‘Good morning Tracy,’ Tatiana smiled. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
The views from the seventeenth floor were spectacular. You could see the famed dome of St Paul’s in the foreground, overshadowed by the phallic glass monstrosity known as ‘the gherkin’. Beyond these were the river, and a panoramic view of East London stretching to the horizon. In the distance, the impressive towers of Canary Wharf punctured a bright blue summer sky, as rare in England these days as a UFO sighting. The offices had cost Tati – cost Hamilton Hall – a fortune. But they were impressive, the sort of space that both reassured and enticed investors. Tatiana was a firm believer in the mantra that money beget money; that one had to spend in order to earn. The problem with dinosaurs like Arabella Boscombe was that they had no vision. No vision and no balls.
‘You’re the last to arrive, Mrs Cranley,’ said the receptionist meekly. ‘Shall I show you straight in?’
‘That’s all right,’ said Tati. ‘I know where I’m going. I could murder coffee, though, if you wouldn’t mind. Black, strong, three sugars.’
As it turned out, she was going to need it. The faces that greeted her around the table were almost uniformly disapproving. Lady Arabella, sweltering in a heavy tweed suit, looked the most thunderous of all, her bristly chin thrust angrily forward and her large matronly bosom heaving with indignation.
‘You’re very late, Tatiana,’ she boomed.
She sounds like Queen Bee, Tati thought crossly. Who does she think she is?
She looked at her watch idly. ‘Am I?’
The lack of concern in her voice was like a red rag to a bull.
‘Yes. You are.’ Arabella Boscombe looked ready to spontaneously combust. ‘Some of us have been sitting here for forty minutes!’
‘Yes, well,’ Tati said dismissively. ‘I’m afraid that’s what happens when one has a business to run. A phenomenally successful business, I might add. I trust you’ve all seen the figures from HH Clapham?’
A begrudging murmur of assent rumbled around the room.
‘Combine that new revenue stream with the figures from Sloane Square and you’ll see we’ve never been in a stronger position to expand.’ Tati walked around the table, handing printouts of the latest figures to each board member before returning to her own seat. ‘I’m excited about the future for Hamilton Hall, and I know you all are too.’
‘Tatiana.’ Eric Jenkins, a senior partner at one of the largest City accountants, and usually one of Tati’s most stalwart supporters, gave her a serious look. ‘The Clapham figures are a boost, certainly. But a number of us have concerns.’
‘Grave concerns,’ Arabella Boscombe echoed.
‘We feel that a period of consolidation is what the business needs.’
‘Stagnation, you mean,’ said Tati, rolling her eyes. ‘Come on Eric. We’ve been through this a hundred times.’
‘Yes. And you’ve ignored us a hundred times,’ Michael Guinness, one of Hamilton Hall’s largest individual investors, jumped in. ‘New York represents a huge outlay and a huge risk.’
‘The Manhattan site’s forty per cent cheaper than what we paid in London,’ Tati shot back.
‘Yes, but we know the London market. We know the British educational system. All our experience, all our brand awareness, is here.’
‘Because we’re not there yet, Michael,’ Tati said simply. ‘And we need to be. New York parents are climbing the walls trying to get little Chip, Chuck and Rusty into a decent school. They’ll pay anything. I’m telling you we could double our fees, maybe even triple them.’
‘That may be so,’ said Michael. ‘But we can’t just—’
‘Yes we can,’ Tati cut him off rudely. She addressed herself to the entire table. ‘I’ve been to New York. I’ve spent time there. And I’m telling you, you can smell the desperation wafting out of the admissions office at Avenues. All those rejected millionaire families, spat out onto Lexington with nowhere to park their children, or their money! The risk is in not doing this now, when we have the cash on our balance sheet and a perfect site at a knockdown price.’
‘A knockdown price?’ Lady Arabella was shaking with anger. ‘It’s twenty million dollars, Tatiana! And that’s before renovations. Then there’s the marketing spend we’d need to raise brand awareness …’
‘I know all that.’ Tati waved a hand regally, as if swatting a fly. ‘Trust me. It will be worth it.’
‘But that’s just it,’ said Eric Jenkins, the light reflecting off his bald head as he leaned forward over the table. ‘How can we trust you, when you keep making executive decisions behind our backs? We’re your board, Tatiana. You need to trust us. You need to let us do our jobs and advise you.’