The Money Makers (3 page)

‘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 every­ thing, 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 sit­ ting 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.