0-200, $3m
Les Broad
Published by Les Broad at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Les Broad
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The terms ‘Lister’, ‘Storm’ and ‘Lister Storm’ are trademarks owned by Lister Cars Limited and are used in this work with the kind permission of Lister Cars Limited to whom the Author and the Publishers are grateful.
Even now I can’t say I know much about motor racing. I've been through an exhilarating, exciting, frustrating experience that's left me with some good memories, and, I might say, a good deal poorer, not that that really matters. This is the story of my involvement in an insane world. Let me explain.
Firstly I should tell you about myself. I've never had any objection to my family name, Sanderson, but in many quiet moments I've wondered why my parents named me Walter without being decent enough at least to give me a second name so that I would have a choice. My parents, by the way, are dead and have been for many years. I am forty four years old and I reckon I’m in reasonably good condition for my age. I have a wife, Angela, a couple of years younger than me, and no children. Our marriage is a bit unconventional, I suppose, but I need say no more about that now. It will become clear as we go through this story.
I live and work in a little village in Northamptonshire, England. I'm saying no more than this because I don't want race fans turning up at my door. You'll see how this could be possible.
As a means of making a living I run a company managing investments. Our clients are all over the world (you'd recognise some of the names and I guarantee that the amounts that some of these people, particularly the politicians, have would shock you) and we make them a lot of money. My wife is also a director of the company and we do well enough to pay ourselves reasonably handsomely. Over the last few years I suppose we've had a million or so between us each year out of the company, and the company can easily afford it. Yes, it's fair to say money isn't a problem for us, although we manage to spend it easily enough.
For those that like to know these things, Angela is tall, blond (thanks to her hairdresser) and slim (thanks to an expensive health club) with endless legs. She has a string of male admirers, which includes me, who all say they like her because she's intelligent, witty and fun to be with. Of course, it's nothing to do with her liking for more, shall we say, physical forms of socialising.
Angela and I have been fortunate in that we have been able to indulge ourselves, and whilst Angela is quite fun-loving and gregarious I am more of a home bird. We both like our cars, though, and I keep a Porsche and a Ferrari (1980 3.3 Turbo and a late model 512TR for those who have to know). Angela hurtles round the countryside in a 500SL Mercedes sports car, and it's a wonder to me that so far she's killed neither herself nor anyone else. Actually, she's never even been caught for speeding (I have) and I often wonder if she has a charmed life.
I rarely wear a suit, but will if I need to for a business meeting. Mostly I wear just casual clothes, usually old, and my most common outfit for a day in the office is jeans, denim shirt and trainers. Accessories are limited to a watch, a cup of lukewarm coffee and a pack of Marlboro. Now Angela is just the opposite. She always looks immaculate and is just as beautifully turned out to go shopping in the local supermarket as she is for business or socialising. I've no idea how she does it. She's actively involved in the company and is utterly brilliant at dealing with PR, advertising and the quite extraordinarily strange people that inhabit the world of marketing. As a result she tends to spend a fair amount of time at our London office (very swish, just off Park Lane) or our offices in New York, Los Angeles, Sydney or Valletta. The last one has just opened and is very much Angela's new baby. She kept telling me we've got good people, both English and Maltese, and they'll make Valletta our springboard to North Africa. She'll be proved right, too.
I think that gives you an idea of who we are, and as we've never been particularly secretive about our company's activities and the money we make I shouldn't, with hindsight, have been surprised at someone with a good idea pleading for us to pay for it.
I'm still surprised at how committed I became to this idea. What happened was this.
Now, this needs a bit of concentration because it's not all that straightforward. I have a secretary here in the village and Angela has a secretary working for her in London. Angela's secretary, Sue Williams, was (and probably still is) friendly with a girl whose boyfriend was friendly with David McNab. David is the man who ultimately came to see me, but that bit comes later. Apparently, David's mate spoke to his girlfriend, who had words with Sue. Sue, being sensible, knew Angela wouldn't want to know, so she rang my secretary, Lysette Baker. Lysette, who is an equally sensible girl, knew that if she asked me if I wanted to see David I'd say no, so she just made an appointment anyway and put it in my diary. I asked her what it was about, and should have been suspicious when all I got for a reply was a rather airy and out-of-character 'I'm not sure'. So there it was - I was destined to meet David McNab.
Eventually the fateful day dawned. Lysette had arranged the appointment very carefully.
David was due at 5.30 and my diary was clear for the rest of the day. Angela was, fortuitously, in Sydney. It was, I recall, a dull day. Weatherwise, it was dry and overcast (I've no idea why I remember this, but I do), the phones had been quiet and really all we had done all day was to watch the value of our clients' portfolios rise. A sort of thumb-twiddling day, really. Then five thirty arrived.
I was sitting at my desk, wondering whether to sharpen the blunt end of my pencil, just for the excitement of it, when Lysette came in looking very pleased with herself. As far as I can recall, the conversation went something like this.
"Mr McNab is here,” Lysette said, "you will listen to him, won't you?" I thought this was an odd thing for her to say, and said so. All she said in reply was:
"Well, I know what you can be like." I didn't know what she meant but suggested she show Mr McNab into my office, which she did.
After the usual pleasantries David explained how he came to be talking to me. I made a mental note that, whatever this young man wanted, I should have a word with Angela's secretary. I had in front of me a clean-shaven, smart man in his late twenties, obviously very fit. He spoke with just a faint hint of a Scottish accent and was obviously intelligent and well-educated. It was equally obvious that he was broke, and people with no money generally don't need my services. By the time he reached the 'so here I am' end of his brief narrative I had decided, for better or worse and I still don't know which it was, to hear him out. Nevertheless, I couldn't help feeling that I'd been set up somehow by the two secretaries.
David started his pitch by putting on my desk a model, about a foot long, of a Porsche Turbo, not unlike mine sitting in the garage, with my company's logo painted large on the bonnet, the name written along the sides and various other racing-type stickers and numbers on it. He explained to me, I must say with knowledge and infectious enthusiasm, that there was to be a race, perhaps a one-off but hopefully the first of an annual event, for production supercars; you know the sort of thing, cars that make small boys say things like 'Cor, dad, look at that!', and that turn grown men into small boys. I should know about this as I've got two cars that have just this effect. He told me that the race was to be in America, the whole affair was well sponsored and the racetrack was to be newly built. He had the nucleus of a team and wanted me to pay for it all for the publicity and PR value. At this point I resolved to have serious words with my own and Angela's secretaries as this was the sort of thing that Angela was supposed to deal with and those two had, I thought, waited to set this up until Angela was well out of the way, thinking I was a softer touch. They were probably right about that, of course.
David produced a folder which he flicked through quickly. It contained the rules of the event, details of the circuit and its facilities, basic budgetary information and artist's impressions of various cars decorated in our logo and corporate colours. Maybe it's the little boy in me, but I think it was those pictures that hooked me. I played it cool, though.
I told him I was impressed by the professionalism of his presentation, particularly as the information about the company was accurate and up-to-date. I didn't tell him this, but I thought the details he had were just a little bit too up-to-date to have been available from conventional sources - something else I felt I needed to discuss with the unholy alliance of secretaries.
Short of actually saying so, I gave David every indication that I was in favour of backing him fully. Obviously I told him I would need time to consider what he had told me and that I was not the only one in the company who needed to be in favour. Here, naturally enough, I was thinking of Angela into whose lap these things would have naturally fallen, without the cunning intervention of a couple of secretaries. David and I parted at about seven that evening, both equally sure that we would meet again soon. He let me keep the model Porsche, which I thought was a rather sweet bribe. After I had seen him to his car, a bright yellow Volkswagen Corrado coupe, I ambled back indoors.
I asked Lysette to come into my office, which she did but with a bit less enthusiasm than normal.
"Lysette," I said, "if I rang Sue Williams and asked if she'd ever heard of David McNab what would she say?"
"I'm not sure," said Lysette, rather evasively, I thought.
"OK, I'll ask you. Does she know him, or know anyone who knows him?”
"Well, um, yes, actually.”
"Right. I knew it. You two have been hatching a plot. It's not a coincidence, is it, that this meeting took place while my wife is on the other side of the world?"
"I told Sue it wouldn't work and the whole thing would go back to Angela anyway. Sue doesn't think Angela will want to back David so we thought he'd have a better chance with you."
"It will go back to Angela, as you say. But you can tell Sue that when it does it will go with my support. All Angela's got to do is to maximise the PR value of the exercise. I think I'm probably less than wholly sane, but I really quite like the concept."
Lysette was quite excited and went off to phone Sue. I still intended to have a word with that young lady, and as I needed to be in London the following morning it seemed an ideal opportunity. For the time being, I wanted to draw a veil over the day and consider what on earth I was getting into. Lysette came back and told me how happy Sue was, so at least some people had had their day brightened. I sent Lysette home and went into the house for a bite to eat and to study the details that David had left for me.
Later in the evening I had decided that the information about the costs needed much more work, but the information about the event and the circuit was really interesting. Let me tell you about the circuit first.
This was to be a purpose-built racetrack and entertainment complex near the city of Fresno, California, about half-way between San Francisco and Los Angeles. We have, of course, an office in LA. The complex boasts a small airport, several large hotels, sophisticated engineering facilities and the circuit itself. The circuit was to have a lap length of ten miles. The cost must have been enormous but I wasn't worried about that since I wasn't paying. The circuit seemed to me to be well designed, but I'm not an expert. It certainly had some high speed straights and fast corners, as well as some tricky-looking bits. I didn't think, looking at the details, that it would be boring to drive on for long periods. So far, so good, I thought. I looked at the safety features because motor racing is a dangerous sport and I had no wish to be involved in anything that would put someone in hospital or, even worse, the graveyard. It all looked to my untutored eye to be first class, with run-off areas, tyre walls and adequate marshalling and fire control posts. There were heavy-duty cranes to heave crashed and broken-down race cars off the circuit and the plans included a purpose-built hospital facility, equipped with everything you could think of as only the Americans know how.
Having satisfied myself, as far as I could, that the facilities and the circuit were good enough, I turned my attention to the event itself. As I read through, my mind became more and more boggled. I know there's a race series now for GT cars, where Porsches, Ferraris, McLarens and others chase each other around the racetracks of the world. This event was to be open to similar cars, but the modifications allowed were rather limited. It struck me as being an interesting idea that any car entered had to be exactly the same shape as the manufacturer intended, with the same ground clearance, and its performance had to be within a very small percentage of that achieved by independent road testers. This effectively outlawed huge increases in performance and was, it seemed to me, to be a true test of the car as the manufacturer intended it to be. Any car could be entered as long as it was, at some time, on sale to the public and could reach 170mph. This meant that older supercars like Ferrari's Daytona or Lamborghini's Miura could enter and run against later models, perhaps capable of over 200mph. They probably wouldn't win, but their drivers would certainly have fun!
The entrants would start racing at 8 o'clock on Friday evening and eventually finish at the same time on Sunday, 48 hours later! Two whole days of flat-out driving was just too much to resist!
By now I was well sold on the idea. Angela would just have to get on with reconciling herself to losing a good chunk of her advertising and marketing budget. I didn't know how much - as I said before, the costs of this motor racing project needed a lot more detail before even a working figure could be arrived at. To a pretty large extent it didn't bother me how much it cost, since I reckoned that we could recover a fair amount from other companies. Enterprises like petrol companies, tyre manufacturers and airlines came to mind, and of course, whatever car young McNab decided to race, the manufacturer could toss some money into the budget.
So that was that. We'd do it. Angela could work on raising some additional sponsorship for the team, which as yet had no name. Right, I thought, we'd name it after my company, and we'd run it properly. We would, I decided, do it my way, which was to be a separate company wholly owned by my investment management company. it would be called Sagam Racing Limited, which followed on quite nicely, I thought, from my company's name. That's Sanderson Global Asset Management - did I mention that?
According to my accountants, by doing it that way we could manipulate ourselves a favourable tax deal, and, let's face it, if we were going to do something anyway we might as well get the taxman to help. We could even have an 'Inland Revenue' sticker on the car. No? Well, perhaps that might be a bit too much.
Where was I? Oh, yes, sponsorship. Angela could work on that with David. If he wanted our money there had to be a price, and for him it would be working with Angela. I'd put him in the picture the next morning from London.
Having spent the whole evening, and a good part of the night, looking at the details given to me by David, I thought I'd better get to bed, get up and out early and clear the boring bits of the day (the bits that make money) out of the way before I tackled David again. So that's exactly what I did.
It was mid-afternoon the next day before I had any spare time, and the first thing I
wanted to do, as I was in London, was to have meaningful words with Angela's secretary. As I went round our London office, getting in the way, it occurred to me that I couldn't recall what Sue Williams looked like. Actually, I couldn't remember ever having met her face-to-face, but that didn't necessarily mean much as I've forgotten meeting plenty of people over the past few years. I'd spoken to her often enough, and she seemed much like my own secretary – too bossy by half and with an evil sense of humour. I suppose she'd need one, working for Angela. Eventually I found her office, inside which I found a tallish girl, late twenties I guessed, with jet black hair and dark complexion. I discovered later that her father was English and her mother Indian. That explained her absolutely stunning looks.
"Sue Williams?" I asked tentatively.
"Yes?" she said, "can I help you?"
I told her who I was, at which she had the decency to look sheepish. I asked her if it was right that her boyfriend's mate's mate was David McNab, and that she had colluded with my secretary to get David in front of me.
"It's all perfectly correct, except he's now an ex-boyfriend." She didn't seem at all upset.
"Well, then," I said, "I've got some questions to ask. The first is this. Whose company is this?"
"Mrs Sanderson's. And yours, I suppose."
"Second question. When we make some money, whose is it?"
"The company's."
"Right so far. Who decides what should be done with our surplus cash?"
"Mrs Sanderson."
"And?" I didn't like the way Angela seemed to own the company without me knowing it.
"You?"
There was a very definite question mark.
"I do. Do you think I – and Mrs Sanderson – “ I could play this game too, "are capable of making our minds up about what to do with the company's surplus money, bearing in mind we own the company?"
"Mrs Sanderson certainly is. I don't think it's fair to ask me about you. I mean, I don't know you, do I?"
Perhaps I'm getting old, but there was a very definite twinkle, humorous and suggestive, in her eyes as she said this.
"Well," I said, not feeling in control any more, "I'm a big boy now." Like I said, I could play this game as well. "And I can make my own mind up." I paused for dramatic effect. Sue merely raised an eyebrow, which gave me a rather funny feeling somewhere below my belt.
"I understand that my secretary and you have got together and decided that young McNab would have a better chance of getting money out of me than he would out of your boss, as I said before, and I wonder if you think that's a fair way to treat the man that pays the wages?"
"Mm, possibly not."
"Well, to make up for it you can buy me a Big Mac on your way home, OK? I want you to tell me what you know about David McNab.”
“OK,” she said, smiling that smile that only women can manage when they think they've won. "By the way," she added as I was leaving her office, "did it work?” She knew already from Lysette that it had, of course, but she had to ask.
“Yes, dammit.”
What else could I say?
It was, I suppose, only because I'd said what I'd said that, around 6 that afternoon, when I was leaving, I checked Sue's office to see if she was waiting for me. I don't particularly like these fast food places and while spending some off-duty time with Sue was, I admit, quite appealing I was actually relieved that her office had been tidied and she'd clearly left. I was in a rather lighter mood when I walked out of the office and was ambling up towards Marble Arch. It slowly dawned on me that someone was keeping pace with me.
A voice from near my shoulder said something about owing me a burger, which in most circumstances would be an odd thing to say, but as it was Sue it made sense.
I told her I really fancied something more exotic than cardboard imitation beef in a tiny little bun, so she said she knew a nice little pub somewhere in Hertfordshire where good food could be had. She knew it because she lived near it, so, ever the gentleman, I offered to take her in the car. She seemed to prefer this to her usual battle with public transport, so that was easily settled. There was some chatter in the car, about which I recall little. On reflection, as Sue was talking about her boss, to whom I am of course married, I rather closed down, merely grunting occasionally as she paused for breath. I did notice she seemed to think Angela was wonderful. I wouldn't have been quite so complimentary; after all, I know Angela's bad points as well.
Once we had settled in the pub, rather cosily, I thought, Sue got to the things I was actually interested in. She explained in more detail how I had been set up with David McNab, and who else was involved. It was the 'who else' that I found useful, since the papers I had didn't cover the other personalities. I can't claim that this is word for word what she said, but as far as I recall this is a fairly accurate quotation of what Sue revealed.
"I was out with my boyfriend one night - he's no longer involved with me or with David - and another couple, an old friend of mine since schooldays and her boyfriend, and he mentioned David's plans. I was pretty sure he had no interest in cars or racing, so I was a bit surprised that the subject came up. He told me that David needed a pretty big sponsorship deal to do the race and he had apparently already told David that I worked for a flashy international company that seemed to make a lot of money. He asked me to meet David, which I did.
"David, when I met him a couple of days later at his house in Crieff, where my ex and I had been invited for a weekend, seemed very genuine and he told me about his experience in racing saloon cars in this country and a sports car at the Le Mans 24 Hours. He wanted, as far as possible, to put together the same team that had raced at Le Mans. The drivers had agreed to join him, and they are Robert Kiernan, who's a bit older than David but very fast, and Tamara Saxton. Tamara's younger, but a steadying influence. She's been racing for years, starting in go-karts when she was at school. The back-up team of mechanics, time-keepers, cooks and so on is coming together although it seems likely that there will be a few changes. As David seemed to have just about everything covered I told him I'd see what I could do.
"When I got back to work I knew I should talk to Angela. I didn't, honestly because she was so involved with her Australian trip that it was pretty obvious that she didn't need any distractions. I had to do something, because I'd promised, so I rang Lysette. Initially all I wanted was to chat to her to see what she thought, but she suggested that it might be worthwhile to slip a meeting with David into your diary. That seemed a good move as we knew you'd enjoy meeting him and he'd convince you more easily than Angela. Once you'd decided to help, we just assumed you'd overrule any objections that Angela might come up with when she got back to London. So you see it's really Lysette who organised everything.”
She bent her head a little and looked up at me with her large, coal-black eyes - I could understand now why Angela was always saying that Sue had a succession of attractive, well-heeled boyfriends. This was one very comely young lady.
"I see," I said, thinking about what I'd do to that treacherous little minx back in my office, "it's a plot, but it does seem to be working so far. At the moment I'm not going to ask who supplied the details about the company, but I have my suspicions.” I paused briefly, for effect. "I'm not sure about convincing Angela, but the next step is, I think, to have a look at the set-up in more detail and organise the structure and the financial side. The sooner we start the better, so tomorrow you can talk to Lysette and between you set up another meeting with David and his co-drivers. I'd also like to meet as many of the backup team as possible."
I still felt I'd been hoodwinked, but I was quite enthusiastic about involvement in the racing side. If the event was to be as prestigious as it seemed I could see Angela, if she was handled the right way, becoming equally enthusiastic about the PR opportunities.
We'd finished eating, and it was getting late, so I offered to drive Sue home. Although it turned out to be only a few hundred yards, she accepted a lift. Perhaps she enjoyed being seen getting out of a Porsche.
Stopped outside her house I reminded her to set up the meeting. She said she would, thanked me and then leaned over and kissed me, a good deal more affectionately than I would have expected from someone working as my wife's secretary.
"We must do that again,” was her parting comment as she climbed so gracefully out of the car, although what 'that' might be I didn't then know. I do now. I watched her walk to the door, open it and go inside, then drove off home.
It was a couple of days later when Lysette told me that a second meeting had been
arranged for the following Saturday morning. Angela was due home sometime on the Friday and I thought I'd ask her to come with me to David’s rented workshop near the Knockhill circuit in Scotland. I couldn't really do anything more until Angela returned as I had already sorted out a list of questions about financial matters that I needed to have answered. I don't mind admitting that I was a bit nervous when Friday dawned and I was waiting for Angela to come home.
Now I should explain a bit about the nature of our marriage. I live and work in rural Northamptonshire, but Angela works in our London office and lives in our flat in central London. I rarely go there, and we have an understanding that we are both free to have affairs provided that they never become anything more than diversions. Actually, I love my wife and have only ever had a couple of short-term liaisons. Angela, I know, loves me, but she is much more into the physical side of life. She's very fit and has entertained a succession of young (and not so young) men. It's an arrangement that works very well for us because we are able to support two homes and fairly expensive lifestyles, but I wouldn't recommend it to others.
Friday went the way of other office-bound days, with a variety of basically mundane tasks to be dealt with between phone calls. Six o'clock arrived without my realising it and I only knew the day had more or less ended when Lysette came into my cigarette-smoke filled room to tell me she was going home. I thought I'd do the same and ambled from the office into the house, wondering if Angela had gone straight to London.
The office part of the building connects to the house through the kitchen, so, pretty obviously, the first room in the house that I entered was the kitchen. There, in the centre of the kitchen table, was a mug half-full of cold coffee. Angela never drinks a whole mug, so she was home. I wandered round the house but couldn't find her until I spotted her in the garden. I stood watching her for a minute or two, but then she saw me as she turned towards the house. Despite wearing high-heeled shoes she made a fair turn of speed as she ran in through the lounge door, which I had thoughtfully opened for her.
She threw her arms round my neck and, although a bit surprised by her enthusiasm, I found myself lifting her off the floor as we kissed. When I put her down she stepped back with her head tilted to one side.
“I've missed you,” she said, then started undoing the jacket of a probably expensive suit. I watched her take it off, and then undo and step out of the skirt. Several hundred pounds' worth of clothes lay discarded on the floor as Angela, now wearing only a dark blue bra with matching knickers and suspender belt teamed with black stockings and high heels, started undressing me. She pulled off my shirt which was flung away, then peeled off the rest of my clothes.
“I want you, Walter, right now and right here," she said, pushing me (I didn't resist!) down onto the floor. As she stood over me I reached up and eased her knickers off, revealing that so-familiar patch of black hair that contrasted with the long blond hair on her head. I allowed my fingers to probe into her pubic hair, feeling her already wet lips. Angela started panting with anticipation as she sank down onto me, guiding me into her. She bounced up and down quickly, her blond hair flying as she groaned and cried out. I've always been able to make her orgasm quickly, and as soon as she had climaxed I reached up, whipped her bra off and flipped her onto her back. As I slid back into her I could feel her fingernails raking over my shoulder blades and her tongue licking my neck. In response I increased my pace and very soon came myself, spurting deep inside her and giving her another orgasm.
Afterwards we lay on the floor, me naked and Angela wearing only her stockings and suspenders, necking like a couple of teenagers. I told her I had missed her too, which actually was true, and she told me about the social side of her trip. She seemed to have enjoyed herself, but I need not record all the details. It is worth mentioning that she'd met, at some party, Jack Brabham, the great Australian world motor racing champion, which she said had been a big thrill. I made a careful mental note of that, I can tell you.
Whenever we've been apart for any length of time we make it a rule never to discuss business outside of normal business hours, so we spent a very enjoyable evening together in and out of bed and the bath. We squeezed a meal in somehow, not that I remember very much about it. Finally we slept, and woke up together around seven the next morning. It always surprises me that Angela never seems to suffer from jetlag like normal people.
After breakfast, as I hadn't had a chance to mention it before and had thought better of asking her to come with me, I needed to tell Angela that I had to go up to Scotland. She said she wanted to go into London to see what had been happening, so without telling her any details (well, she didn't ask) I set off. Because it was a decent trip and a nice day I decided to give the Ferrari a run, so I blasted up to Knockhill, thoroughly enjoying myself. I did phone David to say I'd be a couple of hours late - he could hardly object since he wanted large chunks of my company's money. I gave Angela time to reach the London office and rang her to see if she intended to stay in London, which she did. Both conversations were difficult because using a mobile phone in a fast-moving Ferrari is not easy, on account of the noise.
Rather too quickly, I arrived at David's workshop, where it all looked more like an office than a racing garage. He introduced me to Robert Tiernan and Tamara Saxton, the other two drivers, and the various members of the support teams so far recruited. Then we all sat down to talk about money. I explained that I wanted the team to be within a limited company, to be wholly owned by my own company which would pay a reasonable sum for the shares. David explained how much it would cost for the various people needed, for accommodation and transportation. The numbers were stacking up alarmingly and no-one had yet mentioned a car. So I did. David looked at Robert, who looked at David. I expected Robert, a mature-looking, sensible individual, to pick this up, but while the two men were looking at each other it was Tamara who spoke.
"Before we think about our own car," she said confidently, "we need to look at what we'll be up against. There aren't too many confirmed entries yet, but among those we do know about are a couple of good American teams with Dodge Vipers, another American team with a McLaren F1, various Porsche and Ferrari teams and a German two car team of Porsche 959's. We're expecting some good Italians in an F40, and a very quick team in a Lamborghini Jota but these haven't yet definitely materialised. So we need to be very careful about what we're to run."
"That's right," said David.
"So what am I buying?" I asked, not unreasonably.
"We've thought about this a lot,” David said, "We can discount things like Porsche Turbos and any Ferrari except the F40 or F50. Effectively, this leaves us with a list of McLaren FI, Bugatti, Ferrari F40 or F50, Jaguar XJ220 or Lamborghini." David paused and Tamara jumped in.
“From that list we believe the Ferrari F40 and F50 are fast enough, but are probably too fragile. The Bugatti EB110 is very, very fast but its reliability is unproven. The same goes for Lamborghini, where we could really use only a Diablo because the Jota is a factory development and there's no way we'd get one even if we came up with the money. I don't think the McLaren's the right car because although it's the fastest of the lot it needs care at the top end, might be difficult to work on and has a suspect gearbox. The Jaguar would, we think, simply spend too much time sitting still."
"OK," I said, "that discounts every possibility. I ask again, what am I buying?"
"Well," Tamara replied, "unless you want to take a huge risk and buy a Cizeta Marauder, and a trio of Americans have entered one, there's only one car left. We're going to enter a Lister Storm." She sounded as if I should know what it was and be impressed. I didn't so I wasn't.
"A what?" I asked, reasonably enough in the circumstances.
"You remember,” David said, “Lister Jaguars from the fifties. They've been making a few cars and now make the Storm. 200 miles an hour, very nimble, bomb-proof mechanicals and we can have one track-ready for under three hundred thousand. The factory will help by supplying a stripped out car with all the necessary modifications and have quoted us the normal price of just under two thurty. We'll need to work on it, of course."
“So, instead of four hundred and fifty thousand for a Jaguar or six hundred grand for a McLaren," I said, "you'll settle for a quarter of a million for something nobody's ever heard of?"
"Maybe it's anonymous," said Tamara, "but it's done more than its share of winning and it’s the right car for the event."
I sat and thought. This young lady certainly seemed to know what she was talking about. She was nice to look at, too, being probably only two or three inches over five feet tall, very slim with shortish red hair. She exuded confidence as she sat and looked at me, to the extent of making me wonder who was the real driving force. I asked a couple more questions (which just showed my ignorance so I won't repeat them here) and agreed that, subject to Board (i. e. Angela) approval we would make a million available, but expected the team to pursue all reasonable alternative sources of finance, from the manufacturer of the car to oil companies and accessory manufacturers. David asked if I wanted to see the worksheets for jobs to be done to the Lister, but I declined - I mean, would I have understood?
So there we were. I suppose you could call us a team, with plans and now a budget to carry out those plans. I left David and Robert to arrange delivery of the car to be invoiced to Sagam Racing Ltd, and those two were clearly excited by the prospect of their ambitious project finally getting off the ground. I wandered outside and found Tamara sitting on the bonnet of David's Corrado, gazing at my Ferrari. There was only one other car there, a Toyota MR2, even more yellow than David's car, which I assumed - correctly - was Tamara's.
"You wouldn't let me try it, I suppose.” It was a statement, not a question.
"Sorry," I replied, "my insurers would never allow it."
"Feeble excuse," she said with a smile, “you’re just afraid I can drive it faster than you."
I made some reply, but whatever it was it certainly failed to wipe the smile from her face. She just sat there, looking very small but giving off an air of supreme competence. If anything made me feel that this enterprise had a reasonable chance of success it was Tamara.
The other two had strolled outside, which I hadn't noticed.
"Don't let her wind you up," said Robert.
"Not a good thing to do to the man who pays the bills!" was David's comment. Tamara merely stuck her tongue out at them.
"So now we get on with everything and send the bills to the new company at your office address?"
"That's it, David," I replied, "but keep trying to draw in other sponsorship, as we discussed. I've got a busy period coming up, but let me know if you run into problems. And, no matter what, I want to be there when this car of ours is track-tested for the first time."
There were comments of the 'of course' type and I took my leave. I probably wouldn't see the team again, I thought, for several weeks, but needed to sell the concept to Angela. That was a job, frankly, that I was not looking forward to at all. My first problem would be actually introducing the subject, and this exercised my mind for much of the way home. Well, as much as was reasonably possible while enjoying a long drive in a Ferrari. It's one of those cars that do rather command all your attention, so, really, if I was being honest, I was not much further forward by the time I reached home, except that an ugly thought had forced its way into my head. I was wondering if I was just being carried along on a tidal wave of my own enthusiasm for fast cars, and this was blinding me to commercial reality. I couldn' t see that we could expect to generate much business on the back of our involvement in one race, no matter how high the profile. I made myself feel better by telling myself that it was Angela's job to capitalise on the marketing opportunity, which of course reminded me that I needed to admit to her the commitment I had made. Oh, well, it would probably be alright.
This seemed a forlorn hope when I heard Angela on the answerphone as I played her message. Her words are burned onto the surface of my brain to this day, and will be until the day I die. She had whispered seductively into the phone "Darling, it's me. Phone as soon as you can.” That was OK. Then there was a pause, just a few seconds. Then her recorded voice bellowed at me "BECAUSE YOU'LL BANKRUPT THIS COMPANY OVER MY DEAD BODY!” This gave me the idea that she perhaps knew what was going on. It also suggested that she might not be entirely happy.
I made myself a sweet black coffee, cooled it down with cold water and lit a cigarette.
Then I sat down to ring Angela, feeling, well, not exactly nervous, more sort of, you know, scared to death. I found her at the London flat and she greeted me cordially enough. My nerves didn't improve at all when she asked me what I'd been doing with the business while she'd been away. Fortunately, very fortunately, she started laughing before I could reply (I'd taken what seemed like an hour or two to try and think of a good answer). It turned out that she'd seen Sue at the office, even though it was Saturday, and Sue (there have been times when I could joyfully have strangled that girl) had asked what she thought of our motor racing sponsorship. Naturally this sparked Angela's curiosity and she'd got the whole story. Luckily she was very enthusiastic, but had decided to give me a fright (and succeeded!) just because she thought I'd been trying to do her job. As if I would.
Angela had decided to stay in town to get to work on an outline plan to maximise the marketing opportunities arising from the race. This meant I could have a nice, quiet Sunday cleaning the Ferrari after its trip. That suited me just fine, even if I did suspect that Angela's Sunday might well be spent with one of her collection of admirers.
I suppose it must have been ten days or so later, but I do recall with remarkable clarity that it was exactly five past nine. I had just got to my desk, at the same time as the mug of coffee that Lysette provides every morning as if her life depends on it (it does, actually) and had barely begun reading the morning's mail when Angela appeared. She must have left London - she'd been staying at the flat - at a ridiculous hour to arrive by nine, so I guessed that whatever she wanted was probably important. I heard her talking to Lysette, and girlish giggles, before she came into my office.
"I've worked out a plan." It was a simple statement, but I didn't have the foggiest idea what she meant. So I asked her.
"A plan to maximise the PR opportunities of the race you've got us paying for," she said by way of explanation. I wasted a few moments telling her that we were sponsoring one car, not the entire race, but I think she really knew that. She went on outlining her plans, which sounded impressive enough and, far more importantly, didn't seem to involve me in anything very much. David McNab's name featured far more than mine, so I told her I thought she should check with him to make sure he'd have time for all these events she'd planned. After all, he was going to have to drive the car as well.
"And what do you think I've been doing for the last twenty four hours? David is quite capable of coping, and he's approved all my ideas."
"You've seen him?" I asked, perhaps rather unnecessarily.
“Oh, yes. Sue arranged for me to meet him in Scotland. I've just got back. I squeezed David in before I go to Valletta this afternoon. You knew I was going to Malta, didn't you?"
I did, but I'd forgotten. I confess I was a little bit surprised, not by the Malta trip as that was very much Angela's number one project, but by Sue's involvement in the sponsorship business without telling me. I decided I really had to have another word in that young lady's ear.
Angela left me a copy of her PR strategy document to read at my leisure and dashed off to London to pack for Malta. I settled down to deal with the complexities of my day, promising myself I would speak to my wife's treacherous secretary later, after Angela had at least reached the airport and contact between the two of them was unlikely.
Later that day I asked Lysette to ring Sue for me. I thought I was being crafty, because the two of them would certainly wonder why I wanted to talk to Sue and would of course work out that it was because Angela had gone to Scotland without me knowing. I hoped this would give me an advantage and show them I wasn't as daft as they might believe. I always felt I needed an edge dealing with women, and particularly these two. It wasn't to be, of course.
I thought that I might, for once, have the upper hand. By the time I got to speak to Sue she'd already arranged that, since Angela was going to be away for a week, more or less, and Lysette was under pressure (pressure? What pressure?) she'd come up from London and work with Lysette for a few days. Naturally enough, there was no point talking to her about Angela's dealings with young McNab on the phone when she'd be in my office for the next few days, was there? So I just told her that I'd value a few minutes of her time when she arrived.
The next morning I felt, frankly, under the weather. I spent the first couple of hours of what should have been my working morning achieving nothing except a fog of Marlboro smoke in the kitchen. Eventually, feeling listless and unenthusiastic, I ambled into my office just after half past eleven. Four female eyes watched me accusingly, but to her credit Sue said nothing. Lysette informed me, rather frostily, I felt, that my coffee was on my desk. It was. Cold.
Not for the first time I wondered who ran my company. Also not for the first time I concluded that I was reasonably sure I didn't. This conclusion was confirmed when I had to plead for a fresh coffee - Lysette obviously didn't approve of me coming in late, but she did finally provide my coffee. At least I assume she did, but Sue brought it in, pointedly closing the door behind her. I was glancing, without much interest, at the few letters that remained after Lysette had sifted out those that either she or the staff would deal with when Sue came in, put my coffee down and stood quietly in front of my desk.
"For goodness’ sake sit down," I said, or something similar.
"You wanted to see me, I guess about Angela's trip to Scotland?"
"Mm. I thought you might have told me she was interfering - what do you mean, trip?" I knew she'd been, but Sue didn't know I knew.
"Didn't you know? She went up to see David. She told me not to tell you, otherwise I would, of course. I thought she'd have told you."
"No, she didn't. What else did she tell you not to tell me?"
"Nothing, honestly. You knew she was going to Valletta, because she mentioned that the trip had been discussed."
"True enough,” I said, although not quite believing that I knew everything, "but do me a favour, let me know whenever she does something and tells you not to tell me."
"Yes, boss." She said this with a smile, thankfully, as she got up to leave. "I must get back to Lysette, we've got lots to do," she said, “and I've got to find somewhere to stay for a couple of nights.”
"Don't worry about that," I heard myself saying, "you can stay here." As I said it I thought I was probably making a problem for myself.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully enough, the only noteworthy happening was my failure to speak to David McNab. I left a message on his answerphone, which was all I could do. Around 6, Lysette announced she was going home, and, if it was alright with me, Sue was going with her to eat at Lysette's house. She'd be back later. I agreed and the two girls left.
I spent the evening feeling a little bit deflated, and couldn't really think why. The phone rang at about nine thirty and I almost decided not to answer it. I did, however, and found Tamara Saxton getting quite wound up. She told me they'd sorted out the purchase of the car and how fantastic it was. She told me they'd done deals for huge (it seemed to me) numbers of racing tyres and for fuel. The only major cost left to tackle was that of shipping the entire team six thousand odd miles to the West Coast of America, but she reckoned that would be quite easy. Since I find moving just myself from one country to another to be a fearsomely complex business I really didn't believe that last bit. I asked her when the car would be running, and she said there would be an initial shakedown, which would be very dull, in about a month and then they would use as much track time as possible. But they urgently needed a great deal of computer equipment, she said. I agreed that it could all be bought, she said McNab would ring me in a day or two, we said goodbye and I put the phone down.
So we were in business. The car was on its way to us and there was no going back now.
Curiously, the developments did little to lighten my mood, but I thought I'd sit down with a bottle of decent claret as a sort of celebration anyway. I'd got the bottle out of my small wine cellar (it's a cupboard really, but I can dream) when the phone rang again.
This time it was Angela ringing from Malta with a couple of technical questions about what needed to be included on printed business stationery (in this business it's all rules and regulations) which I dealt with easily enough. We chatted for a couple of minutes and I carefully avoided anything to do with our racing venture. Angela seemed pressed for time, which is not at all unusual, so she ended the call with a sincere sounding declaration of love. That, I admit, perked me up and I felt rather more cheerful as I started to open my bottle. This time I'd actually got the bottle open and had begun to feel the sense of frustration that I habitually feel whenever I've just uncorked a decent claret - well, if you pour it without letting it breathe for a while it just tastes surprised to be out of the bottle - when I was interrupted by a knocking at my door.
I'd forgotten Sue was staying in the house, and Lysette had just dropped her off. She stood on the doorstep looking up at me with an overnight bag in her hand and a sparkle in her eyes.
"Please, mister, can a weary wage-slave find shelter here for the night?"
I swear that's what she said, but, then, I didn't know her too well. With the benefit of hindsight I would expect her to say something like that. Now I know she's very, very funny, and too clever by half.
She came in and I took her up to one of the several spare bedrooms that we have - a largeish room with double bed, a couple of comfortable armchairs, a writing desk and its own bathroom - and suggested that, when she was ready, she come down and join me in a drink or two as I had something to tell her. She said she'd be down in ten minutes, so I went back downstairs.
Here I have to confess to a little habit that one or two people might find a tiny bit strange, but I think it's perfectly normal. If I'm drinking in the house I like to have bare feet. There, I've told you. I try to avoid doing this in company, but on this particular night I was a bit preoccupied so when Sue came down (after an interval of much nearer half an hour than ten minutes) I was sitting barefoot on the floor contemplating a bottle and two glasses. As I had my back to the door I didn't see her come in - in fact I didn't know she was there until she laughed. At me, who ultimately pays her wages.
I stood up, so that I could pour the wine without spilling it, and ignored the hilarity coming from behind me. It was only when I turned round to pass a glass to her that I realised she had changed her clothes.
You'll have to forgive an indulgence here, but, as I may have mentioned, Sue is a very good looking girl. Wasted on Angela, of course. I also have to say that if Angela and I compared secretaries purely on looks mine would score highly, but Sue would win every time. What she looked like when she came into that room is something I'll never forget and I want to share it with you. I've already said she was tall and dark, with very dark eyes and masses of long, straight, black hair. She was wearing a pink satin (I think - I'm no expert) skirt so short that it was barely decent, with a tight top, very low cut, of the same material. Around her waist was a gold chain, knotted, with loose ends longer than her skirt. She had another knotted gold chain around her neck, with others round her wrists, her ankles and her head, although how she kept the one around her head where it was will always be a mystery to me. Her feet were in matching pink strappy shoes with heels a couple of inches high. The whole effect was unbelievable, and I had to concentrate hard to tell her about the conversation I'd had with Tamara Saxton.
We drank our way through the bottle of claret, and a good way through a bottle of whisky (just a blend - I'm too mean to give away any single malt) in what seemed like a very short time and, to be honest, I don't remember any of the conversation. I do however remember Sue finishing a drink, standing up to refill her glass, then putting the full glass down, turning to face me, pulling up the hem of her skirt the necessary two or three inches and saying, as she showed me, "I forgot to put my knickers on".