A Week in December by Sebastian Faulks

Author:Sebastian Faulks
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Literary, London (England), English Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors, Christmas stories, General, Fiction - General, Fiction
ISBN: 9780385532914
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2010-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

Outside, in a cold, deserted street near Chelsea Harbour, John Veals pulled out his blue cellphone, the one he used for intra-office calls, scrolled down to Martin Ryman's name and pressed the green icon.

'Martin? Meet me at the sushi conveyor belt in that Knightsbridge place at twelve noon. Don't expect to eat because you're going to Saggiorato's for lunch. Book for two. Take someone with you. Maybe Susanna Russell from HSBC. You like her, don't you? Pretty and clever: just your type. And ring Magnus Darke. Tell him you've got something for him. Arrange to meet tomorrow. Lunch. Anywhere. Throw money at it. One of those places with a psychotic chef who charges two hundred quid a head. Got it?'

Veals liked the sushi conveyor belt because it naturally threw strangers together. Although Ryman was on his 'office' phone list, he didn't actually come into Old Pye Street, and the fact that he was retained by John Veals as a consultant was known only to the pair of them; even Stephen Godley was unaware of the contract. In return for his large honorarium, and a small stake in the fund, Ryman had to drop everything when Veals called.

He was already sipping water at the chugging conveyor belt when Veals arrived at 11.55. Of the three people Veals had dealt with that morning, Ryman was immeasurably the classiest act: just as well, since he was being paid the most.

'Internet chat rooms,' said Veals. 'Know how to use them?'

'Yes, I think so. I'm going to take a bit of salmon here, John, just for appearance's sake.'

Veals knew this was a prompt for him to take some food too. One of the things he liked about Ryman was that he didn't waste words; another thing he liked was that Ryman wasn't frightened of him, not like Alan Wing or, beneath his tennis club bullshit, Stewart Thackeray.

'On your way to Saggiorato's,' Veals said, 'go to an Internet cafe. Get yourself half a dozen instant e-mail addresses. Get into a financial chat room. Pretend to be a nineteen-year-old waiter. Say, "I was waiting at a dinner party in Chelsea last night and I heard the head of First NY's London office talking about their decision to buy ARB. Their historical roots across much of the developing and former colonial world were the answer to First NY's aspirations as a truly 'global' bank ... blah blah."'

'First NY?' said Ryman, taking the purple-rimmed plastic cover off his sashimi.

'That's what I'm hearing, Martin. Then you go to a different Internet cafe this afternoon. Maybe you can do them all from the same one. You figure it out. Sign in as an amateur low-roller. You're an Australian physio who dabbles online between clients. Anything you like. You saw the waiter's posting. You make some comments. Seems a good fit. So now's a good time to buy ARB shares. Simple stuff. Tomorrow morning, see how it's going and if necessary do five or six more places. Then at lunchtime tomorrow, you drop it to Magnus Darke.

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