Chapter 12 #2
‘Do you mind if we smoke, Dayna?’ Hassan asks.
‘Not at all.’ I really couldn’t be more uncomfortable anyway. ‘Gentlemen, I know your time is precious, so let me get straight down to why I’m here.’ I somehow manage to sound confident.
‘We know you come to offer an alternative bid. What is it?’ Hamad’s words and manner are abrupt.
Hiding that I’m taken aback, I reach down to my bag to take out some papers that I haphazardly pulled together yesterday and had printed at the airport in Switzerland. As I do, a guard makes a swift move towards me, holding his gun in both hands.
I raise a palm and take the papers out slowly, feeling, frankly, terrified.
There’s a tremor to my fingers that I hope they don’t notice as I hand both men a document.
‘This is my proposal. You may already be aware that SP has unrivalled blending know-how in the market. I think I could use that expertise to generate more profit from the well than either of the other top bidders.’
‘I’m curious, Ms Cross. Why do you not use that blending expertise yourself?’ Hamad asks, blowing smoke in my face.
‘I could have, with my first bid. But I’m afraid I don’t have the capital to outbid Per— the other bidders.’
Hassan chortles. ‘It’s all right. We expect you know who they are. Our tender process is a formality, Dayna. But rules can always be circumvented.’
I nod, uncertain how much of an undertone lies beneath that statement, pointing to his page. ‘That figure there is my offer, but I’m willing to give you a 10 per cent stake in the profits of the well. Ultimately, I estimate that cumulative sum would outbid Persian Fuels and Layton Oil.’
‘You want to work with us.’
My heart starts racing in my chest. Do I really want to get into bed with men who have four armed guards for tea? I remind myself not to tar every Middle Eastern man with the same brush as Caspar Kahn. ‘That’s what I’m proposing, yes.’
* * *
After I summarised the proposal, Hassan and Hamad took no time nudging me back out to the limousine and on my way to the airport.
They didn’t give much away, but I guess we’ll see on Monday.
They have the details of my alternative bid.
I’ll formally submit it to the process on Friday and find out the final decision on Monday, when the highest ranked bidder, and therefore the new owner of the well, will be revealed.
The detour from Dubai was long, but hopefully worth making me late for the conference. I missed the day’s seminars, and now I’m flustered, having got ready in a rush to make it to the dinner on time.
As ever, I’m in a simple floor-length gown.
High neck, fitted at the waist, navy blue.
This is one of the few industry dinners where partners are invited.
If I went for pink, gold, silver or such colours, I’d become siloed as one of the wives, and I already have to fight to be considered a member of the oil community I’ve come to loathe.
When I slip into the reception, people are already heading to their seats in the dining room.
As is typical of Dubai, the hotel is lavish.
The walls are made largely of fish tanks full of brightly coloured jellyfish.
The floors are marble. Furniture trimmings are gold, and the lighting is abstract, ultra-modern.
The windows show the view across downtown Dubai, lights twinkling against the dark sky.
As I consider the space and the faces in it, one leaps out at me. The sound of Caspar’s voice stills me. My bones suddenly feel brittle and frozen like ice. I will my diaphragm to calm as I watch him throw his head back with a chortle. Nausea churns in my stomach. Hatred courses through my blood.
He’s a killer. A murderer. And people in this room are eating out of the palm of his hand.
Because they don’t dare do anything else.
Stories of his torture – physical, emotional, financial – flash through my mind.
The screams of friends and loved ones jumping from our rig the night of the explosion.
The night of his sabotage. My dad’s body hanging lifeless from a shower rail when the guilt of what he thought he had done caused him to take his own life.
Kahn killed him, and all those people on Little Princess.
I take a dry martini from a waiter and join the masses, trying to tell myself that I’m safe, the past is the past. I can’t change it; I can only change how I react to it. And I am not running scared. I’m beating Kahn to this well for everyone who fell at his sinful hand.
Unsurprisingly, I’m sitting at a table with four other directors – all male – and their wives, who have bunched together, talking about the spa facilities within the hotel.
That must be how they’ve spent the day while their husbands have played golf then shared vulgar conversation over brandy or Scotch.
The entire industry is about men congratulating one another on their latest leggy blonde or exquisite brunette conquest.
I’d feel for the women at the table, but it’s not like they don’t know their husbands are filthy pigs.
The women stay because having the security of a large home and a healthy bank account, not having to work yet having every luxury they could wish for ranks higher on their agenda than being in love and being cherished exclusively.
Sometimes, I’m pleased my mum got away from it all, but I definitely don’t approve of her method of doing so.
I’m certain she had an affair, not that she ever confessed.
Although I don’t pretend my father wasn’t married to work.
My issue with my mum isn’t only infidelity; it’s that she also couldn’t wait to disown me to start a family with her next millionaire.
As I pull out my chair to take my seat, a hand comes to rest on the small of my back. ‘We need to talk.’ Clark leans in close, his shoulder pressed to my back as he whispers into my ear.
‘I think you said enough this morning.’
‘I didn’t mean it that way and you know it. The truth is, you were having doubts about that meeting and whatever deal you were offering, and you took that out on me.’