three men drank, and Trenton gestured to a group of chairs around a Georgian occasional table. ‘Shall we sit?’
Once they were settled, Trenton again glanced at John Vale, and continued, ‘I told Maxim why I asked him to come over this evening. I think you should elucidate further.’
Vale nodded, gave his attention to Maxim. ‘Firstly, I’d like to know whether you would be interested in being the white knight for Lister Newspapers?’
Maxim frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know. Just as you were arriving, I had started to say to Alan that I didn’t think a newspaper empire was my bailiwick exactly.’
‘But why not, Maxim?’ Alan demanded peremptorily, forgetting his vow of silence of a moment ago. ‘Surely it’s a perfect acquisition for you at this stage of your career. Think of the added power and influence you would have if you controlled Lister. A national daily, a national Sunday newspaper, and a galaxy of prestigious magazines.’
Maxim threw Alan a swift look but did not respond. Instead he addressed John Vale. ‘What makes you think I’d be acceptable to the stockholders?’
‘Harry Lister is certain of it; so are the other members of the Lister board. I agree with them, as do the directors of Morgan Lane.’ Vale perched precariously on the edge of his seat, leaned forward, fixed his bespectacled, earnest gaze on Maxim. ‘You have the name, a formidable reputation, and an extraordinary track record. You’re not an asset stripper, far from it. The companies you have taken over have flourished under your good management. These things are tremendous points in your favour. Quite frankly, you’re impressive, very impressive indeed, and that’s why we’re absolutely positive you’d be acceptable to the stockholders. Incidentally, so are Birch, Rider, stockbrokers for Lister Newspapers. They’re as enthusiastic about you as we are, in point of fact.’
‘Those are very kind words. Thank you,’ Maxim murmured, and paused, steepled his fingers, brought them up to his mouth. He was thoughtful, then continued, ‘Arthur Bradley’s International Publishing Group has tendered an offer of five hundred million pounds for Lister Newspapers. As a white knight I would have to top that offer by at least two hundred million pounds.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Vale shot back. ‘It could be less.’
‘Two hundred million pounds, one hundred million pounds, what’s the difference … it’s still a big ticket,’ Maxim remarked coolly.
‘True,’ John Vale agreed, nodding his head. ‘But look at it this way, you stand to make a lot of money.’
‘I don’t always consider how much I might make,’ Maxim replied in a quiet voice. ‘Rather, I ask myself how much can I lose?’
‘Oh I’m certain you wouldn’t lose,’ John asserted, sounding confident. ‘I would like to give you some relevant information regarding Lister Newspapers, a few facts and figures.’
‘Go ahead.’ Maxim settled back in the chair, ready to listen.
At this juncture, Alan Trenton rose.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll attend to a bit of my own business,’ he murmured and went to the far side of the office where he sat down behind his desk. He studied the faxes and telexes from New York, which had come in earlier, wrote succinct replies to be dispatched in the morning, perused other urgent papers, making notations on them.
Once he had finished, he looked at Maxim and John Vale. He saw they were still deep in conversation, decided to leave them to their own devices for a short while longer. There was nothing pertinent he could say, little he could contribute to their discussion. It was best he remain out of it altogether.
Swivelling the desk chair, Alan sat gazing out of the window which overlooked Berkeley Square. His thoughts drifted aimlessly for a few seconds, and then inevitably they settled on Maximilian West, as they generally did when Maxim was in close proximity. It was difficult not to focus on him, so powerful was his charisma and his presence.
It delighted Alan to see him in such great form, such good spirits. If one judged him by his appearance, Maxim looked as if he led a life of ease and pleasure in one of his many beautiful houses or on his floating palace of a yacht. Nothing was farther from the truth. He worked around the clock, was never off a plane, kept up the most killing pace – and yet somehow managed to remain remarkably unscathed. In fact, Alan often thought that Maxim thrived on it all. In the past nine years Maxim had been under excessive pressure and not so readily available socially, travelling the world at large as he did. Also, London was more of a stopping off point for him these days, even though he had his head office here and the house in Mayfair. Greener fields, in the shape of Manhattan, beckoned most beguilingly.
And Alan sorely missed Maxim.
He wished he saw more of him. They spoke frequently on the telephone, grabbed a quick bite or a drink together occasionally, but this was not quite the same as lunching and dining in a leisurely fashion, the way they had in the past. They had been inseparable as boys, equally close in their teens, and their friendship had continued into full manhood.
Best friends ’til the day we die, they had sworn at boarding school, and curiously enough this boyhood vow was holding true. And that’s all that matters in the long run, Alan thought. To know in our hearts that we’re always there for each other, that we can rely on each other no matter what the circumstances.
Spinning the chair again, Alan peered the length of his office, fixed his eyes on Maxim, observed him carefully for a few seconds. His old friend appeared to be quizzing John Vale, asking some hard questions, no doubt. Vale was responding alertly, looking suitably impressed by his inquisitor. But then there was nothing unique about that. Everyone was impressed by Maximilian West. Startled, too, more often than not, when they first met him. He was never what anyone expected him to be. Nor did he ever do what people anticipated he would do. He had always been a maverick.
In his mind’s eye Alan suddenly saw Maxim as he had been at fifteen, remembered that ghastly day when two boys from another school, bullies both, had picked on Maxim, sneered at him, called him filthy names, been immeasurably cruel as only the young can be cruel. Maxim, ashen-faced, his dark eyes blazing with rage, had instantly turned combative, had raised his hands like a boxer about to go on the attack. Ready to do battle for his best friend, he had brought his hands up too, wanting to fight at Maxim’s side. And then the unexpected, the unanticipated, had happened, startling the crowd of boys, and him most of all. Maxim had dropped his arms to his sides and had walked away without uttering a word, his head held high, his immense pride, his uncommon dignity forming an unassailable shield around him. The group of boys who had been watching and jeering had fallen silent, had parted ranks with docility to let him pass, intimidated by the cold, implacable expression on Maxim’s face, his lofty demeanour.
Alan recalled how he had run after Maxim, wanting to give him comfort, to make him feel better. But Maxim had not needed sympathy; he had even refused to discuss the matter, had turned morose and moody for the rest of the day. It was only later that night, after lights-out in the dormitory, that Maxim had finally mentioned the incident. As if in answer to Alan’s unspoken question, he had hissed in the dark, ‘I walked away because those cowards weren’t worth fighting! I didn’t even want to soil my hands by touching them!’ He had expressed his contempt and disgust for the likes of the two bullies, and had gone on to proclaim, ‘One day I’ll be cock of the walk, just you wait and see, Stubby.’ And then in a fierce whisper he had added vehemently, ‘I’m nobody now! I have nothing now! But no matter how long it takes, I promise you I’m going to be somebody. And I’m going to have everything.’
He
