with an introduction from Henry Orde, and once past the barrier of an ingeniously defensive secretary, Harriet had found it quite easy to achieve an appointment with Martin Landwith. It had been harder to find the time in her own schedule. The Toy Fair opened the next day. Harriet knew that she should have been on her stand, organising the pinning and draping and positioning.
‘This way, please, Miss Peacock.’
The hall was panelled and empty, except for a Persian rug on the floor and an oval table with a big bowl of fresh flowers. Harriet followed the girl up the shallow curve of the stairs, passing three serious, gloomy still lifes in weighty frames. Harriet suspected that they were worth, individually, about as much as the total amount she was trying to borrow.
The girl opened the double doors facing the top of the stairs. Harriet saw Martin Landwith stand up at once, and come round his desk to greet her. He was a stocky man, not very tall, but dressed in a dark blue suit of such magical cut that he seemed perfectly proportioned. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and a sober tie. Narrow, shiny, hand-made shoes emphasised the smallness of his feet. His dark hair was greying at the temples; it seemed sculpted rather than mundanely cut. The silver threads glittered as he turned his head. He had dark eyes, and his naturally dark skin had the healthy polish of a real sun-tan. Harriet judged that he was in his early or mid-fifties. The fingernails of the hand he held out to her were professionally manicured.
‘Please sit down, won’t you?’
His voice was friendly, his smile followed the invitation only a second or two later. Martin Landwith made no attempt to disguise his scrutiny of her. Harriet accepted it, looking coolly back at him, and then sat down in the chair opposite his desk. She glanced around the room. To her right there were tall windows overlooking the street. They were framed in curtains of some honey-coloured material, with deep, soft scallops above and long rippling tails that were fringed in dull gold. Opposite the windows stood a Chinese Chippendale cabinet, the glass front reflecting the light in lozenges over the plain walls. Over the mantelpiece was a Victorian portrait. The whiskered subject might have been Mr Landwith’s grandfather. His grandson, if he was his grandson, sat beneath the picture at a partner’s desk probably inherited from the old man. Only the telephones, dictating machine, computer terminal had been added at some later date. On the floor there was a rug whose subtly glowing colours and intricate pattern spoke to Harriet of tiny silk threads, and thousands upon thousands of hand-knots. There wasn’t much else in the room. It was a masterpiece of understatement that still shouted money as clearly as if the walls had been pasted with layers of notes. It made the glass and steel temple of Morton’s seem by comparison like a hamburger bar in a new shopping precinct.
Harriet’s mouth curved. She sucked the corners of it inwards to contain her smile. But she saw at the same time that Martin Landwith had noted her inventory, and her amusement, and seemed to approve of it.
‘This is my son, and partner. Robin Landwith.’
Harriet turned. He must have come silently in behind her.
He was taller, and thinner, than his father. He had the same dark colouring, but there was no grey in his hair and it was thicker and more casually cut than his father’s. Clearly they shared the same tailor, but Robin’s lapels were two hairs breadths wider, and there were discreet pleats at the front of his trousers. His hand, when Harriet shook it, was larger and warmer.
He looked her over, just as Landwith senior had done. There was more open appreciation in his smile, but afterwards his glance flickered back to his father, as if for approval. Only that made Harriet notice how young he was. He was younger than herself. Perhaps only twenty-five, twenty-six at the most. Not quite ready, yet, to be given free rein. It struck Harriet, seeing him take his place beside his father, that Robin looked like a particularly fine thoroughbred colt. He had been sired for this particular course, for races in which the stakes were pure risk and the prizes were all the multiplications of money. Clearly the bloodlines were faultless, whatever the running he would finally make.
For now, father and son made a formidable combination.
Martin Landwith was sitting with his chin resting on one hand. With the other hand he made a small, polite gesture of invitation.
‘Won’t you tell us how we can help you?’
Harriet told.
She left nothing out, nor did she add anything, but she avoided the operatic performance that had failed her at Morton’s. If the proposal was good enough, she reasoned, these two would spot it even if she made her pitch in Swahili. She spoke quietly, without emphasis, letting the information do its own selling.
When she took out Conundrum and set it up on the broad desk, they examined it carefully and asked half a dozen questions about the manufacture, but they didn’t try to play the game. Instead, when they had finished with the board itself, they scrutinised the box and the point-of-sale roughs and all the leaflets and promotional material that the design studio had expensively prepared for the Toy Fair. But the time expended even on all of that was brief.
‘The package is probably good enough,’ Martin Landwith judged. Then he moved on with practised speech to her business plan.
They went through the figures line by line, and they accepted none of her forecasts without query. Harriet was glad of the thoroughness of her preparation and relieved that they couldn’t fault her calculations. She wouldn’t care to have stumbled in front of the two Landwiths. But she had to admit, under their questioning, that she had only investigated the performance of roughly similar products.
‘There’s nothing on the market quite like Conundrum,’ she told them. ‘A direct parallel between potential performance and real sales is impossible for that reason. But that is Conundrum’s strength, too, isn’t it?’
She saw that they didn’t glance away at the game but kept their attention fixed on her. She felt a small beat of triumph. She was right, it was herself and her own capabilities that she was trying to sell. If the Landwiths would buy her, she would show them that she could make the world buy Conundrum.
‘I think we should discuss your marketing strategy now,’ Martin Landwith said.
That was more difficult. Without having tested the water at the Fair, Harriet wasn’t quite sure what direction her marketing thrust would follow. But she brought out the research notes that showed the performance of the most nearly similar products out of the big chains, and talked about targeting W.H. Smith, Menzies, Toys ‘R’ Us and the rest.
Father and son listened attentively, but without any encouraging sign. When she finished, she saw Martin glance at his watch. Then he put his fingertips together, looked at her over the crest of them.
Harriet’s heart began to thump unpleasantly.
‘I like your game,’ Martin said. ‘It may well be a seller. But I wouldn’t want to try to predict how strong a seller, or how durable. I don’t see any convincing way of doing so and – I’m sorry – I don’t see that your due diligence succeeds either. The FMCG world is unpredictable …’
Fast moving consumer goods, Harriet translated silently. Oh, please.
‘… and we prefer our risks to be calculated. Can you demonstrate the value of your Conundrum other than theoretically?’
Harriet wondered if she should tell him about her Sundays on the top deck of the 73 bus, and the enthusiasm and friendliness she had met there. But she doubted that Martin Landwith would know where
