Chapter Eight
‘Not too early I hope!’ A booming voice and figure filled my office.
‘Hello, Brian,’ I said, shaking his hand. It felt strangely small compared to the usual male handshakes I was used to – the bone-crushers, the power-shake double-hand. With him it was like shaking the hand of a small child. Strangely disproportionate, the voluminous body and the petite hand. ‘Not at all.’ He wasfive minutes early. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
His face was rather fleshy, bulbous really. And he was permanently flushed. He sat down and leant back on the chair, his striped shirt slightly staining over his well-fed paunch. His tiny, beady eyes were following me intently. But he began with pleasantries. ‘Do you golf, Ms Thomas?’
‘Golf?’ I almost laughed.
‘I thought all you ladies golfed thesedays.’
Over the months, I’d learned that all conversations with Brian were a bit surreal. Nothing was simple with him and had realised, for sanity saving purposes, that the only thing to do was run with it. ‘Oh no. I don’tsportactually. I walk the pier, but I suspect that does not qualify as activity. And what about you Brian, do yougolf?’
‘Rugby’s my game,’ he said. ‘Played for my school,was quite the effective front half, if I may say so myself. Scored a few tries that made the old man proud. Was on the school’s team, you know. The ’81 team. We won the schools cup that year.’ He shrugged modestly. ‘That’s the downside of having a daughter. Petula shows no interest in rugby, despite my best efforts. She’s more interested in horses. Obsessed with them she is. Can’t see the appealmyself. No, I stick to Rugby. A rather vocal spectator. Got myself a nice little ten-year ticket. Don’t miss a game. Home or away.’
‘Yes, the locations of the away matches would almost make me go,’ I said. ‘Rome. Paris… Cardiff…’
‘Does your husband follow the rugby?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never seen him at any of the corporate events. Most of the local politicians are there, but maybe soccer’s hisgame?’
‘Michael’s sport is scrabble,’ I said. ‘He was pretty good at it. Captained the school scrabble team and I think they even made it to the Leinster finals.’
Brian looked puzzled. ‘Scrabble?As in the word game?’
‘Or was it Rummikub? I never can remember. Now, to business. Shall we get down to it?’
He smiled at me, showing his teeth, again, tiny little things, making him look like a crocodileeyeing a pelican. ‘Now I really believe that what we are hoping to achieve with the land is something quite remarkable.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, it’s a mutually beneficial transaction. I liked what Sister… Sister… Whatshername… Kevin?’
‘Kennedy.’
‘I liked what SisterKennedycalled it. A Good Samaritan. As I said on the phone, I have found one. Him. A corporate Good Samaritan…’
‘Is that notoxymoronic?’ I said, smiling.
‘There is nothing moronic about this plan, nothing at all,’ he said, defensively. ‘Are you…?’ He eyed me carefully. ‘Are you familiar with the corporate world, Ms Thomas?’
‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘I’m mean I’m aware itexists.’
‘Well,’ he smiled indulgently at me, ‘it’s about deals. The art of the deal, heard of that?’
I nodded. ‘Vaguely.’
‘So, he gives theschool – us – the money and we give him a tiny little piece of land. It’s worthless really. Hard to develop. He may or may not be able to build on it. But the point is, he wants to give back.’
‘Well, you don’t just give money for nothing. Take the opera for example. Say I’m a bank. Do I just give money to some piddling little opera company and get nothing back? Or do I give some cash to the aforementionedpiddling operatics in exchange for something?’
‘Ummm….’
‘Exactly! I get something back. Tickets, nice seats for Beethoven or what have you. Or the bank’s name on the programme. There’s always something in return. And it’s nice to have a box at the opera or your name saying how generous you are. It creates good feeling. Are you with me?’
‘I think so.’
‘What if you are a charity… do I just giveyou money no questions asked because I am a good and kind and nice bank?’
‘You might…’
