Michael Ridpath - Final Venture

2000

Writing this novel involved talking to a great many people, most of whom were busy and yet were very generous with their time. I should like to thank in particular Toby Wyles, Anne Glover, Chris Murphy, Jonathan Cape, Paul Haycock, Hamish Hale and Lionel Wilson in London, and in Boston, Steve Willis, Chris Gabrieli, Christopher Spray, Sabin Willett and Rob and Pam Irwin.

I should have told her the night before, when I came home very late smelling of wine. Or that Friday morning, early, as I fought a thick head to crawl out of bed and into work for eight o'clock.

But I hadn't. If I had, she might, she just might, have stayed.

It didn't seem a big deal, then. Not to me, not to her. I was cooking supper when she came home from the lab. Shepherd's pie and baked beans. You can't get shepherd's pie in America unless you make it yourself. I needed the English comfort food to absorb the remains of the previous night's alcohol. Lisa would understand. She would eat hers good-humouredly, and we would have an alfalfa salad tomorrow.

'Simon?' she shouted as the door slammed.

'Yeah!'

I heard her steps make their way through the living room of our small apartment, and felt her arms slide round my waist. I turned and kissed her. It was supposed to be a quick peck on the lips, but it became something more. I broke away and turned back to the beans, which were beginning to bubble.

'Shepherd's pie?' she asked.

'Yep.'

'I never will get used to this sophisticated European food. Was it a rough night last night?'

'You could say that.' I stirred the beans.

'I need a glass of wine. Want one?'

'No thanks.' I watched her pour one. 'Oh, all right, I'll have some.'

She poured mine and brought it over to me. She was wearing a black V-necked sweater and leggings. There was nothing under the sweater, I knew; no shirt, no bra. I knew her body so well, small, pert, lithe, yet I couldn't get enough of it. In the six months we had been married, we had been all over each other all the time. Things just didn't get done around the apartment.

'I spoke to Dad today,' she said, a wicked smile on her face.

'Oh yes?' Dad was Lisa's father, Frank Cook, a partner at Revere, the venture-capital firm I worked for. I had him to thank for my job there, and then for introducing me to his daughter.

'Yes. He says he bumped into you last night. You seemed to be having an enjoyable evening. And there was I thinking you were slaving away at cash-flow statements or whatever it is you tell me you do at your office.'

I felt a rush of panic. Lisa saw it, but the amused smile remained on her face. 'He saw me?' I gulped. 'I mean, I didn't see him.'

'He was at the far side of the restaurant, apparently. You must have been too wrapped up in your date. He said it looked like you were having a good time.'

'It wasn't a date. It was Diane Zarrilli. We were both working late on one of her deals, and then she suggested we go out for a drink. We passed a restaurant, they had a table, and so we got something to eat as well.'

'That's not what you told me.'

'Isn't it?'

'Uh uh. You said you went out for a drink with some people from work.'

It was true, I had mumbled that to Lisa's back as I had crawled into bed after midnight.

'You got me,' I said.

'Dad seems to think I should be careful of this Diane woman.'

'She's nice. She's good fun. You haven't met her properly yet. You'd like her.'

'She's very attractive.'

'I suppose so,' I murmured. It was undeniable. Diane was very attractive.

'You lied to me, Simon Ayot,' Lisa said.

'It wasn't exactly a lie.'

'Yes it was.' She moved closer to me, pushing me back towards the cooker. I could hear the beans bubbling away behind me. I raised my arms. 'It was exactly a lie.' Her hand shot out and grabbed my balls. She squeezed gently.

'Ow!' I squawked. It seemed the right thing to say in the circumstances.

She walked backwards, pulling me out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom. She giggled, her brown eyes flashing up at me. We tumbled on to the bed.

Ten minutes later, the smell of burning beans drifted into the bedroom over the mess of clothes, sweat and bare skin.

'No.'

Gil Appleby, Revere's Managing Partner, and my boss, folded his arms across his chest, daring me to protest.

No? It couldn't be no. I couldn't let it be no.

While I had worked on many deals in my two years at the firm, this was only the second that had my name on it. My first, a PC home-leasing company, had been a lucky success in a record time. My second, Net Cop, was going to be a failure just as quickly.

I had promised Craig the money only a few days before. When we had initially invested in Net Cop six months previously, we had committed to provide more funds when the company needed them. Craig needed them now. Without our cash, his company would go bust.

I had given my word.

It shouldn't have been an issue. A regular item on the agenda of the Monday morning meeting of the partnership. This was where new investment opportunities were discussed, and any problems in Revere's investment portfolio dealt with. Net Cop wasn't supposed to be a problem. It was supposed to be an opportunity.

The meeting had started in the usual way, with Art Altschule talking about BioOne. Art liked to talk about BioOne whenever he could. It was Revere's most successful investment, and Art's deal, and he didn't want any of us to forget it.

I wasn't listening. My eyes were on a plane lowering itself gingerly through the sky towards an unseen runway at Boston's Logan Airport, two miles behind Art Altschule's closely cropped head. My mind was on what I was going to say about Net Cop.

Eventually, I became aware Art had stopped talking. I was on next.

Gil glanced down at the papers in front of him. 'OK. Net Cop. A three million dollar follow-on. Tell us about it, Simon.'

I cleared my throat. I tried to be concise, low-key, objective.

'As you no doubt remember, Net Cop plans to make the switches that direct the billions of information packets that fly around the Internet every day,' I began. 'They've completed the design of the switch, and they need a further three million dollars from us to go on to the next stage of their development, building something that they can show to potential customers. Frank and I made the initial investment six months ago. At that time we agreed to put in further funds provided Net Cop met various milestones. As you can see from my memo, they've met these milestones. Internet traffic is growing exponentially, and Net Cop has tremendous potential. In my opinion, Craig Docherty has done an excellent job, and we should continue to support him.'

In the six months I had worked with Craig, I had become more and more impressed with his abilities. I had also grown to like him. At thirty-two he was three years older than me, a wise old man in his business. He had vision, drive, energy, and an absolute determination to see Net Cop succeed.

The facts spoke for themselves. And the facts said 'Invest more money.' Or at least I thought they did.

There was a brief pause as I finished. My eyes flicked round the room. Everyone was watching me. The five partners: Gil, Frank, Art, Diane and Ravi Gupta, the firm's biotech expert. And the other two associates, Daniel and John, my friends and colleagues who I knew would support me, but who I also knew didn't have a vote.

No matter how many presentations I made, the board room didn't get any less intimidating. It was where all the important decisions in the life of Revere Partners were taken. Soft lighting reflected off cream walls with abstract sunsets. One set of windows overlooked Boston Harbor to the airport, the other the great canyon that was Franklin Street, with the colossus of the Bank of Boston building guarding one wall. Looking thoughtfully over Gil's shoulder, as if weighing the pros and cons of the discussion round the table, was a bust of Paul Revere himself. Silversmith, patriot, energetic horseman and finally wealthy entrepreneur, he mocked the computer geeks and disgruntled middle-managers who came before him. He didn't seem too impressed by my arguments either.