April Love Is Bac!

For me, the Global Financial Crisis probably came along at just the right moment.

For most of the 12 months or so leading up to the little mishap at Lehman Brothers, I had been getting steadily more disillusioned, ticking along, doing just enough to make sure that I made my not-inconsiderable bonus, but all the time thinking that there had to be a better way to spend my days.

I had talked to a couple of head hunters, but they weren't really interested in dealing outside the box. I'm not sure what part of 'bored with banking' they didn't understand. But all they were really interested in doing was moving me on to another investment bank and earning an easy placement fee in the process.

I'd considered the possibility of going back to school and maybe doing a PhD in something obscure and essentially useless. The Influence of Lyons Corner Houses on the Socialisation of 20th-Century Britons, perhaps. But the thought of having to hang out with a bunch of precocious teenagers soon put paid to that idea.

Hell, I had even considered buying a decent-sized boat and just sailing off into the sunrise. (No, not the sunset; the sunrise. If you sail off into the sunset, you spend too much time fighting the prevailing winds.)

And then Maurice suggested that we have lunch. 'Not 'round here,' he said. 'I fancy somewhere different. Let's try somewhere over in the West End.' We ended up at The Square, Phil Howard's two-Michelin-starred establishment on Bruton Street.

'So, are you happy?' Maurice asked.

'For the moment,' I told him. 'Although I shall be even happier with a glass of the Pichon Longueville aboard.'

'I was meaning are you happy in your work.'

'Oh, that kind of happy. Why do you ask?'

'Well, with all the current unpleasantness, there's a bit of a push to reduce the headcount – you know, just in case. I was thinking that if you had any thoughts of jumping, now might be a good time.'

I must say that I was a little surprised. I thought that I had made a reasonable fist of concealing my indifference towards the bank and its activities. 'A good time? In what way?'

'While there's still plenty of cash in the drawer – well, theoretically anyway. Depending on how all this works out, things might be a bit tighter in six months' time.'

'Really?' I said.

'Well ... there are some ominous signs.'

And so, by the end of lunch, we had done a deal. In exchange for roughly two mil and three cases of Lynch-Bages '96, I would pack up my pencil case and Maurice would have made a start on reducing his headcount.

Since a part of the pay-out was salary in lieu of notice, I was technically on gardening leave for the next six months. 'I don't imagine that anyone would mind if you took up millinery or saddle-making,' Maurice said. 'Just so long as you don't take all of our secrets over to Goldman or somewhere like that.'

I assured Maurice that running off and joining another bank was the last thing on my mind.

'But you do have something in mind?'

No, I didn't. The corner of my mind reserved for what to do next was as empty as the wine glass from which I had just drained the last few drops of Paulliac's finest. 'I think I shall have to give the matter some thought,' I said.

Maurice looked a little surprised. 'Oh. I thought that you ... umm .... Look, if you like, I could get you a couple of sessions with the outplacement chaps. You know ... only if you think it would be useful.'

'Thank you. I'll keep that in mind,' I said.

The following week, Nick, one of my now former colleagues, invited me for a pint at The Fox. From the first hello, I somehow knew that our get-together was going to involve more than just quiet contemplation of the brewer's art. 'I have a small problem,' he said. 'I sort of agreed to take a piece of a small film company – just as a way of keeping its head above water until it can be moved on.'

'How is that a problem?'

'Well, with the present little difficulties, Maurice has put the kibosh on it.'

'So walk away,' I said.

'Well ... ordinarily ....'

I waited.

'You see, the thing is, we've already signed. And next Wednesday we need to put three mil in their bank account.'

'Well, in the grand scheme of things, three mil's not a lot,' I said. 'I'm sure Maurice is not going to worry too much about three mil.'

'And a further three in a month's time,' Nick added.

'And after that?'

Nick smiled. 'Oh, that's it. Well ... until December anyway.'

'And what happens in December?'

'We need to hand over a further six mil.'

'But you were hoping to have moved it on by then and now you're not so sure?'

Nick nodded and signalled to the barman for two more pints. 'That's about the size of it.'

'So, what's plan B?' I asked.

'Well ... umm ... I was thinking that you might like to buy it.'

'Me!?'

'Well, as I understand it, you're looking for something new to get your teeth into.'

'And how big a piece of this film company are you getting for your 12 mil?'

'Eighty percent.'

'Oh, great! Eighty percent of the action; eighty percent of the risk. Who else was looking at it? Who were you bidding against?'

Nick shuffled his feet. 'Umm ... well ... no one really – although I'm sure there are buyers out there. It's just a matter of poking about a bit. You know how it works.'

Aside from watching lots of movies – mainly on planes and in foreign hotel rooms – all I knew about the film business was that a few people made a lot of money and a lot of people went broke. 'I presume you have a pack prepared,' I said.

Nick grinned. 'I'll email it to you this evening.'

The company was called Munelight Productions. It seemed to survive (but only just) by making training films and corporate videos. From the show reel, the productions appeared to be competent without being spectacular. Many of them appeared to have been made on a tight budget. How on earth anyone had come up with a valuation of 15 mil for the business was way beyond me.

'I think you've sucked a pup here,' I told Nick the next morning. 'But I suppose that I may as well meet this Prunella Hornchurch woman.'

'April,' Nick said.

'April? I thought it said Prunella.'

'Yes, Prunella, but she goes by the name of April. I think you'll like her.'

April and I met at a little restaurant on the northern edge of Soho. 'Nick tells me that you might want to buy the bank's share of the business,' she said.

'Depends,' I said. And I got her to tell me how the business worked and what she thought its prospects were in a world that was rapidly turning to custard.

I'll say this for April: she had an excellent sales pitch. She highlighted the positives like a seasoned pro and neatly skirted around the negatives without so much as getting her toes wet. I could see how Nick might have been sucked in.

'And how long have you personally been involved in the business?' I asked.

'One way or another, for almost 25 years.'

'I didn't realise that the business had been going for that long.'

'Well, it's been though a few iterations. In its present form, it has only been going for about ten years.'

'And before that?'

'Before that it made small films for specialist producers,' she said.

'And have you always been in a business development role?'

April smiled, and then shook her head. 'I started out as an actress. But as one gets older ....'

An actress. Yes, I thought, that would certainly explain the beautifully-modulated – almost sexy – voice, and the smooth, confident delivery. For the next three-quarters of an hour, we talked about how the digital revolution had changed the film business almost beyond recognition. Well, April mainly talked and I mainly listened. And by the time the waiter brought our coffee, I was beginning to think that I understood something about Munelight and its rather limited opportunities.

'I need to go away and think,' I said. 'Perhaps we could get together again early next week.'

The more I thought about Munelight and its prospects, the more I tended to the view that April was the best thing about it. And she was already in her early 50s. How much longer would she want to keep going?

I went through the accounts once more. I also got a quantity surveyor who owed me a favour to value the building that the company owned. In the current market? Five million, tops, he reckoned. And then it was back to Nick.

'I'm pretty sure you've sucked a pup,' I told Nick yet again. 'You've paid too much. Far too much. And with the coming austerity, the margins are only going to get worse. But, because it's you, I'm going to give you a break. One mil on signing; another mil in six months' time; and five mil this time next year.'

'And the rest?' Nick said.

'There is no rest,' I told him. 'And don't spend too long thinking about it because my generosity is for a limited time only.'

'Two and two and six?' he suggested.

I just shook my head.

For a moment or two, Nick said nothing – but I could almost hear the cogs whirring in his head. 'OK,' he said, eventually. 'But you can pay for lunch.'

When you buy a business one of the things that you half hope for is that it is being badly run. That way you can usually make a few quick changes and see an almost immediate improvement in the bottom line. But, after just a couple of weeks as the eighty percent shareholder in Munelight, I could see that it was actually being run quite well. The problem, the thing that was keeping the business from flourishing, was the fact that there were too many other small production companies and one-man-bands out there that were prepared to work for next to nothing. Somehow, we needed to find a way to change the game.

'Your acting career ...' I said. April and I had just been through the numbers and, to celebrate turning a modest profit for the month, we were enjoying a glass or two of Escudo Rojo, a product of the Rothschild's joint venture in Chile. 'What was your specialty? Comedy? Costume drama? Gritty northern realism?'

April smiled. 'Well, soon after leaving drama school, I did manage to get a small part in a BBC costume drama. I played a serving wench. But mostly I played in what might be called lack of costume dramas. I thought you knew.'

'No,' I said.

'I went by the stage name of April Love.'

'Wasn't that a song? Andy Williams or someone like that?'

'Pat Boone. It was one of my grandmother's favourites.' April reached into the back of one of the drawers and produced a bunch of keys. 'You have to remember it was a long time ago,' she said. She selected one of the keys and unlocked the door of a tall metal cupboard that stood in the corner. The cupboard seemed to be full of boxed VHS tapes and smaller cased DVDs. April selected three DVDs and handed them to me. 'I suppose you could start with those. But as I say, it was a long time ago.'

'Thanks,' I said. And I slipped the DVDs, in their plain white cases, into my satchel.

For one reason or another, it was a further couple of days before I got a chance to sample April's early thespian endeavours. But then on Thursday evening I settled down with a glass of wine and slipped the first DVD into the slot in the side of my laptop.

Judging by the clothing and the big hair, I'd say that Paris in April (yes, that's what the film was called) must have been made sometime in the late 80s. Not that April had clothes on for much of the film. But she did have big hair – both up there and down below. And there was no doubting that it was April.

The plot (such as it was) concerned Paris, a Greek hell-raiser who has been sent by his rich parents to study art in London. Paris shares a flat with April, one of the school's life models. But his obsession is with Helen, one of his tutors.

For the first eight or ten minutes of the film, April is seen posing nude for a life drawing class, the camera ensuring that we get to see her every curve, nook, and cranny. Paris is one of the students drawing April, although he spends most of his time flirting with Helen.

After the class, we see April arriving back at the flat where she takes a long hot shower (more curves, nooks, and crannies) before trying on some sexy underwear that she takes out of a tissue paper-lined box, giving the impression that it might be some sort of special gift. April is just standing in front of a mirror admiring her new bra and knickers when she hears Paris returning with Helen.

Paris and Helen are both a bit tiddly, and Paris tells April that Helen has finally agreed to go to bed with him – but only if April joins them. The rest of the film is an up-close-and-personal exploration of the possibilities of an FMF encounter.

The guy who played Paris was a really terrible actor. And the woman who played Helen was not much better. But the young April ... well, she was surprisingly convincing.

The second film, Naked Ambition, had rather more of a story to it – although April still manages to lose all or most of her clothes on no fewer than five occasions.

But it was the third film that really impressed me. It started with April arriving home from work. She is wearing a smart business suit and she starts to tell us, speaking straight to camera, what a difficult day she has had. Suddenly, in mid-sentence, she stops and looks at her watch. The account of her day will have to wait for another time, she tells us. It has already gone six and James, a man she has been lusting after for several weeks, is coming to pick her up at seven.

April keeps talking to us as the camera follows her into her bedroom where she undresses and then tries to decide what she will wear for her date. She tells us that she needs to look sexy but not too tarty. She takes a red skirt and black shirt from the wardrobe, holds them up in front of her, and looks in the mirror. What do we think? Or maybe .... And she takes out a peacock blue dress with a deep plunging neckline and holds that in front of her. She can't decide. And time is ticking by.

The camera follows April into the bathroom where she takes a shower, spreading her labia so that we can watch the water flowing down through her pink valley. Mmm. That feels so nice. And then she carefully trims her pubic hair. What do you think? Does that look better?

And then it's back to the bedroom where the naked April fossicks through a couple of drawers filled with girly underthings, trying to decide on the perfect bra and knickers for the occasion. Eventually she slips on a matching set in red satin with tiny black bows. What do you think? Too tarty, perhaps? She takes them off again and tries on a pink and grey set. Better? Or maybe this sheer black set.

And so it goes on. And all the time April is talking to the camera, talking to us in that rich, sexy voice, telling us about her hopes and anxieties. Checking how she looks in the mirror again. Slipping her hand down inside the front of her knickers. Smiling. Sometimes even I find myself irresistible.

Eventually, she is dressed and ready to go. She takes one last long look in the mirror. 'Oh, well,' she says. And she hitches her skirt slightly, takes off her knickers, and tosses them onto the bed. 'Wish me luck,' she says.

I must confess that it wasn't the first intimate encounter film I had ever seen. But it was by far the best. It was sexy. It was arousing. (It had me standing to attention.) Yet it was also warm and funny and touching.

'I watched your films last night.'

April nodded. 'Well, it is as well that you know. And remember it was quite a while ago now. I've moved on.'

'Some nice work,' I said. 'I particularly liked the solo piece, Date Night. Who wrote the script?'

'Well, the idea was Aaron's ....'

'Your ex-partner?'

'Yes,' she said. 'But I pretty much wrote the script myself.'

'It could have been Alan Bennett,' I said. 'You know ... an erotic version of Talking Heads.'

The following month, a company with which we had a contract to produce four training films turned up its toes owing us just over 50k. We had really sharpened our pencil to get the deal, and 40 of the 50k had already been paid out in costs. As a result of that little mishap, and a sudden downturn in the demand for corporate videos, we barely broke even for the month. 'I think we need lunch,' I told April.

We strolled over to the restaurant where we had first met and, over a bottle of pretty decent Aussie Shiraz, I asked April if she had enjoyed making the films that she had kindly given me to watch.

'Well, it was a long time ago now,' she said for the umpteenth time.

'Yeah, yeah, I know that. No one has big hair and even bigger shoulder pads anymore. Well, maybe a few American gridiron players. But nobody in this restaurant.'

April frowned slightly, and then she said: 'I didn't particularly enjoy making the first one. The guy who played Paris was a real creep.'

'And an awful actor,' I suggested.

April nodded. 'But the others ... yeah, I sort of did.'

'What about the solo effort? Date Night?'

'Yeah. That was lots of fun,' she said. 'Lots of fun.'

'OK. Here's what I think,' I said. 'I reckon it's going to take the world a bit of time to get out of this present mess. How long? I honestly don't know. But at least two or three years. Maybe four. And for those two or three years – and probably a bit longer – I think the corporate chequebooks are going to be under lock and key. It's not going to be a great time to be trying to make money out of training films and glossy corporate videos – not with all those other guys out there who seem happy to work for nothing.'

April sighed. It was as though I was just saying what she was already thinking.

'So here's what I think we should consider. I reckon I can sell our building for about six mil – give or take. I know a wiz-bang IT development company that is desperate to move into Soho. The IT sector is one of the few sectors that is still booming. The building's probably not worth six mil, but I'm pretty sure that I get them to pay six mil.

'With the building moved on, we will effectively have 12 mil in the bank. After expenses, that means that you could walk away with about two and a half mil. Or ... we could move into another niche market, one that isn't quite so affected by the corporate gloom.'

April took a sip of her wine. 'I'm listening,' she said.

The following day, I met with the head of the IT development company and offered him our building – 'great space, great location, great off-street parking' – for 6.6 million. A couple of days later he came back with an offer of 6.2. We settled on 6.4. On the way back to tell April the good news, I stopped off at Berry Brothers and picked up a bottle of Chateau Latour.

'I suppose this means back to the gym,' April said as we sipped.

'Well ... up to you. But I wouldn't have thought so. I think, for our target audience, part of the attraction of the over-50 woman is that she's over 50. And you are still a looker.'

April smiled. 'And you're a sweet talker.'

Five weeks later, we had moved out of Soho and set up our new workspace in the garden flat beneath my Holland Park house. With me living upstairs, and April living in nearby Shepherd's Bush, it was an ideal situation. The open plan living room became our main working and meeting space; one of the bedrooms was turned into an editing suite; and the other bedroom became a storeroom. We continued to take on training and corporate projects – but only those on which we could make a healthy margin. The rest of our time we devoted to our new project: the return of April Love.

We started out by surveying what the competition was up to. And, to be honest, neither of us was particularly impressed. There were a few ideas that showed potential, but not a lot. There was some talent that showed possibilities, but it cried out for some serious development. And there were glimpses of cinematography that seemed to be headed in the right direction – although only in snatches (no pun intended). But we were certainly unable find the complete package.