The New Collected Short Stories Read online

  ‘That may well be the case,’ said Henry, ‘but you still only paid yourself forty-two thousand last year,’ he continued, ‘which is less than one per cent of your turnover.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Angela, ‘but I enjoy the work, and it keeps me occupied.’

  ‘But don’t you consider you deserve a better return for your efforts?’

  ‘Possibly, but I only charge my clients five per cent of the profits, and every time I suggest putting my fee up, they always remind me that they are a charity.’

  ‘But you’re not,’ said Henry. ‘You’re a professional, and should be recompensed accordingly.’

  ‘I know you’re right,’ said Angela as they stopped outside the Nat West bank and she dropped the cash into the night safe, ‘but most of my clients have been with me for years.’

  ‘And have taken advantage of you for years,’ insisted Henry.

  ‘That may well be so,’ said Angela, ‘but what can I do about it?’

  The thought returned to Henry’s mind, but he said nothing other than, ‘Thank you for a most interesting evening, Ms Forster. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’ Henry thrust out his right hand, as he always did at the end of every meeting, and had to stop himself saying, ‘See you next year.’

  Angela laughed, leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. Henry certainly couldn’t remember when that had last occurred. ‘Goodnight, Henry,’ she said as she turned and began to walk away.

  ‘I don’t suppose . . .’ he hesitated.

  ‘Yes, Henry?’ she said, turning back to face him.

  ‘That you’d consider having dinner with me some time?’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ said Angela. ‘When would suit you?’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Henry, suddenly emboldened.

  Angela removed a diary from her handbag and began to flick through the pages. ‘I know I can’t do tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I have a feeling it’s Greenpeace.’

  ‘Monday?’ said Henry, not having to check his diary.

  ‘Sorry, it’s the Blue Cross Ball,’ said Angela, turning another page of her diary.

  ‘Tuesday?’ said Henry trying not to sound desperate.

  ‘Amnesty International,’ said Angela, flicking over another page.

  ‘Wednesday,’ said Henry, wondering if she had changed her mind.

  ‘Looks good,’ said Angela, staring at a blank page. ‘Where would you like to meet?’

  ‘How about La Bacha?’ said Henry, remembering that it was the restaurant where the partners always took their most important clients to lunch. ‘Eight o’clock suit you?’

  ‘Suits me fine.’

  Henry arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early and read the menu from cover to cover – several times. During his lunch break, he’d purchased a new shirt and a silk tie. He was already regretting that he hadn’t tried on the blazer that was displayed in the window.

  Angela strolled into La Bacha just after eight. She was wearing a pale green floral dress that fell just below the knee. Henry liked the way she’d done her hair, but knew that he wouldn’t have the courage to tell her. He also approved of the fact that she wore so little make-up and her only jewellery was a modest string of pearls. Henry rose from his place as she reached the table. Angela couldn’t remember the last person who’d bothered to do that.

  Henry had feared that they wouldn’t be able to find anything to talk about – small talk had never been his forte – but Angela made it all so easy that he found himself ordering a second bottle of wine, long before the meal was over – another first.

  Over coffee, Henry said, ‘I think I’ve come up with a way of supplementing your income.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let’s talk business,’ said Angela, touching his hand.

  ‘It’s not business,’ Henry assured her.

  When Angela woke the following morning, she smiled as she remembered what a pleasant evening she’d spent with Henry. All she could recall him saying as they parted was, ‘Don’t forget that any winnings made from gambling are tax-free.’ What was all that about?

  Henry, on the other hand, could recall every detail of the advice he’d given Angela. He rose early on the following Sunday and began preparing an outline plan, which included opening several bank accounts, preparing spreadsheets and working on a long-term investment programme. He nearly missed matins.

  The following evening Henry made his way to the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane, arriving a few minutes after midnight. He was carrying an empty Gladstone bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. After all, he had to look the part.

  The Westminster and City Conservative Association’s annual ball was coming to an end. As Henry entered the ballroom, party-goers were beginning to burst balloons and drain the last drops of champagne from any remaining bottles. He spotted Angela seated at a table in the far corner, sorting out pledges, cheques and cash before placing them in three separate piles. She looked up and couldn’t mask her surprise when she saw him. Angela had spent the day convincing herself that he didn’t mean it and, if he did turn up, she wouldn’t go through with it.

  ‘How much cash?’ he asked matter-of-factly, even before she could say hello.

  ‘Twenty-two thousand three hundred and seventy pounds,’ she heard herself saying.

  Henry took his time. He double-checked the notes before placing the cash in his battered bag. Angela’s calculation had proved to be accurate. He handed her a receipt for £19,400.

  ‘See you later,’ he said, just as the band struck up ‘Jerusalem’. Henry left the ballroom as the words ‘Bring me my bow of burning gold’ were rendered lustily and out of tune. Angela remained transfixed as she watched Henry walk away. She knew that if she didn’t chase after him and stop the man before he reached the bank, there could be no turning back.

  ‘Congratulations on another well-organized event, Angela,’ said Councillor Pickering, interrupting her thoughts. ‘I don’t know how we’d manage without you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Angela, turning to face the chairman of the ball committee.

  Henry pushed his way through the hotel’s swing doors and out onto the street, feeling for the first time that his anonymity was no longer a weakness but a strength. He could hear his heart beating as he headed towards the local branch of HSBC, the nearest bank with an overnight safe deposit. Henry dropped £19,400 into the safe, leaving £2,970 of the cash in his bag. He then hailed a taxi – another departure from his usual routine – and gave the cabby an address in the West End.

  The taxi drew up outside an establishment that Henry had never entered before, although he had kept their accounts for over twenty years.

  The night manager of the Black Ace Casino tried not to look surprised when Mr Preston walked onto the floor. Had he come to make a spot-check? It seemed unlikely, as the company accountant didn’t acknowledge him but headed straight for the roulette table.

  Henry knew the odds only too well because he signed off the casino’s end-of-year balance sheet every April, and despite rent, rates, staff wages, security and even free meals and drinks for favoured customers, his client still managed to declare a handsome profit. But it wasn’t Henry’s intention to make a profit, or, for that matter, a loss.

  Henry took a seat at the roulette table and saw red. He opened his Gladstone bag, extracted ten ten-pound notes and handed them across to the croupier, who in turn counted them slowly before he gave Henry ten little blue and white chips in return.

  There were a number of gamblers already seated at the table, placing bets of different denominations, five, ten, twenty, fifty and even the occasional hundred-pound golden chip. Only one punter had a stack of golden chips in front of him, which he was spreading randomly around the different numbers. Henry was pleased to see that he held the attention of most of the onlookers standing round the table.

  While the man on the far side of the table continued to litter the green baize with golden chips, Henry placed one of his ten-p