need to talk about. Ladies, would you, excuse us for a moment?"
Mole followed Eliska as she glided out of the room. Later, Mole told me that Eliska reminded her of Mrs Danvers, the creepy housekeeper in Rebecca .
"Shut the door," said Dad.
"So, how are you feeling?" I asked. "Are the new pills working?"
"Fucking terrible, if you must know. There's something I need to talk to you about. Does the name Bob Grauerholtz mean anything to you?"
"Yes, he's the CEO of Continual Life, isn't he, the American insurance group?"
"To put not too fine a point on it, he wants to buy us. He came to see me a few days ago."
Continual Life was a billion-dollar insurance company, not as big as an Aon or a Willis but still in the top ten. We were a minnow compared to them. "He knows that we're still dealing with the fallout from the Dutch Marquez, right? And that we had to call on investors because we didn't have enough cash in the bank?"
Dad started coughing. "It doesn't matter," he said, shaking his head. "It creates a good news story for the stock market. Shows they're doing something. And the cost of buying us will probably be covered by the uptick in the stock."
I sat down on the edge of the bed, my mind crunching the numbers. Cashing in my stock after the sale, I faced the prospect of becoming a rich man indeed. "Have you spoken to anybody else on the board about this, Brian or Nigel?"
Dad carried on shaking his head, still coughing. "Just get me some fucking water," he said.
"When would we have to tell the market?" I said, handing him the tooth glass.
Dad drained the glass and handed it back. "That's better," he said. "Nigel can take us through the timetable. We keep schtum until they make an offer. And I don't want anybody blabbing to the papers. I've seen too many deals wrecked because somebody got smart and tipped off a journo."
I thought about what Dad had told me all the way back to London. All the massive losses from the Dutch Marquez would be swept under the carpet. There would probably be some golden-handcuffs arrangement for me to stay on, while Dad would retire gracefully. The sale also got us out of what promised to be an eviscerating annual general meeting with the investors, many of whom would be repaid with the Americans' money. Everybody would win.
Mole kept trying to talk to me about our baby, but I am ashamed to say I wasn't really listening. All I could see was dollar signs. For some reason, a swimming pool full of money popped into my mind, and a gleaming cartoon Rolls-Royce. "What time have you booked the restaurant for?" she said, interrupting my thoughts.
Mole said she wanted to go to the baby department of Peter Jones on the way back from Dad's, to look at nursery equipment.
"But the baby's not going to arrive for at least nine months yet," I said. Mole assured me it was just window shopping. "I'm not going to buy anything. I just want to see what's out there." Inwardly I shrugged and made a mental note to buy a newspaper.
Mole went around the baby department, trailing her fingers along the row of cots, testing a baby-listening device and examining some kind of nappy-storage system. The amount of paraphernalia was mind-boggling. I exchanged a rueful look with another husband following his wife around. Poor sap. Eventually I'd had enough of bottle-sterilisation devices and baby baths. The television and gadget department beckoned from the other side of the store.
"Mole, I'm going to be over there if you need me," I said, pointing to the plasma TV display. Mole nodded, wrapped up in thinking about our baby's needs.
After about ten minutes or so, Mole found me watching a pop video, marvelling at the picture quality. "It's almost as if the image is too good," I began. Another voice, a woman’s, cut across mine. "Emily, is that you?"
The owner of the voice was black and about our age, possibly younger. She had a lovely warm smile. The two women hugged and stepped back to appraise one another.
"Flic, how
Mole followed Eliska as she glided out of the room. Later, Mole told me that Eliska reminded her of Mrs Danvers, the creepy housekeeper in Rebecca .
"Shut the door," said Dad.
"So, how are you feeling?" I asked. "Are the new pills working?"
"Fucking terrible, if you must know. There's something I need to talk to you about. Does the name Bob Grauerholtz mean anything to you?"
"Yes, he's the CEO of Continual Life, isn't he, the American insurance group?"
"To put not too fine a point on it, he wants to buy us. He came to see me a few days ago."
Continual Life was a billion-dollar insurance company, not as big as an Aon or a Willis but still in the top ten. We were a minnow compared to them. "He knows that we're still dealing with the fallout from the Dutch Marquez, right? And that we had to call on investors because we didn't have enough cash in the bank?"
Dad started coughing. "It doesn't matter," he said, shaking his head. "It creates a good news story for the stock market. Shows they're doing something. And the cost of buying us will probably be covered by the uptick in the stock."
I sat down on the edge of the bed, my mind crunching the numbers. Cashing in my stock after the sale, I faced the prospect of becoming a rich man indeed. "Have you spoken to anybody else on the board about this, Brian or Nigel?"
Dad carried on shaking his head, still coughing. "Just get me some fucking water," he said.
"When would we have to tell the market?" I said, handing him the tooth glass.
Dad drained the glass and handed it back. "That's better," he said. "Nigel can take us through the timetable. We keep schtum until they make an offer. And I don't want anybody blabbing to the papers. I've seen too many deals wrecked because somebody got smart and tipped off a journo."
I thought about what Dad had told me all the way back to London. All the massive losses from the Dutch Marquez would be swept under the carpet. There would probably be some golden-handcuffs arrangement for me to stay on, while Dad would retire gracefully. The sale also got us out of what promised to be an eviscerating annual general meeting with the investors, many of whom would be repaid with the Americans' money. Everybody would win.
Mole kept trying to talk to me about our baby, but I am ashamed to say I wasn't really listening. All I could see was dollar signs. For some reason, a swimming pool full of money popped into my mind, and a gleaming cartoon Rolls-Royce. "What time have you booked the restaurant for?" she said, interrupting my thoughts.
Mole said she wanted to go to the baby department of Peter Jones on the way back from Dad's, to look at nursery equipment.
"But the baby's not going to arrive for at least nine months yet," I said. Mole assured me it was just window shopping. "I'm not going to buy anything. I just want to see what's out there." Inwardly I shrugged and made a mental note to buy a newspaper.
Mole went around the baby department, trailing her fingers along the row of cots, testing a baby-listening device and examining some kind of nappy-storage system. The amount of paraphernalia was mind-boggling. I exchanged a rueful look with another husband following his wife around. Poor sap. Eventually I'd had enough of bottle-sterilisation devices and baby baths. The television and gadget department beckoned from the other side of the store.
"Mole, I'm going to be over there if you need me," I said, pointing to the plasma TV display. Mole nodded, wrapped up in thinking about our baby's needs.
After about ten minutes or so, Mole found me watching a pop video, marvelling at the picture quality. "It's almost as if the image is too good," I began. Another voice, a woman’s, cut across mine. "Emily, is that you?"
The owner of the voice was black and about our age, possibly younger. She had a lovely warm smile. The two women hugged and stepped back to appraise one another.
"Flic, how
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