Errors of Judgment(15)

‘You mean when you didn’t have any?’

‘Wealth brings responsibilities. Money needs to be invested, made to work.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like capitalism,’ murmured Anthony, remembering Chay in his idleness, wheedling loans from friends, living on handouts from long-suffering relatives, pontificating all the while about the redistribution of wealth and the iniquities of the capitalist system.

‘The rich are rich for a reason. The more of them I meet, the better I understand that. I’ve been lucky enough to have made some very useful contacts. Last year I met someone who has helped me to make some spectacularly good investments.’

Barry looked at his father with keen interest. ‘Really?’

‘What would you say if I told you I’ve been getting steady returns between ten and eleven per cent for the past two years?’

‘I’d say it sounds too good to be true,’ replied Anthony.

‘And I’d say, please can I have a piece of it?’ exclaimed Barry.

‘That’s just it. Not everyone can. This financier is very selective about his client investors. I know people who’ve begged him to take them on, but have been refused.’

‘How did you meet him?’ asked Anthony.

‘I was introduced to him by a mutual friend at a country club in Palm Beach.’

Anthony recalled the terrible squats his father used to live in, the candlelit rooms, bare floorboards and damp walls, lentil stews, incense sticks, sleeping bags. Now he was glad-handing top-flight investors in Palm Beach country clubs. You had to marvel at it, really. ‘And he knows something that no one else does?’

‘Every field has its experts, and this guy just happens to be the best. He’s absolutely solid. He’s a very astute businessman and philanthropist, highly regarded in New York social circles.’

‘What’s his name?’

Chay shook his head. ‘His name wouldn’t mean anything to you. But the reason I mention him is that I was thinking I could invest the capital sums I’ve set aside for you both with him, if you like.’

Anthony caught Barry’s keen expression, and could tell he was busy calculating how much that rate of interest would net him over the next few years. Barry set a lot of store by the couple of hundred grand that Chay had, allegedly, earmarked for each of them, and which they were to receive on their thirtieth birthdays. Barry nodded. ‘Yeah, do it, Dad. I mean, ten per cent – what’s not to like?’

Chay turned and looked enquiringly at Anthony. Anthony reflected, twisting his beer glass on the tabletop. At last he said, ‘No, it’s OK, thanks. Leave mine in the bank.’

‘Are you mad?’ said Barry. ‘You have to speculate to accumulate.’

‘He has his mother’s cautious streak,’ said Chay. ‘Not one of life’s adventurers. Not a risk-taker.’

Anthony forced a smile. He was getting heartily sick of being labelled boring and cautious, but in this particular instance he didn’t feel like living dangerously. It seemed odd that anyone should be getting those kinds of returns in the present economic climate. He shrugged and said, ‘I’ll leave it to you wild creative types to do the bold, daring stuff.’ He drained his drink. ‘Just remember – if it looks too good to be true, it usually is.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m in court tomorrow.’

‘Go on, then, you young pillar of the judicial establishment,’ said his father. ‘I’ll probably be over again around Christmas. I’ll be in touch.’

‘Fine. See you. And thanks for dinner.’ He nodded at his brother. ‘Barry.’

‘Cheers, Tony,’ replied Barry. ‘See you around.’ Barry tapped his pint glass. ‘Come on – get them in, Dad. You’re the one with the money.’





CHAPTER FOUR




Monday morning was not going well for Rachel. Her meticulously planned schedule took its first knock just as she and Oliver were about to leave the house, when Oliver had announced that he needed to take six baby photos of himself to school for a class project. Why was it, Rachel wondered as she hurried to the study to rummage through boxes, that children came up with these things at the last moment? She was already running late, and was bound to miss her train at this rate.

‘There you are,’ she said, slipping them into an envelope and handing them to Oliver. ‘Come on – where’s your reading book? We’re late. Hurry!’

In the car, six-year-old Oliver took the photos from their envelope and gravely examined each in turn. The last one he gazed at longest, then remarked, ‘That’s me and Daddy.’