Babylon South by Jon Cleary

started with smaller gatherings than this.
    Edwin nodded politely at her and Justine, as he would have even if they were bringing him before a firing squad; which, in a way, this was. Emma gave Venetia a look as blank as that of the firing squad itself; she didn’t look at Justine at all. The others crowding into the big room smiled or looked deadly serious, depending upon their experience of Venetia. Though none of them had had the experience of a two-billion-dollar takeover by a woman; for some of the more historically-minded she might have been the Empress Tz’u Hsi; they walked gingerly, as if their feet were tightly bound. Some of them, Venetia noticed, had their briefcases in front of their genitals, as if afraid of castration. She must look for a small scalpel, to wear from her gold bracelet.
    The boardroom was all pale grey but for the pink upholstery on the chairs and a single Marie Laurencin painting on one wall. Some of the older men looked as if they would have preferred to be in a darker, panelled room, a men’s club, which most boardrooms in Australia were. Even the more cultured of them thought the Laurencin was out of place, especially since it was a painting of pale, semi-nude women. If it had to be a nude, give „em a Norman Lindsay.
    When they were all seated, one of the men, a newcomer, looked around for an ashtray and found none. “Do you mind if we smoke, Lady Springfellow?”
    â€œYes,” said Lady Springfellow and that was that. “Right, I don’t think there is any need for preliminary remarks. My daughter will sum up why we are here and then I’ll listen to what you have to say.”
    Justine stood up. She was dressed in pink today, a silk dress that offset her mother’s grey silk suit. They hadn’t gone to the inquest wearing mourning, today was a day for battle colours, though knights who had ridden into combat under pink and grey banners might have been suspect. The younger, even the older, men looked at Justine with approval: a girl as beautiful as this had to have a soft side. She had recovered from the ordeal of the inquest; she had been upset at what had seemed to her the cold-blooded formality of it all, as if declaring a man legally dead meant no more than taking away his driving licence. Still, the ghost of her father, even though a gentle one, had at last been exorcized and now she was her mother’s daughter completely.
    â€œFirst, let me say when we take over the various elements—”
    â€œWhen?” said Emma, soberly dressed, even wearing a hat and gloves: old Mosman keeping up standards. “Nothing has been decided yet.”
    â€œYes, when.” Justine looked across the table at her aunt. The older men looked slightly embarrassed; women should not fight, at least not in the company of men. The younger ones sat up, hiding their grins by lowering their heads; this was going to be even better than they had anticipated. Then Justine went on: “The Springfellow name will be retained. We shall do that out of respect for tradition and for the value of the name. It’s a name I’m proud to have myself.”
    She looked across at Edwin, who visibly annoyed Emma by nodding.
    â€œSo—” Justine had learned a few tricks from her mother: the value of a pause, for instance. “So we are offering six dollars fifty for all Springfellow and Company shares beyond those my mother and I own, subject to the usual minimum acceptance conditions. On top of that we are offering nine dollars fifty a share for all those shares in Springfellow Bank beyond those owned by Springfellow and Company, again subject to the usual conditions.”
    â€œThose should be two separate transactions,” said one of the Intercapital directors.
    â€œThey will be,” said Justine. “I am merely summarizing here. But we do not want any hiatus between the two deals. We want them wrapped up together. Payment will be in cash,