‘Grandfather did not give me a lot of leeway.’ He could feel the paper crumple, his grip tightening even more as he fought to control his temper. It was so typical of his father to reduce all his years of hard work and training to some sort of glorified work experience. ‘He trusted me and trusted my judgement.’
As he never trusted you... The words were unsaid but hung in the air.
‘Look, Dad, we have a five-year plan.’ A plan his father seemed determine to ignore. ‘A plan that kept us profitable through the financial crisis. We need to focus on the core business strengths, not get distracted by...by...’ Max sought the right diplomatic words. Shiny new toys might be accurate, but they were unlikely to help the situation. ‘By intriguing investments.’
Steven Loveday sighed, the deep breath resonating with regret. ‘The problem with your grandfather was that he had no real vision. Oh, he was a media man through and through, and he knew publishing. But books are dead, Max. It’s time for us to expand, to embrace the digital world.’
Max knew his mouth was hanging open, that he was gaping at his father with an incredulous look on his face, but his poker face was eluding him. His grandfather had had no vision? Was that truly what his father thought?
‘He took DL global,’ he managed after a long pause. ‘Made us a household name.’
A name his father seemed determined to squander. What was it they said? One generation to found, another to expand and the third to squander? It looked as if Steven Loveday was going to prove the old adage right in record time.
Max’s hands curled into fists. Not if I have anything to do with it.
‘Everyone wanted this, Max. Have you seen the concept? It’s brilliant! Bored and want to go out? Just log on and see who’s free—make contact, get a reservation at a mutually convenient restaurant, book your taxi home. And if the evening goes well you can even sort out a hotel room. It’s going to revolutionise online dating.’
Possibly. But what did online dating have to do with publishing?
Max began to walk up and down the thickly carpeted office floor, unable to stay standing meekly in front of his father’s desk like a schoolboy any longer.
‘But we can’t afford it. And, more crucially, it’s not core business, Dad. It doesn’t fit with the plan.’
‘That was your grandfather’s plan, not mine. We have to move with the times, Max.’
Max bit back a sigh. ‘I know. Which is why we were the first to bring eBooks to the mainstream. Our interactive travel guides and language books are market leaders, and thanks to our subscription service our newspapers are actually in profit.’
He shouldn’t need to be explaining this to his father. Max had always known that his father would inherit the controlling share of the company, even though Steven Loveday had only played at working over the last thirty years. He also knew how hard his grandfather had struggled with that decision, how close he had come to bypassing his son altogether for his grandson. But in the end even his hard-nosed grandfather hadn’t been able to bring himself to humiliate his only child with a very public disinheriting.
And now the family business was paying the price.
The increasingly awkward silence was just beginning to stretch to excruciating when a loud and fast hip-hop tune blared out of the phone on his father’s desk. It was the kind of ringtone Max would expect from a streetwise fifteen-year-old, not a fifty-eight-year-old man in a hand-made suit and silk tie, but his father’s eyes lit up as he grabbed the telephone, his body swaying a little to the furious beat.
‘Sweetie?’
Max could just make out a giggle from the caller. Not that he needed to hear the voice to know who it was. The inappropriate ringtone, the soppy expression on his father’s face, the nauseating tone of his voice...
It had been six months. If his father was playing true to form he should be getting bored with his latest crush by now. But then none of this latest infatuation was running true to form. Not bringing it out in the open, not leaving Max’s mother and setting up a love-nest in a Hartford penthouse... No, Steven Loveday’s little affairs of the heart were usually as brief as they were intense, but they were always, always clandestine.
This...? This almost felt...well, serious.
His father looked over at Max. ‘Mandy sends her love.’
Max muttered something inaudible even to himself. What was the etiquette here? Just what did you say to your father’s mistress? Especially a mistress several years younger than yourself—and your own ex-PA. She’d giggled a lot less then.
To occupy himself while his father continued to croon sweet nothings down the phone, he pulled out his own phone and began to scroll through the long list of emails. As usual they were multiplying like the Hydra’s head: ten springing forth for each one he deleted. His father’s name might top the letterhead, but Max’s workload seemed to have tripled in the last year no matter how many sixteen-hour days and seven-day weeks he pulled.
Delete, forward, mark for attention, delete, definitely delete... He paused. Another missive from Ellie Scott. What did Miss Prim and Proper want now?
Max had developed a picture of Ellie Scott over the last two months of mostly one-sided emails. She had to be of a similar age to his recently deceased great-aunt, probably wore tweed and had those horned reading glasses. In tortoiseshell. He bet that she played bridge, golfed in sturdy brogues and breakfasted on kippers and anaemic toast.
Okay, he had based her on all those old classic series featuring British spinsters of a certain age. But the bossy, imperative, clipped tone of her emails made him pretty certain he couldn’t be that far off in his estimate.
And she lived to plague him. Her requests for information, agreement, input and, worst of all, his actual presence had upped from one a week to almost daily. Sure, the money his great-aunt had left to start a literary festival in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere might seem important to Miss Scott, but he had actual real work to do. At some point he was going to have to see if he could delegate or refuse the trustee post he had been bequeathed. And get somebody to sort out the house that was part of the same unwanted legacy.
There was just no time for anything that didn’t involve clearing up after his father.
Max’s finger didn’t even pause as he pressed ‘delete’. He moved on, reading another and another, and—hang on a minute. His eyes flicked back up the screen as he reread one, barely able to believe the words dancing in front of his eyes.
Irregularity...
Share of the company...
Your great-aunt...
Twenty-five per cent.
Max blinked, casting a quick glance over at his father. Did he know? Could it possibly be true that his recently deceased great-aunt had kept hold of her twenty-five per cent of DL Media even after she had walked away from her work and her family? The same great-aunt who had left her house and belongings to him? This could change everything.
Maybe Miss Scott’s luck was in. A trip to Cornwall might be exactly what the lawyer ordered.
‘Sorry about that.’ His father’s expression was a discomfiting mixture of slightly sheepish and sappy. ‘Max, I would really appreciate it if you had a word with your mother.’
Here they went again. How many times had Max been asked to broker a rapprochement in the constant battlefield that was his parents’ marriage? Every time he swore never to do it again. But someone had to be the responsible one in the family, and somehow, even when he could still measure his age in single digits, that person had