Top Of The Shop
Les Broad
Copyright 2011 Les Broad
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TOP OF THE SHOP
The sun shone down on that glorious, typically English, high summer afternoon. As he swung through the gates of his ten-bedroomed country mansion and onto its carefully maintained gravel drive Martin Harrison thought, as he so often did, that the powerful rumble from the V8 heart of his convertible Ferrari was ideally suited to that particular moment: after all, he could hear it so much better with the top down.
At home, just a quarter of a mile up the drive, his wife would be waiting for him. Martin's wife was quite a bit younger than him, at just 31 to his 52, and an attractive woman. He, it has to be said, was rarely the object of second glances but that wasn't too surprising:men of his age carrying too much weight and too little hair aren't often appealing.
Yet he appealed to Agnetta, so much so that she had agreed to marry him. And she hadn't just agreed, she'd been wildly enthusiastic about becoming Mrs Harrison. It had bemused poor Martin, who even thought she was marrying him just to shed her Swedish nationality and become British, but, as he discovered, she was actually British anyway despite her first language being Swedish and having had a Swedish upbringing. That interesting set of circumstances arose from her parents' unorthodox domestic arrangements as her British father and Swedish mother divided their time between the two countries. Daddy had business interests in both countries but managed to derive only a tiny income from his toils; Mummy thought it best that little Agnetta should be educated in Sweden.
So, when Agnetta grew into a striking blond woman it seemed natural for her to live in Britain, where she stood out and got noticed, rather than the unappealingly remote northern Swedish coastal town in which she'd spent her childhood and where she didn't stand out at all.
In Britain, though, she found life difficult. Her looks got her jobs, certainly, but it always seemed that more was expected of her than ever appeared in her employment contract. It was, she decided, one of the perils of being the living personification of every man's perception of the ideal Swedish girl.
And then she met Martin.
By the time of that meeting Martin had given up his dull, middle class, middle income, middle management job and had bought, for cash, his impressive mansion, his Ferrari and a couple of other more mundane cars.
And it was all just because he'd written a book.
Entitled 'Top Of The Shop', it was a spy thriller, but not a very good one. It was a mystery how it ever came to be published - several reviewers said so - and its sales record was truly woeful. But a few copies were sold, and one found its way into the hands of someone who might justifiably be called a 'movie mogul'. He bought the film rights for a sum that even Martin thought was insane, plus a percentage of the box office receipts. A film was made which bore little real similarity to the book's plot, and was all the better for it, and became a worldwide box-office hit. Martin's future life of ease and plenty was assured.
The Ferrari rolled to a stop outside the house's main entrance. With a deep sigh of satisfaction Martin eased out of the car, closed its blood-red door and strolled into the house – his and Agnetta's house.
Martin was a genuinely, completely, happy man, having climbed out of a car that cost more than three times what his middle-management salary had been and walked into a house that until so recently he could only have gazed at from a distance. And coming down the stairs to greet him, a beaming smile on her face, was a truly beautiful woman who was happy to be his wife and delighted in every aspect of their relationship.
Life was good for Martin.
Agnetta greeted her husband warmly; she insisted on being there to welcome him every time he came home, to kiss him, hold him and make sure he felt loved, wanted and desired. Hadn't he provided her with a wonderful home, a plush convertible BMW to drive, a purse full of credit cards and holidays to wherever she wanted?
Life was good for Agnetta too.
“Have you been anywhere exciting?” she asked; she'd still been asleep when he'd left that morning and, unusually, hadn't any idea where he might have been.
Holding his wife's hand and leading her into a luxuriously furnished reception room, Martin replied. “The travel agents. I had an e-mail from the studios that made my film. They want me to fly over and talk about a sequel. I'll be there about a month and I thought you'd like to spend a month in LA too. I might even be able to get you a part in the new film. Anyway, I booked the tickets and in a couple of days we'll be on our way.”
Agnetta was just as thrilled at the idea as Martin had expected, although it was the shopping experience she was looking forward to more than any possibility of being in Martin's film. Acting had never appealed to her, simply because she couldn't understand why anyone would want to lie for a living voluntarily.
The next two days passed in a blur. As Martin led his wife through Heathrow Airport's departure lounge on their way to the first-class section of an LA-bound 747 the British summer, brief, glorious and warm, was drawing to an emphatic close. The cloud cover had been zero when they left home in Martin's Range Rover – he wouldn't have left his Ferrari in a long-term car park – but now thick cloud covered the sky. By the time that the Harrisons left British airspace the country would be suffering the first of a series of downpours that would last the whole time they were in LA.
It was a good trip. Agnetta enjoyed the many and varied opportunities presented by their hotel while Martin was away helping to put together the skeleton of the new film. He was pleased, but not at all surprised, to receive a very handsome payment for his services, which included a sum for the film rights of any sequel to the book he had already written. The trip was, despite Agnetta's prolific shopping, massively profitable, ensuring that another layer could be applied to the Harrisons' already luxurious lifestyle.
At the airport, to wile away the time waiting for their flight, Martin and Agnetta chatted about buying a second house, perhaps with a nice view of the Mediterranean Sea.
Thousands of miles away a letter lay on Martin's hall floor. It looked like an innocent, ordinary letter, a single sheet of letterheaded notepaper neatly folded inside an ordinary white envelope. It was of a type that Martin often received. Even if he'd known it was there, which he didn't, Martin would have been unconcerned.
A long but, inevitably, comfortable trip home ended in the early hours of a damp, chilly, British late summer morning. Without even bothering to unload their bags from the Range Rover and pausing only to tidy the accumulation of post away on a hall table Agnetta and Martin went straight upstairs and collapsed into their king-size four poster bed. Within minutes they were both asleep, anticipating nothing more than reacquainting themselves with their estate when they awoke.
Martin was first to rise, barely noticing how dull and damp the day was as he took his wife her morning coffee in bed. Once he'd done that he sat with his own in the opulent dining room, with his back to its windows. Martin had no wish at all to stare out at wet grass and trees: one glance was enough to start him thinking about a long holiday to somewhere warm and sunny. Agnetta would approve, he was sure. But before he could really concentrate on that little project he began dealing with the mass of post that had built up while they'd been away. He threw all the junk mail straight in the bin, separated out the few items addressed to Agnetta and settled down to read his own mail. There were a few bills, which he would send on to his accountant to settle, a couple of requests for donations from charities – which followed the junk mail into the bin – and the letter in the white envelope. It was a short letter, from his
solicitors, asking him to get in touch.
Thinking that it was just the right sort of day to deal with people like lawyers, he rang the solicitors and made an appointment to see the partner he always dealt with later that morning. His sense of self-importance was escalated a little by the man's willingness to make time available at such short notice. That satisfying thought was interrupted by Agnetta's appearance; Martin thought, as he so often did, that her blond perfection complemented the luxury of the house perfectly.
“Anything interesting in the post?” she asked, smiling across the room at her husband.
“A couple for you, nothing much else. There was a letter from George asking me to ring him when we got back. I've arranged to see him today. He wouldn't say what he wanted to tell me, but it'll be about the new contract with the film company. I'll sort it out with him and be back in plenty of time for dinner.”
“Contracts! Men always want contracts.”
“It's the way we are. And contracts pay the bills.”
“And everything else. I'll take my letters back to bed, I think. If I'm not up, tell me when you leave.”
Martin smiled in response. Then he amused himself by watching his wife's retreating back. Tonight, he thought, we'll be well rested, and we'll be able to use that big bed for what it was bought for. It was an idea that he found... stimulating.
A couple of hours later Martin parked his Ferrari in the solicitors' car park and sauntered casually into the building. He had got used to projecting the image of a man who had a huge house, expensive cars, a beautiful young wife; a man who didn't have a care in the world. He did it well.
He felt just the same and was projecting the same image when he sat down across a desk from George Hadley, now the senior partner of the firm of Burton, Wilson & Hadley. It was a prosperous local firm, operating from a dozen offices throughout three counties and boasting effective connections with a major international law firm. Martin found that dealing with international legal matters in the relaxed ambience of a country market town suited him ideally.
“So, George,” Martin said after the exchanges of pleasantries, “I suppose you want to tell me what's wrong with the contract for the new film. Tell me I've been underpaid!” Relaxed and smiling,
Martin was a man in control.
“I imagine that might come up, yes, but it's a rather different matter on the table, I'm afraid.” Hadley spoke seriously, but Martin knew that solicitors always did that. They had to justify their fees somehow. “While you were away in, um, California, I had a letter. I found it more than a little discomforting as it alleges that one of the characters in your book, a most unprepossessing character, actually exists. Same name, same town, same address, even the same colour eyes, and he has the same habit of working away from home for irregular periods.”
“Well, who'd have believed it? It's a hell of a coincidence, isn't it?” Martin seemed merely intrigued.
“I hope it's a coincidence. The letter I received is from the solicitors acting for Mr Steve Smithson - “
“Smithson? He's the corrupt spy in my book!”
“Indeed, Martin. The letter informs me that their client has suffered abuse and mental anguish from what is called – and these are the other side's words, not mine – a vicious, premeditated, deliberate and serious libel of their client.”
Martin was stunned, but only for a moment. “It's an issue for the publishers. Nothing for us to worry about.”
“That thought occurred to me,” delivered with the merest hint of sarcasm, “and I took it up with the publishing company. I was referred to the agreement you and they signed, the result of which was the publication of your book. In that agreement you accept all liability arising from just this sort of scenario. I also checked the contracts with the film company in America and revisited the film itself as I have a copy on tape. The same character and all his personal details are among the few specifics carried over from the book to the film. I imagine that it is the film rather than the book that has triggered this action, if only because the film gained a rather, um, wider audience than the book and the singular reference to the book is but an opening shot.”
“Mm, quite a lot was changed when the book was filmed.”
“Indeed. The contract with the film company is very plain. You have agreed to indemnify them against every cost incurred in defending themselves, and that includes settlement of claims against them, legal costs, their own administrative costs and reasonable interest on those costs. The total could be a very substantial sum.”
“I suppose it could.”
“So we should consider our response. I have replied, saying only that you were, at the time, out of the country. Now we need to deal substantively with these allegations, although I am at something of a loss to see what defence we can mount that is likely to succeed.”
“But I made him up!” Martin was just beginning to worry. “I mean, Steve Smithson doesn't exist! He's never existed!”
“I'm afraid, Martin, that he does exist. My staff have made exhaustive checks and Mr Steve Smithson does indeed live at the address quoted in your book, he has all the physical characteristics, such as they are, attributed to him in your book and his working pattern is disturbingly familiar. He is, though, not a rogue spy. Instead, he is a well qualified aviation engineer whose work takes him to many parts of the world on a basis that is far from regular. Do you begin to see that we have a genuine issue with which we must deal?”
“I suppose so, but how somebody can get a bit upset because I created a character that's a bit like him beats me.”
“All right Martin, let us fantasise for a moment. Were you to read a book in which the anti-hero is called Martin Harrison would you be upset?”
“Not really. It's not an uncommon name.”
“But would it upset you if that character had a blond Swedish wife called Agnetta, derived his income from, say, international drug dealing and whose wife was having affair after affair behind his back?”
“I might be.” Said grudgingly.
“And if comments were passed to you in the street, both at home and wherever you went in the world, and those comments were so extensive that your work began to dry up? Would you then seek retribution?”
“All right, George, you've made your point. Yes, I would.”
“You would. However accidentally, you have put an innocent man, it seems, into just that position. We must now find a solution acceptable to you and to that innocent man.”
“Is he innocent? I mean, he isn't really a drug dealer or anything, is he?” Martin just might have been a little confused, but that might have been understandable. His luxurious world might be under threat.
“He is totally innocent, an honest, upright citizen with no criminal record, he pays his taxes regularly and has a wife and two children who are similarly wholly virtuous.”
“You've checked?”
“Comprehensively and exhaustively. I would not have been acting in your best interests to have done less.”
“I see.” Martin fell into deep thought. Hadley sat silently, waiting for a response. The clock ticked, loudly in the silence of the room. Outside people went about their daily lives, unconcerned about what might be going on behind the shaded windows of that town centre office.
“I think,” Martin said quietly after a long delay, “there might be insurance against this sort of thing. In fact I'm pretty certain that I got some libel insurance. If I remember right, it was so cheap that I covered myself for a fortune, about twenty five million or something silly like that. I'll go and see the brokers, they're out on the business park. I can be there and back in an hour or so. Leave it with me, George, it'll be all right. Things always are, in the end.”
Martin made his way out of the building, jumped into his car and drove, sedately, out of town towards the business park. It was a journey of only a mile or two, but when Martin completed it he was his old self: assured, content and, above all, confident that all was right with th
e world.
Martin's insurance brokers were well used to him dropping in; usually it was to arrange travel insurance for himself and his wife when they were off to yet another far-flung part of the world. He was well liked in that office; his habit of lavishing expensive gifts on the staff ensured that. On this particular day he was beckoned to a desk bearing a nameplate telling Martin its occupant was Caroline Johnson.
“Hello Mr Harrison,” Caroline said, a beaming smile of genuine warmth lighting up the pretty, twenty two year old face looking at him between long curtains of jet black hair. “What can we do for you today? Insurance for another trip to somewhere wonderful?”
“I wish it was, Caroline, I wish it was. What I need is for you to tell me if I'm covered in the probably impossible event that I might write something that libelled somebody. Accidentally, of course.”
“OK, that's no problem, just let me get your records up on the computer. Now, what have we got? House, contents, cars, life insurances, pension – we were saying the other day we ought to review your pension arrangements, there's so much more you could be doing.”
“Well, you'll have to remind me, because I've just signed up for another film, so there's a pound or two going spare. Better you have it than the wife buying more shoes, eh?”He chuckled at his own joke, knowing that he'd never denied Agnetta anything.
“Here we are, liabilities. There are policies connected with the house, of course, and one to do with your work. Let me just have a look at that, it's coming up now. I'll ask the computer to search for the word 'libel' and it'll find it if it's there as long as I've spelt it right.” Another beaming smile. “Here we are, accidental libel cover, it includes damages awarded and all the associated expenses and the limit is twenty five million pounds. I don't suppose you could write something that libels me, could you? Accidentally, I mean?”
“OK, then we'll run off together with our ill-gotten gains to an exotic Pacific island! But seriously, thanks for checking that I can sleep easy again now.”
Martin left Caroline to her work and, once back behind the wheel of the Ferrari, rang George Hadley. “George,” he said confidently when he'd been put through, “it's no problem. I've got the cover I thought I had, so we can write back saying how sorry I am and that we'll pay him something for his trouble. What do you think we should offer?”
“To be honest I'm not at all sure. I'll do some checking but I imagine that ten thousand would be as good an opening offer as any.”
“OK, fine.