Social Climbers

By Evita d’Gor

Social Climbers by Evita de Gor is a hilarious tale of a family desperately seeking prestige and status among the worlds elite. Abraham Gold, a humble Polish migr, comes to Australia penniless. By dint of hard work, common sense and uncanny business acumen, within a few years he becomes an extremely wealthy property developer. Still, he continues to live frugally, quite content to see his constantly accumulating wealth.

When he accidentally overhears a conversation about a possibility of buying an aristocratic title, he senses an opportunity to change his priorities and transform his life. After getting the necessary legal advice, he institutes a series of changes in his household. In comes the highly-recommended English butler, his residence is stylishly redecorated, and a brand new Rolls with a chauffer is ready to take Abraham and his family on a brand new adventure.

As the story unfolds, the Golds experience a series of baffling setbacks and epiphanies. Their daughter, Rosie, is subjected to compulsory charm school, foreign language tutoring, European tours, and baffling beauty treatments. Various suitorsimpostors and real aristocratscompete for Ms. Golds plump hand. In the meantime, Abraham Gold has an affair with a young and voluptuous woman, who later turns out to be his sons fiance. Not to be outdone, Abrahams wife, Tania, surgically restores her youthful looks in order to better compete for her husbands fading charms. When Rosie eventually meets a man of her heart, it turns out that he is only a poor musician and a feverish search for a suitable beau must urgently resume. At long last, when Rosies wedding to an impoverished and thirty-something French comte is announced on the front pages of tabloids, it seems that the Golds have finally reached the pinnacle of high society.

In a final plot twist, the wedding does take place in Venice, albeit with some unexpected changes in the cast of revelers. Throughout this heartwarming tale, the author deftly sketches all characters and cleverly resolves the stories of Abraham and Tania, Rosie and her real love, and various other members of the colourful Gold household.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 29, 2007
• ISBN: 9781434302045

Book preview

© 2009 Evita d’Gor. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 2/16/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4343-2532-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-0204-5 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-0203-8 (sc)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

To my husband, Richard

Chapter One

Mr Abraham Gold slapped his boarding pass into the French-manicured hand of the flight attendant. She led him to an enormous reclining chair; ‘Can I take your jacket sir?’ Abe went through the pockets of his old sports jacket and retrieved a dog-eared passport and lumpy wallet. He handed the jacket over to the flight attendant and sat down. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ she asked, cocking her coiffured head to one side - ‘Champagne, freshly squeezed orange juice, water…?’

Abe thought about beer. ‘What champagne do you have?’ he replied.

‘I can offer you an excellent French Champagne now – Moet & Chandon, but after take-off we serve Don Perignon.’

It didn’t actually matter what sort of champagne he drank - Don Perignon or the cheap and nasty variety - it all tasted the same to Abe, and it gave him heartburn. But he knew that holding a glass of champagne with bubbles streaming to its surface looked elegant, and the name Don Perignon sounded so much better than the Russian Champanskoje Igristoje. So he decided to have a glass of that after take-off.

As the plane leveled out above the clouds, Abe leaned back and slurped the effervescent bubbly. He had never flown first class before – he felt it was an over-indulgence. In an economy class seat he paid a mere tenth of the price of a first class ticket and arrived at the same destination, at the same time, on the same plane. The only shortcomings were that he arrived tired and with indigestion. This time, however, it was different. Abe had put on weight and developed a back problem, so flying economy was out of the question - according to his doctor. He had no choice but to make the best of it. Abe watched the lights of Singapore fall from beneath him, and played like a child with the buttons on his armrest. ‘It’s very convenient to be rich,’ he thought.

Suddenly Abe’s seat started to recline. He stopped himself just before he was horizontal, and lay there with his champagne poised in one hand, trying nervously to find the right button again with the other. The young couple behind him giggled at his balding head. Abe was relieved, and a little embarrassed, when at last the flight attendant came to his rescue... ‘You can’t go to bed yet, sir, we’re still climbing,’ she smiled, bending over to upright him; ‘but if you like you can change into your pajamas.’

‘Pajamas?’ Abe’s eyes widened as he imagined himself wandering around the cabin in the only pair of pajamas he owned. They were navy with yellow cats all over them – a birthday present from his children, Roseanna and David, ten years ago. ‘I haven’t got my pajamas with me,’ Abe explained, ‘all of my clothing went into my suitcase.’

‘Here you are sir, these are complimentary.’ The air hostess handed him a black bag, ‘You would be a size large, wouldn’t you?’

‘Oh thankyou,’ Abe smiled, pulling out a beautiful pair of black cotton pajamas. Pity they have the airline logo on the bottom, he thought; Maybe Vera can get rid of it. Abe started to feel a bit funny in the tummy. He was scared that he might pass wind… bloody champagne.

Suddenly the hostess came back. Abe held on tight as she assembled his table, refilled his drink, explained the audiovisual equipment to him, and finally left. Abe dashed to the toilet with his new black PJs and let himself go rather loudly. Ah well, I feel better now. Next time I should stick to beer. He changed into the pajamas and left the smelly cubicle. As he squeezed past the shiny young steward turned and gave him a little grin.

Ahhhh, Mr Gold blissfully reflected on how comfortable his back was, as he settled in to watch the Australian news. It was good to hear about home, but his attention was suddenly diverted by the conversation he overheard behind him. The air hostess was speaking to the young couple: ‘May I introduce Eduardo? He will be looking after you on this flight.’

‘Hiya Ed,’ said the couple. ‘Eduardo is a Prince, you know,’ the stewardess blurted as Eduardo disappeared into the galley. ‘Really?’ sang the couple in unison. When Eduardo returned with their drinks the young lady squealed, ‘Eduardo, are you a real Prince?’

Abe glued himself to the back of his seat and tried to look through the little gap between the chairs. He saw Eduardo – the shiny young steward who had overheard his tummy troubles - nod his head gently to one side. ‘You mustn’t be a very rich prince!’ the young man joked. Prince Eduardo the flight attendant laughed politely, and said ‘no, I’m afraid I’m not.’

‘So does anyone call you Your Highness?’ the girl’s eyes were wide. ‘Some people,’ said Eduardo; ‘but I prefer to be called by my name.’

‘Well if you don’t want your title, you can sell it you know’ she squeaked, ‘you’d get a million dollars for it!’

‘Not just one million, Bunny,’ her husband mocked, ‘quite a few million’.

Suddenly Mr Gold had a remarkable idea: Kurwa! he swore in Polish, "Now that’s what I need - a title! He watched Prince Eduardo lead the couple, who had multiple piercings in their faces and wore a lot of leather, into the cabin to meet the pilot. He definitely has got something, Abe thought. Eduardo looked and behaved almost exactly like everybody else, but there was a cloud of rarefied air about him. Maybe it’s his manners?" Abe pondered in fascination.

Abraham Gold lay awake for the entire eight hour flight thinking about how he could get himself a title. Not a doctor’s title or an engineer’s title - these he could easily buy - he wanted an aristocratic one! Prince Abe, Lord Gold, Baron Abraham Gold…a title that could open doors, push his social status up, and generally change his life – and his family’s lives - forever! And what were a few million bucks in exchange for a royal bloodline? Nothing! he thought… but I wonder if a title could be somehow tax deductible - as a goodwill contribution, or an intangible asset… Abe decided to ask his accountant Jim.

Mr Gold imagined his wife Tania’s delight at being invited to all the premiers and balls she had only ever read about in magazines or seen on television. Tania would at last be able to display all those diamonds he had bought her over the past 25 years. Who knows? he thought; Rosie and David might find it fun too! Abe began to dream of newspaper headlines: Prince Abraham and Princess Tania Gold arrive at Sydney airport and are swamped by paparazzi and fans…

The next thing Mr Gold knew, he was awakened by Prince Eduardo lightly touching his shoulder and asking if he wanted some breakfast before landing in Sydney. Abe almost jumped up out of his chair. ‘Prince Eduardo!’ he blurted, ‘Would you consider selling me your…’ but his nerve left him as the serious young prince looked him in the eye; ‘would you be able sell me some duty free perfume… for my wife?’

‘Certainly sir, I will bring you the catalogue.’ Prince Eduardo smiled.

It was early morning when Abe landed at last in Sydney, his hand luggage heavy with the five bottles of Chanel perfumes Prince Eduardo had sold him. No-one, least of all the paparazzi, was there to meet him. Abe got a cab.

***

Abe didn’t want to waste too much time. As soon as he had entered his home, kissed Tania and handed her the duty free bag, he called his accountant.

‘Ooh darling, how lovely!’ Tania squirted herself and sniffed the air; ‘Abe? Who are you calling? It is too early, you shouldn’t ring anyone before nine. It is just not good manners.’

‘So what if it’s early?’ Abe put his mobile to his ear, ‘is it good manners when Jim charges me money to listen to him talk bull? Kurwa! He can wake up at a decent hour for once!’ he held out a hand to stop Tania as a yawn came down the phone. ‘Jeez mate this better be good news’ groaned Jim.

‘Well, I am back’ - Abe tried to be funny - ‘Listen Jim, I need your advice on something.’

‘Go on then.’

‘It is rather a delicate matter…’

‘Mate, you ring me at six o’clock in the morning, you pull me out of an extremely good dream, you wake up Sabrina as well… and now you are too shy to tell me what your delicate little problem is?’

‘Well, ok… I want to buy a title.’

‘What? One of those dodgy internet PHD’s or something?’

‘No, no that kind of title - Doctor Gold is easy to buy... I want an aristocratic one.’ There was a moment of silence. ‘Abe, are you out of your mind? Are you so used to being able to buy everything with your money? There are exceptions, you know! You can’t buy blue blood, mate.’ Jim laughed heartily at this.

‘Why I can’t buy a title? I am not asking you to buy me a helicopter, or a Château in France, or even an apartment on a cruise ship. I understand that these kinds of things are difficult to explain to the tax department, but...’

‘Trust me; it would be a lot easier to explain the helicopter or an entire cruise ship than a title!’ interrupted Jim.

‘I want you to help me Jim, not discourage me’ said Abe, ‘I will call you later!’

‘I need a new accountant;’ muttered Abe as he closed his phone; ‘Jim is just a bookkeeper and a tax agent – he always finds problems. You know Tania, I read somewhere that imagination is more important than wisdom.’ Abe turned around to see Tania’s reaction, but found that he was alone in the room.

***

Mr Gold loved to spend money on his home, his business and his family, but he didn’t like to spend a lot of money on himself – he thought it was excessive. He still went to the same cheap barber he’d been going to since he had lots of hair; he didn’t buy expensive suits; he didn’t go to expensive restaurants; but once he had his heart set on something he had to have it - no matter what.

Abe’s parents had spent the Second World War in a German concentration camp. Abe and his sister Mela owed their lives to a farming family from a small village near Krakow, where his father was a tailor. The family had hidden them in the loft of a barn where they kept hay for the animals. The children were able to come out of hiding only sometimes at night during the last few years of the war. Throughout most of those long years Abe and Mela had been hungry, cold and dirty. After the war, the Red Cross reunited the children with their parents, and the whole family migrated to Australia in 1947. Abe was eternally grateful to that village family, and since he had started to make some money he had always looked after them in return.

Abe himself was a short and fat man, but since he could now afford it, everything he owned had to be big. He had a huge house with lots of big bathrooms, and insisted upon being served huge amounts of food for his every meal. He also liked large women - not skinny broomsticks - so Tania was biggish too. Abe constantly reminded her how much he loved her figure, so it was easy for her to keep eating the delicious and fatty foods that the Ukrainian housekeeper, Vera, lovingly churned out all day every day.

There wasn’t much hope for the waistlines of any of the Gold family. In their house food was everywhere. In fact, in the cold rooms of the basement (beside Tania’s mink coats) there was enough food to feed them all - in the event of another holocaust or natural disaster - for several years. It was one of Abe’s many strange ideas, but he was proud of the coldrooms, and liked to show off his supplies - barrels of honey, sauerkraut and army biscuits - to every visitor, with the dramatic comment: ‘I will never be hungry again in my life’.

‘Gone with the wind’ his guests would laugh. Abe would shrug his shoulders and answer – ‘no, I am staying here.’

***

Abe showered and shaved, walked around the Palazzo, as he called his Sydney mansion, then sat and debriefed Tania on his trip as they ate breakfast. Tania told him about business in her Double Bay clothing boutique, and pointed out the new spring flowers in the garden. But Mr Gold couldn’t stop looking at the kitchen clock. He knew that Tom, his solicitor, never picked up his mobile before 9:00am. As soon as it was a minute after nine, Abe rang.

‘Good morning Abe, welcome back to the land down under!’ said Tom. ‘How are you?’

‘I am well, just a moment…’ Abe let Tania kiss him before she left for work.

‘How’s business Tom?’

‘Fantastic my friend, and how is Tania?’

‘She is too well, you know. She won’t stop working all the time! Listen, I have very important things I would like to talk to you about today Tom, so can I invite you for lunch? Where would you like to go?’

‘Well, well, well! You must be in real trouble if you are inviting me to lunch’ Tom said with a chuckle. ‘Let’s go to the Belle Maison – you know, the French restaurant next door to my office.’

Abe didn’t like this restaurant much - first of all it wasn’t good value for money; the portions were very small and expensive – and secondly, it was too posh. Abe preferred simpler joints and more substantial food. But he needed Tom’s advice, so he let it go.

Abe decided to go to his office first to check invoices, letters and emails. Not that he himself knew how to check emails, but his secretary, Fran, would print them out for him to read. Once, many years ago his employees had said to him: ‘If you don’t learn how to use a computer now, in a few years time you won’t be able to do business with anyone!’ And certainly, after the initial computerisation of his office, his expenses had gone up and his profits had gone down – considerably - for the first time in his business life. So he didn’t trust technology. His words were, ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’. Abe blamed Bill Gates for opening Microsoft and forcing people to become dependent on computers, but there was no choice and no going back. He employed a savvy secretary and had an IT genius on call at all times.

Abe left home in his ‘vintage’ Mercedes, drove down William Street and turned into Clarence, where he found himself stuck in a noisy traffic jam for five minutes. The car behind Abe honked as he checked his reflection. ‘These Aussies are so impatient; they should go and drive in Europe or the US for few days!’ Abe thought, putting Alan Jones on the radio.

He parked under the building and got into the lift with a good looking sort; a beautiful blonde with big blue eyes, of about six foot tall. Abe looked her up and down; I am not too old yet if I can still appreciate a beautiful woman he thought and kept checking her out. She gave him a nervous smile.

When they reached the seventh floor, Abe strode out of the lift. He turned his head to nod goodbye to the blonde and found that she was following him to his office. I wonder what she wants, I didn’t advertise for a new secretary, he thought; perhaps I should. Fran isn’t so young and attractive anymore…

Pretending to be a gentleman, Mr Gold opened the door and let the blonde walk into his office first... She went straight to the front desk. Abe followed her.

Fran Burrows, his loyal and patient secretary of fifteen years, wasn’t there. In her place sat a young lady dressed in low cut top, her cleavage almost overflowing onto the desk. She stood up and asked: ‘Can I help you, sir?’

Abe took off his glasses and looked around to make sure he wasn’t on the wrong floor.

‘Excuse me, where is Fran?’ he asked.

‘Oh, she took few days off’ answered the girl, turning to the young lady from the lift, ‘Can I help you?’

‘I have an appointment at 9.30 for a casting’ the blonde answered.

‘What is going on?’ thought Mr Gold. He turned and walked straight into his private office.

‘Excuse me sir, where are you going?’ The new secretary ran after him.

‘I am going into my office, young lady’ Abe replied, looking at her short skirt. He opened the door.

Abe’s 22 year old son, David, was seated behind the antique 17th century desk with his legs up. Jim’s son Alex was sitting on the desk, and the two young men were watching several semi-naked girls parade around the room. ‘What is going on here?’ Abe shouted. David and Alex jumped up in alarm and stood to attention like caught-out schoolboys. Abe glowered at his son and then turned to the young girls: ‘That will be all for today!’ They grabbed their stray pieces of clothing and left the office in a hurry.

‘Hi Dad, I…I didn’t know you were back’ David stammered ‘Alex and I… we opened this modeling agency and we were hired to do a casting for this huge swimwear company. We put an ad in the paper and we had some applicants…so we borrowed your office.’

‘David, don’t give me this bull, what you wanted to do was to look at some girls. Clean up the office, get rid of the bimbo at the reception and ring Fran to come back to work immediately… I give you half an hour. And I am going to stay home for a while - take a break from travelling - so you have to shape up. No more recording studios, no more castings. And remember this: you won’t get any more money from me unless you work for it, and no new car either. I have to think about your future and we have to have a serious talk.’ David started to clear up the mess.

Abe’s anger began to melt, and as he took the lift downstairs to meet Tom, he soon reflected and smiled to himself, maybe it is not such a bad idea, a model casting! Why didn’t I think about opening a modeling agency when I was younger? It’s in my blood after all… Then he checked himself, what would Tania and my sister Mela think about this? The smile vanished from Abe’s face. Be serious Abe, he straightened his tie.

Abe grunted as he entered the elegant restaurant and approached the maitre d’.

‘What name, please?’

‘Gold.’

‘Let me see…’ the maitre d’ looked up and down his book as Abe took in the gentle tinkles and murmurs of the classically decorated room. Everybody was strange here, he thought; the waiters and the customers were all so pretentious and artificial. ‘I’m afraid I cannot find your booking, sir.’

‘I didn’t know it was necessary to book,’ said Abe, ‘I am waiting for one more person.’

‘Aha, so a table for two.’ The maitre d’ ushered Abe to a table beneath the enormous chandelier. Abe sat down, but a few minutes later he got up. A waiter came over to him, ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

‘Well I am not comfortable here; it is the middle of the restaurant, the table is small, I am quite big. Can I have that table by the window?’ Abe pointed.

‘Unfortunately that one is booked.’

‘What about the other one over there?’

‘That one is also booked for 1:30.’ The waiter gave Mr Gold a patient smile.

‘Oh, we will be finished by then’ Abe said, thinking; they can’t move us once we’re in the middle of a dish.

‘I’m afraid I can’t seat you there sir.’

Abe stood up and marched over to the maitre d’. He was about to create a fuss, when Tom came in.

Tom was a tall and handsome man of around 50, with lots of dark brown hair, marked at his temples with silver streaks. He wore a nice Armani suit every day. He walked over and shook the maitre d’s hand; ‘hello Frederic.’

‘How nice to see you sir. The usual table for you?’

‘Hello Abe’ said Tom, placing a hand on Abe’s shoulder ‘If that’s possible, Frederic, yes please.’

‘I was trying to get a nice table for us’ said Abe crossly, ‘but he told me all of them were taken.’ The maitre d’ looked at him in embarrassment, ‘Mr Gold, sir, if you had only mentioned you were having lunch with Mr Horowitz … I will be indebted to him until the day I die…’ He led them to a quiet table with a view.

‘You are quite famous here,’ said Abe as they sat down. ‘A little,’ smiled Tom; ‘Frederic is the owner. I once helped him out of a scrape. You see, if you do something nice for people they never forget it. So, how was your trip?’

‘Very successful,’ replied Abe, huffing and trying to squeeze further into his chair.

‘But surely you didn’t invite me here to talk about that, so what is it Abe?’

Another waiter interrupted them, bringing a wine list and a menu. Abe looked at the menu and frowned. ‘You know I am not good in French, Tom. I can’t understand one bloody word of the menu!’ He shrugged his shoulders while reading aloud; ‘sole a la bonne femme, vol au vents, beef bordelaise, lamb en croute - I need a dictionary! Couldn’t you have chosen somewhere simpler? You know I am a simple man…’ Abe was starting to sweat.

‘Don’t get upset, the waiter will come back in a minute and explain everything.’

The waiter brought over a bottle of Tom’s usual red wine, ‘I hope you like this one, it is a really good year,’ Tom gestured for Abe to try it. The waiter opened the bottle and put the cork in front of Abe on a small plate. Abe looked at the cork, grabbed it and tossed it away over his shoulder.

‘Abe, you’re supposed to just smell it and put it down,’ cried Tom. The waiter watched in amazement. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.

‘Where does that custom come from?’ asked Tom with a chuckle.

‘I have seen it somewhere,’ Abe replied without any embarrassment. The cork had landed in someone’s meal. People were commenting in outraged tones. The waiter poured Abe some wine to try. Abe picked up the glass, swished the wine around so hard it splashed onto the table, sucked it into his mouth, swirled it noisily around in his cheeks, coughed for few seconds and said, ‘it’s ok.’

‘What do you mean its ok?’ Tom whispered loudly, ‘It is Chateaux Margot 1991… one of the best French reds!’

‘Don’t get excited Tom,’ Abe said, ‘For me it tastes like shit and it will end up as such, like everything here. This place shouldn’t be called Belle Maison, but Balls Missing!’

Tom couldn’t believe it; he looked around to see if any of his college friends or good clients were there. Fortunately, Abe’s sophisticated monologue was stopped by the waiter, who timidly explained the specials.

‘I would like the fish, please’ said Tom.

‘Never order fish on a Monday’ shouted Abe, ‘it is universally known that fish markets are closed on Mondays, so the fish on your plate today won’t be flapping fresh.’

‘True, you have a point’ Tom mumbled, defeated. Both men ordered the beef.

‘So tell me, Abe, what would you like to talk about?’ Tom started again, his patience thin.

‘I want to buy a title,’ Abe sputtered at last.

‘You want people to think you are an engineer or a doctor?’

‘No, no, no. I want to buy an aristocratic one.’

Tom was bemused, ‘Really? What for Abe? All you need to do is some kind of benevolent act for the colony and you’ll be knighted by the Queen, then everybody will call you Sir!’

‘Tom, that is not funny. I am a property developer, what benevolent act can I possibly do?’

Tom shook his head and sipped his wine, ‘Money can’t buy you everything Abe…’

Abe had heard this once too often today. ‘Why not? Tell me? Why can’t I buy a title? I have enough money, so why not?’ He said it so loudly that once again everyone on the neighbouring tables turned and looked at the two men. ‘Shhhhh Abe,’ said Tom, ‘You never know who is listening – you don’t want to be dobbed in to the tax auditors, they all eat here.’ He knew how his friend thought.

There was a pause as the entree was served and Abe shoveled several mouthfuls of it down. Then he explained to Tom the conversation he had overheard on the plane, and about Prince Eduardo the steward. ‘Alright then, yes, it is true. You could… possibly… buy yourself a title,’ Tom conceded, ‘but a title alone is not enough, Abe, it’s just the first step. If you were serious about becoming an aristocrat you would have to completely change… your lifestyle. To be welcomed into elite society you would have to live like royalty - employ a butler, maids, a chef, and a chauffer. You would have to hire skilled professionals, not illegal immigrants who don’t even speak English,’ Tom said. ‘Look who you have now: Vera is the cook, cleaner, seamstress, nanny, confidant to your wife and whatever else… I know you used to find her very attractive,’ Tom winked. ‘Then there’s Mike – your gardener, driver, mechanic, builder, plumber, fashion advisor and beer drinking companion… They are both cheap and they work hard but neither one can take even a basic telephone message.’

Abe pushed his plate aside. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed.

‘An aristocrat’s personnel not only speak fluent English,’ Tom continued, ‘but with a proper English accent... and they speak French when they serve dinner. You’d have to change your whole wardrobe too - buy a few tuxedos and dress up for dinner every night, even in your own home, and especially well when you have guests. You can’t eat pieroshki and ladkas in your tired old tracksuit every night Abe, if you want to be royalty.’

‘Humph… I’ll have to think about this,’ said Abe as the miniscule main course arrived, ‘It’s not the simple transaction I thought it might be.’

‘You could get rid of your old car and buy a Rolls Royce,’ Tom went on, apparently warming to the idea – ‘your driver should dress properly also. You’ll have to go to the opera and theatre every week, frequent the best restaurants, attend movie premiers and major charity events; you could sponsor some good causes, which is tax deductible…’

Tom leant over the table and spoke very quietly - ‘Look at your wife Abe, and your only daughter. Do you think they look…aristocratic? No, frankly it’s a disaster Abe. Don’t be offended, but you have to tell them to do something, to shape up and get out into society. Also…maybe you should get a mistress with good contacts, think about it!’

Abe didn’t know what to say. He shoved his meal down in three great bites and chewed thoughtfully. Tom watched, mesmerized, as Abe licked his knife and fork and laid them down on the tablecloth. Abe was about to wipe his plate with a finger, when the waiter whisked it away.

Tom sat back, ‘I think your idea is a good one, Abe. It’s time to change your life. You do have enough money, you are right. Why not spend it?’ He slapped the table in his enthusiasm - ‘you can’t take it with you!’

Abe raised an eyebrow.

‘My friend, I assure you - you will never be poor again. You’ve invested very wisely, thanks to me, so what’s the worst that can happen? You won’t go bankrupt. You can stop worrying about that!’

The bill arrived and Abe looked at it in disbelief, ‘Good, to go bankrupt would be very inconvenient.’ He took out his corporate Amex so it could be treated as a business lunch. ‘So Tom, where do you think I should start?’

Tom didn’t bat an eyelid, ‘You must employ a butler immediately. He will organize your life, get you a new wardrobe, tell your live-in housekeeper not to polish the wine glasses with the same teatowel she used to wipe her sweating forehead a minute earlier; and he’ll tell your gardener not to jump into the swimming pool with your business guests.’

Abe looked pained.

‘I know it is awkward to suddenly boss everybody around when you have never done it before,’ said Tom, ‘but the butler will bring them into line, not you. He will do the dirty work for you.’

Mr Gold nodded.

‘I’ll tell you what Abe,’ said Tom, ‘I know that Lady Mackintosh is moving back to the UK and she may have someone suitable for you. Do you want me to call her now, or leave it a few days?’ Tom knew that it was a silly question. He knew exactly how impatient Abe could be when he wanted a new toy to play with.

‘Yes, please call her now,’ said Abe.

Tom went out to the terrace to call Lady Mackintosh. He came back with a smile. ‘Abe, you are very lucky. You will have the best butler in town. His name is William - not Bill - Hopes and he will be calling you at home tomorrow morning.’

Abe’s eyes grew wide, ‘Tom, I thank you… but how will I know what to say to him… and how much does he cost?’

‘About ninety thousand a year. It’s nothing. Although this guy has an impressive history – he might be a bit more.’

What have I started? Abe thought to himself as they left the restaurant, but in his round tummy there were butterflies of excitement.

***

On his way home to the Eastern Suburbs, Mr Gold looked around at the other cars. It had been well over a decade since he had been in the market for a new one, and he usually never noticed them, except to sneer at their excess or admire the vintage ones for their reliability. He puttered down New South Head road - the street down which the most beautiful people in town drove - and cruised along Knox Street in Double Bay, where the cars of the rich and fashionable were parked. There were a few Mercedes, two Rolls-Royces, a Maserati, three Lamborghinis and a new Bentley. Abe decided to call Rick, the car dealer on Paramatta road who he’d always bought his cars from. Rick would be able to tell him what was new on the market.

Abe stopped at the newsagency and got a paper so he could read the car ads. He hadn’t read the Sydney Morning Herald for a while,