can probably just manage. But next year’s bill: frankly it could be catastrophic for the whole estate.’
Oswald sighed loudly and deliberately. ‘I pay you a great deal in professional fees to sort out this kind of thing. I assume you are able to do something, or perhaps I should take my business elsewhere?’
‘Lord Balcon, I can only work with what I have,’ said Cable, beginning to get exasperated. He leafed through a sheaf of spreadsheets, raising his eyebrows like a cartoon character.
‘Frankly, every pillar of your potential income is crumbling at the moment. Huntsford is costing a fortune to maintain and the gallery is also suffering. I don’t know a great deal about the art world but, looking at the figures, I really don’t think your investments are bringing you the returns you need there.’
Oswald averted his gaze to prevent Peter Cable seeing the flicker of anxiety there. He was finally beginning to see what his gallery manager, Mark Robertson, had been trying to tell him for months: that Oswald’s decision to invest in eighteenth-century Dutch bronzes had seemed like bad timing. They were beautiful, true. And at the moment, they were very cheap, but only because that market had temporarily fallen away. They had been buying art that nobody wanted.
‘On top of that, the trust fund is low. That’s the culmination of twenty years of business investments that perhaps haven’t been – shall we say? – terribly successful,’ added Peter, trying to be as diplomatic as possible since he could see his client beginning to flush around the cheeks. In an instant, Oswald was reminded of the Daily Telegraph piece months before, where they’d described his business interests as ‘harebrained schemes’ and ‘badly-planned ventures’. How dare they! He thought again now. All he had ever tried to do was speculate to accumulate. He was a good capitalist, and how did they repay him?
‘What bothers me the most,’ said Peter, wondering if the seriousness of the situation was finally beginning to sink in with Oswald, ‘is the loan agreement you signed to raise money for the Huntsford Musical Evening.’ He pulled another stack of papers out of a file. ‘Now, although Davenport Davis didn’t do the accounts for that event, I have been forwarded the financials from it and – well, it is clear it did make a considerable loss.’
‘It was a new business in its first year!’ huffed Oswald, waving a hand in front of his face to dismiss the idea. ‘Any entrepreneur will tell you that you need to take an initial hit if you are to raise the scale and profit the following year. It’s basic business practice.’
‘Oh, so you plan to have another one next year?’ said Peter, genuinely surprised.
Oswald ignored him and continued to gaze around the room like a child whose attention span was waning.
‘Anyway,’ continued Cable delicately, ‘there was a proviso in the loan conditions that your home is at risk should you default on payments.’
‘Huntsford is in trust,’ said Oswald arrogantly, ‘we’re safe.’
‘Not exactly, no,’ said Cable slowly. ‘And I believe you have already defaulted on one payment?’
Oswald sighed loudly. ‘One payment, they’re not exactly going to put the noose around my neck quite yet, are they?’
Peter glanced at his wristwatch. He had been with Oswald for two hours and was keen to keep a lunch appointment with his new girlfriend. He leant forward and steepled his fingers.
‘Quite simply, Oswald, we need to increase the monies coming into the estate – and quickly, otherwise we’re in danger of being forced to reconsider our options.’ He paused. ‘Can you get any additional funds from your daughters? I believe they are quite successful?’
‘I am not taking any charity from anyone, least of all them,’ he replied loftily, clearly angered.
Cable decided to try another tack.
‘What we could do – and let me point out that this is what other estate owners in your position have done when they had debts to pay – is to lease Huntsford for a duration of say, fifty years. There are at least a dozen hotel and leisure companies that would kill to occupy such a magnificent property. They would lease it for commercial use – conferences, for example – and Huntsford would still officially belong to the Balcon estate. You could even live on the grounds in a separate cottage. In fact, only last week, we were approached by a representative of the Sarkis Group, a very large hotel conglomerate, and the figures they mentioned were really quite impressive.’
Oswald had gone quite pink. ‘Sarkis?’ he shouted. ‘Leasing Huntsford? How dare you even suggest these things as viable solutions?’
‘Well, we have to think of something,’ said Peter, flustered by the severity of Oswald’s reaction.
‘Quite right,’ said Oswald, picking up his case and standing. ‘And if you’re not prepared to think creatively, then it’s quite obvious that it’s down to me.’ He stormed out of the room without another word, slamming the door shut behind him.
Cate gazed around the cocktail reception of the British Society of Magazine Awards, held every year at Park Lane’s Grosvenor House Hotel, and couldn’t help but wonder once again how she had managed to be up for a gong. Sand was such a tiny magazine compared to the industry players walking around the room; there were five hundred representatives from right across the spectrum, from Vogue to GQ via Golf World and Country Life. From issue one, sales of Sand had been surprisingly strong. A magazine packed with gorgeous clothes and exotic locations had struck a chord with the general public over a long hot summer, and the high-paying, high-end fashion and cosmetic advertising had just started trickling in. But editing and publishing her own magazine still felt something of a hobby, so to have been nominated for Launch Editor of the Year had stunned her. Looking around the reception, Cate felt slightly fraudulent and undeserving to be there, like a child who had wandered from the playpen to the grown-ups’ room and was about to get found out any second.
‘So, who do you know? Who are the big names here?’ asked Sand’s art director, Pete Miller, who looked awkward in a rented dinner suit and dirty trainers as he guzzled a buck’s fizz. Cate was grateful that, despite the huge cost of a table, Nick had insisted the whole team should come. She craned her neck to look at the sea of black tie and cocktail dresses. ‘A few people. And there are a few people I’d rather avoid, so if I give you a nudge, hide me.’
She wasn’t sure what was making her feel more nauseous: butterflies at the prospect of winning an award, or anxiety at the thought of bumping into William Walton. Although she had long recovered from her dismissal from Class magazine, which seemed another lifetime away, the recent fight with Serena had dredged up all her feelings of rejection, shame and inadequacy. She had spent the last three weeks throwing herself into work and long hours, trying to distract herself from the absolute pain of betrayal that Serena had inflicted. She had surprised herself by feeling nothing for David’s fecklessness. In fact he had been simple enough to jettison from her life, despite all the deliveries of expensive flowers. But Serena: that was a different matter. Cate still felt so fragile and bruised, she would rather have skipped the entire award ceremony in favour of another solitary night alone with a bottle of wine, where no one could touch her or hurt her.
Cate excused herself from Pete, who had begun a ham-fisted attempt to chat up Ruth the picture editor, and went to freshen up in the ladies’ room. She reapplied her lip-gloss and took a moment to check her reflection in the mirror. An emerald-green Matthew Williamson silk evening dress floated over her curves, her long hair was brushed over her shoulders, sweeps of blush made her cheekbones look high and round: at least she looked good. She went into a cubicle, locked the door and took a few deep breaths. Gradually she was aware of voices in the adjoining stall. ‘Apparently she is a shoo-in for the Launch Editor award,’ said the first voice, followed by the gentle snorting sound of white powder disappearing