A Woman of Our Times. Rosie Thomas

grandfather. His grandson, if he was his grandson, sat beneath the picture at a partner’s desk probably inherited from the old man. Only the telephones, dictating machine, computer terminal had been added at some later date. On the floor there was a rug whose subtly glowing colours and intricate pattern spoke to Harriet of tiny silk threads, and thousands upon thousands of hand-knots. There wasn’t much else in the room. It was a masterpiece of understatement that still shouted money as clearly as if the walls had been pasted with layers of notes. It made the glass and steel temple of Morton’s seem by comparison like a hamburger bar in a new shopping precinct.

      Harriet’s mouth curved. She sucked the corners of it inwards to contain her smile. But she saw at the same time that Martin Landwith had noted her inventory, and her amusement, and seemed to approve of it.

      ‘This is my son, and partner. Robin Landwith.’

      Harriet turned. He must have come silently in behind her.

      He was taller, and thinner, than his father. He had the same dark colouring, but there was no grey in his hair and it was thicker and more casually cut than his father’s. Clearly they shared the same tailor, but Robin’s lapels were two hairs breadths wider, and there were discreet pleats at the front of his trousers. His hand, when Harriet shook it, was larger and warmer.

      He looked her over, just as Landwith senior had done. There was more open appreciation in his smile, but afterwards his glance flickered back to his father, as if for approval. Only that made Harriet notice how young he was. He was younger than herself. Perhaps only twenty-five, twenty-six at the most. Not quite ready, yet, to be given free rein. It struck Harriet, seeing him take his place beside his father, that Robin looked like a particularly fine thoroughbred colt. He had been sired for this particular course, for races in which the stakes were pure risk and the prizes were all the multiplications of money. Clearly the bloodlines were faultless, whatever the running he would finally make.

      For now, father and son made a formidable combination.

      Martin Landwith was sitting with his chin resting on one hand. With the other hand he made a small, polite gesture of invitation.

      ‘Won’t you tell us how we can help you?’

      Harriet told.

      She left nothing out, nor did she add anything, but she avoided the operatic performance that had failed her at Morton’s. If the proposal was good enough, she reasoned, these two would spot it even if she made her pitch in Swahili. She spoke quietly, without emphasis, letting the information do its own selling.

      When she took out Conundrum and set it up on the broad desk, they examined it carefully and asked half a dozen questions about the manufacture, but they didn’t try to play the game. Instead, when they had finished with the board itself, they scrutinised the box and the point-of-sale roughs and all the leaflets and promotional material that the design studio had expensively prepared for the Toy Fair. But the time expended even on all of that was brief.

      ‘The package is probably good enough,’ Martin Landwith judged. Then he moved on with practised speech to her business plan.

      They went through the figures line by line, and they accepted none of her forecasts without query. Harriet was glad of the thoroughness of her preparation and relieved that they couldn’t fault her calculations. She wouldn’t care to have stumbled in front of the two Landwiths. But she had to admit, under their questioning, that she had only investigated the performance of roughly similar products.

      ‘There’s nothing on the market quite like Conundrum,’ she told them. ‘A direct parallel between potential performance and real sales is impossible for that reason. But that is Conundrum’s strength, too, isn’t it?’

      She saw that they didn’t glance away at the game but kept their attention fixed on her. She felt a small beat of triumph. She was right, it was herself and her own capabilities that she was trying to sell. If the Landwiths would buy her, she would show them that she could make the world buy Conundrum.

      ‘I think we should discuss your marketing strategy now,’ Martin Landwith said.

      That was more difficult. Without having tested the water at the Fair, Harriet wasn’t quite sure what direction her marketing thrust would follow. But she brought out the research notes that showed the performance of the most nearly similar products out of the big chains, and talked about targeting W.H. Smith, Menzies, Toys ‘R’ Us and the rest.

      Father and son listened attentively, but without any encouraging sign. When she finished, she saw Martin glance at his watch. Then he put his fingertips together, looked at her over the crest of them.

      Harriet’s heart began to thump unpleasantly.

      ‘I like your game,’ Martin said. ‘It may well be a seller. But I wouldn’t want to try to predict how strong a seller, or how durable. I don’t see any convincing way of doing so and – I’m sorry – I don’t see that your due diligence succeeds either. The FMCG world is unpredictable …’

      Fast moving consumer goods, Harriet translated silently. Oh, please.

      ‘… and we prefer our risks to be calculated. Can you demonstrate the value of your Conundrum other than theoretically?’

      Harriet wondered if she should tell him about her Sundays on the top deck of the 73 bus, and the enthusiasm and friendliness she had met there. But she doubted that Martin Landwith would know where to go to catch a bus, and doubted even more strongly that he would accept the vote of its passengers. And Robin Landwith, with his long legs stretched out to one side of the desk, didn’t look as though he had ever ridden a bus in his life.

      ‘Only by having the opportunity to sell it. I shall be doing that for the next four days, at the trade fair. Why don’t you come and take a look?’

      There was no direct response to her invitation. The two men appeared to think symbiotically without even needing to look at each other. Their silence manoeuvred Harriet into the attack.

      ‘I know you’ve got to calculate your risks. But wouldn’t a real venture be interesting? I’m not asking for a huge investment, I’m sure you can spread it around. And I know this will work. I know it.’ Harriet’s words seemed to echo mockingly in the plush quiet.

      This time it was Robin who spoke. ‘Tell us what our exit strategy will be.’

      ‘USM float in three or four years.’

      They approved of that. It was ambitious enough.

      Martin was consulting his watch again. The meeting had reached an inconclusive finish. Harriet stood up briskly, so that she could appear to control the endgame.

      ‘Thank you for your time. I hope you’ll decide in my favour, Mr Landwith. Peacocks could work well for us both.’

      He looked up at her; it was an odd, sidelong glance. The atmosphere in the room changed with it. It had been cool and crystalline, now it became warmer, as if thick velvet curtains had been drawn somewhere. Harriet understood that Martin Landwith had finished his appraisal of her investment potential. Now he was examining her as a woman. His eyes travelled from her mouth to her breasts. Such practised attention might have angered her, but she was interested to discover that it did not. She let him look, even squaring her shoulders and holding her head higher.

      If he wants to play the game this way, she thought, I can do it too. I can play any way he likes, for the right stakes. The realisation of how much she would do for the sake of Conundrum didn’t shock her. She felt charged by it, rather, as if Martin Landwith’s deft, overdainty fingers had already worked on her. But it was the recognition of her own freedom, to do what she wanted with herself that had excited her, not anything Martin Landwith would or could do.

      Robin had seen the shade of Harriet too, through the opaque business dress. They had stepped, an awkward threesome, on to different ground. Harriet looked from the father to the son, meeting their eyes squarely. Funny, she thought. Do they compete, or run together?

      ‘Thank you