Tati bit back her irritation. She liked Eric, but really it was tiresome to be surrounded by such pygmies. All these people operated in a culture of ‘no’. Their every decision was based on fear, on hesitation, on an ingrained pessimism that was the very worst side of Britishness.
‘You have advised me,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘But I know I’m right about this. I’m flying back to New York this afternoon. I suggest we meet again at the end of next week when I’m back and I can update you all on developments.’
Eight mouths fell open simultaneously. Even Arabella Boscombe was rendered temporarily speechless. In the end it was Michael Guinness who found the board’s collective voice.
‘You’re flying back to New York? You do understand that we unanimously oppose the purchase of this building?’
Tatiana stood up. ‘I built this business. I did. It was my vision, my hard work that you all bought into. There is no Hamilton Hall without me.’
Her arrogance was breathtaking, but no one contradicted her.
‘Perhaps I should remind you that you all opposed opening a second London school too, in the beginning?’
‘That’s true,’ said Eric Jenkins, reasonably. ‘But that was a little different.’
‘No it wasn’t,’ said Tati, arrogantly. ‘It was exactly the same. I’m sorry, but you were wrong then and you’re wrong now. I will return from New York armed with the figures to prove it. Now, if you’ll all excuse me,’ she picked up her briefcase, ‘I have a plane to catch.’
It was a full minute after Tatiana left the room before anybody spoke.
‘We have to do something.’ Lady Arabella Boscombe’s voice was calm but determined. ‘You do see that now, don’t you Eric?’
The accountant nodded grimly. ‘Yes. I do.’
He’d always liked Tatiana. He admired her energy, her courage, her youth. By contrast he’d always found Arabella Boscombe to be a shameless snob, self-important and far too fond of her own voice. But Tati had gone too far this time. She was making fools of them all.
‘She’s right about one thing though,’ he observed. ‘There is no Hamilton Hall without her.’
As they filed out of the room, stony-faced, Michael Guinness could be heard muttering under his breath. ‘We’ll see about that.’
Jason Cranley watched Tati’s black cab pulling up outside their house from the bedroom window. He felt a sickening churning in the pit of his stomach and ran to the bathroom.
Calm down, he told himself as he sank to his knees on the tiled floor. For God’s sake calm down.
The nausea subsided, thank God, but was immediately replaced with a throbbing headache, the same one that had been coming and going all morning. Jason still couldn’t quite believe that he was going to do this. His spirit was willing – desperate even – to tell Tatiana the truth. But his flesh was weak, his body rebelling in every possible way against the idea. Staggering back to his feet, he ran the cold tap over a flannel, wrung it out and pressed it to his forehead and temples, like a Victorian heroine in the throes of some sort of fit. His skin alternately burned and tingled and his throat felt dry. He had never been more afraid in his life.
This is Tati, he told himself. Your wife. Your best friend. You can tell her anything.
‘Jason? Darling? Are you home?’
Tati’s voice reverberated up the stairwell. Jason felt his chest tighten. For a moment he found it hard to breathe. Before he could reply, Tati burst into the bedroom.
‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek and apparently not noticing his greyish-green pallor, or the flannel still clutched in his hand. ‘I just had a bloody irritating board meeting. Really, there’s no pleasing some people. You’d have thought, after the financial results we just got in from Clapham, they’d be patting me on the back, but oh no. Bloody Arabella Boscombe’s whipped everyone up into a frenzy about New York and the price I negotiated on the Seventh Avenue site.’
Oh dear, thought Jason. She’s on a roll. He knew this version of his wife well. Talking quickly, her voice raised, a ball of excitement and indignation and nervous energy.
Tati carried on, without drawing breath.
‘I mean, don’t these people read the sodding business pages? For a building that size in that position, twenty million’s a fucking snip! We only got it because we’re cash buyers and the vendor’s desperate. And the exchange rate’s never been better. Have you seen my cabin bag, by the way?’ She began opening and closing cupboards without waiting for an answer. It was if a tornado had swept into the room. ‘Ah, there it is. You know, sometimes I feel like screaming, “Wake up, morons!” Opportunities like this don’t come along every day and they don’t wait either. I can’t just sit in London dithering until Lady Arabella untwists her capacious knickers and gets on board, can I?’