The Women in His Life Read online

  ‘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 was. And he did. He had made it come true, perhaps beyond even his own wildest dreams.

  Maximilian West was a man with the world in his arms.

  Consequently he was envied by most men. Alan did not envy him. He was filled only with admiration for Maxim. He knew what a hard and difficult road he had travelled, the enormous leaps he had made, the chances he had taken. His was an extraordinary success story, an epic story, really, quite fantastical. He was a great magnate, his name was one to be truly reckoned with on the international business scene, and in the last fifteen years he had gone from millionaire to multi-millionaire to billionaire.

  And only a couple of weeks ago, on the last day of December, the Queen’s New Year Honours List had been announced. Among those titles and honours put forward by the Prime Minister for the Queen’s approval was a knighthood for Maxim. It was for his enormous contributions to British industry at home and abroad, and he was now Sir Maximilian West, and could be thus addressed, even though his investiture at Buckingham Palace was not for three more months to come, in March.

  Cock of the bloody walk indeed, Alan thought. And smiled. It was a deep smile, one of genuine pride and the greatest satisfaction. He revelled in Maxim’s successes and triumphs, was always there on the sidelines, applauding. Maxim had been his hero at school. In a way, he still was. Alan supposed he always would be.

  He glanced at Maxim again, and admiringly so. How wonderful his dear old friend looked. No, he doesn’t, Trenton suddenly thought, startling himself, sitting up with a little jolt. He peered harder at Maxim. The dazzling facade was intact, but now, instinctively, he knew there was something terribly wrong. It was not possible to be close to a man for nigh on forty-seven years and not know him inside out. There was a shadow at the back of Maxim’s eyes that he had not seen there for years; he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it when Maxim first arrived. Perhaps because he’d been too busy congratulating him on his knighthood. Maxim’s got trouble, serious trouble, Stubby decided. Is it the women? I hope to God not, he’s had enough trouble with women to last him a lifetime. Well, whatever’s wrong, and there is something, I’ll offer to help. That’s what a best friend is for.

  Now Alan looked quickly at the watch on his wrist, the gold Patek Philippe which Maxim had given him last year for his fifty-fourth birthday. He saw that it was exactly nine-fifteen. Earlier, on the phone, Maxim had said he would have to leave by nine-twenty. Alan knew that in one second, certainly not much longer, Maxim would stand up, make his goodbyes and be gone. He was precise in many ways, and punctuality was one of his str
ongest suits.

  Anticipating Maxim’s imminent departure, Alan rose, went over to join him and Vale, as Maxim was saying to John Vale, ‘The figures you’ve given me are interesting. However, I’m still uncertain whether or not I want to jump into the fray, make a counter offer for Lister. I really will have to give the matter some thought.’

  Vale swallowed hard, striving to hide his deep disappointment that this meeting had not been more conclusive. ‘Yes, of course, I understand perfectly, and I’m sure you understand that speed is of the essence. Lister are wide open right at this moment, exposed in so many ways. They’re a sitting target for other corporate raiders. That’s what worries us the most, that someone else, another company, might enter the bidding and go after Lister.’ Vale exhaled heavily. ‘You know what that could mean.’

  ‘Only too well. A bidding war.’ Maxim stood. ‘If you drop the documents off at my house tonight, as you suggested, I’ll study them later.’

  Vale also rose, nodded. ‘Yes, I will. And thank you very much for your courtesy and for listening.’ He extended his hand, added, ‘I’m most appreciative, Sir Maximilian.’

  Maxim took Vale’s hand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I really must leave.’ He glanced conspiratorially at Alan, winked, said as an afterthought, ‘I have a dinner engagement and I would hate to keep the lady waiting.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to the lift, Duke,’ Alan said, taking hold of Maxim’s arm in a proprietary fashion, ushering him out. He wanted to get Maxim alone, to ask him what was the matter, what he could do to help.

  ***

  When Alan Trenton returned to his office a few seconds later, John Vale peered at him myopically. Anxiety underlined his voice, as he asked with some urgency, ‘Well, what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing. At least not about Lister Newspapers and his intentions. He wouldn’t, you know, not even to me. He’s very secretive about his business, always has been. I can tell you for a fact that he shreds every document that passes through his hands. Afraid of leaks, I suppose.’

  ‘Nobody knows him better than you, Alan. What is your assessment? What do you think our chances are?’

  Trenton pursed his lips, pondered briefly. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ He sat down heavily and looked off into the distance, a reflective expression invading his face.

  John Vale followed suit, sat across from Alan Trenton, waiting patiently.

  At length Trenton said, ‘If it feels right to him, he’ll go with it.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly?’

  ‘That’s what Maxim has always said to me… that a deal’s got to feel right. He goes on instinct. Gut instinct. He ignores analysts, reports, valuations, advisers. Gut instinct, that’s what guides him.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Vale sounded doubtful.

  ‘Oh yes, I do! More importantly, Maxim believes it. But what he really means, of course, is that he relies on his experience, his expertise, his great knowledge. Plus his instinctive feel for the particular deal, the particular situation.’

  Trenton picked up his silver tankard, swigged the last of his champagne, looked as if he was mulling something over.

  ‘You asked me what my assessment is, John,’ he went on at last, ‘and it’s this. If Maximilian West feels right about making an offer for Lister Newspapers he will do so. And if he feels wrong, or if he has no feeling about it whatsoever, then he’ll pass. That’s the way he is. Very cut and dried. Precise. It’s his nature. Certainly he won’t keep you dangling. You’ll get a decision, and an answer, very quickly.’

  ‘That’s good to know at least. And by the by, Alan, whatever the outcome is, I’m indebted to you. I don’t know how to thank you for arranging this meeting.’

  ‘Very easily, old boy. Take me to dinner as you promised. Now. I’m starving.’

  John laughed. ‘That makes two of us. I booked a table at Mark’s Club. Let’s stroll over there, and after we’ve dined I’ll leave the papers at Maxim’s house in Chesterfield Hill. He said you’d give me the exact address.’

  ‘Of course.’ Alan pushed himself up. ‘I’ll clear my desk, then we can be off.’

  Vale followed him across the room, hovered about.

  At one moment, he remarked, ‘I hadn’t expected him to be such a handsome man. I’ve seen photographs of him in newspapers and magazines and none of them do him justice.’

  ‘No, they don’t. But then a lot of Duke’s appeal lies in his personal charisma. I don’t suppose you can take a photograph of that.’

  ‘Why do you call him Duke?’ Vale asked curiously.

  ‘After Archduke Maximilian of Austria who became Emperor of Mexico in 1864,’ Alan explained. ‘Maxim was being a bit imperious with me one day at prep school, and I dubbed him that. He thought it was hilarious… anyway, the name stuck.’

  ‘I see. Is it true what they say about him?’

  ‘They say a lot of things… what in particular are you referring to?’

  ‘That Maximilian West cares about only four things. The Prime Minister. The United States. Making money. And screwing.’

  Alan glanced up, started to laugh. Recovering himself after a brief moment, he said, ‘I know he holds Mrs Thatcher in the highest regard, is a great admirer of her policies, especially when it comes to business. And let’s face it, old chap, he’s flourishing under her regime. She’s just had him knighted. Most certainly he loves the United States, he’s been straddling the Atlantic for a decade or so. He spends as much time there as he does here, you know.’

  A mischievous gleam entered Alan’s eyes. ‘And for as long as I can remember, Maxim’s been very intense about making money, and making love to the ladies. Oh yes, he’s a bit of a lady-killer, our Maxim is. As for the ladies, they, of course, find him quite devastating. Drop like ninepins at his feet.’

  ‘All those wives, all those mistresses,’ Vale murmured, a hint of awe echoing. ‘How on earth has he managed to juggle them, and apparently with such adroitness?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Haven’t you ever asked him?’

  ‘Good Lord, of course I haven’t! I’ve never had the nerve,’ Alan lied. He had no wish to discuss Maxim’s unorthodox personal life any further with John Vale. He had said enough as it was. Certain things must always remain private. There had been a great deal of gossip about Maxim over the years and he was hardly going to add to it. That would be the worst kind of betrayal.

  I know far too much, Alan thought, dropping his eyes, locking the top drawer of his desk. All those confidences Maxim has shared over the years. And continues to share. But his secrets are safe with me. And he knows that, knows I will take them with me to the grave.

  TWO

  For the second time that evening Maximilian West found himself shaking off a feeling of heaviness as he traversed Berkeley Square, heading back in the direction he had walked earlier.

  Directly opposite Alan Trenton’s office building, on the other side of the plane trees in the park in the middle of the square, was number forty-four. This was his destination. Here, in the basement of the beautiful old house, was one of the most exclusive nightclubs in Europe—the famous Annabel’s.

  Founded in the summer of 1963 by Mark Birley, and named after his wife Lady Annabel, from whom he was now divorced, it was the chicest of watering holes for the rich and famous, where the international jet set rubbed shoulders with movie stars and magnates and members of the British royal family. For the past twenty-six years it had remained very much the in spot, yet it had now gone beyond being merely fashionable. It had become legendary. And it was Maxim’s favourite place to dine in London.

  Within minutes of leaving Alan’s office, Maxim was nodding to the uniformed doorman who hovered outside, ducking under the green awning and hurrying down the flight of steps into the club.

  A bevy of familiar, smiling faces greeted him as he entered, and after shedding his trenchcoat he went over to the reception desk where Ted was waiting to welcome guests, as he was most
nights of the week.

  Maxim accepted Ted’s quietly-spoken congratulations, exchanged pleasantries with him, signed the book, sauntered through into the bar-sitting room. Glancing quickly about, he saw that it was still relatively empty, and he took a small table in the corner, to one side of the brightly-burning log fire.

  A waiter was instantly by his side, and he ordered vodka straight with ice and a chunk of lime, then settled into the squashy sofa, enjoying the comfort and warmth and the sense of ease that always came to him here.

  He had been a member since the club had first opened its doors, and he liked the atmosphere, the intimacy that sprang from the blazing fire, the soft lights and deep sofas, the cheerful feeling created by the masses of fresh flowers in antique containers, the dark-red Oriental rugs and the pumpkin-coloured walls covered with a diversity of paintings. Wonderful dog portraits, cartoons by Landseer, Munnings and Bateman, oils of elegant women, some nude, some clothed, hung cheek by jowl, and at first glance seemed to have been put together with some sort of careless abandon. Yet there was nothing haphazard about their placement, if one looked a second time and a bit more carefully. They never ceased to delight his eye, to amuse him, and they were a source of constant pleasure, frequently brought a quick smile to his face.

  To Maxim, Annabel’s was more like an extension of Mark Birley’s own house than a restaurant and nightclub, and perhaps this was the key to its enormous success. The bar area had the feeling of a country drawing room in a manor house, could never be mistaken for anything but an English drawing room at that, what with its mixtures of chintzes and paintings and flowers, its mellowness and charm. Quite aside from the inimitable and inviting ambience, there were the gracious staff to be thankful for, the excellent service they gave, and finally the type of unpretentious food Maxim preferred to eat. For the most part, English cooking at its best with a few continental dishes thrown in.