Special Relationship (8 page)

When Alex got home that evening she sorted out her best underwear. "Feel successful, be successful," she thought. She hung her dress on the wardrobe door and then sat down on the bed to preen and paint her nails.

On the iPad she listened to music from the New York band the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Cheated Hearts she put on repeat.

The phone went. It was
Tavis. She wondered whether to answer. It continued to puzzle her why they barely knew each other and so soon he was treating her like a best buddy. But he might have some advice for tomorrow, she supposed, and already she was feeling nervous.

"Hi
Tavis, sorry wet nails, hold on a minute..." she said, turning off the music.

She put the speaker on her phone. "Hi, how's tricks?"

"Great, he said," in his soft Scottish accent. "Hope you don't mind me calling you again so soon, just wondered whether there was anything you wanted to know for tomorrow."

"Oh, yes please. You could give me a quick,
dummies' guide to the life of Nick Hensen...or would that be cheating?"

"Ha, no, if you promise not to let on that I have briefed you."

Alex heard how Nicholas Hensen was born in Highbury, North London, 36 years earlier.

His father was was a retail worker in the west end with a modest salary, but he had an interest in the
stock market and dabbled buying and selling small parcels of shares. His eldest son became interested in his father's hobby and they used to compete against each other picking out stocks to see which of them would have made the most gains had they actually bought them. Nick invariably won and hence his interest in the financial markets grew.

"He was reading The Times business section before he was a teenager," explained
Tavis. "And he didn't even think about university. He finished school at the earliest opportunity, leaving on the Friday and starting work on the Monday as a clerk at a bank in centre of London. A month later he was flat-sharing.

"He was fiercely
ambitious. While others of his age went to discos and chased girls, he chased only one thing, money. And I don't think it was the money itself, he just wanted to prove himself.

"Boy did he do it. He was, I think, about 24, when he was trading commodities for a big bank and making a fortune in bonuses. And then of course, he sets up his own hedge fund, and, such was his track record, that every millionaire in the country – and other countries – wanted a piece of the action.

"The rest, as they say, is history."

"And he... I heard there was a tragic event in his life?"

"Yep, his baby, Chloe, died shortly after birth...it was horrible, she didn't even leave the hospital. Something was wrong with her heart. I remember driving Nick home one night and he was crying his eyes out. We got drunk as anything.

"He and his partner Claire were never the same afterwards. Neither of them could cope and they both wanted to split up to make their misery complete, or because they wanted to punish themselves because somehow they felt guilty for what had happened.

"Anyway, after the split – I know it says a year in Wikipedia but it was actually much quicker than that – Nick went back to what he does best, making money for himself and hundreds of people who are not nearly so clever or deserving."

"You like him a lot, don't you?"
she asked.

"Trust him with my life," he replied.

This was the time to mention the text, thought Alex. The texter must, after all, be simply wrong or malicious, but again she stopped herself.

"And what about you, Alex? What have been your big life events?"

Fuck, she thought, did he really ask that?

She gathered her thoughts. "I'll tell you about them one day, Mr Hamilton, when I get to know you better.

"And what does Nick expect of me, apart from accurate data which will help his empire grow even bigger?" The change of subject, she knew, was too abrupt. But she'd been caught off-balance by his question.

"I think the data will do for now," he said, taking the hint.

On the phone he seemed more intimidating than when, at the races, he was boasting of his skills at reading body language. But maybe, she thought, she was just nervous about tomorrow.

She passed on the chance to glean more information that might help with her lunch and instead made excuses that she had to get back to her nails. Their conversation ended with them promising to make a definite date for their drinking binge in Soho but again with an abruptness that
Tavis would have noticed.

She went to bed with sparkling water and lime juice in one hand and her iPad in the other.

On YouTube she watched videos of Oscar Pistorious case, including the private memorial service he held for Reeva Steenkamp with his friends arriving with flowers. At around midnight her phoned beeped. The tone was of a text message, not an email. It read: "Trust me, Nick Hensen is not what he seems."

She got back out of bed and watched rubbish TV until, just as it was getting light, her mind finally stopped whirring and she gave in to her fatigue still stretched out on the sofa.

As Adrian was about to send the morning report to
Hensen he was interrupted by a phone call from Alex. "Ade, it's me. I'm not coming in this morning. I had a sleepless night so I'm going straight to lunch. But can we meet up for a coffee this afternoon? There is something I want to talk to you about."

"You really are going to fire me?"

"Don't be silly. We'll talk later."

Then she called Kerry, but there was no answer.

Three hours to lunch, half an hour to travel to be on the safe side, Alex worked out that she plenty of time to get ready, even for an half-billionaire.

She ate yoghurt as she scoured the newspaper. Business section, no mention of him there, good or bad. News section, now that would be serious, she thought, but stories about hedge fund managers who had embezzled fortunes or axe-murdered previous lovers were clearly not worthy of inclusion in that edition.

She showered and put on the dress that she had carefully laid out the day before. Still with an hour to spare before she needed to leave, she called Kerry again.

"Hi
hon, big day for you today," she answered.

"Kerry, I got another text last night. I was already nervous enough, now I'm in a right state. Who are these people? They seem completely mad."

Alex read out the text and also told her of the call from Tavis. "I've know them five minutes and I'm getting calls from Tavis, Katherine, lunch with Nick...and weird texts in the middle of the night. They seem a bit obsessed."

"Babe, try to calm down. Why don't you talk to Adrian to see whether he can work out where the texts are coming from? I'm sure sure it's just that Olivia woman you told me about, or maybe a competitor of ours."

"I'm seeing Adrian after lunch for that very reason. Love it if you would come along too."

"Of course, give me a call later. But please remember, innocent until proven guilty. Just treat Nick
Hensen like a regular client and we'll man...what am I saying...we'll women the barricades until we find out more.

"Stay strong, hon. And, remember, it's just lunch."

She paused waiting for Alex to say something but there was silence. So she continued: "Suzie's in. I'll read the Hensen report that Ade compiled. And if there is anything bad, I'll come to the Hilton and drag you away. We can get other less high-maintenance clients, you know."

Finally, Alex
replied: "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Her cab arrived at her flat on time and pulled up outside the Hilton in Park Lane twenty minutes early.

She breathed deeply as she sorted for the fare and tip. "Thanks Love, would you like a receipt?" and, without any prompting, made it out for £10 more than she had paid. London cabbies didn't like the taxman.

She didn't want to bump into
Hensen at the Hilton entrance so she took her life in her hands crossing the lanes of fast-moving traffic on the main central route north-south through the capital. She went into Hyde Park, sat on a bench and watched people enjoying leisure time. A skateboarder practised tricks on the path and a couple lay on the grass, enjoying the sun.

It was a school break and she watched as,
presumably, a mum and daughter, about six, walked hand in hand in the sunshine, the girl giggling as she jumped a log. How happy they both looked.

"I can't do this," she thought, and rushed back across the road with little respect for the fast-moving traffic. One driver, who had to break heavily and swerve, blasted the horn and screamed 'stupid fucking cow!' out of the window. She barely acknowledged him nor the Hilton doorman who wished her good day, and rushed into the nearest bathroom to lock herself in a cubicle.

She grabbed her phone. "Kerry, will you come?"

"Come where?"

"To the Hilton. I'm having a panic attack."

"Are you in the restaurant yet?"

"No, I don't know if I can go up. Please come."

"Listen, I'll be there in half an hour, I'll wait downstairs and I'll text you when I'm there. Just come down if you need me, tell him you are going to do your makeup or something. I'll text you when I arrive. But don't be scared...like I said, he's just a client and I've nearly finished Ade's stuff and there's nothing that looks odd."

"It's not just that, I went to the park and something reminded me of, well, you know what."

"I'm coming now, darling, take some deep breaths and go up and meet him."

Alex looked at her watch. She was ten minutes late already. "Be strong, girl," she told herself, breathing deeply. She quickly repaired her smudged makeup, straightened her jacket and, repeating in her mind the words "Be strong" went to reception to ask for Nick Hensen.

"Certainly madam, I will get someone to take you up."

What Alex knew as a bellhop arrived to show her to the restaurant and Nick Hensen's table.

Dressed smartly in a dark suit with
a brilliant white shirt but no tie, he stood up as she approached his table. "I thought you had stood me up," he said smiling warmly, shaking her hand and pecking her on the cheek.

"Sorry, London traffic, " she said. "I know it doesn't look good arriving late for a meeting with your boss.

"Don't worry, I like it here, look at the views...you'd find it hard to beat this one when it's sunny," gesturing at the floor to ceiling windows and the magnificent panorama of London beyond. Their table was so close to the window it was as if they were about to have lunch 300 or so feet in the air.

"Come here," he said, getting up again.

"Where to?" she said, surprised. In her current fragile state, she was horrified with the thought that he might have booked a room. But she breathed easier when she realised he was just taking her to the bar to show her a different view. "St Paul's, looks great, doesn't it?" he said.

"It's not an architectural wonder, but it's a symbol of the city. Have you seen those war-time pictures of the bombs falling all around and it standing there defiantly?"

"Yes, I have," said Alex. "I've imagined what it might be live in a city being bombed. I suppose your ancestors might have actually experienced it?"

"They did, but jaw, jaw, not war, war...let me get you a drink."

"Just a sparkling water, please with some lime."

"No way,"
he insisted. "Have a cocktail. Once you have sent over our morning report I don't mind you having a drink," he smiled. "I guess you should have something from here," he said, pointing to a list of cocktails under the heading 'Cocktails of the Prohibition Era.'

She laughed and chose a Moonshiner, named in this case after those who made illegal booze in the
20's and 30's. Gin, maraschino and orange curacao were the main ingredients. He ordered a Martini.

"Shaken, not stirred, like James Bond?" she asked.

"I'm not classy enough to know the difference," he replied.

What had she been worrying about? Nick
Hensen might be worth half a billion pounds but he was easy to talk to and he made her feel at ease, alcohol or not.

Her phone bleeped with a message. She apologised to him and looked at the screen. "I'm downstairs, babe, come straight down if you need me." Kerry had arrived.

Alex felt foolish. She'd suffered panic attacks for years brought on by events past, but she'd always tried her best to shield them from others. Now poor Kerry was sitting in reception on emergency standby while she herself was enjoying lunch with a man who was as easy to get along with as a London cabbie.

"Not the office saying there's a problem with our stuff, I hope," he said.

"Yes, I must go now and sort it out. Thanks for the drink," she joked.

He laughed. "Come on, let's get some food."

After ordering Sea Bass for her and Scottish venison for him they talked about the contract and how Adrian, her "computer wizard" had performed miracles to get everything up and running in time. As well as the morning report, there was an hourly scan of the internet for all individuals and companies that Hensen, the company, was interested in. And she admitted she would have struggled were it not for the lovable long-haired geek she employed.