The Lubetkin Legacy

Violet: La Maison Suger

At seven o’clock Marc is waiting for her in the vast glass-and-steel atrium of the GRM building. She is wearing her dove-grey outfit and high-heeled shoes. Her trainers are in a carrier bag under her desk. As the lift doors open she sees him standing there and her heart thumps; even though she’s been working with Marc for two whole days, it still comes as a shock to realise just how attractive he is. He smiles when he sees her and strolls across the marble floor as elegantly as a cheetah, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a laptop bag.

‘I booked a quiet table for us at La Maison Suger. I hope you like traditional French cuisine.’

She nods. Her stomach is performing strange side-flips. She isn’t sure she will be able to eat anything at all.

The Maison Suger is all candlelight and white linen, behind a discreet façade. The waiter leads them through to a quiet side-room where they are the only diners and hands them glasses of champagne. Jazz is playing softly in the background.

Marc clinks his glass against hers. ‘To your new job, Violet! To our work together!’

Although her French was quite good at school, the menu printed on stiff cream paper is incomprehensible, with ingredients she has never heard of, or familiar tastes in new combinations. Suprême de poule faisane à la citronnelle, condiment tamarin, raviolis de foie gras, langoustines rôties au beurre d’agrumes, saveurs marron-clémentine. The words swim before her eyes with promises of delight. He interprets for her. His English is perfect, but with a French accent that purrs cosmopolitan sophistication. It’s funny, she hadn’t noticed his accent so much in the context of GRM, but here it seems more pronounced. He tells her his father was an art dealer in Paris, his mother was an English art historian; she tells him about her family in Bakewell, who seem embarrassingly ordinary by comparison.

The waiter hands him the wine list, which he reads with a frown of concentration. The wine he chooses is subtle and mellow. It leeches into every fibre in her body, filling her with sweet lassitude. The food is beyond delicious, flooding all her senses. Everything is as perfect as she could have imagined. So what little nagging demon possesses her to return to the topic of re-invoicing?

‘I’ve been wondering about those shell companies, Marc. I can’t understand the point.’

She has an inkling by now, but she hopes she’s wrong and maybe he’ll have an innocent explanation.

‘It’s just the way global business works. It oils the wheels.’ He takes a slow sip of wine and leans back in his chair.

She leans forward, her heart thudding. ‘But doesn’t it oil corruption? It seems like HN Holdings are siphoning billions of dollars out of one of the poorest countries in the world. They’re stealing from the wretched of the earth. I’ve seen —’

She stops. She can hear her voice getting shrill. She wants to tell him about the Kibera slum, but it is a memory that predates words, a memory embedded in the sights and smells of childhood: the mud streets with their ramshackle tin huts, garbage rotting in the gutter, the ragged children with no school to go to, kicking a ball aimlessly in the dust.

‘The way for these developing countries to stop corruption is to tighten up their own law enforcement, Violet.’ He looks bored, as if he’s rehearsed this argument many times. ‘They have to get their own house in order. It’s too easy just to blame the West all the time.’

‘But shouldn’t we be helping them to stop it, instead of helping the bad guys?’

He sighs exaggeratedly. ‘What our clients do with their money is their own business. We don’t preach. We don’t ask questions. We just smooth the progress of their investment goals.’ He reaches a hand across the table and lays it on hers. ‘It’s our business. It’s what we do. This is a good break for you at GRM. Don’t be naive, Violet.’

‘Maybe I am naive. If so, I’d rather be naive than a crook.’

As soon as she blurts it out, she knows it’s the wrong thing to say, but the wine has loosened her tongue. It isn’t even as if Global Resource Management takes the lion’s share of the 10,000 buckets at $49 each — it’s Mr Horace Nzangu, whoever he is. His British Virgin Isles-based shell company is simply set up and managed by GRM, who deduct their 2 % commission. The buckets which Mr Nzangu resells to the Health Department in Nairobi come from a factory in China, at a cost of $1 each. Probably their actual makers received less than 1p a bucket.

‘Don’t get so emotional, chérie. It’s not personal, it’s just business. This is the system we work within. Look at it this way — wealth-makers need incentives. If they aren’t allowed to keep the wealth they generate, we’ll all be poorer in the end.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘Is it because of your family?’

‘It’s not my family. It’s not even the corruption in Kenya — everybody knows about that. But I didn’t realise that we over here … that you …! You’ve just helped someone to steal four million pounds from the poorest of the poor and taken your commission. And you seem to think it’s okay! Just business!’

‘It’s not my job to solve the world’s problems, Violet. Believe me, corruption in Kenya doesn’t depend on companies like GRM.’ He leans forward and forks a mouthful of meat. She watches his teeth chomping up and down as he chews.

‘You mean they’re corrupt but we’re so-o-o civilised?’ She takes another gulp of wine and waves her hands in the air.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Violet! You’re making yourself look ridiculous. Drop the preaching and welcome to the real world!’

There’s something about the glint of the candlelight that hardens his features instead of softening them, a mean and hungry flash in his eyes, a cruel downward slant at the corners of his mouth she hadn’t noticed before. Sensitive chin-dimple men are not supposed to behave like this. For the first time, she wonders how old he is. He must be almost forty — way too old for her. What was she thinking of, accepting this date?

‘I don’t think God’s on your side this time.’ The wine has emboldened her. Fight the good fight! is ringing in her brain. ‘Didn’t anyone tell you, the meek will inherit the earth?’ She stands up, ready to leave.

‘Fine. Good luck to them. I’m all for it. In the meantime, let’s enjoy what life brings.’

He gets up from his seat abruptly, pushing his chair over. Then he strides round to her side of the table and pulls her into his arms, holding her close to him. She can feel the beating of his heart, and her own, beating harder and faster, against his.

‘Violet, lovely Violet, I’ve been thinking about you, wanting you, ever since your interview.’ His voice rumbles darkly, urgently in her ear. ‘We could be so great together. Don’t spoil it.’

Nick, with his floppy-puppy fumbles, never spoke in that voice. Now is the time to surrender, to let the shrillness melt away. As she wavers, he grips her tight and presses a kiss on her mouth. His lips are hard with an edge of sharp bristle. Something explodes in her head. She pushes him away, and as she does so catches a glass of red wine with her elbow. The red liquid flowers on his suit like blood from a gunshot.

She kicks off her high heels, shoves them in her bag, and runs out barefoot into the night.