Cut to the Chase. Ray CW Scott

They went over the arrangements for Wallace’s London engagements and everything seemed satisfactory.

      ‘Did you find out anything about the Society of Asian Commerce?’

      ‘Not a fat lot, except that they pay their bills,’ said Saul. ‘So do the Renown Insurance Company, the Pyramid Metal Group and Woodersons Bank. I’m also having discussions with Barclays Bank who want an entertaining speaker for a dinner they are holding to celebrate the opening of a new branch somewhere in the City.’

      ‘How do I fit into that?’

      ‘Australian, old son,’ Saul raised his glass while his eyes followed a tight skirt as it circumnavigated their table. ‘Barclays are interested in Australia.’

      ‘They were interested in Australia some years ago and opened a few branches, then they pulled out. Are they interested again? They must be mad.’

      ‘Well, that’s for them to work out,’ Saul commented. ‘But as you know many foreign banks…not that we are foreign of course…’ he added hastily ‘…are now trying to gain licences overseas, not only in Australia, and Barclays are one of them.’

      ‘So you want an address about Australia?’

      ‘Yes, the Australian banking scene, you can throw in something about mining, the flora and fauna, and a few cricket or Rugby jokes will always go down well.’

      ‘Christ! What the hell do I know about banks?’

      ‘History is all that is needed, old son. Call into the ANZ or the National Bank in London, they’ll fill you in.’

      Wallace wasn’t entirely satisfied and muttered into his soup. But he had to agree Saul had worked hard on his behalf, and though these were relatively minor assignments, they paid some of the travelling expenses for a trip that was mainly social. From then on they chatted about other things and examined other tight skirts as they meandered around the restaurant. Wallace idly wondered whether the management employed these girls just to walk around in the vicinity of Saul’s chair to retain his custom.

      The mud wrestling was better than expected, one of the girls was stripped naked by her assailant during the one tussle which brought about cheers from the audience, but it didn’t really do much for Wallace as the mud acted as a skin tight garment. He had expected to see a wholly male audience but was surprised to see a high proportion of the fairer sex present; they seemed to do more shouting at the combatants than the men.

      As a spectacle he had to concede it was exhilarating or maybe it was the Scotch that Saul persisted in pushing in his direction. It was late when he returned to the hotel with the promise of an early morning call from Saul. Saul departed whistling after appropriating two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, his piercing whistle went right through Wallace’s eardrums.

      The next day Wallace made a few phone calls, and checked with Saul ostensibly to see if he’d reached home safely but actually to check whether he had had any more possible dates for him, but he hadn’t. Wallace also rang Christine Norton to see how things were going in Australia and she did have a possible date about three months hence. She said she’d keep him informed.

      Finally Wallace rang an old school friend named Ben Wakefield, they had been at school together in Australia and also members of the same cricket and football clubs, before Ben’s English parents had decided they didn’t like Australia and dragged Ben and his sister Elizabeth back with them despite their protests. Wallace usually contacted him when he was in England, and they still exchanged Christmas cards and e-mail messages. Ben was overjoyed to hear from Wallace, and they left the dates open.

      ‘Anytime, old son,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll be here. Just give me a call when you get here.’

      Wallace had not previously heard of Woodersons Bank but gathered that it was one of the numerous merchant banks that frequented the city whose names were bandied around whenever there was a take-over battle in progress. The occasion was their 150th anniversary so Wallace adapted the address that he had already designed for Barclays and it went down surprisingly well. As he sat down with the applause still ringing in his ears he felt the satisfaction of a job well done.

      After the dinner was over and everyone congregated in groups for general chats, he was surrounded by many who wished to offer their congratulations and to have a brief chat. One of them was a man who looked to be in his early thirties, with piercing blue eyes and a shock of fair curly hair. He hovered around until the last admirer had shaken Wallace’s hand and then he bored in.

      ‘G’day,’ he said, instantly stamping himself as an Australian. ‘Well done. My name is Dave McKay.’