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success story seems to have an almost fairy-tale quality,’ Alison Shaw began. ‘A game, quite a simple if ingenious game, is launched on an already overcrowded market in the face of cautionary advice and financial problems. It catches the imagination of the public overnight, and becomes a bestseller. Within a year it has sold in hundreds of thousands, within two years its parent company is beginning to diversify into other games, with apparent success, and within three it is thriving, publicly quoted, and one of the darlings of the investors and the financial press. Harriet Peacock, how has all this been achieved?’

      Harriet laughed, warmly and quite naturally. She answered, ‘Less easily than you make it sound.’

      At the beginning, when she was just starting out and the sharp-nosed reporters had come with their questions, she had been a less confident interviewee. She had been hungry for any crumb of publicity – anything that would help Peacocks, her company, her baby. But she had also been defensive, and defensiveness made her awkward. Now she was on familiar ground. She had fielded all the questions before, in different interviews, and she was ready for them.

      ‘The first, the only really important thing, was that I knew the game was good. I felt it, I felt the hairs rise at the nape of my neck whenever I looked at it. Because I believed so strongly in it I was ready to risk everything for it. Any entrepreneur will tell you that is the spark that lights the fuse. Belief, and more than belief. Certainty.’

      Out of shot, Alison Shaw was nodding, making little rolling gestures with her hand. More, tell us some more. Fully practised, Harriet swept on.

      ‘I also believe that you can regard life as a game of chance. You can play it like that, letting the currents carry you, or you can wait for the right current and then paddle furiously with it, as I did when I recognised the potential of the game. Someone said you can reach the same conclusion in life by more or less circuitous paths, by going straight for what you want or by hoping to be swept there. There’s a direct route and an indirect route, and the game itself is a metaphor for that.’

      It was Simon who had said it, a long time ago. Harriet’s direct gaze wavered.

      The hand-waving had continued, now it stopped. If they were good programme-makers, Harriet thought to distract herself, they would cut away from her to the game board, and the coloured balls rolling.

      Taking the straight path, or going the long way round.

      Alison Shaw said, ‘Could you define “paddling furiously”? What exactly did you do, after the prickle at the nape of the neck?’

      Harriet was on firm ground again. She had described the steps she had taken in setting up her business often enough in other interviews. She went through them fluently, counting them off like beads on a string.

      Alison nodded, letting her talk, occasionally prompting her, working through the questions on her list. Harriet had discussed some of them with the programme’s researcher, others were unexpected. Alison was a good interviewer, it went smoothly.

      The producer began to make tentative wind-up signals. Harriet was pleased. A useful job had been done for Peacocks, she would easily make her flight.

      The last question came.

      ‘There’s a poignant story behind this particular success story. Harriet, you didn’t devise the game yourself, that’s fairly widely known. As a postscript, could you tell us something of its history?’

      Harriet caught her breath. She became suddenly acutely aware of the radio mike clipped to her lapel, of the faces of the technicians watching her, of spools of tape that would be imprinted with the sound of her own voice. Out of shot, Alison looked at her watch. Harriet knew they could only want another two or three minutes from her. It would not be the first time she had talked about Simon. She thought, if only it could have been.

      ‘The game was devised by a British army officer who was a prisoner of the Japanese, in Hong Kong, during the Second World War. He built it from scraps of rubbish. He kept it with him for four years, and when he was liberated it was the only thing he owned.’

      Harriet’s right hand, with the big ring, reached out to touch the broken wood that lay on her smooth desktop. The cameraman moved to bring it into shot. Harriet remembered the story, much longer and much more painful to recall, that Simon Archer had told her in his cold, comfortless house in the gloomiest quarter of a featureless Midlands town. She could clearly hear his words. She could remember the exact phrases he had used.

      She listened to them now, within her head.

      When she looked up again, she found it hard to believe that only a second or two had ticked by while the camera’s greedy eye lingered on Simon’s packing case. Evidently Alison had either no wish or no time to probe deeper. The success story had been told, and she was ready to wrap up one more programme.

      ‘A remarkable testament to one man’s will to survive. As, in a different way, the success of Peacocks is a testament to Harriet Peacock’s skill and determination.’

      ‘And to that of my staff and suppliers,’ Harriet insisted. She was briefly amused, thinking of the acceptance speech full of the same sentiments that Caspar must make if he won his Oscar. Alison smiled back at her.

      ‘And now, in true executive style, you’re going direct from here to Heathrow to take a flight to Los Angeles. Is this a business trip, or will you have time to go to the Academy Awards?’

      Harriet’s expression changed. Her response was chilly. ‘My trip to Los Angeles is a holiday. It was agreed at the outset, wasn’t it, that there would be no questions about my private life?’

      Alison made an acquiescent gesture that said, worth a try. They would edit the exchange out, of course.

      There were a few more concluding remarks, mutual thanks, and the interview was over. The technicians stuck their thumbs up. ‘Super,’ the producer said.

      Harriet looked at her watch once more. The car would arrive in a little under fifteen minutes.

      ‘If we could just keep you with us a couple of minutes longer, Harriet, while we check we’ve got everything? Noddys now, Alison, OK love?’

      The camera would focus on Alison now, for the footage that would be used as cutaways. Harriet waited. Across the room she saw the door silently open and her assistant’s head appear. She mimed, telephone. Harriet shook her head. As far as the rest of the world need know, she was already on her way to Heathrow. But Karen refused to go away. Urgent, she signalled.

      Harriet sighed. ‘Excuse me. I have to take a telephone call.’ She circled around her own desk, and went out to Karen’s office. Karen held the receiver out to her.

      ‘Hello? Harriet Peacock speaking.’

      It was Charlie Thimbell. Harriet knew him well. His wife was one of her closest friends.

      ‘Charlie, is everything OK? Is Jenny all right?’

      ‘Yeah, nothing like that. Listen, Harriet, I heard a rumour. I thought you’d better know about it.’ Charlie Thimbell was a financial journalist, the City Editor of one of the national dailies.

      ‘What rumour?’

      ‘More than a rumour, then. A tip-off. Are you watching your back, Harriet?’

      ‘You’re talking about a raid, are you? We were at two twenty-five this morning. Steady.’

      Charlie said nothing for a moment. Then, very quietly, ‘Are you overstretched?’

      Harriet laughed. ‘If we are or if we aren’t, I wouldn’t tell you, Charlie. Which would you put first, me or a good story?’

      ‘Difficult one, that. Well, I just thought I’d let you know. You might want to think again about making your trip.’

      ‘I’m going. Caspar’s up for an Oscar, and he deserves to win it. I want to be there when he does.’

      ‘You’ll be a long way from home.’

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