‘Right now,’ Alan said, ‘I don’t think you’re settled enough to work at Weatherby’s. If I let you take over from me now, it’d be more stressful than running it myself.’
Sam reminded himself that his father had had a rough week—a mini-stroke that had brought him face to face with the idea of getting old or even dying, the prospect of having to change all the things he liked most about his lifestyle and feeling stuck at home when he wanted to be doing what he always did. Right now, Alan was simply lashing out at the nearest target—his son.
‘Take an ordinary job for three months, and if you can do that then I’ll be happy that I’m leaving the family business in safe hands,’ Alan said.
Sam could tell his father to forget it and stomp off back to London in a huff. But the fear he’d seen in his mother’s eyes stopped him. Alan was at risk of another mini-stroke or even a full-blown one. Sam couldn’t stand by and watch his father drive himself into an early grave. ‘So what sort of job do you have in mind, Dad?’ he asked.
‘Actually, now you mention it, there is one,’ Alan said. ‘Working for one of my clients. Nice chap. He owns a stately home. A building problem’s cropped up in the last week or so and they need to raise some money. He was talking to me about cashing in some investments, but as the market’s just dipped I think now’s not a good time.’
Raising money. Sam was very, very good at turning small funds into big ones. But he had a feeling that this particular client wouldn’t be comfortable with the high-risk strategy he’d need to adopt to do that.
‘The job would be voluntary,’ Alan continued, ‘because they can’t afford to pay anyone. You’d be helping to organise the fundraising events.’
Sam couldn’t help smiling.
‘What’s so funny?’ Alan demanded.
‘You wanted me to get an ordinary job. I thought you meant something in retail or a call centre. Ordinary people don’t own stately homes, Dad.’
‘No,’ Alan said crisply, ‘but their visitors and staff are ordinary and you’ll be interacting with them.’
‘A voluntary job.’ Three months with no salary. But he’d be on garden leave; and even if that didn’t work out, he’d managed his personal investments well enough that he could easily afford to take a sabbatical. Jude was coming back from a tour in rep to a three-month run in the West End and could stay at Sam’s flat; it would save Jude having to find a landlady who was happy to have a theatrical lodger, and in return Sam would know that his flat was in safe hands. ‘OK. I’ll talk to him and see if I’ll be a good fit.’
‘Good.’ Alan paused. ‘The botanical gardens and afternoon tea, you said.’
‘One scone, no cream, and no sugar in your tea,’ Sam said.
Alan rolled his eyes. ‘You’re as bossy as your mother.’
Sam grinned. ‘More like I’m as bossy as you, Dad.’
‘You might have a point,’ Alan allowed. ‘Go and tell your mother to get ready. I’ll have a word with Patrick and see if we can line up a chat for tomorrow.’
And Sam would have a quiet chat with his boss. This was time for payback. He wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working in a stately home for three months, but if that was what it took to make sure his father stayed healthy and happy, he’d do it.