“I want a knighthood.”
“For goodness sake,” my assistant Leo protested. “Aren’t you content to be Mike Barraclough, one of the richest men in England, vice chairman of Bettflix TV? Why on earth do you want to be Sir Michael?”
“Because I fancy it. Now listen, Leo, what do you reckon? I think my best plan is to bribe some government ministers. How should I go about it? Who’s the most greedy member of the cabinet? Or would it only work if I bribe a minister for the arts?”
“Very risky, Michael. What happens if you hand over a fortune to an MP, then there’s an election and the other lot get in?”
“Hmm, yes, your right. Well then, the only other way is for me to give lots of money to charities and make a big fuss about it.”
“You Michael? Giving to charities?” He laughed. “You’re the most tight-fisted, penny pinching bugger I’ve ever met. You’ve never given away a brass farthing in your life.”
“I did once.”
I thought back to when I was a child and gave a beggar a five-pound note, and remembered the nice warm feeling when the old man thanked me. My father had seen me doing it, and afterwards he went raving mad. He thrashed me, and told me that only an idiot ever gives away money. “Think of number one, all the time,” he’d told me again and again as I grew up, if ever I was tempted to help other people, or lend them money. “Giving things way is for suckers and losers. Winners don’t help anyone else, they only think of number one! People are either winners or losers, and people who beg for money are losers.”
And sure enough I had followed his philosophy ever since, and it had worked out well for me. I’m ruthlessly competitive in business and I always work hard and get promoted, so that now I’m a success story, with everything I could wish for.
Except, of course, a knighthood.
“Well, Michael, if you want the best publicity for your new philanthropic ventures, your best bet is to give to sick children,” Leo advised me. “That’ll be good for media attention. We can get magazine articles, TV mentions, all sorts of stuff like that.”
So for the next few months I followed his advice. Near Birmingham, there was a place called Gathercoates hospital, which was for children with rare forms of cancer, so I went up to see them.
And I have to admit it did give me a shock to see the place. The poor sick little children and their parents doting on them, the helpful nurses, the air of kindness in the place. The only doctors I’d ever come across had been grasping buggers, working in private hospitals and clinics for shedloads of cash. But rich Harley Street clinics were a world away from the matey atmosphere in the wards at Gathercoates, where the doctors were on first name terms with the cleaners, and everybody seemed to muck in to help each other as a team, and where the most junior nurse seemed to be on equal footing with the top consultants.
The chief oncologist introduced me to their research team at the local university, who, he told me, worked tirelessly searching for new kinds of treatment.
“It’s so good to meet you, Mr Barraclough,” said the chief researcher, Dr Tom Goodenough, who had a handshake that was warm and firm. “If you can donate a regular amount, it means that we can begin new lines of research. We’ve been starved of government money for some time now, so we rely on donations. Your money really will make a huge difference to us.”
Time marched on, and although I gave money to several charities, Tom’s charity was my favourite. We chatted on the phone regularly, and my father would have spun in his grave, because as I learned more and more about their work, even began to grasp some of the science behind it, I couldn’t resist increasing my donations. Somehow I had never been able to forget the sick children and their desperate parents, and I really wanted to help them in any way I could.
A year later, I was delighted when I got a phone call from one of my contacts in the government.
“Good news, Michael,” she began. “There’s a rumour that your telly interviews and media stuff about your charity work has got noticed in all the right circles.”
“The palace?”
“Yup, so I’ve heard. There’s a good chance that in a few months the king will be tapping your shoulder with a big sword.”
“Really?”
“Really. Just keep you nose clean and it’s in the bag. Don’t tell anyone yet, of course, this is in strict confidence.”
Not only that, but the Director of Brettflix Television, my boss Lord Craddlethorpe, was retiring soon, and he had told me that the board were going to ask me to be his successor.
Things came to a head at the Christmas party at the end of the year, which was held at Lord Craddlethorpe’s luxurious castle in Wales, and all the senior staff and their spouses were invited. Lord C had told me that he was planning to announce my appointment as his successor to everyone that night at the party.
As my wife Alison and I drove down to Wales in the Bentley I basked in the knowledge that tonight was going to be a turning point. Not only would I soon be the director of one of the biggest TV streaming companies on the planet, but I had a feeling that I was also going to get good news from the palace about the new year’s honours list.
When we arrived and Alison stepped down onto gravel drive in front of the beautiful old castle it really did seem like a dream come true. The brightly-lit fairy tale castle, the catch of frost in the air, the feeling of deep joy.
“Do you think you could get used to being called Lady Alison?” I asked her.
“Certainly, Sir Michael,” she replied. “But I don’t know. Somehow it all seems too good to be true. Getting the top job, then becoming Sir Michael. My Dad always used to say that Men make plans and the Gods laugh.”
“Well this man made some plans and, Lady Alison, they are finally paying off.”
We walked towards the big entrance portico, where there was a crowd of men in dinner jackets and the ladies in beautiful evening dresses.
But I got a shock when I recognised the woman who walked up to me.
Carol Updyke-Snark was a well known journalist, who specialised in tabloid gossip pieces.
I had been on a TV chat show with her a few months ago, and I’d made a disparaging remark about something she’d said and the audience had laughed. I still remembered my slight shame at mimicking her nasty cockney accent, and the vicious look she’d shot my way afterwards. But then, she was the sort of mouthy journalist that deserved being taken down a peg or two.
Carol was very short, and her vulgar black trouser suit didn’t fit her properly. She looked a bit like a myopic owl, with the funny gap between her front teeth, a snub nose and the huge black-framed spectacles.
“Mr Barraclough, could I have a private word?” she asked me.
“It’s hardly convenient,” I snapped, looking down at her, willing her to disappear. “This is a private party. Ring my secretary at work on Monday and arrange an appointment.”
“This is rather urgent. Believe me, Mr Barraclough, you will want to talk to me.”
“Oh very well,” I told her.
Inside the entrance hall, Alison went off to join some friends, while I followed horrid Carol Updyke-Snark along a corridor, and she led me into an empty room and shut the door. She opened her handbag and took out a large sheet of paper, which I recognised as a mock-up of the front page of a newspaper. She handed it across to me.
“I’ve done a freelance piece for The Sunday Clarion,” she told me. “I thought I should warn you. That’s going to be our front page tomorrow.”
I read the article. There was an unflattering picture of me, looking as if I was suffering from indigestion, standing in front of my house in scruffy tee shirt that showed my man boobs. Above it was a headline:
Michael Barraclough, sex pest of Brettflix. Is he the pervert of the year?
The article went on to say that I was being accused by seven women of sexual harassment spanning a period of over thirty years. The body of the piece were statements by seven women whom I had had affairs with over my lifetime. I couldn’t believe it! The statements made out that I was a sleazy sex pest, forcing my attentions on women. In reality, all the women had happily agreed to have affairs with me, and all of my affairs had been before my marriage.
“I’ll sue you,” I said, shocked and horrified.
“That’s your right, of course,” Carol replied, using her bloated botoxed lips to give a horrible smirk. “But I can assure you that everything’s been legalled up to its bollocks, and believe me, our lawyers are hot as shit. If you sue us, you’ll lose a lot of money, it’s doubtful if you’d win and by the time the case comes to court you’ll be fucked anyway won’t you?”
“But, God, you can’t do this to me!” I told her. “None of this is true!”
“Their words against yours, mate.”
“Christ, is all this because of what I said on that programme?”
“What programme?”
“You remember. I made a fool of you, And this is your revenge isn’t it?”
“Revenge has got nothing to do with it. My job is to screw up peoples lives.” She smiled sweetly. “And I’m very good at it.”
I staggered out of the room, still holding the newspaper, unable to believe what was happening. I came across several people I knew well, but none of them acknowledged me, they just nodded and turned away, as if they knew the mess I was in and didn’t care.
I was looking for Alison, and, when I found her, I told her what had happened and handed her the paper.
She read it, then glared at me. There was a new look in her eyes, as if she was a stranger. “And is it true?” she asked. “Have you had affairs with all these women? Are you a sex pest?”
“Of course I’m not!”
“Michael, I think I’d like to stay in a hotel tonight, I’ll get a taxi now. I think it would be better if you went home alone. On Monday I’m going to see a solicitor to sort out a divorce.” She turned away and walked off.
Then my boss, Lord Craddlethorpe appeared and ushered me into another room. His face said it all.
“I’m so so sorry, Michael, what can I say? Thing is, Brettflix cannot have publicity like this. We can come to some kind of financial arrangement once you’ve tendered your resignation. I think it’s best if you leave the firm immediately. A nice clean break, eh? We do have the shareholders to consider, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”
He made an excuse and left me alone.
So not only was I not getting the chairman’s job, but I was losing the job I had. And my knighthood? I thought of that phrase Men make plans and the Gods laugh. How true it was.
I wandered around in a trance, and eventually found myself in a part of the castle that seemed to be private. I eventually found myself in a room with a flight of steps leading to the ceiling with a trapdoor at the top. I went up them, opened the trapdoor and found that I was on the roof.
The night sky and the stars looked good, indeed the scene would have been idyllically beautiful if I hadn’t been considering suicide. And I realised that if I jumped off the roof right now, I could avoid the nightmare of the rest of my life. When the paper came out there’d be journalists camping outside the house. I’d have to see a lawyer, make a statement to the press. And I’d never get another decent job.
Yes.
Jumping off the roof would be my best plan all round.
Then, just as I was seriously considering it, my phone rang. In a daze, I sat down on the roof tiles and answered it.
“Michael?”
“Yeah.” I looked down and saw it was from my friend Dr Tom, the head of research for the children’s hospital university team.
“Hello Michael, are you busy? Can you talk?”
“Of course.” I suddenly realised that Dr Tom’s phone conversations had become one of the pleasures of my life.
“Well I’m ringing with some exciting news! Just today we’ve found out that the particular line of research that you funded, has had some brilliant results. Our guys have been working overtime on a Saturday to check it’s all true. We can hardly believe it! The funny thing is, this could never have been done without your money, we’d planned to do this particular strand of research in 5 years time, but because we had the extra funding we went ahead without much hope. But it’s opened up a mine of success beyond our wildest dreams! I think we’ll be able to use this approach for an entirely new treatment for one of the worst of the cancers that many of the Gathercoates children are suffering with. It means more of them are going to fully recover! Think of it! And it’s not just our children, but when the word gets out, children all over the world who are suffering from this dreadful disease are going to live. And all because of you!”
I couldn’t answer. I wanted to cry.
“That’s wonderful,” I managed to choke out at last.
“Well, it’s so exciting that we’re having an impromptu party right now. I must admit I’ve had a few drinks.” He laughed. “Obviously it’s chance in a million you’ll be free but you’re very welcome to join us if you can.”
“Where?”
“Birmingham, at the hospital, with our mates, the doctors and nurses at Gathercoates. We’ll all be there.”
“So will I. See you in a couple of hours.”
“Great, see you soon then. Michael, I’d just like to say that you’ve become a real personal friend in the short time we’ve known each other. Aside from the money, I’m really grateful for your friendship. I love our long chats.”
I couldn’t stop crying. Then I heard the distant sound of someone downstairs at the party, laughing, their long, full-throated laugh carrying up to me on the wind.
Which was when I again remembered that phrase: Men make plans and the Gods laugh.
And as my heart filled with a really strange warm feeling I’d never felt before, I realised that this was the happiest night of my life. . . .