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He paused for a moment, then said, ‘I hear Bruno Harris has re–evaluated his offer for Asgill’s.’
Liz nodded as she snipped the end off her cigar with a gold cutter.
‘Yes, it caused the deal to fall through,’ she said, not wanting to give away her own feelings.
She looked at Wendell. She wished she could tell him all about her business dealings over the past fortnight, feeling sure he would approve of her ruthlessness and single–mindedness. In fact, her idea to derail the sale of the family company to Bruno Harris’s Canopus Capital had been so simple it was almost laughable. Through a network of contacts, carefully hiding her trail as she went, Liz had leaked a number of damaging documents about the company to Bruno Harris’s advisers; most notably, the flurry of legal threats Asgill’s had suffered recently over a self–tanning product which, on certain types of skin, caused an extreme reaction, in some cases actually leading to scarring. Even more damaging were the potentially explosive revelations about Asgill’s iconic cleanser The Balm, which had been sent directly to Hugh Montague, who was in charge of the due diligence. According to her sources, the main reason Harris was so interested in purchasing Asgill Cosmetics was that he felt he could market it to the East, particularly the rapidly expanding Indian beauty market, thereby doubling its value as a brand. But Liz had correctly predicted that someone had not done their homework properly. One of the key ingredients of The Balm was beef tallow and enzymes derived from pigs, ingredients not welcome in either Hindu or Muslim markets. Five years earlier, anticipating a boom in the global beauty markets, the Asgill Research and Development lab had tried, unsuccessfully, to replicate The Balm using a beef tallow substitute, but the product just wasn’t as good and, anyway, it had pushed the price up considerably.
Given this information, it was no wonder Bruno Harris had wanted to rethink the price he would pay for the company. For her part, Liz had no regrets about pointing out what thorough due diligence would have thrown up anyway. And why should she? William and Meredith hadn’t considered her feelings when they attempted to blind–side her with the sale; they hadn’t worried when they had tried to piggyback on her years of toil at Skin Plus.
‘So you think the family are right to sell Asgill’s?’
Wendell had the most confident, languid way about him that Liz found very attractive. Someone as sure of his own abilities as she was.
‘Some of the multinationals will be interested in us now Skin Plus is taking off,’ shrugged Liz. ‘But personally I don’t want to let the company go.’
‘I assume you’ve thought about floating a minority share like Estée Lauder?’
‘I’ve thought about every option,’ she said, walking over to the lacquered drinks cabinet and pulling out a bottle of Richard Hennessy, her favourite cognac.
Wendell nodded approvingly.
‘New York is becoming so healthy. I’ve friends – smokers of forty years – on microbiotic diets. I need a partner in crime. You must come to my club on Wall Street. Excellent cigar bar.’
‘You know where to find me,’ smiled Liz, pouring the golden nectar into two glasses.
Robert appeared at the door looking concerned.
‘Is everything all right? Mother was wondering where you’d got to.’
Wendell glanced over at Liz, his look loaded with meaning.
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled. ‘We were just coming.’
CHAPTER THIRTY–NINE
Liz hadn’t been surprised when Wendell had called three days after Meredith’s dinner suggesting lunch at his club. They spent the better part of five minutes on the phone competitively comparing diaries, refusing dates as if to prove how busy and important they both were. Eventually they found a mutually convenient window in November, at which point Wendell buckled, suggesting that he could clear Friday afternoon if she could too. What did surprise Liz was that when a Billington executive car came to pick her up at one
p.m. as arranged, the silver Mercedes did not have Wendell in it. She was not particularly alarmed until she realized they were heading for the heliport at East Thirty–Fourth Street. As she was ushered through the terminal towards a helicopter in the Billington corporate colours, she picked up her phone and dialled Wendell’s number.
‘I assume we’re not going to your club,’ she said, amusement in her voice.
‘What? And have one hundred bankers gawk at us?’
‘So where are we meeting? I assume we are meeting?’
She heard Wendell chuckle, then the phone went dead. Rolling her eyes, she switched off her phone and the pilot started the engine. The helicopter hovered into the air, bobbing gently until it gathered speed and began its journey across the East River towards Long Island. Liz turned her face into the sunshine. The fact that she was heading to destinations unknown sent a sexual thrill through her. Most of the time she was in charge and she liked it that way, but a little chaos, a little mystery every now and then shook things up and gave life an edge.
Smiling, she watched the billowing clouds scud across a watery blue sky and she actually felt herself relax for once. After a short flight the helicopter spiralled down onto a large H in the grounds of one of the big oceanfront palaces on Southampton’s Gin Lane. Liz recognized the area even from the air, having often been to parties on this exclusive stretch. She’d heard the whispers around New York about how much these properties went for: sixty, seventy million dollars. She wondered who the house belonged to, knowing from Brooke that the Billingtons did not own a property in the Hamptons, and whether this was how really rich men operated – lending each other their exclusive homes for under–the–radar ‘entertaining’. She smiled to herself. At her mother’s dinner for the Billington family, Liz had decided that she wanted Wendell, and now she was going to have him. Another executive car was waiting for her at the helipad and it took her down a long gravel drive, stopping outside the white stucco house. It was impressive in size but not in architectural style, thought Liz; but then size mattered when it came to a statement of wealth. Liz stepped out of the car, annoyed that in her five–inch Manolo heels and severe Martin Margiela shift dress, she was not dressed for the beach.
The double doors to the house were open and Liz entered and proceeded down an eerily quiet hallway, at the end of which she could see a stretch of shimmering blue sea. It was the sort of property that usually had lots of staff, but today it was ghostly quiet.
She walked out onto the veranda and found Wendell sitting on an Adirondack chair, dressed in a fitted shirt and cream chinos, saluting her with a tumbler of gin.
‘So what happened to lunch?’ she said playfully.
He laughed. ‘I had the chef go. I thought there were more important things to do this afternoon.’
‘Like what?’
