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“Yes, of course,” said Cedric. Wrong-footed again.
Mr. Morita leaned forward, looked at the photograph on Cedric’s desk and said, “Your wife and son?”
“Yes,” said Cedric, unsure if he should elaborate.
“Wife a milk monitor, son a QC.”
“Yes,” said Cedric helplessly.
“My sons,” said Morita, removing a wallet from an inside pocket and taking out two photographs, which he placed on the desk in front of Cedric. “Hideo and Masao are at school in Tokyo.”
Cedric studied the photographs, and realized the time had come to tear up the script. “And your wife?”
“Mrs. Morita was unable to visit England this time, because our young daughter, Naoko, has chicken pox.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cedric, as there was a gentle tap on the door and Miss Clough entered carrying a tray of coffee and shortbread biscuits. Cedric was about to take his first sip, and was wondering what he could possibly talk about next, when Morita suggested, “Perhaps the time has come to discuss business?”
“Yes, of course,” said Cedric, putting his cup down. He opened a file on his desk and reminded himself of the salient points he’d highlighted the night before. “I’d like to say from the outset, Mr. Morita, that coupon loans is not the field in which Farthings has made its reputation. However, as we wish to build a long-term relationship with your distinguished company, I hope you will allow us the opportunity to prove ourselves.” Morita nodded. “Remembering that the amount you require is ten million pounds, with a short-term payback coupon of five years, and having studied your most recent cash-flow figures, while assessing the current exchange rate of the yen, we consider a realistic percentage…”
Now that he was back on familiar ground, Cedric relaxed for the first time. Forty minutes later, he had presented his ideas and answered every one of Mr. Morita’s questions. Sebastian felt his boss couldn’t have done much better.
“May I suggest you draw up a contract, Mr. Hardcastle? I was in no doubt that you were the right man for this job long before I left Tokyo. After your presentation, I am even more convinced. I do have appointments with two other banks, but that is simply to assure my shareholders that I am considering alternatives. Take care of the rin, and the yen will take care of themselves.”
Both men laughed.
“If you are free,” said Cedric, “perhaps you would care to join me for lunch? A Japanese restaurant has recently opened in the City, and has received excellent reviews, so I thought—”
“And you can think again, Mr. Hardcastle, because I didn’t travel six thousand miles in search of a Japanese restaurant. No, I will take you to Rules, and we will enjoy roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, appropriate for a man from Huddersfield, I think.” Both men burst out laughing again.
When they left the office a few minutes later, Cedric held back and whispered in Sebastian’s ear, “Good thinking, but as there are no tickets available for tonight’s performance of My Fair Lady, you’re going to have to spend the rest of the day in the returns queue. Just let’s hope it doesn’t rain, or you’ll be soaked again,” he added before joining Mr. Morita in the corridor.
Sebastian bowed low as Cedric and his guests stepped into the lift and disappeared down to the ground floor. He hung around on the fifth floor for a few more minutes but didn’t call for the lift until he felt certain they would be well on their way to the restaurant.
Once Sebastian had left the bank, he hailed a taxi. “Theatre Royal, Drury Lane,” he said, and when they pulled up outside the theater twenty minutes later, the first thing he noticed was just how long the queue for returns was. He paid the cabbie, strolled into the theater and went straight up to the box office.
“I don’t suppose you have three tickets for tonight?” he pleaded.
“You suppose correctly, my dear,” said the woman sitting in the booth. “You could of course join the returns queue, but frankly not many of them will get in before Christmas. Someone has to die before this show gets returns.”
“I don’t care what it costs.”
“That’s what they all say, dear. We’ve got people in the queue who claim it’s their twenty-first birthday, their fiftieth wedding anniversary … one of them was so desperate he proposed to me.”
Sebastian walked out of the theater and stood on the pavement. He took one more look at the queue, which seemed to have grown even longer in the past few minutes, and tried to work out what he could possibly do next. He then recalled something he’d once read in one of his father’s novels. He decided he would try to find out if it would work for him as well as it had for William Warwick.
He jogged down the hill toward the Strand, dodging in and out of the afternoon traffic, arriving back in Savoy Place a few minutes later. He went straight to the front desk and asked the receptionist for the name of the head porter.
“Albert Southgate,” she replied.
Sebastian thanked her and strolled across to the concierge’s desk, as if he were a guest.
“Is Albert around?” he asked the porter.
“I think he’s gone to lunch, sir, but I’ll just check.” The man disappeared into a back room.
“Bert, there’s a gentleman asking for you.”
Sebastian didn’t have long to wait before an older man appeared in a long blue coat adorned with gold braid on the cuffs, shiny gold buttons and two rows of campaign medals, one of which he recognized. He gave Sebastian a wary look, and asked, “How can I help you?”
