For The Love Of Money - Brian Doswell (speed reading book .TXT) 📗

key the number printed in green at the foot of the page, and then stopped. This was something new, and Bill always said to sleep on anything new. There was no need to rush; the letter was not going to blow away. She sat back in her chair with the phone still in her hand, staring out of the office window. To the left of the window-framed picture, the council waste bin still sat where it had when she had torn those exercise books to shreds. The bin provoked a fond memory of that day, and of Bill, and of her life to date. One day, a few years ago, she realised that she subconsciously rubbed her fingers on the side of the bin every-time she passed it. She had laughed at herself and promised to stop doing it, but the following day, she did it again.
Jane replaced the phone in its rest and returned to the remainder of the post although her thoughts stayed with the amazing number, £2.5 million, £2.5 million, £2.5 million, £2.5 million, it just would not go away.
That evening Jane collected her usual Thursday take away meal, prawn korma and rice, from the local Indian restaurant that was on her way round to her mother’s house in Gilbert Road. Over supper, served on their knees in front of the television, Jane broached the subject.
“Mum, do you remember the holiday we had in France, the year after Dad died?”
“How do they get these colours in the rice, dear?”
“Do you remember that pretty little cottage in the Loire Valley?”
“Yes of course, I couldn’t sleep a wink for the cockerel in the farmyard next door.”
“I think I might give up the business and buy something like that and move there for good. Would you like to come with me?”
“Do they have the tele there?”
“I think so.”
“Will I have my own room?”
“I don’t see why not, Mum.”
“To tell you the truth, I was wondering about suggesting we might save a bit on my pension by sharing the electric bill.”
Jane bit her lip, £2.5 million would probably cover the electric bill for a while but she wasn’t sure how or even if, to tell her mother.
The following morning she deliberately waited until after eleven, then rang the number in forest green at the bottom of the letter.

§§§§§

The French notaire handed her the keys after a gruelling hour, signing page after page of ‘Acte de Vente’. The cottage was hers at last. To be fair it was a bit more than a cottage but Jane was not the type to take these things too seriously. Three reception rooms, farmhouse kitchen, five bedrooms and four bathrooms, all sympathetically restored, would do nicely. Outside there was a swimming pool in a hectare of garden, albeit, more than half of the garden was a bit on the wild side. Jane preferred to call it woodlands. Best of all was the independent annex, barely two steps from the kitchen door. The annex had at some time been a stable but Mum loved it anyway. Jane wondered if it got cold in the winter. Perhaps Mum would be happier in the main house. She could always let the annex for a bit of extra company.
The place sat on a hill side facing south and overlooking the valley where lush green grape vines marched like soldiers in straight lines as far as the eye could see. The notaire had told her that the vines closest to her cottage were owned by an Englishman called Padworth who worked for a bank in London. He, the notaire, would arrange for her to meet Monsieur Padworth next time he was over from England.
Jane smiled politely and decided that, on balance, she had had enough of banks for a while. She was going to paint the scenery; after all she did have a GCE in Art.


IT’S ALL TO EMMA’S CREDIT

Clink. The sound of a teaspoon hitting the kitchen floor tiles startled Emma. She looked down at the spoon and wondered how it came to be there at her feet. As she bent to retrieve the errant spoon she realised that she must have put it into her dressing gown pocket. She knew that the pocket had a hole in and she did intend to mend it – today - probably.
Through the kitchen window she watched Susie’s ‘Dora Explorer’ back-pack as it disappeared through the garden gate. Susie, eight years old, had just left for school, slamming the back door in disgust on her way out. Today, Susie’s particular hell was being the only girl in her class who did not have a mobile phone, with her own personalised ring tone.
Emma tore off a sheet of kitchen roll, blew her nose and threw the soggy scrunched-up paper into the bin before turning to the pile of manila envelopes on the kitchen table. Five years ago she would have left these envelopes on the hall table for Steve to deal with. Five years ago her credit cards actually had credit available and were paid off each month. Now she had exhausted all the credit lines open to her and had less than fifty pounds in her purse.
She had been twenty-five with a shape that she had worked hard at regaining after having Susie. Maternity leave had become daily visits to the gym and the flatness of her stomach had overtaken pretty much everything else in her lifestyle priority list. Going back to work had somehow become bottom of that list. Steve became very boring about her going back to work. On the other hand, Geoff had been completely different. Geoff was the resident fitness instructor at the gym. He had spent endless time playing with Susie in the crèche and, after a while, he had spent just as much time playing with Emma.
Emma often cursed her own stupidity. The affair, the row with Steve, it had all been ridiculous. She knew it was all her fault but . . . She thought of how he had slammed the door when he left and how the sound of a slamming door had not changed in five years. Steve paid the mortgage but nothing else, although he did pay for Susie’s phone. It had been a birthday present. Emma had tried to claim some maintenance from him but she had very little sympathy from any of the agencies and Steve was adamant about her working harder on getting a fair price for her services. She knew what he meant and hated herself for knowing.
This morning she was expecting a visit from a debt counsellor from the local branch of her bank. She winced in anticipation of the forthcoming session. She imagined this boring bank employee producing a magic wand and turning all the red figures into black. She waved her own imaginary wand in time with the thought and knocked the cold coffee into her lap. OK, so it was going to be another one of those days. She should at least get dressed before the appointed hour.
In the shower, she allowed the soapsuds to flow over her body. Was all that time in the gym worth it? Where did that super flat stomach go to, and when? Jeans and a tee shirt would be good enough for the bank, or perhaps not? Too casual - not serious enough? Emma rifled through the rack and selected a blouse and skirt from her old office collection. She was still brushing her hair when the door bell rang. She turned on the dressing table stool and thrust her feet into her shoes, rising and dashing to the top of the stairs in one super-fluid movement. She took a moment for one deep breath and opened the door.
He introduced himself as David Morris and presented his card on which was written MORRIS David.
‘Yes I know’, he said. ‘Everyone has the same reaction, but it’s the Bank’s rules. Please call me David.’
Emma led him into the lounge and gestured towards an armchair.
‘I’d prefer a table, if you have one.’ He held up his briefcase as if to excuse the inevitable paper work that was about to follow.
Emma ushered him towards the dining room table where she pulled out a chair for him. Only then did she notice that she was wearing odd shoes.
The morning was spent alternating between answering questions about her lifestyle and gathering the evidence in the form of outstanding bills, invoices and statements. A business-like silence hung over the pair as David’s fingers worked on his calculator. Emma dared not look at the growing pile of notes.
At length, David drew a dramatic underline on his notepad and leaned back in his chair.
‘I think that will do for now.’ He said, gathering his papers together and folding them neatly into his briefcase. ‘I need to take this lot back to the office and work on a recovery plan for you. Try not to worry too much, I see a lot of cases much worse than yours.’
Emma felt a sudden sense of confusion. She had expected to be beaten and berated.
Instead, he smiled again in a way that warmed her down to her toes. She led him back to the door and, as he stepped over the threshold, he turned towards her.
‘You know,’ he said, pointing downwards, ‘I think we might even be able to afford a matching pair of shoes.’
She looked down in embarrassment and when she looked up, he had gone.
A week passed and the debate about the absolute necessity of a personalised ring tone gathered momentum. Emma knew exactly what Susie meant about being the only one in the class with a simple telephone ring tone when it was perfectly possible to download the latest Sugababes release. She just did not know how to explain the impossibility of paying for it.
Emma was in the shower when the phone rang and she debated whether to answer it or not. If it rang long enough the automatic answer-phone service would cut in. She decided to let it ring. The ordinary ring tone stopped. She finished her shower and was dripping her way across the bathroom floor when the phone rang again. This time she felt obliged to answer the call and dripped her way into the bedroom where she picked up an extension phone.
‘Hello this is David, David Morris.’
‘Hello.’ Emma found herself holding an arm across her breasts as if to hide her nudity from him.
I’ve got a financial plan of sorts for you. Can I come round this morning to discuss it with you? Say 10.30?’
‘OK’
‘Good, see you at 10.30. Bye.’
At 10.30 she was waiting by the door wondering why she felt like a teenager on her first date. When she opened the door his frame filled the space and she felt her knees weaken.
‘May I come in?’
‘Nice shoes.’ He said, as he spread out a small rain forest of paper on the dining room table.
Emma let it go.
‘I’m sorry that this has taken so long.’ He shuffled his papers not yet looking up at her. ‘I discovered that there is an account with the bank that is still in joint names with your ex-husband, so I was obliged to contact him and let him know of our discussion.’
Emma suddenly felt knocked back; did Steve still have a hold over her? She wanted to interrupt but David held up his hand to stop the reaction that he saw coming.
‘It’s not at all bad. Your ex-husband says that it was never his intention for you to be in debt and has agreed to my proposal. If you would just let me outline the plan for you. You might be pleasantly