February 2012
As the athlete's torch touched the huge dish and the Olympic flame burst into pale blue life a great roar from 80,000 throats rose up from the stadium. Michael Crompton gazed down in awe as the opening ceremony exploded into life – ablaze with colour as the entertainers poured out from openings all around the arena, swarming across the tracks onto the grass and in an instant the promise of seventeen days of world class competition switched from an incredible dream to stunning reality. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, even though he was completely out of his comfort zone. As middle management, the only reason Michael was here at all was that his wife, Sarah, was personal assistant to Walter Goldmeyer, the CEO of the bank which was the principal source of Olympic funding and, quite naturally, the bank had been allocated this magnificent box high up above the masses. Only half an hour earlier, Michael and Sarah had been introduced to the chairman of the Olympic Committee, Sebastian Coe and his Artist in Residence in the next box and now the champagne was beginning to go to Michael's head.
He glanced over at Sarah, stunningly beautiful in her long flowing Gucci dress, which Walter had insisted on buying for her, because, he reasoned, his staff simply had to reflect the quality of the contribution his bank had made to the games. Michael had initially balked at the idea, but Sarah had insisted and he had finally backed down, knowing that they would be hard pushed to meet that extravagant cost themselves.
As the dancers spun and twirled around the arena, Sarah was leaning excitedly against the glass, but Michael was not entirely happy with the tactile way that Walter was behaving towards his wife; Walter was patting her hand affectionately as he pointed out to her his favourite routines. Michael felt sorry for Sarah, having to put up with this sexual harassment; she had never complained of it before, but there was nothing he was able to do about it right now – the boss was after all the 'Founder of the feast' as Dickens would have put it and Michael could hardly become the Scrooge on this unique day.
Eventually, after the arena had cleared and the long tedious processions of each nation's athletes had begun, Walter turned away from the window and appeared to notice him for the first time, 'Sarah looks gorgeous today, don't you think, Michael?' Sarah smiled proudly, oblivious to her husband's obvious discomfort.
'She is very grateful to you, Walter,' he managed, 'but that dress must have cost a fortune.'
Walter smiled, 'Peanuts, dear boy, peanuts – besides, the accountant will probably set it off against expenses.' He took another sip of his champagne, 'Who do you use, Michael?' he asked.
'The likes of us don't need accountants.' Michael replied, 'They'd cost more than they could possibly save me.'
'No, no, no.' Walter patted his arm, 'When you are Vice-Chairman . . .' he winked and put his finger to his lips, 'You need to speak to Harold . . . I think I've got his card somewhere . . .' he fumbled in his wallet for a few moments, emerging triumphantly with a small but elaborate beige card in his fingers. 'Give him a ring tomorrow and tell him that Walter recommended you – you will be absolutely amazed how he can help you.'
Completely lost for words, Michael slipped the card into his pocket. He was trying to digest the promotion bombshell Walter had just dropped, but who was now refusing to be drawn into any further discussion. However, he was determined to bin it when he got home; his father had been an Economics lecturer and he had always been brought up to manage his own financial affairs; he wasn't about to let some complete stranger take control of the money he had worked so hard for.
However, in the taxi on the way home, Sarah had been most insistent, 'Walter thinks Harold can save us a fortune, you must ring him.'
'But I don't earn enough to have an accountant.' he protested, pulling the card from his pocket and examining it as if for the first time.
'Walter says they only charge you a percentage of what they save you, so it won't cost you anything, darling. Just do it . . . do it for me?'
Michael nodded, he could never refuse his beautiful wife anything.
Two days later, Sarah and Michael were sat in front of Harold Bloomfield. Sarah seemed completely at ease, but Michael could not help but wonder as he surveyed the sumptuous office that if this was all financed by a percentage, then it must be a percentage of a very large sum indeed.
Harold was carefully working his way through the small mountain of paperwork they had been asked to bring with them, occasionally scribbling down notes with a flourish of his gold Schaeffer. Finally, he peered up at them over his half moon spectacles and smiled. He turned his notes around to face them and pointed to a large sum printed at the bottom of the sheet in his neat hand.
Michael was stunned, 'You can save us that every year?' he asked.
Harold grinned, 'No . . . every month!'
Michael was speechless, but Sarah found her voice, 'What do we have to do, Harold?'
'Well, there are several ways we can reduce your tax liability, but to start us off, you seem to have your financial balance all wrong; Michael, you earn considerably more than Sarah here, and yet all of your assents are levied against your own higher tax commitment. By simply switching everything across to your wife you can make an enormous saving.'
Michael looked puzzled, 'What exactly is 'everything'?'
'The house, your investments, even the car, but as Sarah has her own that might not be practical.'
Michael hesitated, but Sarah put her hand on his knee, 'What's the matter, darling, you look as if you don't trust me.'
Michael replied nervously, 'It's not that I don't trust you, Sarah, but this is a quantum leap and it is a bit difficult for me to get my head around it.'
Harold reached for a red marker pen and slowly drew a large red circle around the sum on the paper; he held it up, 'That's every month, Michael, every month!'
Five weeks later, on his walk from the station, Michael stopped at the cashpoint and inserted his card. He pressed the £100 button, then stared in disbelief at the screen: 'Insufficient funds'. In a daze he withdrew his card and wandered away deep in thought. As he passed another bank he stopped and inserted his card again; insufficient funds'. This time he called for a mini statement and saw to his horror that the account had been cleaned out the day before. He recovered his card and hurried home. The house was empty; it was Friday and Sarah often worked late on Fridays. He poured himself a scotch and sat down to wait.
A few minutes after nine, Sarah turned her key in the lock and found Michael the worst for wear, a half empty bottle on the coffee table. 'We've been robbed!' he said, 'Someone has robbed all of our money out of the bank . . . all of it!'
Sarah stood over him, unbuttoning her coat, 'I don't think so, Michael.'
'But I went to the cashpoint – it's empty, insufficient funds – it's all gone . . . who could have taken it? Who could have got hold of all our details?'
Sarah smiled sweetly down at him, 'Well that someone was me, darling, it is a joint account after all.' She sat on the arm of the settee, 'I suppose it is about time I told you, I am going to spend the weekend with Walter in his houseboat in Chelsea and I needed some spending money.'
Through his alcoholic haze, Michael stared incomprehensively at his wife.
'You have always been tight, Michael, too tight for words, I have had to go without so much; but now I have found someone who understands money and isn't afraid to spend it. Someone who will keep me in the manner I would like to become accustomed.' Her cruel laugh cut through him like a knife, 'And I would like you to be out of my house when I get back on Monday!'
Michael sobered up fast, 'Sarah, darling, don't do anything hasty . . . I don't know what has gone on between you two, but I can forgive and forget anything . . . Walter has as much as promised me Vice-Chairman, all our money worries will be over soon; it can be so different.'
Sarah said, 'You really are the most gullible fool, Michael; in the austerity measures coming up next month the board has decided they must lose two from middle management, and guess what . . .?'
The early morning sun broke from behind the clouds enlightening the earth with its warm comfort – but Michael didn't even notice. He stared through the car windscreen, mesmerised by the gently rustling leaves on the poplars which effectively closed off this end of the park. He couldn't believe that his whole world could crumble so quickly from riches to rags. He had lost his beautiful wife, his job, his house, his investments – all he had left was this car, in which the finance company had a controlling interest, and the clothes he stood up in.
He put the bottle to his lips, but realised that he had already swallowed the last drop and he tossed the empty bottle on the seat beside him. A couple of joggers doing a circuit of the park with a Labrador retriever keeping pace passed within twenty feet of him but they never seemed to notice him, or the pipe which led from the exhaust up through the window.
Michael reached for the ignition key, but hesitated, there must be a way out of this mess . . .
But he had been through all the alternatives so many times that his brain was in overload; it was hopeless, at his age and in this financial climate there was no way he could ever claw his way back, he had nowhere to stay, no-one to comfort him . . . he had nothing.
He turned the key and the engine burst into life. Michael settled back in his seat and inhaled the pungent fumes as they poured through the narrow gap. At first he choked and coughed violently, but gradually he became used to the thick evil smelling gas, which was beginning now to smell sweet and inviting. He laughed hysterically as he thought: everything, everything, I transferred everything to her and now, when I am gone, she'll dig out the insurance policies and the will . . .
He sat bolt upright in his seat and turned the key. Flinging the door open he threw himself bodily out of the car onto the grass where he gasped desperately at the clean crisp morning air.
The will . . . the will!
They had both sat down and made their wills together, back in the early days when their love had been absolute – each bequeathing everything they owned to the other in the event of . . .
He disconnected the hose, hurling it deep into the bushes, ensured the car was free of fumes and fired up the engine. He had enough fuel to get him to Chelsea . . . this has to look like an accident!