Hard Choices by Ashe Barker Page B

coffee and cream arranged on a side table, and papers spread out on the conference table in the middle. Nick pours coffee for all three of us as Uncle Charles scurries around doing final checks that all the documentation is in order. He’s muttering to himself the whole time, shuffling papers and generally fussing. Nick just watches and sips his coffee, an amused smile on his face. I do the same, feeling somewhat superfluous to this interaction but keenly interested in the process. It seems clear that Nick’s gone through this ritual before, and he waits patiently, his hip propped against the side table, until Uncle Charles finally turns to him and offers him a smart fountain pen. Nick puts his cup down and takes the pen.
    “You need to sign here, and here, and here.” Charles points to the relevant documents, the spaces requiring signatures marked with a pencilled X.
    Nick glances briefly at each document, then leans over and signs. He clearly trusts his uncle’s legal advice and the documents are soon in a neat pile in front of Charles.
    We sit down then, our coffees refilled, and Nick and Charles make small talk at the table. I listen in and learn that Nick’s mother is called Olivia and that she’s married to a man who owns a construction company. She’s on her third husband now, and Nick sees her once or twice a year. He seems fond of her, though I get the impression that he’s less enamoured of his latest stepfather. Suddenly the phone on the side table trills loudly, and Charles gets up to answer it.
    “Yes?” He waits a few seconds, then, “That’s lovely, thank you.” He replaces the receiver and turns to us once more.
    “The funds have cleared. I’ll ring Stephen at Lawson’s. Then we’re done.”
    While he’s on the phone I sign to Nick, “Who’s Stephen?”
    He sips his coffee and helps himself to a fancy little biscuit. “Stephen Marchant, the solicitor acting for the vendor. As soon as Charles tells him the money’s in their account and that I’ve signed, the deal completes.”
    I’m astonished—I never really gave any thought as to how these things happen, but I hadn’t expected it would all be done over the phone. Seems a little slack to me, and I say so. “But, what’s to stop Charles lying? Saying the money’s there when it isn’t?”
    Nick smiles at me. “Fair point. It’s all down to professional ethics. He’d never work in commercial law again if he did such a thing. No, these guys trust each other, and they always deal honestly. That’s just how it works.”
    Right. Pity things aren’t always that simple .
     
    * * * *
     
    The club glories in the name of Heidi’s and is situated in a stylish building in the city centre, occupying three floors above a smart parade of designer shops and eateries. The entrance is discreetly tucked between an Italian restaurant and a kitchenware shop. I peer in the shop window as we wait to be let in through the door security system, and can’t spot anything costing less than a tenner. Even I’d gulp at the prospect of blowing over a hundred quid on a plain white teapot, but apparently someone must be prepared to spend that sort of money or the shop wouldn’t be in business. My frugal musings are interrupted by a disembodied female voice erupting from the shiny grill next to the door buttons. She asks if she can help us. Nick just states his name, offering no further explanation.
    His fame must have preceded us. The door buzzes, and he shoves it open.
    “We’re in. Come on. And remember, first impressions. Keep your eyes and ears open.” He takes my hand and we slip inside to find ourselves in another elegant foyer. This time Nick crosses straight to the lift and hits the call button. In no time we’re headed up to the third floor. We exit the lift to be met by a casually dressed man in grey chinos and an open neck yellow sports shirt. He’s accompanied by a rather scary-looking woman dressed in unrelieved black. Both are aged