Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

Rice pursed his lips. Two hundred lots was one thousand tons. At the current price, that was £1,022,000. A damned nice deal to have at the start of what looked to be a quiet week, otherwise. At £10 per lot brokerage, that was £2,000 for Globalex and £200 in commission for himself. ‘I’ll place that on the market for you,’ he said, ‘with the greatest of pleasure. The margin requirements are £102,200, due tomorrow, and the balance of — er — £919,800 due September,’ he said.

‘Booked,’ said Rocq.

Rice wrote out his order slip. ‘Who’s the client?’ he asked.

‘Me.’

Rocq celebrated the sale of his soul to the Midland Bank by taking Amanda to dinner at Le Capo, off West Halkin Street. It was, she pointed out, exactly ten weeks to the day since they had met, on Easter Saturday, at a point-to-point at Cowdray Park in Sussex. She had been arguing furiously with the Tote over why she’d only collected 97p on a 50p win-only bet on a horse which, according to the bookies, had come in at ten to one. Rocq had been at the queue for the Five Pound Win box next to her; he had attempted to explain the way the Tote calculated its payouts. At the end of his precise and accurate lecture she glared at him: ‘When you lose, it hurts, and when you win, you don’t get enough.’

‘You got it in one,’ he had said.

‘So if you know so much, what are you doing it for?’

‘It hurts less than not gambling at all.’

She frowned at him, and it was then he noticed for the first time her exquisite short straight nose, her beautiful mouth that was pouting cheekily, her blue eyes that were full of life and her fair brown hair streaked with highlights. She was about five foot seven in her high-heeled boots, Phillipe Salvet cord trousers, Jousse shirt and Cornelia James silk scarf. She had put her hands in her pockets and was looking at him. He had forgotten that there were girls on this planet who could look as good as she did. He had stared at her, taking her in, the soft skin on her face that radiated life, the couple of freckles and, apart from two light dabs of mascara, no make-up at all and, for a moment, he had thought back to his busted marriage — his stunning blonde wife who was only stunning after an hour of patience in front of the mirror, who scraped the gunk off each night before bed. He would go out to dinner with a raving beauty, a girl with the aura of an enchantress, a girl who would turn heads at any beauty contest; she was a girl who looked simply, incredibly sexy, until the one time that mattered to Rocq the most: the time when she came to bed. She would never come to bed until after her twenty-five-minute ritual in the bathroom, scraping every last molecule of make-up off her face so that it would not ruin her complexion. Thus it was that the woman, his wife, who filled him with lust at the dinner table arrived in his bed with a face like an uncooked turkey.

But Amanda was something else. Standing beside the Tote and looking at her under the grey April sky, he could see someone who would look as good waking up in the morning as she ever could in all her evening finery.

‘Are you one of those compulsive gamblers?’ she had said, when she had finished frowning; she was already turning, about to walk off. Rocq wanted to stop her, wanted to find the hook, did not want to give her a reply she could merely walk away from.

‘Would you like to have a bet with me?’

‘Do you always win?’

He liked her voice; she was well spoken, well-bred without having to flaunt it through her vocal chords.

‘I always try to win.’

‘But do you succeed?’ She smiled, for the first time.

‘You’ll have to tell me; I’ll bet you five pounds you wouldn’t come and have dinner with me tonight.’

She turned back towards him, grinning almost shyly, then blushed just a fraction. ‘That’s not a fair bet. How can I win that? I’m not free tonight.’

‘Are you going to accept the bet?’

‘How could I win it?’

‘By making yourself free.’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I really can’t.’

‘Would you like to come out some other time?’

She looked at him carefully, looked down at his shoes, then up at his face, then nodded her head. ‘Sure.’

‘How about breakfast tomorrow?’

She grinned. ‘Lunch?’

‘Why don’t we compromise and have brunch?’

‘Just as long as I don’t have to gamble.’

‘I wasn’t planning to take you to a casino.’

‘I wanted to be sure.’

Rocq toyed with his rich seafood crepe, wishing he’d had something less rich, like a salad, and regretting he’d ordered a tournedos in champagne, cream and mushroom sauce to follow, when he would have happily settled for a plain grilled sole. He was finding it difficult to concentrate on his evening out. Amanda looked more stunning than ever, and he wished he felt more relaxed. He was enjoying the buzz of the two large ice-cold vodka martinis and the taste of the crisp Sancerre, and he looked forward to a night of rummaging through the erotic treasure chest of Amanda’s mind, body and bedroom cupboard, all of which contained a myriad of ideas, artefacts and liquids designed or adapted by her for the purpose of making the long dark hours of the night slip past in the nicest possible way.

One half of him was bursting to lean forward and tell her what he had done. The other half was very much aware of her loathing of gambling, and advised him, in the firmest possible manner, to keep his trap shut. So he did. Instead, he thought. He did his sums over and over again: for £102,000 he had bought one thousand tons of coffee, at a price of £1,022 a ton. The total value of his purchase was £1,022,000.

The commodity market is unique in that investors do not usually buy a particular commodity for immediate delivery, but buy it for delivery at a future date. For coffee, three to six delivery months forward is the norm. When buying a ‘future,’ the investor does not have to pay the full price until the delivery date. All he has to put down at the time of purchase is a deposit — normally ten per cent. This is known as ‘buying on margin.’ The investor is free to sell his ‘future coffee’ at any time. If, before the delivery date, the price has risen, and he does sell, he takes his profit not merely on the ten per cent deposit, but on the total value of the purchase. If Rocq’s coffee, which he had bought at £1,022 a ton rose in price to £2,000 a ton and he then sold, on his £102,000 investment he would make a profit of nearly £2 million.

Conversely, if the price dropped to £500 a ton, he would still be obliged to buy the coffee for £1,022,000, even though he would only be able to sell it for £500,000 — giving him a loss of over half a million pounds. He had put down £102,000; if coffee dropped to £500,000, he would have to pay out a further £400,000; and that was £400,000 more than he had.

The waiter asked Rocq if he was finished, and removed the almost untouched crepe. Would Senor like something else? A salad, perhaps? Rocq shook his head. He wanted nothing; just some silence, for a few more moments, to do those sums again, for the one hundredth time since this afternoon.

Theo had reckoned coffee would go to £2,500 a ton, which would put the value of his investment at £2.5 million. He would pay back the £102,000 plus interest to the bank, and have near enough £2,400,000 profit. After tax, that would still leave him comfortably a millionaire. He smiled; he was on his way. He was going to whip Monty Elleck’s ass.

The 1961 Chateau Lasserre arrived in its wicker basket; Rocq read the label, sniffed the cork, swirled a few drops of wine four times around his glass, held it up to the light, looked at it, sniffed the top of the glass, screwed up his nose, took a mouthful, swilled it around his mouth, opened his mouth a little to let in some air, closed it again, and swallowed. The waiter hovered the bottle over Amanda’s glass, expectantly.