such men you feel a great affection, and the results are teamwork and loyalty of the finest, highest quality, with joy of memory that never fades away.
Under Sail in the Frozen North: The Log of the 1926 British Arctic Expedition (1927)
Frank Arthur Worsley
From his park bench, Sean sent emails to Kingsmith, Radiance and Tom. He phoned Martine and said he would be over soon, then he called Gail, to say he wouldn’t. He told her the news and first she congratulated him then asked for a divorce. She knew that Martine was part of the consortium and not one of his silly little girls, and she understood that now his relationship with her would become paramount. Gail wanted the dignity of immediate separation. She told him her lawyer’s name and hung up. Sean was shocked that she was so prepared.
When he arrived at Martine’s apartment she had a spare key and a bottle of chilled Krug waiting. This was the moment they had imagined, and though he enjoyed seeing her blaze with their triumph, he felt oddly detached. Perhaps this was a sign of success; when vintage Krug became a fizzy drink. Not a noble pint in a fuggy all-comers pub, with a mate who kept you level.
Martine slid down onto her knees in front of him and smiled, in the way he understood. He closed his eyes. The effort was over, success was his. The strain of living a lie with Gail was also gone. And Tom had come in and done exactly what Sean had brought him in to do: make him the winner. But he did not feel happy. After a while Martine looked up, concerned. He wound her hair in his hands and tried to surrender to her skill. He tried harder, thinking of the two girls in the pub, of recent porn – an appetite no woman would ever wean him from. Still nothing. Gently he lifted her back up to him. He held her.
‘Why am I not happy?’
‘You got what you wanted. Now you feel empty.’
He nodded. It was true, and her insight made him feel tender. He stroked her hair, in silent consolation for their first erotic non-event. Later they watched television together, also for the first time.
‘A decent man’s content with profit,’ Kingsmith used to say to him, in the early days. ‘Only fools want more – and fools are tools but never partners.’ And Sean, or Sean boy as Kingsmith called him, had laughed and watched the money rolling in, and worked seven days a week if necessary, as it often was, learning his mentor’s particular ways, travelling with him, growing familiar with the Russian dolls of his financial habits, and Kingsmith’s migratory routes: the Caymans to Panama, Monaco to Jersey, to Zurich – to thin air. Very often a scrap of a percentage point of profit fell under the table to Sean, sometimes as a cash bonus, but more often as a last-minute allocation of some IPO, some hitherto obscure company Kingsmith had carefully cultivated up to its stock market debut, usually but not always connected with mining, one of his major interests. Sean proved himself an excellent steward of his financial good fortune, using part of his profit to grow his property portfolio, and always reinvesting in something else Kingsmith recommended.
Both knew Sean would never be in the same league, but he was a quick study and had become personally wealthy beyond the dreams of his twelve-year-old, or even twenty-year-old self. Wealthy enough to acknowledge that money was not enough. What he’d always dreamed of was his name on the map. Literally. Like Barentsz or Bering or – well, OK, not like Cecil Rhodes – but to be a man of daring and discovery and honour, whose explorations could name mountains and seas.
Now, after the Pedersen deal, that secret glory-seeking part of him rejoiced like never before. He, Sean Cawson, owned a tiny piece of the Arctic. The ice was receding and the TransPolar sea route was busier every day, moving global markets from supermarket checkouts to construction contracts as the price of goods went down. Untold mineral wealth was newly within reach. There was something magical in the air; it was a new golden age of trade and opportunity, and he was a very modern buccaneer, in it for positive influence, not plunder. Surely that was worthy of some sort of recognition?
Midgard was Sean’s biggest coup, but somewhere deep inside he had always known he would succeed. Several months ago, and in the face of the heavy odds against him winning the bid, he had placed a large retainer on the services of his chosen Norwegian architect, in order to capitalise on the narrow time window for the work. The morning after the Pedersen decision, and after Martine had left for work, he made that call from her apartment, and the sound of jubilation in the Oslo office buoyed him in happiness all the way across Kensington Gardens.
He was walking towards Selfridges, to kill a bit of time before meeting Joe Kingsmith for lunch. As yet he did not know the venue or the hour – but that was typical. Sean hadn’t even known he was in London but found the email when he woke, saying he’d be at the Wallace Collection, then they could grab a bite. He liked to look at the old weapons collection, Sean remembered. It was the older man’s indulgence to himself, and usually meant things were going well.
The sky was an empty blue and it was so hot for February that although the trees were bare the joggers were dressed for summer. Sean walked across the park, repressing a feeling of irritation at how his mentor, affectionately though he felt towards him, still seemed to think of him as the callow and grateful undergraduate, willing to dance attendance on his whims. That was a lifetime ago, but if Kingsmith still treated him like a kid, then that was the price of access to his capital. One hundred and fifty million dollars in this case, which, along with Tom’s participation, had got him Midgard Lodge. Once Sean had referred to him as ‘the old man’ and people had thought Kingsmith was his actual father. He had not corrected them; he felt much more Kingsmith’s son than his own unknown father’s. And though wild horses wouldn’t have dragged it out of him, in Sean’s heart he was sure the old man had some paternal affection for him too. So fine, he would kill some time in the Watch Room at Selfridges, and wait for his call.
This was a place long soothing to Sean’s spirit, and he had visited it many times before he could afford the things he wanted. It was always the same, the dawdling wealthy shoppers, sparkling vitrines and his own enhanced reflection in the tall apricot-lit mirrors.
He should commemorate his journey from staring at the painting of the icebergs on the care-home staff landing, to standing here, the legal owner of a piece of the Arctic, with a watch. A new time in his life, something that fitted his new role of merchant prince and environmental champion. Nothing vulgar. Sean had no idea what that would be. It amused him that as he went from case to case, the glittering dials, exotic straps and satin-draped plinths jostling for his attention, he gathered sales assistants like iron filings to a magnet. There was a new display since he had last come in, ‘The Hall of Fame’ case. And in it, a platinum Rolex Cosmograph Daytona, with its ice-blue dial the colour of a glacier. He tried it on and looked at his reflection. He didn’t want to take it off so he bought it and slipped his Patek Philippe into his pocket. Collecting beautiful watches went with his self-image; even if the price made him slightly nauseous.
Perhaps he should buy a watch for Martine too. No more philandering. Marriage to Gail had not worked, but he still wanted a mate – not to be like Kingsmith, who for all his wealth and rosters of willing beauties around the world, seemed to lack the centre of gravity that a relationship gave. He had no children, no regular partner, but a different gorgeous woman was always available, wherever he was. Once Sean had thought this highly desirable, but now it seemed increasingly sad, though that was one emotion he’d never seen Kingsmith display.
Sean browsed the women’s watches. He wanted to buy something for Rosie, but
