Christmas in the Snow (11 page)

There was a small pause. ‘Apparently there’s talk of Garrard hooking up with Harry Winston,’ he said in a quiet voice.

She whipped round. ‘A
merger
?’ They were two of the biggest names in the precious jewellery firmament: Garrard had the British pedigree and royal warrant, Harry Winston a
Beverly Hills celebrity clientele that was every bit as prestigious, especially in this day and age. ‘Why haven’t I heard about it?’

He shrugged noncommittally.

‘Where did you hear that?’ she asked, stepping closer, scrutinizing his face. This was
her
market. She knew every single one of the guys at the US private equity firm that
had bought Garrard. She was one of their go-to fund managers. No way was this information in the public domain yet.

He looked up at her through lowered lashes. ‘I know someone who knows someone.’

She raised an eyebrow. Was he kidding? She stared at him in confusion. What kind of game was he playing here? What rules did he break? Was this how he got his returns? ‘I’m sure you
don’t need me to point out to you that that’s illegal,’ she murmured, checking no one was within earshot.

‘If I acted on it, yes.’

‘I can’t act on it either!’ she hissed furiously. ‘You just basically admitted that information is privileged!’

He shrugged. ‘It could be what gives us the edge over the others. Don’t you want to nail this deal?’

‘Of course I do! But not . . . not like that.’

She turned away, but he came and stood behind her.

‘What option have you got?’ he asked, his voice brushing past her ear, and she suppressed a shiver.

‘I’ll think of something.’

She saw a taxi come round the corner and held up her arm. It headed towards her.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

She looked back at him. ‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘I can give you a lift back to the office if you like. I’m on my way there myself. Thought I’d introduce myself to the Paris team while I’m here.’

More schmoozing. ‘No. I’m going shopping.’ She wasn’t, but it wouldn’t hurt to encourage him to underestimate her. After what she’d just heard, she had to get
her hands on that report from Bob as soon as possible. At the very least, he was flexible with the industry’s governing rules.

‘Well, would you like to meet up later? In the interests of trying to’ – he gave a small sigh – ‘clear the air, start over, make amends? We could go for
dinner.’

The taxi stopped in front of her and she stared at him for a long moment, wishing she’d never been on that damned plane. ‘Fine.’

‘Great. I’ll pick you up from your hotel.’

‘No, I’ll meet you there.’

‘Where?’

‘The Ritz. Book a table for eight p.m.’

‘OK, then.’ He flashed her a smile that belonged on a Diet Coke model and which she refused to return. She slid into the seat and shut the door.

‘
Où?
’ asked the driver over his shoulder.

‘
L’aéroport Charles de Gaulle, tout de suite
.’

‘You can go in now.’

Allegra looked across at the PA – redhead with a designer ponytail and a first in modern languages from Bristol – who was the last line of defence to the inner sanctum.

She stood up and walked briskly across the carpet without a word. Nothing of the outside world permeated the executive suite – the walls were soundproofed, the windows bulletproof,
everything around here armoured up, Allegra thought, to deliberately heighten your sense of human vulnerability, of flesh-and-blood fragility, to feel like Daniel as he walked into the lion’s
den.

She gave a quick tug on the hem of her Saint Laurent jacket – the only armour in her arsenal besides her extraordinary ability to decode numbers – before firmly rapping once on the
door and walking in.

Pierre was sitting behind his desk at the far end of the room. He didn’t look up as she entered, continuing to write whatever he was writing, but she wasn’t fazed. They had had these
state-of-the-nation chats many times before and they were like old warhorses hoofing the ground before they went into battle.

‘Pierre,’ she said in greeting, crossing the cherry-wood floor that was so highly polished she half wondered whether he used it to look up his PA’s skirt.

‘Allegra,’ Pierre continued, still writing. ‘A drink?’

‘No, thank you.’ She stood beside the chair on the opposite side of the desk to his, waiting to be told to sit, her eyes admiring the intensity on his face as he wrote.

After another minute or so, he threw – actually threw – the pen across the desk in front of him and looked up. His smile was cold. Her heart flipped a beat.

‘I think we do need a drink,’ he said, getting up and pouring them each a brandy, even though it was only four in the afternoon. He handed one to her. ‘Take a seat.’

She did as instructed, watching as he walked towards the long, tall windows that afforded commanding views over the Wharf and back towards London proper. His silhouette was as sharply cut as the
London skyline. Like her, he was a triathlon freak, and his PB was only eighteen minutes faster than hers – they had even run together on several occasions – and they had spent many
evenings alone in his office, the last ones to leave, discussing carbon-fibre bikes and skinsuits.

But it wasn’t his fitness or success or drive that she respected most. It was his intellect – a cool, rational brain that she could predict and understand, and which silenced the
braggadocio of the look-at-me traders. It had brought him a personal fortune of £7 billion, homes on almost every continent in the world (had he wanted a ski lodge in Antarctica, he could
have had one there too), a model wife (third) and, better than any of that put together, a reputation as a City goliath that saw CEOs of FTSE 100s stand even when he entered a ballroom.

Allegra watched in silence as he turned back to her, his eyes appraising her for a long moment before he wandered back to his desk. She tracked him like she was watching through the scope on a
rifle, never blinking, not moving a muscle lest that be enough to lose him from view. She realized she was cold.

She hadn’t seen him since she’d stormed out of the V&A, but Pierre wasn’t delicate about high tempers; in fact, he actively encouraged passions in his employees. But
she’d promised to bag the Yong deal within the week and her follow-up calls to Yong’s office yesterday and today had been politely brushed off with the unsurprising news that Mr Yong
was away travelling.

She couldn’t ask Sam Kemp either, assuming that he’d tell her even if he knew. Not after the stunt she’d pulled . . . He had flown from Paris straight back to New York,
apparently to wind up his affairs there and formally hand over to his successor, but Kirsty hadn’t been able to find out when he was due back and Allegra hadn’t pushed it for once
– she didn’t want to rely on him in any way or for anything.

There was a strong knock on the door and it opened.

‘Pierre.’

Allegra felt her sinews tighten. Christ, talk of the devil.

‘Come in, Kemp. We’ve been waiting for you.’

Allegra didn’t stir as she heard Sam’s tread over the floor, saw his frame fill her peripheral vision to the left: navy suit, navy tie, black shoes . . . She refused to imagine him
sitting alone at the table in the Ritz. She refused to wonder how long he had waited before realizing she wasn’t going to arrive.

Pierre poured him a drink and handed it over. ‘The two of you seem to be having trouble clinching the Yong deal.’

‘I wasn’t aware that I was even allowed to clinch the deal,’ Allegra said quickly, determined to get in first. ‘Aren’t I supposed to be back office on this
now?’

‘You didn’t sound very back office in Paris,’ Pierre replied with cold, knowing eyes.

Allegra straightened her back. News of her ‘heist’ had got back to him, then.

‘Chinese etiquette dictated a return meeting and offering of gifts. By turning up unannounced, I was trying to obligate him into acting,’ she said simply.

‘Well, it didn’t work, did it?’ Pierre replied, unimpressed. ‘Far from it. In fact, it seems to me that you’ve pushed him into the arms of our competitors. Thanks
to Kemp’s “in” with the son, we know that the Yongs had dinner with Peter Butler and his fucking cronies at Red Shore in Berlin last night.’

‘There’s no way they can compete with our strategy,’ Allegra said confidently, determined to sound unafraid. ‘It’s Teflon-plated.’

‘Really? Because not everybody is of the same opinion as you on China. Shares in Demontignac are up to ninety-one dollars. You just lost us forty-two million pounds by bottling last
week.’

Allegra thrust up her chin. ‘I didn’t bottle. They’re going to tank. Their business model isn’t—’

‘Stable? Thank you, I’ve read your report,’ Pierre said dismissively, looking across at Sam. ‘Did you agree with her decision?’

‘No. It was a unilateral decision by Fisher. The first I knew of it was when she hijacked the meeting in Paris.’ His voice was cold, unemotional, the brandy glass held languidly in
one hand as he slouched to her military bearing. ‘I’m not convinced we’ll get anything like the same numbers going in at the low end of the market in the States, but there’s
precious little we can do about it now. We can’t change our minds on it
again
. They’ll think we don’t know what the fuck we’re doing. If they bite, then we can
change the investments further down the road. They won’t care so much about a U-turn when they see the P&Ls.’

Allegra was finding it hard to hear him over the sound of her own blood rushing through her head. Panic was beginning to flood her thoughts.

‘What’s the son said to you?’

‘Zhou?’ Sam shrugged. ‘He’s trying to sway his father in our favour, but he says his father won’t make a decision until 18 December.’

‘What?’ Pierre thundered so loudly that Allegra almost shattered the glass in her hand. ‘But Besakovitch is out on the 19th. The 18th is too fucking tight.’

‘I know, but Yong’s been advised that’s the most auspicious date,’ Sam said calmly. ‘You know the Chinese.’

‘Fuck auspicious!’ Pierre shouted. ‘He’s got eight hundred and ninety million pounds that I want locked up.’

‘I know and I’m doing everything I can. I saw Zhou in New York yesterday. He’s on our side.’

Allegra felt her muscles tense to learn of a meeting that had happened without her there, without even her knowledge. How many others had there been, Sam hooking up with his old room-mate, while
she was stonewalled by his office?

‘On our side, or yanking our chain?’

‘We’ll get him, I promise.’

‘Promises mean fuck all.
She
made me a promise last week and here we are, no further on!’ Pierre drained the brandy, slamming the glass down on the desk. Allegra tried not
to flinch, tried not to do anything that brought attention to the fact that she was a
she
and not – crucially – a
he
.

It wasn’t the first time in her life that she’d failed on that score and the rush of anger helped her find her voice – strident and clear. ‘Pierre, I’m going to
look at the proposal again. Maybe we are too biased to the long side. Maybe you’re right about China. I can take a fresh look. The markets are low volatility at the moment, trending upwards .
. .’ She shrugged, not believing in the words she was saying, but willing to say anything to buy time. ‘Maybe I’ve been too market neutral. If Red Shore is coming in with
something edgier, if Yong wants us to turn up the risk? We can do that. Just give me the word. I can go hardcore on this.’

Sam flashed a look across at her and she saw from his expression that he, too, was thinking about his non-legit tip in Paris.

Pierre stared coldly at her, then at Sam. ‘Well,
one
of you has to do something. Leverage contacts, Kemp? Grow a fucking pair, Fisher? Because if Yong signs with Red Shore just
because . . .’ He groaned. ‘Christ, if he signs with them because red is considered
lucky
. . . !’ He was almost yelling.

‘That won’t happen, Pierre.’ Allegra’s voice was cool by comparison. She liked it when Pierre began throwing his toys out of the pram. It made her feel calmer and look
more in control.

‘It had better not. The rewards are great – I’m telling you that now.’ His black eyes flicked between the pair of them. ‘Whichever one of you seals this deal,
you’ll be in the office next door to here the following day. But if you don’t and Yong fucks us over’ – he sniffed – ‘I’m not carrying dead
weight.’

‘Got it,’ Allegra said, standing up adroitly, placing the untouched brandy on the desk.

Pierre stared at her. ‘Not thirsty, Fisher?’ he asked.

Allegra blinked, before picking it up and downing the shot in one, ignoring the burn in her throat. Sam stood up, his glass already empty, and nodded stiffly at Pierre.

The two of them marched towards the door and the safety of the outer sanctum.

The door had no sooner closed than Sam whirled round and was in her face. ‘I gave up my career, my
life
, in New York, for this shit? Last week, Minotaur was offering me US CFO and
here I am, two hours off the plane and already being threatened with the sack, because of you!’

‘Not because of me,’ Allegra hissed. ‘
I
didn’t ask you to come here. If you can’t close the deal, it’s nobody’s fault but yours. I mean,
aren’t you supposed to have been the one to stop Besakovitch from pulling out in the first place? He was your client. What is it with you? You just can’t quite pull it off. You’ve
got every advantage going – daddy’s boy in your pocket, friends with—’ She stopped speaking abruptly. The accusation couldn’t be said out loud.

He snorted derisively. ‘I hope you’ve updated your LinkedIn page, Fisher. You’re going to need
your
contacts.’

‘You’re the one he told to leverage contacts,’ she snapped back. ‘It seems to be all you’re good for.’

‘Miss Fisher?’

Allegra turned in surprise, unaware of anyone else around them, unaware that Kirsty had been standing anxiously beside her for several moments now. ‘I’m sorry, I have an urgent
message for you.’