Chapter 22
CLARK
‘Thank you, sir, have a safe flight.’
I thank the flight attendant and make my way down the tunnel to board my plane to Brazil, feeling like I haven’t slept for almost a week. I haven’t.
I put my small leather case in the overhead compartment, sink back into my seat and stretch out my legs.
‘A drink, sir? Champagne or orange juice?’
After what I’ve put my body through the last two days, I can’t accept champagne. ‘Nothing, thank you.’
I check my watch for the third time in ten minutes: 08.56. Four minutes.
I can’t sit here. I can’t bear not knowing whether she submitted another bid. If she bid with Hassan, he’ll take it, I know it. It’s a sensible deal for him, and no matter how much Caspar upped his offer, she’d win. Dayna would get her Persian well. At what cost?
Fuck.
If she wins, she’s in trouble, serious trouble.
I know men like Hassan; I’ve seen it. This weekend, I realised I was raised by one of them.
If she wins the well and starts to make it work, they’ll steal her knowledge, or worse, they’ll worm their way into SP.
They’ll find a way to take what she’s built.
If she has the winning bid and doesn’t turn a profit…
they’ll make her pay. They won’t accept a loss.
If she wins, Caspar will come after her, and he won’t stop until she’s gone. I can’t stand knowing the part my father played in the demise of SP, but on some warped level, he had motive. Caspar, he’s just dirty. He doesn’t like people on his turf, and he’s already threatened Dayna.
If she wins the well, she loses. She loses everything. Maybe, one day, her life.
I cover my mouth and swallow the bile that rises in my throat.
Standing, I grip the edge of my seat and check my watch again. Two minutes.
‘Sir, you need to sit down.’ The same flight attendant who offered me champagne is by my side. ‘We’re taxiing, sir, and the seat belt sign is on.’
I rub my face roughly with both hands. ‘I’m sitting.’
I take my seat and bend forwards over my knees.
‘Sir, you need to put your seat belt on.’
I bore holes in the stewardess then glance at my watch again. One minute.
The captain’s voice comes over the speakers, spouting some babble about the flight times, the cruising altitude, telling all passengers to listen to the safety video.
‘Sir, your belt.’
‘I’m doing it, for Christ’s sake.’
I sit back in my seat and fasten my belt.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, you must turn off all electronic devices or switch them to aeroplane mode.’
I take out my phone. Nine. Come on. Come the fuck on.
We pick up speed on the runway. An email lands in my inbox. My heart pounds in my chest as I open the message.
Bidder 1 – Persian Fuels
Bidder 2 – Withdrawn
Bidder 3 – Withdrawn
I’m thrust back into my seat as the plane lifts off the tarmac. I switch off my phone and rest my head back, watching London grow smaller through my window.
She didn’t bid.
She’s safe.
I close my eyes and finally start to drift to the place I’ve been unable to get for too long.
* * *
I found out on the drive from the airport to Layton Oil Brasilia that Caspar increased his bid by millions. He overpaid significantly because he didn’t believe Dayna would withdraw her bid. He won the well, but he’ll never make a profit.
‘I hope winning is enough,’ I whisper to myself as I sit in the boardroom, the directors of my Brazilian operations around the table with me.
‘Clark, did you have something to say?’
I shake my head at Pablo, who’s standing by a whiteboard, discussing figures for our nascent offering in South America. ‘Thinking aloud, Pablo. Please continue.’
Why didn’t she bid? Did I get through to her? She wanted the well so much, but she pulled out. It doesn’t matter why she did it, she’ll be bruised, wounded.
Caspar will inevitably turn a loss, but he won’t bleed the way she wanted him to bleed.
Is this revenge enough?
Will she come after my father?
If Caspar makes a loss, will he seek his own vengeance?
As Pablo continues to discuss the prospects for Layton Oil Brasilia, it occurs to me: I just don’t give a shit any more. I want nothing to do with it. Not Layton Oil. Not my father.
They took from me the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.
I hate him.
I hate his company.
Pablo finishes up and, after saying my thanks to the directors for the work they’re doing out here, I make a swift exit.
I swing by my hotel to change into jeans and a T-shirt then head out to a bar. For the first time in days, I think I could stomach food. I order Portuguese marinated steak and sit outside on the veranda of the grill, overlooking the sea.
I sip a bottle of beer and lean back in my seat as the sun sets on another day. Another day without her.
At least she’s safe.
* * *
I wake at five, glad to have had some sleep, throw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt then head down to the beach. I run close to the shoreline where the sand is tougher under my feet. I run until the sun rises.
When I’m spent, I sit on the sand and watch the waves crashing onto shore, planning my next strategy. No matter what comes down the river, there’s at least one card in my hand I intend to play.
I’m done with my father’s company.
I’m done with him.
When I get back to my hotel room, my phone is ringing.
‘Ted, how is she?’
‘I’ve known her be worse.’
‘That’s something.’
‘I guess so. She feels like she gave up on her old man. But I think she knows it was the right thing to do.’
‘Have you seen her?’
‘Rachel spent the night with her yesterday. She’s taken a leaf out of your book and found answers in the bottom of a bottle for now.’
‘It’s better than the potential alternatives.’
‘She’s not like her old man, Clark.’
‘I know. I just wish I could be there for her. I feel useless, Ted. Like every other fucking time, you have to tell me how she is because I can’t get near her.’
‘This is different. She’s not ready for you, bud. You need to prepare yourself that she might never be ready for you.’
I fight the lump in my throat.
‘I’ve got a meeting in five. I just wanted to let you know she’s all right.’
‘Cheers, Ted. Listen, we need to talk when I get back. I’ve done a lot of thinking out here.’
‘All right. Catch you tomorrow.’
* * *
I spend the day talking logistics – how we get oil by sea to and from Brazil, how we move it on dry land. By seven, I’m on my way to the airport, resolute. I’m finally breaking free. I’m finally moving out of Harold Layton’s shadow.
After eating the shitty aeroplane chicken and pilau rice, I manage to sleep for an hour or two. I’m wrecked when I land back at Heathrow, but I still head straight to Teddy and Yvette’s before work.
I knock on the door of their Notting Hill terrace. Teddy answers in a pair of silk boxers, purple with pink love hearts. For the first time in what feels like forever, I laugh. ‘Jesus, Ted, what are you wearing?’
‘I’d find you amusing except it’s 6 a.m. and you’re banging my front door down.’
‘Sorry, I’m wired. I had a lot of coffee on the plane.’
‘Beats your usual Jack, I suppose.’
Scowling, I follow him to the lounge.
‘You want more caffeine?’
‘Ah, probably not. I’ll get going, I just want you to be the first to know. I quit.’
He takes a seat on the sofa and turns on the large flat-screen, holding a fist over his mouth as he yawns. ‘Quit what?’
‘Layton Oil. I’m done. I’m out. I’m resigning today.’
He blinks slowly then turns off the TV and meets my gaze. ‘Well, fuck.’