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‘Bon appétit,’ Dom says when we’re alone again, and digs with relish into his Ahi tuna topped with caviar. It is lined with slices of zucchini that are so thinly sliced they’re almost transparent.
I fold my arms over my chest. ‘So, you think that you have a perfect right to pay little or even no tax if possible, because you’re wealthy enough to have access to devious accountants, slick lawyers, corrupt bankers and tax havens while the rest of us subsidize your operations by paying for the education and health care of your workforce, the roads you and your companies use, and the police deployed to guard your restaurants and nightclubs from trouble.’
He leans forward, his eyes glittering dangerously. ‘If you truly feel that way then why don’t you do something about the really big tax avoiders like Google, Starbucks, Microsoft and Apple?’
I sit up straighter in my chair. ‘My mandate does not cover multinational companies.’
He raises one mocking eyebrow. ‘Your mandate doesn’t cover multinationals? How fucking convenient.’
‘Another department deals with them,’ I defend tensely.
He bursts into a sarcastic, cynical laugh.
I stare at him furiously. How dare he make out that I’m in some insidious way complicit in the wrongdoings of the multinational companies?
‘Since you seem completely clueless, let me tell you how your department for policing the multinationals dealt with the big boys last year. Starbucks had sales of four hundred million pounds in the UK last year, but paid no corporation tax at all. It transferred some money to a Dutch sister company in a royalty payment, bought coffee beans from Switzerland (hey! who knew Switzerland produces coffee beans, but there you go), and paid high interest rates to borrow from other parts of the business.’ He pauses. ‘Want to hear how they dealt with Amazon?’
I say nothing.
‘I thought not. But here’s the deal anyway. With sales in the UK of four-point-three billion last year, it reported a tax expense of just four-point-two million pounds. What percentage is that, Ella? Could that possibly be just nought-point-one percent?’
I know everything he’s said is true, but I’ve always told myself that it’s not my remit. If I do my job well then I’ve done my bit to make my country a better place. His arguments do not shake my foundations at all. I clamp my mouth shut and refuse to be drawn into an issue that has nothing to do with his tax situation—or me.
‘Why so quiet, hmm? Is it because you already know that the same story is repeated with Google and Apple and every massive multinational? The obvious question that arises in any rational person’s mind would be why should I not make my tax disappear too?’
I jut my jaw out aggressively. ‘How about because it’s morally wrong? Or because you care for the people of this country? Because your taxes will keep schools and hospitals from closing their doors? Because you don’t have to do something wrong just because others are doing it?’
He shakes his head. ‘You know what you are, Ella?’
‘You’re obviously dying to tell me,’ I say dryly.
‘You’re someone’s attack dog. The question is whose? You’ve obviously been fooled into thinking you’re the attack dog for the poor and oppressed, but answer this: Every year you collect more and more taxes, so, how is it then that every year there’s less and less for public services?’
I scowl, but he’s touched a raw nerve.
He sees my second of hesitation and presses his advantage. ‘Did you know that since 2007 our government has committed to spending over a trillion pounds to bail out banks? What does it say about their priorities if they’re able to find the money to save the banks, bomb Afghanistan, bomb Iraq, bomb Libya, and now they’re wanting to start a fresh war in Syria, but cannot find the funds for schools and hospitals?’
I stare at him in dismay.
‘The truth is there are billions to be gained by going after the big boys, but no one’s doing it. On the day our government acts to squeeze these massive tax cheats you’re welcome to break my balls about the morality of my tax avoidance schemes and lecture me about your utopian ideals of wealth redistribution. Until then, give me a fucking break.’
I pick up my glass of wine and drain it. I put it back on the table slowly. It’s possible that without realizing it I’ve drunk far too much. My head feels foggy. In my incapacitated state, I’m unable to come up with a single suitable argument to support my cause. My heart knows that even though his argument seems logical, it’s not right. It can’t be.
He looks at me almost sadly. ‘You remind me of that old Led Zepplin classic, Stairway to Heaven. You’re the woman who believes that everything that glitters is gold and that you’re buying a stairway to heaven. But your stairway is whispering in the wind, Ella.’
SIX
The strings of a lute are alone
Though they quiver with the same music.
—Khalil Gibran
Unable to meet his eyes, I stare blankly at a waiter refilling my glass. When he straightens the bottle I’m shocked to realize that I’ve drunk more than half of it. That on top of the vodka and the champagne cocktail! No wonder he’s running rings around me with his flawed ‘I’ll pay if they pay’ reasoning.
He moves closer. ‘Are you drunk yet?’ he whispers.
Up close and suddenly he seems wild and full of dirty promises. I lean toward him like a moth to a flame. ‘Were you deliberately trying to get me drunk?’
