I still remember the last day before Jodie arrived. At that point I had no idea what she would say to my offer. I hadn't even spoken to her and I was about to ask her to spend a week in my house.
I walked into my office to start the day. The statue had arrived at last. “Do you like it?” Gwyneth asked. She was officially my secretary but she handled most of the things I had no time for, like getting a new statue for the plinth in the third floor corridor, empty since one of the maids knocked off the Ming while dusting it.
I looked at the statue and at the two men holding it in place. “No one told me the arms were missing. Get rid of it.”
“Sir, it’s the Venus Di Milo.”
“I don’t care what it’s called. I want a statue with arms, damn it. Not this nonsense. What good is a statue with no arms. Do I have no arms? Would you be a decent secretary with no arms? Would they be able to carry the damn thing if they had no arms? Get rid of it and bring it back when it’s got arms.”
“Sir, we spent six months negotiating the deal to bring it here. It cost over twenty million just to start the discussion.”
“Are you arguing with me, Gwyneth?”
“Take it back,” she snapped at the men, waving them away.
“Any calls?” I asked as she pulled out the desk chair for me to sit down and get started with the day.
“Bill Gates again. He wondered about a donation. Warren Buffett rang too.”
“Let me guess, asking for stock tips? Tell him he can look after his own damn investments this time.”
“And Bill Gates? He hoped you might be able to help his malaria study with-”
“With my money. Hasn’t he got enough of his own? I don’t have malaria and I have no intention of catching it. Where’s the profit in handing him cash?”
“I believe it was to help other people.”
“I am not a philanthropist, Gwyneth. I am a businessman. I spend money on beautiful things and good investment opportunities. Gates is neither.” I pointed at the desk. “Does that say sucker for donations on it anywhere?”
“Have you forgotten about Mr Tomlinson?”
“Who?”
“Charlie Tomlinson? The oil deal?”
“And?”
“He will only sell to a commited philanthropist like himself.”
“So?” I snapped impatiently.
“So for you to buy, you need to prove to him you’re as charitable as he is.”
“I’m charitable aren’t I? I donated to your sponsored nonsense last year didn’t I?”
“Yes, Sir and I was very grateful for the whole pound you gave me.”
“There you are then. Tell Tomlinson about that and we’re done.”
“He might want you to hand over more than a pound to seem truly committed to charitable endeavors. If you recall, Sir, we had a plan.”
She opened the envelope in her hand and placed a line of slightly blurred photos on the desk. All showed a young woman I knew all too well. “Who’s this?” I made the question sound innocent, no need to give away how much I was already obsessing about her.
“Your plan, Sir.”
“My plan?”
“Yes, Sir. You wanted someone here while Mr Tomlinson is investigating you. Make it look like you’re a…”
“You can say it. Make it look like I’m a decent reasonable human being rather than the cold hearted bastard I really am.”
She ignored my comment. “We have tracked her down-”
I interrupted her. “I told you to bring her here, not track her down.”
“I talked to Richard and he had a few concerns. He was of the opinion it might be a tiny bit illegal to drag a woman here against her will.”
“He’s a lawyer. He’s bound to balk at anything that’s even slightly illegal.”
“Nonetheless, Sir. It was generally felt that it might be better to get her consent given that we want Mr Tomlinson to get only the best impression of you.”
“I see. How much am I paying her again?”
“You agreed a million was a suitable amount to ensure her silence.”
“A million for her to act like I’m her personal benefactor. A million just to make me look good. Is it worth it?” I didn’t want Gwyneth to know I had my own reasons for wanting her in the house. Better to focus on the money.
“You stand to make over three hundred million in overnight profit if this deal goes ahead, Sir. In the circumstances we thought-”
“Who is she anyway? Did you get her name?”
“Jodie Harris. Intelligent, educated, poor, in dire need of financial help from a wealthy noble benefactor.”
“Where is she now?”
“In prison, Sir.”
“Then you better go get her out I don’t want to hear about this again.” My phone rang and I grabbed it. “What? Oh, it’s you Gates. Now you listen to me, you tell me how curing malaria makes me money and I’ll give you…Oh, it’s like that is it…I see…Why didn’t you say so? Get me two million shares in it and you’ve got a deal. I’ll get Gwyneth to wire it across this morning. And while you’re on the phone, when are you going to sort my computer out? I don’t care if you’re not in charge anymore, you’re still Mr Windows to me so tell me why when I delete a line in Word the whole document always changes to Times New Roman. You want the money, you get this fixed. Do we have a deal? Five seconds before I hang up. Pleasure doing business with you.”
I hung up the phone before nodding to Gwyneth. “Now that’s how tech support should work. What’s next?”
I spent the rest of the morning working through the file she brought me. How to come across as a philanthropic selfless heroic figure.
If I was going to look like a decent human being for Tomlinson, it was going to take work. I couldn’t fool him like I could fool everyone else. We’d been friends a long time ago, back when I had friends, before they started slowing me down. It had been years since I’d last seen him but if anyone would see through the act it was him.
The file was supposed to help. It contained hints on all the body language I needed to appear reasonable. I needed to smile, open arms, warm gestures. I could learn that.
Jodie would turn up. The money would get her here. By the time Tomlinson arrived, she’d be settled in and doting on me. Then he’d think I was charitable and nice blah blah blah. He’d sell me the land, me pretending all the way that I was going to protect it from development.
Once the paperwork was signed I’d get all the black gold out of the place and my bank account would look considerably healthier. By my estimates, I stood to make a lot more than three hundred million. That was just in land value alone. The oil underneath was worth closer to two billion and he was willing to just hand it over and trust that I would leave it alone.
In the scheme of things, paying the woman one million to make me look good was peanuts. I was about to double my wealth in one deal. Two billion. I could add another wing to the house. If things went the way I planned, I’d get the bonus of seeing what the innocent little museum guide looked like naked and begging for my cock.
At about twelve Gwyneth was off dealing with the garage, the new Lambourghini being the wrong shade of white again. I picked up the photos of the woman I'd told her to hire. Jodie Harris. Aged twenty. Lived alone. Parents long dead. She looked like she needed the money.
I looked at the body language sheet again. Be friendly to her. Don’t shout and scream. I could do that. Maybe. It didn't say anything about tearing her clothes off.
She looked so fuckable. Every now and then, when I had a rare free hour, I’d call in and look at her. My excuse was I was going to see the Flambert painting.
I had two of his already in the east wing but the one in the museum was something else. Only his second painting, completed in 1820, a simple scene of a shoreline and a boat coming into harbour. It had a quiet beauty that became more appealing the longer you looked at it. She was like that. The longer I looked at her the more beautiful she became.
She was often in the same room, sitting on the chair in the corner, half asleep, daydreaming. No doubt bored out of her mind.
Jodie. I had put a name to the face at last. Lucky for me, she hadn’t noticed me staring at her, trying to picture her body under those clothes.
The evening before she arrived I sat in my private cinema, watching It’s a Wonderful Life again. It was my secret pleasure. In the real world, sentimentality got you a one way ticket to Skid Row. With the door closed I could indulge in a secret world, one where I didn’t have to be a cold hearted bastard anymore. It was like being a child again.
The cinema had been condemned and about to be demolished when I bought it. I couldn’t let the movie theater of my childhood vanish into a pile of rubble. I’d brought it home brick by brick and had it rebuilt in the garden. Fifty seats and all for me.
I thought about Jodie as the film came to an end. To Tomlinson I needed to appear like George Bailey, a noble man doing things for other people. How good was I? Taking an impoverished woman into my home, mentoring her, nurturing her, pulling her out of poverty. I was better than George Bailey.
The deal would go through. She’d go home with her million and a nondisclosure contract so no one knew what I’d done to her and I’d double my wealth almost overnight. Simple. Or so I thought.