Silver Bay(11)
Author: Jojo Moyes

‘All while staying in a resort that will be a byword for service and luxury,’ Dennis put in. ‘Mike, bring up the architect’s pictures. As you can see, there are three levels of accommodation, to suit both the affluent singles and families, with a special penthouse for VIPs. You’ll notice we have avoided the budget option. We’ve already had interest from—’

‘I heard you lost the site for this.’ The voice had come from the back.

The room fell quiet. Oh, Christ, I thought.

‘Tina, bring up the lights.’ It was Dennis’s voice, and I wondered if he was about to answer, but he was looking at me.

I made my expression bland. I’m good at that. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, Neville. Did you have a question?’

‘I heard this was planned for South Africa and that you lost your site. There’s nothing on this document about where it’s going to be now. You can hardly expect us to consider investing in a holiday resort that has yet to find a site.’

The flicker in Dennis’s jaw betrayed his own surprise. How the hell had they found out about South Africa?

My voice cut through the air even before I knew what I was saying: ‘I’m not quite sure where your information has come from, but South Africa was only ever an option for us. Having examined our potential location there in some detail, we decided that it couldn’t provide our clients with the kind of holiday we had in mind. We’re looking at a very specialised market and we—’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why was South Africa unsuitable? My understanding is that it’s one of the fastest-growing holiday destinations in the world.’

My Turnbull and Asser shirt was sticking to the small of my back. I hesitated, wondering if Neville had any knowledge of the failure of our previous financing deal.

‘Politics,’ interjected Dennis.

‘Politics?’

‘It would have been an hour-and-a-half transfer from the airport to the resort. And whatever route we took would have brought us through some of the . . . shall we say less . . . affluent areas? Our research tells us that when they have paid a premium for a luxury holiday, clients don’t want to be confronted by abject poverty. It makes them . . .’ Please don’t smile sympathetically at their secretary, I pleaded silently. Too late. Dennis’s empathetic beam was as treacly as it was misjudged. ‘. . . uncomfortable. And that is the last emotion we want clients to feel at this resort. Joyous, yes. Excited, yes. Satisfied, of course. Guilty, or uncomfortable, at the plight of their . . . coloured cousins, no.’

I closed my eyes. I felt, rather than saw, the black secretary do the same.

‘No, Neville, politics and luxury holidays just do not mix.’ Dennis shook his head, sagely, as if delivering some oracle. ‘And that is the kind of detailed research on which we at Beaker Holdings pride ourselves before we embark on a major project.’

‘So you have an alternative site in mind?’

‘Not just in mind but signed and sealed,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit of a departure, but it avoids all the potential minefields of South Africa, and other parts of the third world. It’s full of English-speakers, it has a superb climate and it is, I can truly say, one of the most beautiful spots I have ever seen. And in this line of work, Neville, you know as well as I do that there are some very beautiful destinations indeed.’

RJW Land had stolen the site from under our noses. Someone there must have tipped off Vallance. My mind raced: if RJW was attempting a similar development, would their people also have approached Vallance for funding? Were they attempting to sabotage our deal?

‘I can’t go into more detail,’ I said smoothly. ‘But I can tell you – in confidence – that there were other things we discovered about the South African site that suggested much lower future revenues. And, as you know, we’re all about maximising profit here.’

In truth, I knew almost nothing about the new site. Out of desperation we had used a land agent, some old mate of Dennis’s, and the deal had been closed only two days previously. I hated the sensation of flying blind.

‘Tim,’ I smiled, ‘you know I’m a boring sod when it comes to research, that there’s nothing I like better for my bedtime reading than a pile of analysis. Believe me, if I’d thought the South African site was going to work better in the long run, I wouldn’t have been so glad to let it go. But I like to go a layer deeper –’

‘Your bedtime reading is all very interesting, Mike, but it would be useful if—’

‘– and it’s really all about the margins. That’s the bottom line.’

‘No one cares about the margins more than us, but—’

Dennis held up a pudgy hand. ‘Tim. No. Not a word – because there’s something else I’d like to show you before we go any further. In fact, gentlemen, if you’d like to follow me through to the next room, we have a bit of fun lined up before we tell you exactly where it is.’

Venture capitalists, I mused, as we followed them, didn’t look as though fun was a high priority on their agenda. Some were positively disgruntled at having been uprooted from their comfort zone of boardroom table and leather-backed chair, muttering uneasily to each other. Then again, having come in half an hour late, I wasn’t sure what Dennis had in mind. Please don’t let him have asked Tina to dress up in a bikini, I prayed. I was still haunted by memories of the Hawaiian Hula Proposal.

But what Dennis had planned was quite different. Boardroom Two had been emptied of its table, chairs and pull-down screen. There was no two-way video link, or a tea trolley in the corner. What sat, huge, squat and foreboding, in the centre of the floor was a large piece of machinery, surrounded by inflatable blue tubing, its centrepiece a florid yellow surfboard.

We were all stunned into immobility by the sheer unlikeliness of the thing.

‘Gentlemen. Remove your shoes, and prepare to hang ten!’ Dennis held out an arm towards the machine. ‘It’s a simulator,’ he announced, when nobody said anything. ‘You can all have a go.’

The room was silent, bar the low hum of the surf simulator. It sat, an alien creature in this sea of grey, its flashing buttons gamely advertising that, should they want it, their surf experience could be accompanied by a Beach Boys tune.

I registered their expressions, and decided that the best way to rescue the situation was to divert them. ‘Perhaps the ladies and gentlemen would like a bite to eat first? A drink, perhaps? Tina, would you mind?’