The Money Makers
Very well then. To you, Josephine Gradley, I give an enrolment at a secretarial college of your choice plus five hundred quids’ worth of Marks & Spencer’s vouchers to get yourself properly kitted out. If I’m wrong and you’re more ambitious than I’ve realised, then you’ve got the brains and looks to get yourself whatever it is you want. I don’t need to worry. You’ll be OK.
As for my sons, George, Zack and Matthew, well you were easier to deal with. You only ever wanted money and your only ambition was to get your hands on mine as soon as you could. Fair enough. But there’s one condition. I worked my balls off to get my money, while you lot haven’t done a day’s work in your lives. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I didn’t bring you up right. If so, I’m sorry. I hope there’s time to make amends.
The rest of my estate – Gradley Plant Hire mostly – will be put into a trust. The trustees will look after things for three years, keep the company ticking over and that sort of thing. Then in three years’ time, three years from today, we’ll see what you’ve achieved. If any of you can produce the sum of one million pounds in a bank account under your name and your exclusive control, then you get the lot. Everything. You’ll have to show, of course, that you haven’t just borrowed the money or anything like that. It needs to be yours and only yours and not owed to a bank or the taxman or the man in the moon. But don’t worry, the lawyers have gone into all that and the rules should be perfectly clear. If more than one of you kids has come up with the million, then the one with the most gets everything. I like winners, not runners-up. You can do what you like then. You can sell the company and spend the rest of your life on a tropical island for all I care. You’ll have earned it.
If, by any chance, you don’t come up with the million, then I’ve obviously misjudged you and you don’t truly want my money. In that case it will all go to charity and you can each make your own way in the world, just like I did. At least you’ll have the knowledge that anything you do get has come your way through your own hard work and honesty.
Good luck. I really mean it. Make me proud of you.
Love from your father, Bernard.
Helen Gradley was weeping copiously now, cocooned in Josephine’s arms. Her tears were not just tears of grief, they were tears of shock, tears of ultimate defeat. Josephine was crying too, but her grief was different. She was hurt by her father’s viciousness towards her. She was upset at finding what her privileged life was about to turn into. But most of all she was upset that her father’s last act should be one of spite and unkindness. He’d deserved a better memorial.
Earle brought his attention back. He had been staring, and staring at pretty, vulnerable young women is not recommended behaviour for family solicitors. The three young men remained almost expressionless. Only a tightening of their lips and a hardening of their eyes betrayed any emotion. Zachary, the dark one, had his eyes almost completely narrowed, his hand over his lips, concealing his feelings, appraising the situation, planning the next step.
Earle shivered.
‘Gradley Plant Hire and your father’s other assets are now held in trust, and they will be looked after for you by a group of very able trustees. Should any of you meet your father’s conditions, you will find everything in very good order in three years’ time. The will goes into all these matters in greater detail, and you may of course read it at your leisure. You may also wish to consult your own legal advisers, but I regret to say that in my opinion there should be no difficulty in enforcing the terms of the will. I’m really very sorry.’
2
Helen Gradley had lost the key to her own front door. Standing on the step outside, she rummaged uselessly through the rubbish in her handbag and began to cry.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ said Josephine. ‘I’ve got it.’
On the long drive home Helen’s shock had dissolved repeatedly into tears, but the hard centre of her pain had, if anything, grown. Since the divorce, she had never quite brought herself to believe in the permanence of her poverty. Though she had been in work, she was a poor housekeeper, prone to surges of extravagance she could ill afford. A few years back, she was diagnosed as suffering from repetitive stress injury caused by poor typing posture, and she had invalided herself from the workforce with a speed and decisiveness none of her kids had been able to overcome. On hearing the news of her ex-husband’s death, she had been openly delighted. ‘At least his money will be of some use now,’ she’d said. The will devastated her. Her worn carpets, her threadbare curtains, her hopeless dreams of a better life were all here to stay. The cavalry wasn’t coming. Rescue was impossible.
Josephine unlocked the door, took her mum upstairs to bed, and left her there with a hot-water bottle and a promise to look in soon. The kids needed to speak openly with each other and weren’t able to do so in their mother’s grief-stricken presence.
By the time Josephine emerged, her three brothers were sitting at the kitchen table round a pot of tea. Zachary, named after his grandfather, but always known simply as Zack, had arrived that morning with a bottle of champagne, expecting to celebrate later, but nobody felt like it now. With their mother quiet, they could turn at last to the thing on all their minds.
‘Poor Mum,’ said Josie. ‘It’s awful for her. She’d so relied on the will to make everything better.’
‘Don’t be silly, Josie. It’s awful for all of us. The old bastard’s probably laughing himself sick,’ said Matthew. He had sympathy for his mother, but his sympathy for himself was very much greater. Matthew’s broad, good-looking face was puckered up into a boyish scowl. His cupid’s-bow mouth pouted in an eight-year-old’s sulk.
‘He’s not an old bastard. He’s our dead father,’ said Josephine.
‘Of course he’s our father,’ said Matthew. ‘None of us wished him dead and all of us would bring him back if we could. But we all know that he was a bastard when alive, and he certainly acted the bastard in his death. And face it. He’s succeeded. He’s screwed up my life. He’s screwed up your life. He’s screwed things up for all of us, not just Mum.’
‘You mean we’ll all have to earn a living like every other person in the world.’ Josephine’s voice was high and tense. She knew Matthew spoke the truth, yet she thought it wrong to speak ill of their dead father only days after laying him in his grave. And, despite everything, in his own infuriating way, he had loved them.
‘Oh come on, Josie,’ said Matthew, unable to keep his voice from whining. ‘It’s like being imprisoned. None of us has ever really expected to earn our livings, and now we’re going to be locked up like everyone else in tedious jobs, suits, mortgages, pension plans, and all the rest of it. It’s a life sentence.’
‘You’ve got a job with that American investment bank, Madison, haven’t you? That’s not so bad.’
‘It’s not a proper job, just a summer job. I need to finish my economics degree before I look for anything permanent. And Madison won’t have me back. I only took the job because Dad made me, and I haven’t done a stroke of work since arriving.’
‘You’re talented enough –’
‘Of course I’ll find something eventually, but that’s not what I expected, or any of us. It’s a life sentence, Josie, and it’s what that bastard wanted.’
Tears rose to Matthew’s eyes as he spoke. He had a vision of his future as it should have been – leisured, pleasured and easy – and of his future as it now was: leaden, penniless and hard. He’d toil away for forty years and his reward would be this: that he’d have enough cash to avoid cold and hunger in his old age. George saw Matthew’s tears and moved the conversation forwards, giving his brother the opportunity to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand.
‘You’re right,’ grunted George. ‘But I’m worse off. I’ve got seven lousy O-Levels. I was chucked out of school. I’ve never done a day’s work in my life. I’ve got a couple of thousand quid in my current account, I’ve got my car, and that’s it. My flat’s rented. If I look for a job, I’ll be lucky to get something stacking shelves.’
He wasn’t exaggerating. George had been expelled from Sedbergh for holding a champagne party for a dozen friends, mostly female, in his housemaster’s sitting room. His housemaster had arrived back early from a weekend away to find the music blaring, the lights blazing, and champagne ringmarks all over the fine antiques it had been his life’s passion to collect. George’s education had finished that very night and, without regrets, he’d plunged straight into the life of the international playboy. He mixed with the young, rich and idle from Europe and the States, rotating between the ski slopes of Gstaad, the yacht clubs of the Riviera, the grouse moors of Scotland, and the glittering parties of London, Paris and New York. The one talent that George had developed to the full was getting money out of his father. For some reason, Bernard Gradley paid up for George’s extravagances with a freedom none of the others enjoyed. The others put it down to their physical similarity: the same heavy build, the same ginger hair and piggy eyes. George himself didn’t bother to question his father’s generosity. He just took the money, endured the criticism, and took off for the next party.
‘Can’t we get the will overturned or something?’ he added. ‘I mean there must be a law against this kind of thing.’
‘Oh grow up,’ snapped Zack. ‘Of course there isn’t a law against it. It was Dad’s money and he’s allowed to give it to whoever he wants. We can get a lawyer to look at the will, but it’s bound to be watertight. Dad wouldn’t screw up something like that. He was a bastard, but he was a competent bastard.’
Zack scowled, dark and intense, silencing the room. Brilliant, abrasive and arrogant, he had always been the boys’ natural leader, despite George’s three year advantage in age, and Zack’s assessment carried complete authority.
‘At least you’ve got a proper job,’ sulked Matthew.
This was true up to a point. Zack had gone to Oxford to study law, but had grown quickly bored and switched to philosophy. The move had enraged his father. ‘You show me somebody who’s made any money studying the meaning of life and I’ll sell him my business for a tenner,’ he roared, and obstructed Zack at every turn. But Zack could be as stubborn as his father and, having completed his degree with flying colours, went on to pursue a doctorate in a particularly obscure area of philosophy. Unfortunately, just as he was close to finishing his thesis, some new work published in the United States seemed to overturn the conclusion he was trying to prove, and he abandoned his work in a fit of annoyance.
At his dad’s insistence, he’d looked for a job and reluctantly signed up with a big London accountancy firm. He’d been there for four months and hated every minute. A week ago, a simmering quarrel with a senior partner exploded into a major row and Zack fully expected to be fired upon his return to work.
Zack shrugged. ‘I may have a job, but that’s the point. I don’t want a job. I want to be rich enough not to need one. Same as you.’
Matthew reached for the teapot and poured himself tea. He swigged it and breathed out with a sigh. ‘Let’s have a minute’s silence out of respect for the poor sods in hell who’ll have to put up with Dad for the next million billion years.’
‘Matthew! Honestly!’ exclaimed Josephine, shocked.
‘Hear, hear,’ said George, lifting his mug in a mock toast. ‘Here’s to the late and unlamented Bernard Gradley. May he enjoy as much kindness and generosity in the life hereafter as he showered upon one and all in his time on earth.’
Matthew and George looked at Zack for his support. Zack was the leader and the two brothers needed him. Zack held their gaze in agonising silence. Nothing in his face moved. The dark pools of his eyes had narrowed to slots, guarding the secrets within. Matthew and George searched his expression for an answer but found nothing.
‘Well?’ asked Matthew at length, the whine returning to his voice. George was calmer, but equally intent, perhaps already guessing the turn Zack’s thoughts had taken.
‘Well what?’ replied Zack, with a slight tremor. He slowly rose, walked to the fridge and took out the champagne. He uncorked the bottle and carefully poured himself a glass. ‘I don’t know about you guys, but I’m quite happy.’
‘Happy? How can you be happy?’ Matthew and George spoke as one.
‘Well, the most I’d been expecting was a quarter of Dad’s fortune. Today I’ve discovered I can have all of it.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘Just what I say,’ said Zack calmly. ‘I’ll make a million. In three years. Then I’ll have everything. I couldn’t have hoped for more.’
‘How are you going to make the money?’
‘I don’t know yet. But I will. And in three years’ time, I’ll be very rich indeed.’
Matthew and George were stunned. If Zack said he would do something they both believed he’d do it. But Zack said nothing about sharing the money out, and neither of his brothers wanted to bet a whole lot on his generosity.
Matthew’s boyish features gathered in a frown. Zack might be the brilliant one, but Matthew was deeply competitive. He could seldom resist a challenge, and on this occasion he wasn’t going to try.
‘You may make a million, Zack. But I’ll make more. I’ll beat you to Dad’s money. I’ll get it. Not you.’
The two brothers, one dark and angular, the other broad and fair, gazed at each other like gladiators before bloodshed. George spread his hands in despair.
‘You’ll share out the money, guys, won’t you? I mean whoever wins. I’m sure you will.’
Neither Zack nor Matthew spoke, but their faces gave George his answer. If he wanted his father’s cash, there was only one way to get it.
‘Oh Jesus,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it. Alright. I’ll have to make my million too, I suppose. Oh, Jesus.’
‘You babies,’ said Josephine. ‘You stupid babies.’
Upstairs Helen Gradley began to cry again in deep sobs that racked the little house.
Summer 1998
1
As morning broke over London four young people awoke to face the day.
First was Matthew, who, as on so many mornings, awoke to find himself in a bed not his own. Beside him there slept an attractive girl, naked. He brushed her hair away from her face. Alison? Amanda? No, Amelia. He’d met her at a party the night before and they’d left together. She was pretty but mediocre in bed, he remembered. No, that was unfair. It was Matthew who’d been off form. The will had got to him, as had Zack’s aggressive response. Amelia had been just fine, and her skin looked lovely in the morning light. Matthew tweaked the duvet up over her bare shoulder and crept out of bed.
He dressed silently in front of the mirror. His light fluffy hair needed to be damped and combed, but he didn’t want to run the bathroom taps in case he woke the sleeper. He patted his hair ineffectually into place. He looked like a stubbly choirboy with untidy hair. Matthew grimaced at his reflection but it didn’t help. It just made him look like a sulky choirboy.
He crept downstairs and found a bit of paper and a pen. He searched a bit further and found an envelope in the dustbin addressed to Miss Amelia Somebody-or-other. Good. Amelia, then, not Amanda.
‘Dear Amelia,’ he wrote. ‘Thank you for a wonderful night last night. I thought you were absolutely terrific. Sorry I had to rush off this morning – urgent business elsewhere, and I didn’t want to wake you. All the very best, Matthew.’
He was practised in such notes and had stopped signing off with ‘love from’ or ‘we must get together again’. His one-night stands were mostly with partners who were no more looking for true love than he was, but on occasion he had been caught out and the word ‘love’ had come back to haunt him. So now he aimed to be generous, warm-hearted but final. As far as he could remember, Amelia wouldn’t have a problem with that, but in any case she didn’t have his phone number. He closed the front door quietly and walked across the park towards his Chelsea flat.
Once there, he showered properly and dressed again with care. He was a good-looking chap, Matthew, and fussy as a showgirl over his appearance. He got himself some coffee, a pad of paper and a pen. Across the top of the page he wrote in block capitals: ‘Plan: One million pounds in three years.’ He underlined it.
Then he paused. He wasn’t going to list all the things he was missing, he believed in a positive approach. Underneath his heading he wrote, ‘Assets: temporary job on Madison trading floor.’ Then he was stuck. He had no money, no qualifications, and his job was already half-lost. He thought for a long time.
At school he had always been Zack’s younger brother. Zack had seldom appeared to work, but ended up with a string of A grades and a scholarship to Oxford. Matthew had worked hard, his exam results were peppered with B grades and worse, and his teachers thought him lucky to have won his place at Cambridge. Never once had Zack made things easier by showing humility or understanding. Matthew had a point to prove, and prove it he would.
His coffee went cold. He got himself another and thought some more. Eventually, he picked up his pen again and wrote: ‘Plan A: Get a permanent job at Madison. Become the best trader ever to hit the trading floor. Get a million pounds in bonuses – after tax!! Comment: very hard to achieve but worth a try.’
Then shaking his head, he continued: ‘Plan B: Get a permanent job at Madison. Become a very skilful trader. Get some big bonuses. Then –’ But he broke off. He knew what he had in mind but it would be foolish to put it into writing. It was going to be a challenging three years.
2
Just as Matthew was throwing away his sheet of paper, his elder brother Zack was at the office getting one out. He’d been happy enough to fling down a challenge to his brothers yesterday, but this morning it didn’t seem so smart. A week earlier Zack had told his senior audit partner to shove his head somewhere it would neither reach nor fit, there to entertain himself by auditing his kidneys. Predictably, the partner had stormed off, put in a request for Zack’s dismissal, and the firm’s disciplinary machinery ground into action. The final review meeting was tomorrow and it was a near certainty that Zack would get the sack.
Accountants don’t become millionaires. They may, of course, if they work hard, do well, and save prudently, but not in three years. Not aged twenty-six. On the other hand, ex-philosophy students with no job, no references, and no capital aren’t exactly in the millionaire bracket themselves. Zack needed a job – a proper job – but to do that he needed not to be fired. Scowling and gritting his teeth, he wrote out a grovelling letter of apology. Zack blamed ‘my extreme grief following the death of my father’ and begged ‘to be given a second chance to show my deep commitment to the firm’.
Zack tucked the letter into an envelope, addressed it, then pretended to spit on it. Along with tact, modesty, patience, kindness and a few other virtues, the art of apology was one Zack had yet to master. He dumped the envelope into the internal mail system and snapped at a secretary to check it was collected and delivered. That was that. No more to be done on that front.
Meantime, there was a larger problem to be solved. How was Zack to make his million? Right now he couldn’t say, but there was only one place to try: the City of London, one of the world’s great financial centres, and home to more banks than any other city in the world. But how to gain entry? His accountancy firm would give him a terrible reference, and he had nothing else to show except a failed doctorate and a useless philosophy degree. Good banks don’t hire losers.
Zack scowled again, adding to the natural intensity of his narrow face. Matthew was the best looking of the three brothers, but many women found Zack’s darkly brooding looks irresistible. Matthew was always baffled that Zack didn’t appear to notice, let alone take proper advantage, his only serious romance to date being a long and stormy one with a girl at college. Zack picked up the phone and dialled an Oxford number.
‘Ichabod Bell speaking.’
‘Ichabod, it’s Zack. Zack Gradley.’
‘Zack, my boy, nice to hear from you.’ Zack’s old philosophy tutor was genuinely enthusiastic. ‘What can I do for you? Are you coming back to finish your doctorate? I can’t believe you’re going to be a godforsaken accountant all your life.’
‘No, actually, I wanted to ask a favour.’ And Zack explained what was on his mind.
Ichabod Bell thought for a moment in silence, then said, ‘Come to dinner in two weeks. College High Table. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
‘Who?’
‘Jolly good. Saturday, in two weeks, then. Seven thirty for eight. Look forward to it.’
‘Who am I meeting?’
‘Oh, you’ll love him. Give you a chance to catch up on all your rowing gossip. Glittering mornings on the water, the thrill of the race, all that stuff.’
‘Ichabod, you know perfectly well I’ve never sat in a rowing boat in my life.’
‘Nonsense, Zack, you’ve been a lifelong fan of the sport. Nobody quite like you for memorising race statistics and all that rubbish. Just come to dinner.’
And he rang off. Zack had no idea what Bell was planning. All he knew was that he had two weeks to become expert in the noble sport of rowing.
3
George was woken shortly before midday by a loud thumping. He tried ignoring it but the noise wouldn’t go away. He pulled on a dressing gown and went to the door.
A group of beautiful young people stood in the hall outside. Beautifully dressed, beautifully tanned, slim, athletic and many-accented, they were among the wealthiest, laziest, most easily bored young people in Europe, George’s friends of the last eleven years. A petite, bird-like French girl headed the deputation.
‘Georges!’ she exclaimed, using the French pronunciation of his name. ‘You aren’t even up and we’re already late. You need to be ready this moment or we’ll miss the races. Papa’s horse is running at two-thirty, remember.’
‘Oh God, Kiki. Is it Deauville today? I’d completely forgotten.’
In his previous life four centuries ago – or was it only four days? – George had suggested chartering a plane to take them to the races at the French casino town of Deauville. The plane had been due to leave at midday, so they were already holding it up and incurring extra charges.
‘But Georges, of course it is Deauville today. And we are due at the casino this evening. You can’t have forgotten because, look, I have remembered, and I have even got up early, and I never get up early and I never remember anything, so you must have remembered, except you haven’t.’
Kiki’s illogical proof tumbled out in a single breathless flurry. Her dark brown hair fell down her slim neck in artful wisps, positively inviting male touch. She wasn’t beautiful, Kiki, but she was pretty.
And she spoke the truth. It was a minor miracle that she had remembered an appointment and been ready on time, something George had never known before. Damn! He fancied Kiki desperately and had arranged the trip mostly to be with her. If she had got herself ready, did that mean she returned his affection? Possibly, possibly not. But if he jumped on the plane to Deauville he could hardly get out of paying his share, and the last thing he needed was an evening of champagne and roulette at five hundred francs a chip.
‘Kiki, I’m so sorry. I’ve been terribly ill. Stomach upset. I don’t think I’m up to flying. You go on anyway. I’ll come another time.’