It was a grey afternoon in London when Archibald Whitmore and Nigel Chesterton sat in the dimly lit study of Whitmores Mayfair townhouse, smoking cigars and discussing matters of businessand family.
“Listen, Archibald,” Nigel began, swirling his brandy, “this lilac residential complex of yoursdo you truly mean to build it?”
“You know I do, Nigel,” Archibald replied, exhaling smoke. “Its been my dream for years. My firm has the means, the expertise. Ill make it the crown jewel of the citytourists will flock to see it. All I need is for you to secure that land. In return, Id be happy to arrange a flat there for your boy, Philip.”
“So you can have me accused of bribery and sacked from the council? I can buy Philip a flat myselfor a whole blasted manor. What I need is a proper wife for him.”
“Here we go again,” Archibald sighed. “My Clarissa already has a sweetheart. And I know your Philipa gadabout and a wastrel. Dropped out of Oxford, though you pulled every string to get him in. Forgive me, but I wouldnt hand my daughter to such a man if you paid me. How do you expect me to drag her to the altar at gunpoint?”
“If it comes to it, you will. That land wont stay unclaimed forever.”
Archibald and Nigel had known each other for decades, climbing the ranks side by sidea bureaucrat and a property developer, their alliance mutually beneficial. Together, they had transformed entire boroughs, restored historic districts.
Or rather, Archibald and his firm had done the work, while Nigel, as they said in the council, “facilitated” itensuring contracts were won, suppliers were chosen, permits were signed. Now, Nigel saw another opportunity in Archibalds new venture.
The concept was sounda gated community of high-rises, a private park, underground parking, shops and services at street level. People would flock to it. Profit was assured. And those shops? Leased only to trusted associates, who would discreetly kick back a percentage. A steady income for lifeenough even for their children. But those children would need binding.
Their families had mingled for yearswives exchanging tea and gossipbut the children remained distant. Clarissa, Archibalds daughter, was finishing her studies at the Royal College of Art, set to become a landscape designer. She dreamed of her own firm, of aiding her fathers projects.
Nigels son, Philip, was another matter. A perennial disappointment. While Nigel toiled at the council, Philip whiled away his days in idle luxury, his fathers guilt manifesting in unchecked allowances. A match with Clarissa might steady him.
But unlikely.
After his talk with Archibald, Nigel found Philip at home in high spirits.
“Father! The lads and I are off to Brighton tomorrowsome music festival. Everyones going.”
“Everyone? The gilded youth? Living off their parents purses, the lot of you. Will you ever work? Clarissas starting her own firm”
“With your money, no doubt. Fund me, and Ill start something too.”
“A pub? Youd run it into the ground in a fortnight. Attach yourself to Clarissa. Shes clever, presentable. Start a family. Must I spoon-feed you forever?”
“Shes got a fellow. And shes dulldoesnt know how to enjoy life.”
“Steal her away. Take her to dinners, showsIll fund it. Let her taste luxury. She might thaw. Must I spell it out?”
Meanwhile, Archibald spoke with Clarissa.
“What are your plans, my dear?”
“You promised me capital for the firm. Ill repay you once its established.”
“I dont want repayment. But what of your personal life? Marriage?”
“Throwing me out?” She smiled. “Ive told MotherIve a beau, Edward. But Im not thinking of weddings yet. Business first.”
“Understand, Clarissayoure entering a world where stability matters. Married folk are trusted. And marriages arent made with just anyone.”
“Not Philip, then. Lets not quarrel.”
Clarissa knew why her father pressed the matter. Nigels doing. Without his approval, the project would fail. And Archibald needed it desperately.
Once, on their country estate, shed overheard her parents speaking in hushed tones.
“Why push Clarissa into this?” her mother had asked. “Do you want a fool for a son-in-law?”
“I know what he is. But would poverty suit her better?”
“Poverty? Weve a manor now. We could sell the London house if needed.”
“And if weve nothing left? The firm could fold without this contract. Nigel knowshes leveraging it.”
Her mother had fallen silent. Then, softly:
“We began in a bedsit, Archibald. Remember? We laughed that we had two fridges in the kitchen”
A twig snapped under Clarissas foot. The conversation ceased.
Edward, her beau, had been uneasy.
“Will you save your fathers fortune at the cost of your happiness? Choose any man you lovebut not that peacock!”
“You dont understand! The firm is his life. And this projecthes dreamed of calling it Lilac Court. Imagine it in spring!”
“And youd trade your future for flowers? My parents live in a council flat. Theyre happy.”
Philip began courting herdinners, concerts. She indulged him, studying him anew. Perhaps he wasnt hopeless. He dressed well, knew music, kept a vinyl collection. He was attentive.
Then came the expected: a proposal.
She returned home that evening, resolve firm. Gathering her parents, she announced:
“Philip proposed today.”
A pause.
“And your answer?” her father asked.
“I havent given one. But I think I shall accept.”
“Do you love him?”
“I dont know. But they say love grows with time.”
Her father rose, walked to the window. Without turning, he said:
“Edward came to see me yesterday. He told me why you might agree. Then he said selling ones daughter is vileand that hed never shake my hand again.”
Clarissa froze. Her mother covered her face.
“What now?”
Her father turned at last. He sighedrelieved, it seemed.
“Nothing. I told Nigel the deal is off. There are other projects. Hold fast to Edward, my girl. Hes a man of honour.”
