Early that morning Christopher went to the bank and requested to see his account manager, Lucca Fiorelli. He’d had letters from him describing the various specialist investment and insurance services the bank had to offer, but Christopher had never replied to his letters, or spoken to Mr Fiorelli on the phone. Everything had changed since Angela came back into his life. He would have to do something about money. He looked around. The banking hall was like a cathedral: there was stained glass, soaring ceilings and Victorian mouldings. He craned his head back and examined the painting on the domed ceiling: plump women draped in gauzy materials surrounded a pool on which lily pads and petals floated. He half-closed his eyes and pictured Angela, relaxed and smiling. Happy to be with women of her own kind. While he waited, he looked at the tiny photograph of Lucca Fiorelli in a brochure entitled ‘Here to Help’ which he’d picked up from a stand next to the seating area.
He read the writing under Lucca Fiorelli’s handsome face. Apparently his account manager was the great-grandson of Italian immigrants. His great-grandfather, known as ‘the Okie Man’, had sold ice cream from a customised three-wheeled bicycle. Fiorelli was quoted as saying, “My great-grandfather was a good example of the small businessman’s facility to resource the community.” Christopher frowned over this sentence: what did it mean?
Lucca Fiorelli put his head round his office door and said, “Mr Moore?” He looked disapprovingly at the dog.
Christopher said, “It’s as good as gold.” The younger man hesitated a moment, then gestured that they were both to come in. His office had recently been refurbished. The walls were panelled in dark red mock mahogany. The room smelled of chemicals, like a dry-cleaner’s shop. Fiorelli settled himself behind his paper-free, grey plastic desk and pressed buttons on a computer pad. He frowned at what he saw on the screen. “You’ve had no movement on your accounts for over a year, Mr Moore; nothing in, nothing out. You haven’t answered any of my letters.” He looked at Christopher, waiting for an explanation, but Christopher couldn’t think of how to explain to this young man in the sharp suit what his life had been like for the past year, so he remained silent.
“You asked to see me urgently. How can I help?” Fiorelli was bothered by Christopher’s stillness.
“I want some money, please,” said Christopher.
Fiorelli laughed at the boldness of Christopher’s statement. He said, “I don’t deal in overdrafts, Mr Moore.”
Fiorelli was forever anxious to detach himself from what he called, ‘the dog’s-body work’. He liked to think of himself as being a creative financier. He was hungry for promotion. He had attended a course on body language at the weekend, and paid for it himself. Christopher said, “I don’t want an overdraft. I’ve got some first editions in a safe deposit box in this bank.”
“First editions of what?” asked Fiorelli.
“Books,” said Christopher.
“Oh, books,” said Fiorelli, unimpressed.
Christopher drew Book and Magazine Collector from his inside jacket pocket. Inside it, on a separate sheet of paper, was a list of the books in the safe deposit box. Christopher handed Fiorelli the sheet. He took it and frowned over the first title.
“Erewhon?” he said. “What’s that?”
“It’s a novel by Samuel Butler, a first edition.”
“I don’t have time to read novels,” said Fiorelli.
“That’s a pity.”
“Is it?”
“Didn’t you read novels at university?” asked Christopher.
“No,” said Fiorelli, “I was too busy getting educated.”
He read further down the list. The only title he recognised was Watership Doom ; he’d seen the film. “Watership Down” he said, aloud.
“It’s worth two hundred and twenty-five pounds,” said Christopher. He found the relevant page in Book and Magazine Collector.
Fiorelli nodded, flicked at the list and said, “So, what’s your guesstimate of this lot then?”
“About five thousand pounds,” said Christopher. Fiorelli raised his eyebrows.
“Can I ask you what you’ve been living off for the past year?”
Christopher said, “We’ve been living off my redundancy payment. It was in a building society, but it’s all gone now.”
“We? You’re married are you?” Fiorelli looked at Christopher’s personal details on the screen. Under ‘Marital Status’ it said ‘Single’.
“By we, I meant me and the dog. I’ve got more valuable books at home,” he added.
“Have you got any more assets outside of this bank that I don’t know about?” Fiorelli was getting interested.
“My house at Curlew Close belongs to me, I paid seventy-nine thousand pounds for it, a year ago, in cash. It’s purpose-built for the executive lifestyle,” he said, quoting from the estate agent’s brochure.
“Very nice,” Fiorelli said. He lived in a similar house.
“It’s a horrible house,” said Christopher. “Nobody’s been born in it, and nobody has died in it. A year ago I didn’t care where I lived. Now I do. I’m going to sell the house.”
“Things have changed have they?” Fiorelli prompted.
“Yes, everything has changed.” Christopher stood up. “I need some money, today, right now.”
“I’ll put somebody on to it for you, perhaps you’d like me to update your personal insurance, though, in view of your life changes?”
Christopher shook his head. “No,” he said. “There’s no point. I won’t die without her, and she won’t die without me, and if you look on your computer again you’ll find there’s a trust fund already set up for the children. I did that in 1979.”
“How many children have you got, Mr Moore?”
“None yet,” said Christopher, clipping the lead on to the dog’s collar and pulling it to its feet. “So, if I go to the counter I can draw some money out, can I?”
Fiorelli said, “Yes, go to the counter. I’ll phone through. How much do you need?”
“I don’t know,” said Christopher. Then he said, “You know about foreign exchange rates. At current market prices, what would a Romanian baby cost me?”
Fiorelli laughed, picked up the phone and said to Christopher, “No seriously, Mr Moore, how much do you need?”