Laurence Treadmore nodded at the doorman of the Piccadilly Apartments without actually looking at him, stepped briskly into the familiar environs of Macquarie Street and commenced the daily triumphal perambulation to his office. He liked to think of the morning walk in this way-’a triumphal perambulation’. Because it was. Every few steps some passer-by would greet him as he wandered by the Colonial Club, the Anon Club, the great office buildings that housed the heads of companies who nodded to him deferentially. The Sydney office of the Prime Minister hidden away in one, hidden but well known to Sir Laurence, the tower of the state government and the Premier-all this a few paces from his home and open and welcoming to him, if not to others; a source of honours and wealth, of comfort and privilege, to him if not to others. For Sir Laurence was widely known for his intellectual flexibility. He could understand and appreciate any point of view, particularly if significant benefits might result from it for a client. And, of course, for the advisor.
Sir Laurence had never been a lawyer in the conventional sense. His was more a ‘strategic commercial practice’, in the course of which he guided clients through the intricacies of takeover law or contract negotiations or other complex matters of a more delicate nature. This tributary of the law allowed fees to be charged of a very different dimension to those based on the simple hours of toil which the lesser members of his profession received. ‘Success fees’ and other ripe fruit fell into his basket, the harvest of a merchant banker more than a lawyer. Indeed he would have been appalled to regard himself as a ‘lawyer’-the law was merely a useful or annoying reference point, depending on the circumstances.
His small, neat figure in its tailored suit from Savile Row, trademark pink shirt of a certain soft hue, and matching silk tie and handkerchief were familiar to all who were familiar, as it made its way at eight-thirty every morning to the flower stall in Martin Place. Here he purchased a boutonnicre of complementary hue, contrast was not a fashion concept of which he approved, before entering his offices and arriving at a desk which would already be laid out with Earl Grey tea and a croissant from La Gerbe d’Or in Paddington. He liked to breakfast alone. In the early years Mavis had often encouraged him to start the day in conversation at their table, but he found it unsettling. After nearly forty years of marriage she’d learned to hand him his briefcase and watch his straight back walk to the lift, as she’d learned so many things. Besides, Sir Laurence was a secretive man in certain ways, and he liked to be unobserved as he took his gilt scissors and cut items from the newspapers about people who might be useful or might need his arcane skills, or deals or possibilities, or scandals and indiscretions that could cause alliances to crumble and crumbs to fall. All these clippings were pasted into albums and filed in a tall locked cupboard in the hallway leading to his office-decades of the detritus of social and business life, discarded by all except him. It was remarkable how often he fossicked through these files and turned up a nugget.
He had a deep and productive relationship with certain sections of the press. Whereas most of his colleagues and most business people he knew were cautious and wary in their dealings with journalists, if not downright hostile, Sir Laurence had a passing affection for those who fell within his sphere. These were business journalists of a serious bent, columnists of a gossipy disposition and one or two editors who saw a future role in management. The relationships were deep, in the sense that they were hidden from view, and no public hint of the source of information was ever given by those who received his calls-they were never to call him. Productive, in the sense that the chosen ones would receive information that was not otherwise available and frequently should not have been so, while Sir Laurence or those he represented would be depicted as champions of all that was right and just. It was surprising what could be achieved in this way. People could gain positions of importance, people could lose them. Government ministers could change their minds on vital issues (after all, their job was surely to represent public opinion). Institutions who’d planned to vote one way at a public meeting might vote quite differently. Productive, and no fingerprints.
At one time or another, Laurence Treadmore had been chairman of trustees of the Museum of Modern Art, chairman of the Australian Opera and the New South Wales Public Library, and president of the King’s School Foundation. Many other institutions tried to woo him to their causes but he no longer accepted simple directorships. And as to charity boards, he preferred to send a cheque. Occasionally he went to a major charity auction and made a spectacular bid or two, in which case the press contacts would be alerted beforehand. A detailed examination of his custodianship of these appointments wouldn’t reveal a record of great success-Sir Laurence was fundamentally lazy, and the hard work of planning or fundraising was not to his liking-but no such examination was ever made and his timing was always impeccable. He’d gone, moved on, leaving the next incumbent to patch up the holes.
His secretive nature was revealed in a number of almost furtive habits. While he was obsessive about order and cleanliness, he had a strange desire to observe people who lived in other ways. He would park his car near the City Mission where the derelicts and street people came to feed from the soup kitchen. He liked to watch, just watch. Or the lanes where prostitutes touted. If any approached the car, he would drive off immediately. Sex, or at least the practice of it, seemed not to be uppermost in his mind. Mavis could attest to this. And their home life was closed to public view. Few people had ever visited the apartment, although he’d owned it for decades and was intensely proud of its purist art deco decor. When the Treadmores entertained, which was seldom, it was always at the club. Mainly they were entertained by others. Besides, Mavis was nervous of people she didn’t know well and sometimes of those she did. Frequently she found her husband frightening, a fact which frightened her more when she registered it.
Mrs Bonython entered the office as Sir Laurence was picking the last crumbs of the croissant from the plate. She had never fully overcome her unease in his presence despite nearly twenty years of service. ‘Mr Beaumont is here, sir. Shall I show him in?’
The pale eyes glanced up from the newspaper. ‘Not just yet, Lois, thank you. I’m rather busy. I’ll buzz in a little while.’
It was an uncomfortable conversation that ensued when Jack was finally ushered into the beige-on-beige office. Sir Laurence rose briefly then resumed his seat behind the desk, eschewing the relaxed offering of the sofa and lounge chair by the coffee table. Indeed no coffee was served. He sat with suit jacket fully buttoned while Jack, tieless, immediately removed his blazer and slumped casually into an easy chair.
‘I know you’ve indicated to Mac that you’re keen to sign on with us as CEO, which is welcome news, but you and I must conclude the matter between us. That is only right and proper in a publicly listed company, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ No pause was allowed for the agreement as Sir Laurence ploughed on. ‘The relationship between the chairman and the chief executive is a vital one in the success of any company. I’m sure you agree. And it must be clear that the CEO reports to the board through the chairman. That is clear. In this company, of course, we have a significant shareholder who is also a director and, in some ways, the founder or perhaps foster father of the business. This can raise certain complications. These are best left to me to solve as chairman, so that you may be free to manage the business side of things. I’m sure you understand. If any such matters arise, simply raise them with me and worry no more about them. That’s what I’m here for.’ An attempt at a thin smile flickered across the grey lips. ‘Now, as to your contract and its details, I understand you have a basic agreement with Mac. I will incorporate this into a formal document and execute it with you.’
Jack shifted uneasily in the chair that had looked comfortable but was designed for no more than looks. This meeting was the opposite of his discussions with Mac.
‘Don’t bother, Laurence.’ There was a slight flinch at the lack of the Sir. ‘I don’t need a contract, a handshake is fine. If we’re happy together, I’ll stay. If we’re not, you don’t want your shareholders having to pay me out.’
Laurence Treadmore’s mouth tightened as if he’d just eaten a particularly sour fruit. In a couple of sentences Jack had sneered at the three fundamental principles on which his life was based. The first was a love of money. The man appeared to be dismissive of the potential gain that might accrue to him. The second was a basic distrust of all persons except those who were bound to you by necessity. And the third was the absolute requirement to, and vicarious enjoyment of, drafting, honing and redrafting a legal document that would deprive the recipient of rights that he or she assumed to be self-evident, without this being evident. He coughed unnecessarily. ‘I’m afraid in corporate life these days it is common practice to document these matters. Indeed good corporate governance suggests we advise shareholders of the details. I’m sure you can understand that the description of a handshake’-the word was almost chewed as it emerged-’would not sit comfortably in an annual report.’
The meeting edged from topic to topic as the manicured finger ran down the embossed notepaper. Sir Laurence was contemptuous of all forms of modern technology, even the cell phone-the public use of which he regarded as a particularly invasive form of bad manners-so when Jack’s BlackBerry appeared from his pocket, buzzing and vibrating in an obscene display of uncivil interruption, their antipathy towards one another was complete.
‘I’m sorry, Laurence, I’ll have to dash. Didn’t realise we were going to be so long; thought it was just a quick hello. But I hear what you’re saying and, of course, I’m new to public company life. I’ll certainly think about it all.’
The farewell handshake sealed their pact, leaving one gently massaging an imaginary bruise and the other hoping to wash away the clamminess.
When Jack strode with relief into the sun and clean air of Sydney’s mildly polluted streets, it was Mac Biddulph’s name that flashed up in his message window. He didn’t return the call but went back to his office in the old Pyrmont warehouse and sat staring out at the incongruous collection of public amusements spattered over the former railway yards. He’d loaded goods trains there as a part-time job in the university holidays when he was nineteen and remembered the area as ugly but honest. Now it was full of shops selling sweaters that looked like Jackson Pollock’s worst nightmare or cute marine artefacts that had never seen a ship. Why was he even contemplating leaving the familiar, safe harbour of a business he liked, was successful in, and was handsomely remunerated for running with a modicum of effort? He looked around at his team of bright, attractive, talented, likeable young people working away happily in the huge space flooded with natural light and salt-filled air. He’d be crazy to leave. He’d ring Mac right now and tell him so.
The direct line rang on his desk. Only Louise and a couple of close friends had the number, but when he answered it was Mac’s voice on the line.
‘G’day, Jack. Hope I’m not bothering you sitting down there counting your money. How did you get on with my chairman? He can be a bit of an old woman sometimes.’
Jack cautiously began to express his reservations, but Mac broke in.
‘Don’t you worry about Laurence Treadmore. Known him for years. He may be a bit pedantic at times, but he crosses all the tees and dots every other letter. That’s what you want in a chairman. As far as running the business goes, you talk to me. We speak the same language.’
‘I’m not sure, Mac. Laurence says I report to him. I’m sure he’s an excellent chairman, don’t get me wrong, but I was a bit uncomfortable with the discussion.’
Mac chuckled. ‘Everyone’s a bit uncomfortable with Laurence. Part of his charm. Don’t give it a thought. He’s good on detail and harmless on everything else and owes a fair chunk of his good fortune to me. You and I stay in tune and I promise you there’s no problem. Now the good news is I’ve been chatting off the record to a few fund managers we know intimately and your appointment’s going to be well received. You’re a growth story, just like I said. And the analysts who cover insurance all know the whole financial services market. So they checked you out with the banks. And who loves Jack? So we’ll probably see a kick in the share price. It’s always nice to know your value.’
Jack was stunned. ‘But we agreed there’d be no announcements or public discussion until I finally committed.’
‘My friend, you’ve got a bit to learn about the market. This is not an announcement or a public discussion, it’s just Mac having a little chat with a few people who treat us well because we treat them well. No decision’s been communicated, just flying a kite. But they’re going to love you, Jack, that’s the main thing.’
She was the only woman he’d ever loved, he was certain of that.
He looked across the table at her now and there she was staring straight into his eyes, as she had the first time they met. It was at a party in the surf club at Bondi when he’d just graduated as an architect and was pondering the shape of life, usually with a beer in each hand. He’d seen her around the university campus but they’d never spoken. She came towards him, holding his gaze. ‘So you’re Jack-the-lad? Do you like that name? Or does it embarrass you just a bit? Do you lie awake on hot summer nights thinking How can I live up to this? You can tell me the truth, everyone does.’
In truth, he hated his nickname, but he tried to banter with her as he did with any woman, to hold the high ground and keep her off balance, but she was too nimble and slipped away from any thrust, so he seemed to find himself on the defensive, teetering between enjoyment of the contest and discomfort at the result. And then she was leaving as suddenly as she’d arrived. ‘I’ll see you in about five years, Mr Jack-the-lad. It’s a little too early in the cellaring for me. But we’ll talk again. I did enjoy your spontaneous sense of enthusiasm.’ She turned away with that wonderful warm but slightly quizzical smile and disappeared into the crowd.
He saw her often after that, at parties or friends’ flats, and asked her out a couple of times, but she never came. It was about five years later, maybe a little more, that they’d started to work together and, not long after that, to make love and to love.
She’d never directly approached his colourful reputation but once, when he was reminiscing about his father, about how he loved Jack’s mother but couldn’t resist wandering, she’d interrupted his relaxed flow.
‘How did your mother survive?’ He’d paused and examined her carefully. ‘I think either she never really knew for sure, or chose to ignore it.’
She’d laughed, a humourless laugh. ‘Women know, Jack, they know even when they don’t know for sure. Did they argue?’
‘Not that I remember. He was sweet and loving to her, it seemed to me. It was only later, much later, that I learned he was famous for being sweet and loving to a few other women as well.’
She’d let it go at that until a few months later when, unexpectedly and unrelated to their earlier conversation, she said, ‘I can understand your mother ignoring your father’s affairs-up to a point. But there must have been a boundary beyond which the relationship would break; there’d have to be. Self-respect isn’t infinitely flexible.’
When, after a couple of years, he’d asked her to marry him, she’d said, ‘Yes. I can’t think of anyone else I’d care to live with or have children with or make love to, anymore, and I don’t want to die alone, an old spinster wearing a knobbly cardigan while an obese cat eats my meals-on-wheels dinner, so I guess it’ll have to be you.’
And she’d watched his shocked face with amusement before reaching one hand to his mouth and letting a finger caress the line of his top lip. ‘Besides, you’re the sexiest man alive, a moderately good provider and will never let me down. So, yes.’
As he looked at her now, he could say he never had. Not really.
‘Okay. We’re at our favourite restaurant, with our favourite wine, eating our favourite pasta. And you have something to tell me. So tell me.’
He poured the Curly Flat and smiled. ‘Can I ever have a secret that’s not immediately obvious to you?’
‘Darling Jack, what secrets could you possibly want to have from me?’
He laughed and a slight flush deepened the tanned skin. It only happened with her, this tendency to redden slightly in the face at difficult moments.
‘Now I’ve made you blush, darling. Why don’t you just get on with it and tell me what’s bothering you?’
He paused, ran his finger around the lip of the wine glass and hesitantly started to unwind his dilemma. ‘I need your advice. I want to do this thing with Mac and I don’t want to do it. I talked myself into it a week ago because it’s a monumental challenge, way beyond anything I’ve ever contemplated. Twelve thousand employees-not just me and twenty kids; hundreds of millions in premiums, vital to the country’s wellbeing, and so on. But I’m worried about the people, particularly the chairman. You’re always the wise one, so what do I do?’
She’d never seen him so uncertain, openly at least, about anything, even though he turned to her for advice frequently. But usually the advice sought was how to do something he’d already decided to pursue, not this wallowing in the ultimate dilemma. ‘You’re bored, darling, and a bored Jack is a dangerous thing. It’s not so much whether you’re sure about this, but more how you’re going to be if you don’t do it, spending the rest of your life wondering how good you would’ve been, whether you were up to the job, whether you could have mixed it with the big boys. That’s it, isn’t it? You want to know if you can run in the Olympics?’
She was always right, always knew him better than he knew himself. ‘Yes, I guess so.’
‘Then do it. Cast aside your doubts, don ye mighty armour, ride thy great steed across the moat of indecision-and pour me more of that lovely wine while you’re about it.’