The Love List

By Dave Dearman

Jenny Wintle, merchant banker, is confronted in her London office by Xavier De Souza, the arrogant and chauvinistic chairman of Malaysian company Eastern Construction. Jenny is transferred to the newly open Singapore office, here she meets De Souza once again. He is rude and aggressive but she feels a reluctant fascination for him despite the fact that he refuses to do any business with women. Jenny's London flatmate, Linda Sullivan, who is crazy about lists, gives her a framed list of eight ways of 'getting your man', as a farewell present. Against a background of bitter business rivalry and intrigue Jenny and Xavier find they must revise their opinions both of themselves individually and each other.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: May 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499097238

Dave Dearman

Dave Dearman lives in Auckland, New Zealand. In his role as an English teacher he has travelled widely and lived in a number of different countries, including England, Singapore, Hong Kong, France, Brunei and Niue Island. He is married with four daughters and considers himself to be very much a family man. His theory is that working with young people keeps him young and he likes nothing more than teaching interested students. Dave loves rock music and remembers with pleasure his years as a rock musician. He has written several books and enjoys writing almost as much as reading.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Dave Dearman.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015907834

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4990-9722-1

               Softcover        978-1-4990-9721-4

               eBook             978-1-4990-9723-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 1

‘W ill three million be enough? Your costings seem to be

trimmed pretty severely, and we can keep a few hundred thousand up our sleeves for a few months.’

The desk was covered in papers, and the computer screen glowed impassively as she pushed her glasses back on to the bridge of her nose, the London drizzle forming blurred grey rivulets down the window.

‘It should be okay, Jenny. I’ll get back to you tomorrow. And hey, thanks, we’re five weeks ahead of the time projection now.’

‘Anything to keep the board happy, Dave. There’s a seven-day option on this one so let us know soon.’

‘Will do, Jenny. Cheers.’

She replaced the phone, sat back in the chair, and rubbed her eyes, pushing the black-rimmed glasses on to her forehead and promising herself for the thousandth time to get contact lenses.

Jenny Wintle competed successfully in the breakneck world of high finance and merchant banking, and she knew she was more than a match for most of her male colleagues. It didn’t pay to underestimate Jenny, as a number of managing directors and financial consultants had discovered very quickly, and to their cost.

Coffee, she thought. I’d kill for a coffee. She headed for the coffee machine in the corner of the reception area, noticing that Sue, the receptionist, wasn’t yet back from lunch. She glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes to go, might as well book a table at the Lutece now. Jeremy is sweet, but for a solicitor, he does tend to forget such details. He’d want some place traditional, serving good English food, boring but reliable, just like Jeremy.

She swivelled the chair and put her feet up on a low shelf as she was put on hold, and plastic muzak filled her ear. ‘Lunchtimes,’ she muttered, ‘you’d think they’d have someone on phone duty at lunchtimes.’ She stared vacantly at the calendar on the back wall and whistled soundlessly.

At the tapping on the reception desk behind her, she turned slightly and, seeing someone at the edge of her vision, held up a hand as if to say ‘Just a moment’. The tapping became more insistent, and the phone was suddenly answered by a harassed-sounding voice, the background noise confirming the busyness of lunchtime at the Lutece.

‘Table for two, please. That’s right…’ she was saying. ‘Name of Crawshaw—’

The crash almost made her drop the phone. She turned suddenly and glared over her shoulder from the leather-bound business directory, which had so obviously just been dropped on to the reception counter to the figure standing there.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered into the phone. ‘Er, yes, next Thursday—’

‘Do you always ignore clients like this?’ The voice was clipped, sarcastic, and very slightly accented. Asian?

‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated into the phone. ‘Just a moment.’

‘Yes, I agree, your legs are lovely.’ He glanced sardonically towards the low shelf, and she hurriedly put her feet down. ‘And I see your nails are lovely, and your face is a vision of delight. I’m sure the rest of you is of an equally high standard.’

His voice dripped with an affected arrogance, and Jenny got to her feet, slowly frowning in puzzlement, the telephone held a few inches from her ear, hand over the mouthpiece. She had dealt with fractious clients, angry clients, aggressive clients, and was familiar with most of the tactics used in the money game from gentle subterfuge to downright deceit. This had to be the most novel approach she’d yet come across. Either that or the smoothly dressed businessman facing her was the most self-opinionated, domineering, chauvinistic, arrogant, and devastatingly handsome client she had met.

‘Yes, Thursday, 7.30 p.m., thank you.’ She replaced the phone gently, bemused, not quite sure if she’d been insulted or complimented.

His eyes widened, ingenuously confirming at least a proportion of Asian ancestry. The straight black hair was cut in a severe, almost contrived casualness, just short of the ears. She absorbed a jumble of impressions: a wide gap between eyebrows, no earlobes, narrow and almost delicate nose but nostrils that looked as if they could flare sensuously, narrow top lip and fuller bottom lip, which now compressed into a supercilious pout. The clearly shaped chin, high cheekbones and slightly olive complexion complemented the eyes: black, calculating, determined, enigmatic.

Her calm assessment of him was a practised device which she used deliberately in stress or conflict situations. In her two-inch heels, she was still forced to look up at him, which made him easily six feet tall.

‘That’s better, my sweet.’ His eyes assessed her provocatively, following the gold buttons of her suit, which started at the left shoulder, crossed the bust, and disappeared down her right side, below the level of the desk.

‘Better?’

‘Ah, it speaks. I do apologise for dragging you away from such obviously important business’—the eyes narrowed—‘but I have an appointment with Mr Wintle, and I think I’ve wasted enough time standing here.’

‘Mr Wintle?’

‘Yes, Miss Echo or Ms Echo or whatever you call yourself. Mr Jerry Wintle. I’m a little early, but please tell him I’m here.’

He plucked a business card from an inside pocket and slapped it on the counter.

‘Xavier De Souza, she read aloud, Eastern Construction. Yes, Mr De Souza.’ She held a hand up as he started to speak and held his eyes. ‘It reads as well. Please take a seat. I’ll just, ah, check Mr Wintle’s office.’

He spread himself back in one of the chairs and gazed at her from behind hooded eyes as she left the reception area with deliberate slowness, tapping the business card gently on the index finger of her left hand.

Once in the office, she filed the papers away from the desk and checked the diary: ‘1 p.m. - De Souza.’ She remembered the name. ‘Overseas client,’ her boss Jim Fisk had said. Malaysia—could prove interesting. She knew Jim was hoping to tap into the growing Asian market and wondered where De Souza fitted in. He may well prove to be a valuable client, but he’ll do so without walking over me. She glanced at her watch, surprising herself with the vehemence of her thoughts. Five minutes to go. Might as well add punctuality to my list of virtues. Let him wait right up to the wire. Jerry Wintle, hmm, somebody slipped up somewhere. This could be interesting. Time to redress the balance, methinks, Jenny my girl.

She checked her appearance in the full-length mirror on the inside of a cupboard door and made a careful appraisal. The faint smell of his expensive cologne lingered vaguely, and she concentrated on controlling her rising anger at his blatant and calculated obnoxiousness. Her hair was tied back in a rather prim chignon, the severity of its style accentuated by a plain-black hair tie, which contrasted with her ash-blonde hair. The hazel eyes looked back at her brightly through the rather large, almost-square-framed glasses. Full, sensuous lips wore a bright-crimson lipstick that matched her nails, again producing an elegant contrast with the black suit and its flowing line of buttons. Red shoes completed the picture, and Jenny nodded at her reflection, satisfied with what she saw. The hazel eyes glinted back at her as she smoothed the suit jacket over her hips and moved determinedly to the door.

‘Mr De Souza, would you come this way, please.’ He unfolded himself from the chair, winked suggestively, then followed her to the office. She stood to one side, and he sat in the chair indicated, looking around the office enquiringly. Jenny moved around the desk and sat primly in her chair facing him, hands folded neatly on the desk in front of her.

‘Now, Mr De Souza’—she smiled a tight, professional smile—‘how may I help you?’

For the first time, he frowned slightly in self-doubt, then recovered quickly and smiled thinly. ‘Okay, my dear, you’ve had your game, fair enough. Just get Mr Wintle, will you? I don’t have all day.’

Jenny took a card from a side drawer and placed it softly on the desk in front of him.

‘Jenny Wintle, financial consultant.’ His voice was genuinely puzzled now. ‘Jenny Wintle?’ His voice cracked like a whip. ‘Just what is going on?’

‘What appears to be going on as you put it, Mr De Souza, is that your email from our office has been somehow mistranscribed. Your Jerry Wintle is, in fact, myself. As you see.’ She tapped the card. ‘Jenny Wintle. At your service,’ she added, leaning back. Her eyes narrowed humourlessly.

His reaction was immediate and calculated as he rose slowly to his feet, his six-foot frame towering over her.

‘I can see you’re enjoying this, Miss Wintle. However, I never deal with women, so I’m afraid your enjoyment will have to be short-lived. I would be grateful, however, for an appointment with your superior. He is a man, I presume?’

‘Jim Fisk is a man, yes, Mr De Souza, but I think you will find him as puzzled as I am by such an archaic attitude. Money is sexless.’

‘Unlike you, huh, Miss Wintle?’ The thinly veiled sarcasm reappeared, and the ambiguous eyes fixed her with a startling intensity.

‘See the receptionist for an appointment.’ Jenny was controlled and held his eye firmly. ‘And by the way, Mr De Souza’—she paused for effect—‘is your obnoxiousness acquired, or is it just a gift?’

His face closed quickly, and he made as though to speak then suddenly turned and left. Not a very wise thing to say, she thought, but he sure asked for it. She was aware of her quickened pulse rate and breathed out slowly in a long stream. Anyway, he’s absolutely right about one thing. She smiled to herself. I did enjoy that.

* * * * * *

Jenny shared a small flat with Linda Sullivan, a vivacious and energetic buyer for a large department store. She was as different from Jenny in appearance as she was in personality. Both were successful business people, but the similarity ended there. Linda was just over five feet tall with a comfortably rounded, slightly overweight figure and had constant intentions of rigorous dieting which never quite came to fruition. Her job took her overseas several times a year, and Jenny was expecting her back from the USA today.

She pushed open the door, weary from her day at the office and the confrontation with Xavier De Souza. Jim Fisk, her boss, had seen De Souza that afternoon and had been sympathetic towards Jenny but firm. De Souza was a rising star in the South East Asian construction world, and if he wanted to deal with men only, so be it.

‘I told him you were one of our best, but it was like he didn’t want to know.’ He shrugged. ‘Seemed to think women aren’t serious enough or something.’

‘Huh, he made it quite clear what he thinks women are good for. Maybe it’s just as well,’ she sighed. ‘I’d probably have ended up throwing the computer at him.

She went to the fridge. If Linda had returned, there would be a message fixed to the door by one of the many magnetic flowers Linda loved to use. Sure enough there was a hurriedly written note in her distinctive style.

1. Hi Jenny! Good trip. Great flight.

2. Eating in tonight. U too?

3. Still no Mr Hunk—but he’s out there somewhere!

4. Gone to wine shop.

5. See ya!

Jenny grinned. Linda bubbled and burst her way through life in a swirl of barely organised chaos. From her chunky bangles and brightly coloured outfits to the battered red Mini she threw around London’s streets like a demented taxi driver, Linda was the free spirit Jenny sometimes wished she could be. Her lists were a constant source of amusement. She said it was her way of organising the chaotic world around her into some semblance of order. Whatever it was, Jenny had to admit that Linda seemed to be good at her job and was perhaps the most unaffected person she had ever met.

Pride of place on the fridge door at the moment was a magazine article titled ‘Are You a Compulsive Buyer?’ with a ten-point checklist. Linda thought it was hilarious. Next to it was a hurriedly torn list of the ten bestselling books of the month and beside that a list of London’s ten worst-dressed people. Pinned to the back of her bedroom door was a list of important dates for insurance premiums, car registration, passport renewal, and other payments due. Taped to the side of the TV was a step-by-step list of how to programme the DVD player. Jenny glanced automatically at the rolling grocery list which Linda had installed on the wall next to the kitchen door to check what grocery items needed adding or deleting—they shared expenses scrupulously—and went to put the kettle on.

She sat at the table with a cup of tea, and the door suddenly burst open to reveal Linda, partially concealed behind a large brown shopping bag. ‘Hi ya, Jenny! Long time no see—well, five days no see anyway. How are the hallowed corridors of finance? How many millions have you made since I saw you last? And have you found Mr Right yet, to replace your Mr Convenient?’

She edged around the door, closing it with her bottom, and walked across to the bench, talking all the time. ‘Boy, I thought New York traffic was bad, but I reckon London traffic has New York licked. Here we go.’ She started unpacking the bag. ‘Spaghetti bolognaise tonight. Are you in?’ Jenny nodded, smiling, waiting for Linda’s torrent of words to finish before she could get a word in. ‘Right. Red wine—two bottles. Tomatoes, anchovies, tomato paste, sweet basil—great name for a herb that—and spaghetti.’ She walked across to the kitchen door, taking the pen from beside the grocery list, and crossed out the relevant items before pouring herself a cup of tea and setting down opposite Jenny.

‘Yes, hello, Linda. It’s lovely to be able to get a word in now and again.’ Jenny grinned, using the same bantering tone as Linda. They had each bought a half share in the lease of the flat two years earlier and had developed a firm friendship despite their different personalities.

‘The corridors of finance are swept regularly,’ she continued. ‘No, I’m not a millionaire yet, and Jeremy is fine—he’s very sweet, you know that.’

‘Sure he is. So is a cheap bottle of sherry. Come on, Jenny. Someone with your looks and brains, you need someone with a bit of zap, a bit of go. Bring some excitement into those ivory financial towers.’

‘You know very well Jeremy and I have an understanding. We’re both busy with our careers.’

‘Yes, but do you love him?’ pressed Linda.

‘Well, it’s not, I mean, it’s an arrangement, I suppose. Well, maybe. He’s a very… stable sort of person.’ It was impossible to take offence at Linda’s comments, and Jenny couldn’t help feeling that there was probably some truth in them.

‘Sure, he’s stable, but come on, he is boring. If he cut himself, he’d stain the carpet grey.’

Jenny chuckled. ‘Well, seeing you’re such an expert, how is your hulk-hunt coming on? If I’ve got Mr Boring, as you call him, what