Cat O'Nine Tales and Other Stories - Jeffrey Archer [61]
“That may well be the case,” said Henry, “but you still only paid yourself forty-two thousand last year,” he continued, “which is less than one percent of your turnover.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said Angela, “but I enjoy the work, and it keeps me occupied.”
“But don’t you consider you deserve a better return for your efforts?”
“Possibly, but I only charge my clients five percent of the profits, and every time I suggest putting my fee up, they always remind me that they are a charity”
“But you’re not,” said Henry. “You’re a professional, and should be recompensed accordingly”
“I know you’re right,” said Angela as they stopped outside the Nat West bank and she dropped the cash into the night safe, “but most of my clients have been with me for years.”
“And have taken advantage of you for years,” insisted Henry.
“That may well be so,” said Angela, “but what can I do about it?”
The thought returned to Henry’s mind, but he said nothing other than, “Thank you for a most interesting evening, Ms. Forster. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.” Henry thrust out his right hand, as he always did at the end of every meeting, and had to stop himself saying, “See you next year.”
Angela laughed, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. Henry certainly couldn’t remember when that had last occurred. “Goodnight, Henry,” she said as she turned and began to walk away.
“I don’t suppose ...” he hesitated.
“Yes, Henry?” she said, turning back to face him.
“That you’d consider having dinner with me some time?”
“I’d like that very much,” said Angela. “When would suit you?”
“Tomorrow,” said Henry, suddenly emboldened.
Angela removed a diary from her handbag and began to flick through the pages. “I know I can’t do tomorrow,” she said. “I have a feeling it’s Greenpeace.”
“Monday?” said Henry, not having to check his diary.
“Sorry, it’s the Blue Cross Ball,” said Angela, turning another page of her diary.
“Tuesday?” said Henry trying not to sound desperate.
“Amnesty International,” said Angela, flicking over another page.
“Wednesday,” said Henry, wondering if she had changed her mind.
“Looks good,” said Angela, staring at a blank page. “Where would you like to meet?”
“How about La Bacha?” said Henry, remembering that it was the restaurant where the partners always took their most important clients to lunch. “Eight o’clock suit you?”
“Suits me fine.”
Henry arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes early and read the menu from cover to cover—several times. During his lunch break, he’d purchased a new shirt and a silk tie. He was already regretting that he hadn’t tried on the blazer that was displayed in the window.
Angela strolled into La Bacha just after eight. She was wearing a pale green floral dress that fell just below the knee. Henry liked the way she’d done her hair, but knew that he wouldn’t have the courage to tell her. He also approved of the fact that she wore so little make-up and her only jewelry was a modest string of pearls. Henry rose from his place as she reached the table. Angela couldn’t remember the last person who’d bothered to do that.
Henry had feared that they wouldn’t be able to find anything to talk about—small talk had never been his forte—but Angela made it all so easy that he found himself ordering a second bottle of wine, long before the meal was over—another first.
Over coffee, Henry said, “I think I’ve come up with a way of supplementing your income.”
“Oh, don’t let’s talk business,” said Angela, touching his hand.
“It’s not business,” Henry assured her.
When Angela woke the following morning, she smiled as she remembered what a pleasant evening she’d spent with Henry. All she could recall him saying as they parted was, “Don’t forget that any winnings made from gambling are tax-free.” What was all that about?
Henry, on the other hand, could recall every detail of the advice he’d given Angela. He rose early on the following Sunday and began preparing an outline plan, which included opening several bank accounts, preparing spreadsheets and working