffee, flicked through the papers, and headed for the office. First, though, he stopped to see the Massot store for himself. Montfort believed that one should always check a site, if possible. You could find things out that weren’t immediately apparent on paper, sometimes.

It looked horrible; in the middle of the opulent prosperity and conspicuous consumption of London’s main shopping artery, there it was: the venerable storefront covered in plywood, all the windows completely sealed.

There was, however, a small notice fixed to the front door. He bent closer. In neat black lettering, it said, simply: CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. OPEN JULY 14.

Montfort felt a wave of unease, and then a pressing sense of urgency. If his suspicions were correct, he had to call the investment bank, and the board. And he would need a financial PR firm—experts. There was no time to lose, no time at all.