Noble House by James Clavell
In the boardroom it was still rough going for Casey. They would take none of the baits she offered. Her anxiety had increased and now as she waited she felt a wave of untoward fear go through her.
Phillip Chen was doodling, Linbar fiddling with his papers, Jacques deVille watching her thoughtfully. Then Andrew Gavallan stopped writing the latest percentages she had quoted. He sighed and looked up at her. “Clearly this should be a co-financing operation,” he said, his voice sharp. Electricity in the room soared and Casey had difficulty suppressing a cheer as he added, “How much would Par-Con be prepared to put up, joint financing, for the whole deal?”
“18 million U.S. this year should cover it,” she answered immediately, noting happily that they all covered a gasp.
The published net worth of Struan’s last year was almost 28 million, and she and Bartlett had gauged their offer on this figure.
“Make the first offer 20 million,” Linc had told her. “You should hook ’em at 25 which’d be great. It’s essential we co-finance, but the suggestion’s got to come from them.”
“But look at their balance sheet, Linc. You can’t tell for sure what their real net worth is. It could be 10 million either way, maybe more. We don’t know how strong they really are … or how weak. Look at this item: ‘14.7 million retained in subsidiaries.’ What subsidiaries, where and what for? Here’s another one: ‘7.4 million transferred to—’”
“So what, Casey? So it’s 30 million instead of 25. Our projection’s still valid.”
“Yes—but their accounting procedures … My God, Linc, if we did one percent of this in the States the SEC’d have our asses in a sling and we’d end up in jail for fifty years.”
“Yes. But it’s not against their law, which is a major reason for going to Hong Kong.”
“20 is too much for openers.”
“I’ll leave it to you, Casey. Just remember in Hong Kong we play Hong Kong rules—whatever’s legal. I want in their game.”
“Why? And don’t say ‘for my goddamn pleasure.’”
Linc had laughed. “Okay—then for your goddamn pleasure. Just make the Struan deal!”
The humidity in the boardroom had increased. She would have liked to reach for a tissue but she kept still, willing them onward, pretending calm.
Gavallan broke the silence. “When would Mr. Bartlett confirm the offer of 18 million … if we accepted?”
“It’s confirmed,” she said sweetly, passing over the insult. “I have clearance to commit up to 20 million on this deal without consulting Linc or his board,” she said, deliberately giving them room to maneuver. Then she added innocently, “Then it’s all settled? Good.” She began to sort out her papers. “Next: I’d—”
“Just a moment,” Gavallan said, off balance. “I, er, 18 is … In any event we have to present the package to the tai-pan.”
“Oh,” she said, pretending surprise. “I thought we were negotiating as equals, that you four gentlemen had powers equal to mine. Perhaps I’d better talk to Mr. Dunross directly in the future.”
Andrew Gavallan flushed. “The tai-pan has final say. In everything.”
“I’m very glad to know it, Mr. Gavallan. I only have final say up to 20 million.” She beamed at them. “Very well, put it to your tai-pan. Meanwhile, shall we set a time limit on the consideration period?”
Another silence.
“What do you suggest?” Gavallan said, feeling trapped.
“Whatever the minimum is. I don’t know how fast you like to work,” Casey said.
Phillip Chen said, “Why not table that answer until after lunch, Andrew?”
“Yes—good idea.”
“That’s fine with me,” Casey said. I’ve done my job, she thought. I’ll settle for 20 million when it could’ve been 30 and they’re men and expert, and over twenty-one and they think I’m a sucker. But now I get my drop dead money. Dear God in heaven let this deal go through because then I’m free forever.
Free to do what?
Never mind, she told herself. I’ll think about that later.
She heard herself continue the pattern: “Shall we go through the details of how you’d like the 18 million and …”
“18 is hardly adequate,” Phillip Chen interrupted, the lie coming very easily. “There are all sorts of added costs….”
In perfect negotiating style Casey argued and allowed them to push her to 20 million and then, with apparent reluctance, she said, “You gentlemen are exceptional businessmen. Very well, 20 million.” She saw their hidden smiles and laughed to herself.
“Good,” Gavallan said, very satisfied.
“Now,” she said, wanting to keep the pressure on, “how do you want our joint venture corporate structure to be? Of course subject to your tai-pan—sorry, subject to the tai-pan’s approval,” she said, correcting herself with just the right amount of humility.
Gavallan was watching her, irritably wishing she were a man. Then I could say, up yours, or go shit in your hat, and we’d laugh together because you know and I know you always have to check with the tai-pan in some way or another—whether it’s Dunross or Bartlett or a board or your wife. Yes, and if you were a man we wouldn’t have this bloody sexuality in the boardroom which doesn’t belong here in the first place. Christ, if you were an old bag maybe that’d make a difference but, shit, a bird like you?
What the hell gets into American women? Why in the name of Christ don’t they stay where they belong and be content with what they’re great at? Stupid!
And stupid to concede financing so quickly, and even more stupid to give us an extra two million when ten would probably have been acceptable in the first place. For God’s sake, you should have been more patient and you would have made a much better deal! That’s the trouble with you Americans, you’ve no finesse and no patience and no style and you don’t understand the art of negotiation, and you, dear lady, you’re much too impatient to prove yourself. So now I know how to play you.
He glanced at Linbar Struan who was watching Casey covertly, waiting for him or Phillip or Jacques to continue. When I’m tai-pan, Gavallan thought grimly, I’m going to break you, young Linbar, break you or make you. You need shoving out into the world on your own, to make you think for yourself, to rely on yourself, not on your name and your heritage. Yes, with a lot more hard work to take some of the heat out of your yang—the sooner you remarry the better.
His eyes switched to Jacques deVille who smiled back at him. Ah Jacques, he thought without rancor, you’re my main opposition. You’re doing what you usually do: saying little, watching everything, thinking a lot—rough, tough and mean if necessary. But what’s in your mind about this deal? Have I missed something? What does your canny legal Parisian mind forecast? Ah but she stopped you in your tracks with her joke about your joke about her nose, eh?
I’d like to bed her too, he thought absently, knowing Linbar and Jacques had already decided the same. Of course—who wouldn’t?
What about you, Phillip Chen?
Oh no. Not you. You like them very much younger and have it done to you, strangely, if there’s any truth to the rumors, heya?
He looked back at Casey. He could read her impatience. You don’t look lesbian, he thought and groaned inwardly. Is that your other weakness? Christ, that’d be a terrible waste!
“The joint venture should be set up under Hong Kong law,” he said.
“Yes of course. There’s—”
“Sims, Dawson and Dick can advise us how. I’ll arrange an appointment for tomorrow or the day after.”
“No need for that, Mr. Gavallan. I already got their tentative proposals, hypothetical and confidential, of course, just in case we decided to conclude.”
“What?” They gaped at her as she took out five copies of a short form, legal contract and handed one to each of them.
“I found out they were your attorneys,” she said brightly. “I had our people check them out and I was advised they’re the best so they were fine with us. I asked them to consi
der our joint hypothetical needs—yours as well as ours. Is anything the matter?”
“No,” Gavallan said, suddenly furious that their own firm had not told them of Par-Con’s inquiries. He began to scan the letter.
Dew rieh loh moh on Casey bloody whatever her names are, Phillip Chen was thinking, enraged at the loss of face. May your Golden Gulley wither and be ever dry and dust-filled for your foul manners and your fresh, filthy, unfeminine habits!
God protect us from American women!
Ayeeyah, it is going to cost Lincoln Bartlett a pretty penny for daring to stick this … this creature upon us, he promised himself. How dare he!
Nevertheless, his mind was estimating the staggering value of the deal they were being offered. It has to be at least 100 million U.S., potentially, over the next few years, he told himself, his head reeling. This will give the Noble House the stability it needs.
Oh happy day, he gloated. And co-financing dollar for dollar! Unbelievable! Stupid to give us that so quickly without even a tiny concession in return. Stupid, but what can you expect from a stupid woman? Ayeeyah, the Pacific Rim will gorge on all the polyurethane foam products we can make—for packaging, building, bedding and insulating. One factory here, one in Taiwan, one in Singapore, one in Kuala Lumpur and a last, initially, in Jakarta. We’ll make millions, tens of millions. And as to the computer-leasing agency, why at the rental these fools are offering us, 10 percent less than IBM’s list price, less our 7½ percent commission—with just a little haggling we would have been delighted to agree to 5 percent—by next weekend I can sell three in Singapore, one here, one in Kuala Lumpur and one to that shipping pirate in Indonesia for a clear profit of $67,500 each, or $405,000 for six phone calls. And as to China …
And as to China …
Oh all gods great and small and very small, help this deal to go through and I will endow a new temple, a cathedral, in Tai-ping Shan, he promised, consumed with fervor. If China will drop some controls, or even ease them just a fraction, we can fertilize the paddy fields of Kwantung Province and then of all China and over the next twelve years this deal will mean tens of hundreds of millions of dollars, U.S. dollars not Hong Kong dollars!
The thought of all this profit mollified his rage considerably. “I think this proposal can form the basis for further discussion,” he said, finishing reading. “Don’t you, Andrew?”
“Yes.” Gavallan put the letter down. “I’ll call them after lunch. When would it be convenient for Mr. Bartlett … and you of course … to meet?”
“This afternoon—the sooner the better—or anytime tomorrow but Linc won’t come. I handle all the details, that’s my job,” Casey said crisply. “He sets policy—and will formally sign the final documents—after I’ve approved them. That’s the function of the commander-in-chief, isn’t it?” She beamed at them.
“I’ll make an appointment and leave a message at your hotel,” Gavallan was saying.
“Perhaps we could set it up now—then that’s out of the way?”
Sourly Gavallan glanced at his watch. Almost lunch, thank God. “Jacques—how’re you fixed tomorrow?”
“Morning’s better than the afternoon.”
“And for John too,” Phillip Chen said.
Gavallan picked up the phone and dialed. “Mary? Call Dawson and make an appointment for eleven tomorrow to include Mr. deVille and Mr. John Chen and Miss Casey. At their offices.” He put the phone down. “Jacques and John Chen handle all our corporate matters. John’s sophisticated on American problems and Dawson’s the expert. I’ll send the car for you at 10:30.”
“Thanks, but there’s no need for you to trouble.”
“Just as you wish,” he said politely. “Perhaps this is a good time to break for lunch.”
Casey said, “We’ve a quarter of an hour yet. Shall we start on how you’d like our financing? Or if you wish we can send out for a sandwich and work on through.”
They stared at her, appalled. “Work through lunch?”
“Why not? It’s an old American custom.”
“Thank God it’s not a custom here,” Gavallan said.
“Yes,” Phillip Chen snapped.
She felt their disapproval descend like a pall but she did not care. Shit on all of you, she thought irritably, then forced herself to put that attitude away. Listen, idiot, don’t let these sons of bitches get you! She smiled sweetly. “If you want to stop now for lunch, that’s fine with me.”
“Good,” Gavallan said at once and the others breathed a sigh of relief. “We begin lunch at 12:40. You’ll probably want to powder your nose first.”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, knowing they wanted her gone so they could discuss her—and then the deal. It should be the other way around, she thought, but it won’t be. No. It’ll be the same as always: they’ll lay bets as to who’ll be the first to score. But it’ll be none of them, because I don’t want any of them at the moment, however attractive they are in their way. These men are like all the others I’ve met: they don’t want love, they just want sex.
Except Linc.
Don’t think about Linc and how much you love him and how rotten these years have been. Rotten and wonderful.
Remember your promise.
I won’t think about Linc and love.
Not until my birthday which is ninety-eight days from now. The ninety-eighth day ends the seventh year and because of my darling by then I’ll have my drop dead money and really be equal, and, God willing, we’ll have the Noble House. Will that be my wedding present to him? Or his to me?
Or a good-bye present.
“Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked, getting up, and they all stood and towered over her, except Phillip Chen whom she topped by an inch, and Gavallan directed her.
Linbar Struan opened the door for her and closed it behind her. Then he grinned. “A thousand says you’ll never make it, Jacques.”
“Another thousand,” Gavallan said. “And ten that you won’t, Linbar.”
“You’re on,” Linbar replied, “provided she’s here a month.”
“You’re slowing up, aren’t you, old chap?” Gavallan said, then to Jacques, “Well?”
The Frenchman smiled. “Twenty that you, Andrew, will never charm such a lady into bed—and as to you, poor young Linbar. Fifty against your racehorse says the same.”
“I like my filly for God’s sake. Noble Star’s got a great chance of being a winner. She’s the best in our stable.”
“Fifty.”
“A hundred and I’ll consider it.”
“I don’t want any horse that much.” Jacques smiled at Phillip Chen. “What do you think, Phillip?”
Phillip Chen got up. “I think I’ll go home to lunch and leave you stallions to your dreams. It’s curious though that you’re all betting the others won’t—not that any of you could.” Again they laughed.
“Stupid to give us the extra, eh?” Gavallan said.
“The deal’s fantastic,” Linbar Struan said. “Christ, Uncle Phillip, fantastic!”
“Like her derrière,” deVille said as a connoisseur would. “Eh, Phillip?”
Good-naturedly Phillip Chen nodded and walked out, but as he saw Casey disappearing into the ladies’ room, he thought, Ayeeyah, who’d want the big lump anyway?
Inside the ladies’ room, Casey looked around, appalled. It was clean but smelled of old drains and there were pails piled one on top of another and some were filled with water. The floor was tiled but water-spotted and messy. I’ve heard the English are not very hygienic, she thought disgustedly, but here in the Noble House? Ugh! Astonishing!
She went into one of the cubicles, its floor wet and slippery, and after she had finished she pulled the handle and nothing happened. She tried it again, and again, and still nothing happened so she cursed and lifted off the top of the cistern. The cistern was dry and rusty. Irritably she unbolted the door and went to the basin and turned on the water but none came out.
What’s the matter wi
th this place? I’ll bet those bastards sent me here deliberately!
There were clean hand towels so she poured a pail of water into the basin awkwardly, spilling some, washed her hands, then dried them, furious that her shoes had got splashed. At a sudden thought, she took another pail and flushed the toilet, then used still another bucket to clean her hands again. When she left, she felt very soiled.
I suppose the goddamn pipe’s broken somewhere and the plumber won’t come until tomorrow. Goddamn all water systems!
Calm down, she told herself. You’ll start making mistakes.
The corridor was covered with fine Chinese silk carpet, and the walls were lined with oil paintings of clipper ships and Chinese landscapes. As she approached she could hear the muted voices from the boardroom and a laugh—the kind of laugh that comes from a ribald joke or a smutty remark. She knew the moment she opened the door, the good humor and comradeship would vanish and the awkward silence would return.
She opened the door and they all got up.
“Are you having trouble with your water mains?” she asked, holding her anger down.
“No, I don’t think so,” Gavallan said, startled.
“Well, there’s no water. Didn’t you know?”
“Of course there’s no—Oh!” He stopped. “You’re staying at the V and A so … Didn’t anyone tell you about the water shortage?”
They all began talking at once but Gavallan dominated them. “The V and A has its own water supply—so do a couple of other hotels—but the rest of us’re on four hours of water every fourth day, so you’ve got to use a pail. Never occurred to me you didn’t know. Sorry.”
“How do you manage? Every fourth day?”
“Yes. For four hours, 6:00 A.M. till 8:00 A.M., then 5:00 till 7:00 in the evening. It’s a frightful bore because of course it means we’ve got to store four days’ supply. Pails, or the bath, whatever you can. We’re short of pails—it’s our water day tomorrow. Oh my God, there was water for you, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, but … You mean the water mains are turned off? Everywhere?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Gavallan said patiently. “Except for those four hours every fourth day. But you’re all right at the V and A. As they’re right on the waterfront they can refill their tanks daily from lighters—of course, they have to buy it.”
Phillip Chen was doodling, Linbar fiddling with his papers, Jacques deVille watching her thoughtfully. Then Andrew Gavallan stopped writing the latest percentages she had quoted. He sighed and looked up at her. “Clearly this should be a co-financing operation,” he said, his voice sharp. Electricity in the room soared and Casey had difficulty suppressing a cheer as he added, “How much would Par-Con be prepared to put up, joint financing, for the whole deal?”
“18 million U.S. this year should cover it,” she answered immediately, noting happily that they all covered a gasp.
The published net worth of Struan’s last year was almost 28 million, and she and Bartlett had gauged their offer on this figure.
“Make the first offer 20 million,” Linc had told her. “You should hook ’em at 25 which’d be great. It’s essential we co-finance, but the suggestion’s got to come from them.”
“But look at their balance sheet, Linc. You can’t tell for sure what their real net worth is. It could be 10 million either way, maybe more. We don’t know how strong they really are … or how weak. Look at this item: ‘14.7 million retained in subsidiaries.’ What subsidiaries, where and what for? Here’s another one: ‘7.4 million transferred to—’”
“So what, Casey? So it’s 30 million instead of 25. Our projection’s still valid.”
“Yes—but their accounting procedures … My God, Linc, if we did one percent of this in the States the SEC’d have our asses in a sling and we’d end up in jail for fifty years.”
“Yes. But it’s not against their law, which is a major reason for going to Hong Kong.”
“20 is too much for openers.”
“I’ll leave it to you, Casey. Just remember in Hong Kong we play Hong Kong rules—whatever’s legal. I want in their game.”
“Why? And don’t say ‘for my goddamn pleasure.’”
Linc had laughed. “Okay—then for your goddamn pleasure. Just make the Struan deal!”
The humidity in the boardroom had increased. She would have liked to reach for a tissue but she kept still, willing them onward, pretending calm.
Gavallan broke the silence. “When would Mr. Bartlett confirm the offer of 18 million … if we accepted?”
“It’s confirmed,” she said sweetly, passing over the insult. “I have clearance to commit up to 20 million on this deal without consulting Linc or his board,” she said, deliberately giving them room to maneuver. Then she added innocently, “Then it’s all settled? Good.” She began to sort out her papers. “Next: I’d—”
“Just a moment,” Gavallan said, off balance. “I, er, 18 is … In any event we have to present the package to the tai-pan.”
“Oh,” she said, pretending surprise. “I thought we were negotiating as equals, that you four gentlemen had powers equal to mine. Perhaps I’d better talk to Mr. Dunross directly in the future.”
Andrew Gavallan flushed. “The tai-pan has final say. In everything.”
“I’m very glad to know it, Mr. Gavallan. I only have final say up to 20 million.” She beamed at them. “Very well, put it to your tai-pan. Meanwhile, shall we set a time limit on the consideration period?”
Another silence.
“What do you suggest?” Gavallan said, feeling trapped.
“Whatever the minimum is. I don’t know how fast you like to work,” Casey said.
Phillip Chen said, “Why not table that answer until after lunch, Andrew?”
“Yes—good idea.”
“That’s fine with me,” Casey said. I’ve done my job, she thought. I’ll settle for 20 million when it could’ve been 30 and they’re men and expert, and over twenty-one and they think I’m a sucker. But now I get my drop dead money. Dear God in heaven let this deal go through because then I’m free forever.
Free to do what?
Never mind, she told herself. I’ll think about that later.
She heard herself continue the pattern: “Shall we go through the details of how you’d like the 18 million and …”
“18 is hardly adequate,” Phillip Chen interrupted, the lie coming very easily. “There are all sorts of added costs….”
In perfect negotiating style Casey argued and allowed them to push her to 20 million and then, with apparent reluctance, she said, “You gentlemen are exceptional businessmen. Very well, 20 million.” She saw their hidden smiles and laughed to herself.
“Good,” Gavallan said, very satisfied.
“Now,” she said, wanting to keep the pressure on, “how do you want our joint venture corporate structure to be? Of course subject to your tai-pan—sorry, subject to the tai-pan’s approval,” she said, correcting herself with just the right amount of humility.
Gavallan was watching her, irritably wishing she were a man. Then I could say, up yours, or go shit in your hat, and we’d laugh together because you know and I know you always have to check with the tai-pan in some way or another—whether it’s Dunross or Bartlett or a board or your wife. Yes, and if you were a man we wouldn’t have this bloody sexuality in the boardroom which doesn’t belong here in the first place. Christ, if you were an old bag maybe that’d make a difference but, shit, a bird like you?
What the hell gets into American women? Why in the name of Christ don’t they stay where they belong and be content with what they’re great at? Stupid!
And stupid to concede financing so quickly, and even more stupid to give us an extra two million when ten would probably have been acceptable in the first place. For God’s sake, you should have been more patient and you would have made a much better deal! That’s the trouble with you Americans, you’ve no finesse and no patience and no style and you don’t understand the art of negotiation, and you, dear lady, you’re much too impatient to prove yourself. So now I know how to play you.
He glanced at Linbar Struan who was watching Casey covertly, waiting for him or Phillip or Jacques to continue. When I’m tai-pan, Gavallan thought grimly, I’m going to break you, young Linbar, break you or make you. You need shoving out into the world on your own, to make you think for yourself, to rely on yourself, not on your name and your heritage. Yes, with a lot more hard work to take some of the heat out of your yang—the sooner you remarry the better.
His eyes switched to Jacques deVille who smiled back at him. Ah Jacques, he thought without rancor, you’re my main opposition. You’re doing what you usually do: saying little, watching everything, thinking a lot—rough, tough and mean if necessary. But what’s in your mind about this deal? Have I missed something? What does your canny legal Parisian mind forecast? Ah but she stopped you in your tracks with her joke about your joke about her nose, eh?
I’d like to bed her too, he thought absently, knowing Linbar and Jacques had already decided the same. Of course—who wouldn’t?
What about you, Phillip Chen?
Oh no. Not you. You like them very much younger and have it done to you, strangely, if there’s any truth to the rumors, heya?
He looked back at Casey. He could read her impatience. You don’t look lesbian, he thought and groaned inwardly. Is that your other weakness? Christ, that’d be a terrible waste!
“The joint venture should be set up under Hong Kong law,” he said.
“Yes of course. There’s—”
“Sims, Dawson and Dick can advise us how. I’ll arrange an appointment for tomorrow or the day after.”
“No need for that, Mr. Gavallan. I already got their tentative proposals, hypothetical and confidential, of course, just in case we decided to conclude.”
“What?” They gaped at her as she took out five copies of a short form, legal contract and handed one to each of them.
“I found out they were your attorneys,” she said brightly. “I had our people check them out and I was advised they’re the best so they were fine with us. I asked them to consi
“No,” Gavallan said, suddenly furious that their own firm had not told them of Par-Con’s inquiries. He began to scan the letter.
Dew rieh loh moh on Casey bloody whatever her names are, Phillip Chen was thinking, enraged at the loss of face. May your Golden Gulley wither and be ever dry and dust-filled for your foul manners and your fresh, filthy, unfeminine habits!
God protect us from American women!
Ayeeyah, it is going to cost Lincoln Bartlett a pretty penny for daring to stick this … this creature upon us, he promised himself. How dare he!
Nevertheless, his mind was estimating the staggering value of the deal they were being offered. It has to be at least 100 million U.S., potentially, over the next few years, he told himself, his head reeling. This will give the Noble House the stability it needs.
Oh happy day, he gloated. And co-financing dollar for dollar! Unbelievable! Stupid to give us that so quickly without even a tiny concession in return. Stupid, but what can you expect from a stupid woman? Ayeeyah, the Pacific Rim will gorge on all the polyurethane foam products we can make—for packaging, building, bedding and insulating. One factory here, one in Taiwan, one in Singapore, one in Kuala Lumpur and a last, initially, in Jakarta. We’ll make millions, tens of millions. And as to the computer-leasing agency, why at the rental these fools are offering us, 10 percent less than IBM’s list price, less our 7½ percent commission—with just a little haggling we would have been delighted to agree to 5 percent—by next weekend I can sell three in Singapore, one here, one in Kuala Lumpur and one to that shipping pirate in Indonesia for a clear profit of $67,500 each, or $405,000 for six phone calls. And as to China …
And as to China …
Oh all gods great and small and very small, help this deal to go through and I will endow a new temple, a cathedral, in Tai-ping Shan, he promised, consumed with fervor. If China will drop some controls, or even ease them just a fraction, we can fertilize the paddy fields of Kwantung Province and then of all China and over the next twelve years this deal will mean tens of hundreds of millions of dollars, U.S. dollars not Hong Kong dollars!
The thought of all this profit mollified his rage considerably. “I think this proposal can form the basis for further discussion,” he said, finishing reading. “Don’t you, Andrew?”
“Yes.” Gavallan put the letter down. “I’ll call them after lunch. When would it be convenient for Mr. Bartlett … and you of course … to meet?”
“This afternoon—the sooner the better—or anytime tomorrow but Linc won’t come. I handle all the details, that’s my job,” Casey said crisply. “He sets policy—and will formally sign the final documents—after I’ve approved them. That’s the function of the commander-in-chief, isn’t it?” She beamed at them.
“I’ll make an appointment and leave a message at your hotel,” Gavallan was saying.
“Perhaps we could set it up now—then that’s out of the way?”
Sourly Gavallan glanced at his watch. Almost lunch, thank God. “Jacques—how’re you fixed tomorrow?”
“Morning’s better than the afternoon.”
“And for John too,” Phillip Chen said.
Gavallan picked up the phone and dialed. “Mary? Call Dawson and make an appointment for eleven tomorrow to include Mr. deVille and Mr. John Chen and Miss Casey. At their offices.” He put the phone down. “Jacques and John Chen handle all our corporate matters. John’s sophisticated on American problems and Dawson’s the expert. I’ll send the car for you at 10:30.”
“Thanks, but there’s no need for you to trouble.”
“Just as you wish,” he said politely. “Perhaps this is a good time to break for lunch.”
Casey said, “We’ve a quarter of an hour yet. Shall we start on how you’d like our financing? Or if you wish we can send out for a sandwich and work on through.”
They stared at her, appalled. “Work through lunch?”
“Why not? It’s an old American custom.”
“Thank God it’s not a custom here,” Gavallan said.
“Yes,” Phillip Chen snapped.
She felt their disapproval descend like a pall but she did not care. Shit on all of you, she thought irritably, then forced herself to put that attitude away. Listen, idiot, don’t let these sons of bitches get you! She smiled sweetly. “If you want to stop now for lunch, that’s fine with me.”
“Good,” Gavallan said at once and the others breathed a sigh of relief. “We begin lunch at 12:40. You’ll probably want to powder your nose first.”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, knowing they wanted her gone so they could discuss her—and then the deal. It should be the other way around, she thought, but it won’t be. No. It’ll be the same as always: they’ll lay bets as to who’ll be the first to score. But it’ll be none of them, because I don’t want any of them at the moment, however attractive they are in their way. These men are like all the others I’ve met: they don’t want love, they just want sex.
Except Linc.
Don’t think about Linc and how much you love him and how rotten these years have been. Rotten and wonderful.
Remember your promise.
I won’t think about Linc and love.
Not until my birthday which is ninety-eight days from now. The ninety-eighth day ends the seventh year and because of my darling by then I’ll have my drop dead money and really be equal, and, God willing, we’ll have the Noble House. Will that be my wedding present to him? Or his to me?
Or a good-bye present.
“Where’s the ladies’ room?” she asked, getting up, and they all stood and towered over her, except Phillip Chen whom she topped by an inch, and Gavallan directed her.
Linbar Struan opened the door for her and closed it behind her. Then he grinned. “A thousand says you’ll never make it, Jacques.”
“Another thousand,” Gavallan said. “And ten that you won’t, Linbar.”
“You’re on,” Linbar replied, “provided she’s here a month.”
“You’re slowing up, aren’t you, old chap?” Gavallan said, then to Jacques, “Well?”
The Frenchman smiled. “Twenty that you, Andrew, will never charm such a lady into bed—and as to you, poor young Linbar. Fifty against your racehorse says the same.”
“I like my filly for God’s sake. Noble Star’s got a great chance of being a winner. She’s the best in our stable.”
“Fifty.”
“A hundred and I’ll consider it.”
“I don’t want any horse that much.” Jacques smiled at Phillip Chen. “What do you think, Phillip?”
Phillip Chen got up. “I think I’ll go home to lunch and leave you stallions to your dreams. It’s curious though that you’re all betting the others won’t—not that any of you could.” Again they laughed.
“Stupid to give us the extra, eh?” Gavallan said.
“The deal’s fantastic,” Linbar Struan said. “Christ, Uncle Phillip, fantastic!”
“Like her derrière,” deVille said as a connoisseur would. “Eh, Phillip?”
Good-naturedly Phillip Chen nodded and walked out, but as he saw Casey disappearing into the ladies’ room, he thought, Ayeeyah, who’d want the big lump anyway?
Inside the ladies’ room, Casey looked around, appalled. It was clean but smelled of old drains and there were pails piled one on top of another and some were filled with water. The floor was tiled but water-spotted and messy. I’ve heard the English are not very hygienic, she thought disgustedly, but here in the Noble House? Ugh! Astonishing!
She went into one of the cubicles, its floor wet and slippery, and after she had finished she pulled the handle and nothing happened. She tried it again, and again, and still nothing happened so she cursed and lifted off the top of the cistern. The cistern was dry and rusty. Irritably she unbolted the door and went to the basin and turned on the water but none came out.
What’s the matter wi
There were clean hand towels so she poured a pail of water into the basin awkwardly, spilling some, washed her hands, then dried them, furious that her shoes had got splashed. At a sudden thought, she took another pail and flushed the toilet, then used still another bucket to clean her hands again. When she left, she felt very soiled.
I suppose the goddamn pipe’s broken somewhere and the plumber won’t come until tomorrow. Goddamn all water systems!
Calm down, she told herself. You’ll start making mistakes.
The corridor was covered with fine Chinese silk carpet, and the walls were lined with oil paintings of clipper ships and Chinese landscapes. As she approached she could hear the muted voices from the boardroom and a laugh—the kind of laugh that comes from a ribald joke or a smutty remark. She knew the moment she opened the door, the good humor and comradeship would vanish and the awkward silence would return.
She opened the door and they all got up.
“Are you having trouble with your water mains?” she asked, holding her anger down.
“No, I don’t think so,” Gavallan said, startled.
“Well, there’s no water. Didn’t you know?”
“Of course there’s no—Oh!” He stopped. “You’re staying at the V and A so … Didn’t anyone tell you about the water shortage?”
They all began talking at once but Gavallan dominated them. “The V and A has its own water supply—so do a couple of other hotels—but the rest of us’re on four hours of water every fourth day, so you’ve got to use a pail. Never occurred to me you didn’t know. Sorry.”
“How do you manage? Every fourth day?”
“Yes. For four hours, 6:00 A.M. till 8:00 A.M., then 5:00 till 7:00 in the evening. It’s a frightful bore because of course it means we’ve got to store four days’ supply. Pails, or the bath, whatever you can. We’re short of pails—it’s our water day tomorrow. Oh my God, there was water for you, wasn’t there?”
“Yes, but … You mean the water mains are turned off? Everywhere?” she asked incredulously.
“Yes,” Gavallan said patiently. “Except for those four hours every fourth day. But you’re all right at the V and A. As they’re right on the waterfront they can refill their tanks daily from lighters—of course, they have to buy it.”