No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again.
“While you were on the line, sir, your secretary called. She asked if you would ring a Mr. Bishara at the bank urgently. She gave me the number. Shall I try and get him on the line?”
“Yes please,” said Seb, then put the phone down and waited. He checked his watch, and hoped Hakim hadn’t already gone to lunch. The phone rang.
“Thanks for calling back, Seb. I realize you’ve got a lot on your mind at the moment, but I have some sad news. Saul Kaufman has died. I thought you ought to know immediately, not just because of the takeover deal we’re in the middle of, but, more important, I know Victor is one of your oldest friends.”
“Thank you, Hakim. How very sad. I greatly admired the old man. Victor will be my next call.”
“Kaufman’s shares have fallen sharply, which is hard to explain, seeing Saul hasn’t been in to the office for over a year.”
“You and I know that,” said Seb, “but the public doesn’t. Don’t forget, Saul founded the bank. His name is still at the top of the notepaper, so investors who don’t know any better will wonder if it’s a one-man band. But taking into account the bank’s strong balance sheet, and its considerable assets, in my opinion Kaufman’s shares were already well below market value even before Saul’s death.”
“Do you think they might fall even further?”
“No one gets in at the bottom and out at the top,” said Seb. “If they fall below three pounds—and they were ￡3.26 when I left—I’d be a buyer. But remember Farthings already has six percent of Kaufman’s stock, and if we go over ten percent, the bank of England will require us to make a full takeover bid, and we’re not quite ready for that.”
“I think there may be someone else in the market.”
“That will be Desmond Mellor, but he’s only a spoiler. He doesn’t have the sort of capital to make a real impact. Believe me, he’ll run out of steam.”
“Unless he has someone else backing him.”
“No one in the City would consider backing Mellor, as Adrian Sloane and Jim Knowles have already discovered.”
“Thanks for the advice, Seb. I’ll buy a few more Kaufman’s shares if they fall below three pounds, and then we can look at the bigger picture once you get back. By the way, how’s it all going out there?”
“I wouldn’t buy shares in Clifton Enterprises.”
*
Seb was gradually coming to terms with the oppressive heat and even the traffic jams, but he couldn’t handle the fact that being on time simply wasn’t part of the Indian psyche. He had been pacing up and down the lobby of the Taj since 7:55, but Rohit Singh didn’t come strolling through the revolving doors until a few minutes before nine, offering only a shrug of the shoulders and a smile. He uttered the single word, “Traffic,” as if he had never driven in Bombay before. Sebastian didn’t comment, as he needed Singh on his team.
“So who do you work for?” Singh asked once they’d sat down in a pair of comfortable seats in the lounge.
“Tatler,” said Sebastian, who had decided on the magazine overnight. “We want to do a center-page spread on the wedding. We’ve got quite a bit on Priya Ghuman, because she’s been living in London for the past three years, but we don’t even know the name of the man she’s going to marry.”
“We only found out ourselves yesterday, but no one was surprised to hear it was Suresh Chopra.”
“Why?”
“His father is chairman of Bombay Building, so the marriage is more about the joining of two companies than of two people. I’ve got a picture of him if you’d like to see it.” Singh opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. Sebastian stared at a man who looked around fifty, but might have been younger, because he was certainly fifty pounds overweight.
“Are he and Priya old friends?” he asked.
“Their parents are, but I’m not sure they themselves have ever met. I’m told the official introductions will be made next week. That’s a ceremony in itself, to which we won’t be invited. Can I ask about payment?” said Singh, changing the subject.
“Sure. We’ll pay you the full agency rate,” replied Seb, without any idea what that meant, “and an advance payment to make sure you don’t share your pictures with anyone else in England.” He passed over five hundred-rupee notes. “Is that fair?”
Singh nodded and pocketed the cash in a way that would have impressed the Artful Dodger.
“So when do you want me to start?”
“Will you be photographing any members of the family in the near future?”
“Day after tomorrow. Priya’s got a fitting at Brides of Bombay on Altamont Street at eleven o’clock. Her mother wanted me to take a few shots for a family album she’s preparing.”