Daddy’s Girls. Tasmina Perry
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there any good news?’ asked Nick grimly, his large hazel eyes searching his friend’s.
David slowly gave something that resembled a smirk.
‘Look, if it wasn’t you two sitting opposite me, I’d turn this gig down right now. It just wouldn’t be worth my while when frankly I think it’s got a fifty-fifty chance – at most – of raising the cash. But …’ He looked over at Cate and flashed her a brilliant row of straight white teeth. ‘… there is something quite sexy about investing in a glossy magazine.’ He laughed, his gaze still fixed on Cate. ‘It’s certainly a damn sight more glamorous than putting your money into widgets; although widgets are a much better investment in my opinion. However,’ he continued, running a finger up and down the stem of his glass, ‘I reckon that’s how you get your investors. By appealing to their vanity.’
He picked up the business plan and thrust it into a calfskin leather briefcase sitting on the seat beside him, snapping it shut with a click.
‘I tell you what, I’ll sound out a few of the VC firms for you – see if any of them are interested in a small media project, but I think your best bet is to get a handful of high-net-worth individuals to chuck in some cash. All you’re asking is for two hundred thousand pounds each to say they own a slice of a fancy magazine, and that’s a day at the races for some of these guys. Maybe you could even chuck in a dinner-date with your sister, Cate?’ He looked again at Cate in her fitted Alberta Ferretti black silk dress and corrected himself. ‘Actually, forget Serena, chuck in a dinner-date with you.’
Cate laughed politely, carefully moving her foot away from David’s, which seemed to have slipped next to hers under the table.
‘So we’re looking for investors with a few quid and a bit of time on their hands,’ said Nick. ‘Blokes like Cate’s old man, for example?’
David perked up, his financial radar sensing a kill. ‘That’s a point, Cate – your dad and some of his mates might want a punt at this. It would really help me get the ball rolling with other investors if I say we have some initial investment, particularly from high-profile investors.’
Cate felt some colour drain quickly from her face. ‘I don’t know about that,’ she stammered.
‘Come on, Cate, give old Daddy a ring,’ chided Nick. ‘Why not call him now? I’m going to call Tom to see if he’ll chuck in a few quid.’
‘Our family doesn’t have money coming out of its eyeballs, you know,’ she replied firmly. ‘And I don’t think he’d take it too seriously anyway. I’ll speak to Daddy if we have to, but …’
After only a week in Cate’s company, Nick had come to recognize her resistance when the name Oswald Balcon was mentioned. He flashed David a look.
‘OK, OK,’ said David, checking his watch. ‘If money from your family is not an option, do we have any other source of initial investment? Can you two bring any money to the table, for instance? Can we get a mortgage on any property?’
Nick laughed again. ‘Like I’m rolling in money. I’ve been unemployed since Christmas.’
Cate said nothing, suddenly feeling very sick. The last thing she wanted to see was her adorable Notting Hill mews house, the beautiful haven into which she’d ploughed every last penny she’d earned, slapped with a fat mortgage.
‘Well, you’d better find something quick,’ said David, draining off the wine in his glass and running his tongue over his lips. ‘Investors are going to want to see something from you two other than good looks and a good idea.’ He clicked his fingers to summon the bill and turned his attention back to the blonde in the miniskirt. The meeting, it seemed, was over.
‘That didn’t go too well, did it?’ said Cate, pulling up the collar on her cream cashmere coat as a cold northeasterly wind slapped against her cheeks. She stuck her hand out to hail a black cab.
‘Well, it could have been worse,’ replied Nick, climbing into the taxi behind her. ‘Anyway, where are we going? Your house?’
She smiled. ‘My house? You mean our office.’ She laughed, thinking of the cramped top floor of her house, tucked away in the eaves, that had become their makeshift studio, the floor strewn with magazines, the walls papered with pictures and ideas.
‘Oh yes, the office,’ laughed Nick, giving the driver the address and sinking back in the seat as they rumbled down the street. The laughter was soon replaced by a gloomy silence, however.
‘Well, I don’t see how you can possibly think that went well,’ said Cate after a while, looking out of the window at City workers scurrying through the drizzle. ‘Basically he said we’ve got to find a dozen billionaire gamblers or we might as well forget it.’
‘Yes, well, don’t underestimate the sort of people that man knows,’ said Nick. ‘Believe me, he knows everyone. How else do you think he got to be head of corporate broking at the age of thirty-five? Anyway,’ he added, ‘he certainly seemed to like you.’
Cate blushed furiously and pretended to stare out of the window.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said.
‘Oh, I’ve seen David Goldman’s slick seduction moves before and he definitely fancies you,’ teased Nick, poking her in the ribs and trying to get a reaction. ‘Some people consider him something of a catch, you know. Although as his halls-of-residence roommate for twelve long months, I can tell you that his personal hygiene is terrible.’
Now Cate twisted herself around to face him and slapped the back of his hand playfully.
‘Will you stop it?’ she said, her voice flushed with embarrassment. ‘And anyway – you shouldn’t even be suggesting such impropriety. It’s not professional.’
They both began to laugh, the tension of the meeting finally broken. Nick ran a hand through his short tousled hair as he watched fat droplets of rain bounce off the steamed-up window. His voice turned more serious once again.
‘There are a lot of rich private investors out there, but the real problem is raising that initial finance. I agree with David that we’re more likely to get the ball rolling if we can put in some personal funds. I can seriously only scrape together about twenty grand, max.’
‘And I am really, really nervous about mortgaging my house any more,’ admitted Cate, ‘especially with all those statistics about three in four ventures failing. It seems so scary.’
For a second she wondered if they really were doing the right thing. Wouldn’t it be easier to take the dummy to Jonathan Newhouse, European chairman of Condé Nast, to see if he was interested? At least they would have the financial muscle required to launch a magazine, plus they’d be able to see the potential of Sand.
‘Ah, don’t go wobbly on me now, Cate,’ smiled Nick, as if reading her thoughts. ‘What about your sister’s husband? Doesn’t he have a hedge fund or something? He must be rolling in his own cash – or at least other people’s?’
‘Not that I completely understand what a hedge fund is, but I’ve already sounded Venetia out. Apparently his company doesn’t deal in investments like this. It’s all about very high risk, very high return with him, and apparently a start-up magazine doesn’t quite qualify.’
Nick nodded slowly. ‘OK …’
Cate looked at him pleadingly.
‘Nick, I want to try and do this myself. To you it might look like I have a cushy life, but it’s hard when you’ve spent your life being made to feel grateful for everything.’
It was the nearest thing to personal detail he had got out of her in the whole time he’d known her.
‘And no, I don’t want to ask my father for the money either,’ she said gently. ‘Even if he did have lots of cash sloshing about for investments, he’s not the easiest of men to deal with.’
Nick