Page 12 of Wreck Me

I stride into my office, hang my coat on the back of the solid mahogany wood door, and slide into the burgundy leather chair. My desk is the same mahogany as the door and the wood panelled walls. Everything looks archaic, but our technology is state of the art.

I’ve just about finished preparing my initial presentation when my PA, Chantel, sticks her head around the door. ‘They’re ready for you.’

Chantel is short, blonde, and bolshy. She has no qualms about pulling me up on my shortcomings, both personally and professionally, and I’ve come to respect the bluntness that initially irritated me.

‘You’ve got this.’ Chantel marches in, nodding vehemently, which sets her ponytail swinging. ‘Just tell them you’re taking a vow of celibacy, a vow of sobriety, and vow to squeeze the damn grapes one by one if it means getting the go-ahead.’

‘Thanks, Chantel.’ I appreciate her support. Especially as there’s a possibility it’s the only support I’ll receive this morning. ‘How’s Miles getting on?’

Chantel’s son, Miles, was born three years ago, eight weeks premature, with a life-threatening congenital heart defect.

Chantel grins at the mention of her only child. ‘He’s great, thanks to you.’

‘Not thanks to me.’ I stand, preparing to face the music. ‘I didn't perform the surgery.’

‘You paid for it though, and all his aftercare.’ A wistful look sweeps over her face as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

‘It was nothing. I’m glad he’s doing well.’

‘Shout if you need anything. I’ll send in tea and scones shortly.’

‘I might need whiskey and stitches.’ I sigh. ‘You know they’re all gunning for me, right?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m a dab hand with a needle,’ she jokes, flexing her fingers as she accompanies me out of the office. ‘Good luck.’

‘I’m going to need it.’ With my laptop tucked under my arm, I strut down the wide corridor towards the boardroom. A nervous tension settles on my sternum as I open the heavy door and step in.

The twelve board members flank a huge oval table. Myfather sits at the head. My mother forced him to retire when he suffered a heart attack two years ago, but he’s still a major shareholder. Despite her best efforts, my mother can’t keep him away from this place.

The weak winter sunrise casts an orange glow across the table, like a physical manifestation of the ring of fire I’m stepping into. I stride across the room to the only free seat, purposefully confident. Hell, if I don’t believe in myself, how the hell am I going to convince this lot?

‘Good morning.’ Instead of sitting, I remain standing, deliberately meeting the eye of each and every person in the room, before finally locking eyes with my father.

Alexander Beckett is ruthless in business, but he is a wonderful father.

Strict–yes.

Stern–absolutely.

But he has always been stoically invested in his wife and sons too. He’s not hard on us for the sake of it. He’s hard because he loves us. He loves this family. Which is why I’m determined to take our business to the next level. To make him proud. To be worthy of the Beckett name.

‘James.’ My father acknowledges me publicly as if I’m not his own flesh and blood, but he’d never deny me either.

At almost seventy, he could pass for sixty. His once dark hair is peppered with grey speckles at the temple, but the old fucker is aging like George fucking Clooney. He’s a handsome man, even with a four-inch scar indenting his left cheek, courtesy of the O’Connors. I told you the rivalry between our families is ruthless.

‘Well, that’s certainly one way to court publicity, James. I think we’ve all seen the lurid headlines regarding your behaviour on the company yacht on New Year’s Eve.’ He raises a wiry eyebrow and gives me a hard stare. ‘Employees?What the hell were you thinking? I think it’s only right you provide an explanation. And of course, a full and frank apology.’

‘Absolutely.’ I nod and arrange my features into a solemn expression. ‘I sincerely apologise for my indiscretion and misuse of company property. I will explain in depth, but while we’re all together, I have a proposition I’d like to present.’ Distraction is my only defence. And if the Imperial Winery Group acquisition isn't enough to distract them, then nothing will.

‘Begin,’ my father commands.

My presentation flows smoothly. From the encouraging murmurs and rustling papers, it would appear the acquisition is a welcome one. Adding Imperial Winery Group to the Beckett portfolio will diversify our business and reduce reliance on existing revenue streams, plus Imperial’s brand reputation and prestige align with the company’s existing luxury brand and create synergies and cross-selling opportunities. Financial projections look good. The members agree it fits with our brand. There’s serious long-term growth potential. It all looks positive.

The chairman, Julian Jones, shuffles his papers and stands. The room falls silent. ‘It looks like you’ve done your homework, Mr Beckett.’

I bow my head. ‘I believe this takeover has enormous potential.’

‘I’d have to agree.’ Pudgy, wrinkled fingers push thick-rimmed glasses higher on to his large nose. ‘My concern is not with the acquisition, it’s with you.’

---