“Jo, please don’t worry about that. I discussed it with my boss and she discussed it, confidentially of course, with the BBC’s legal department. The consensus was that if we revealed it on live TV that all the crooks involved would have a good chance of escaping the charges. It’s not like we had forensic evidence or a video of the boat scene and, without that, publicly accusing anyone of being directly implicated in murder would give their legal team a field day in delaying all investigations and trials while the slander charges were dealt with.”
Jo understood, but didn’t look any less disappointed.
“But,” continued Ben, “you heard they arrested Eric, didn’t you? So they’re taking the accusations seriously. Let’s leave the evidence gathering to the experts. The truth will come out. Trust me.”
Ben hailed a black cab. Jo turned to him, “You know, I do trust you, Ben Faber, winner of three Lorenzo Natali Prizes.”
The two hugged and Jo, in her exhaustion, let her full body weight rest against Ben’s reassuringly solid chest. Ben opened the cab door for Jo to climb in. Before closing the door he jumped inside and firmly kissed Jo on the lips.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he said, making a swift exit. Jo didn’t have time to tell him how long she had been anticipating it. His taste and smell lingered which added to the heady euphoria Jo was finally allowing herself to succumb to.
Inside the cab, the driver asked, “Where to love?”
“Home.” Jo relished saying the word. “The Barbican,” she elaborated, “and may I borrow your phone for a minute?’
Jo called her parents apartment. Her mother answered on half a ring. Jo cut short any explanations, letting them know she was fine, and she believed Amy was too, and that she was on her way. Jo sank back into the leather seats of the cab, enjoying the passing view of the illuminated Thames.
CHAPTER FORTY
“That’s brilliant news Adam! I’m so glad you’re on the mend. When will they be able to fly you back to London? Two more days? Well let me know which hospital. I’ll smuggle in a couple of bottles of wine. Maybe it will be second time lucky for me. OK, bye, I’ll let you get back to what sound like very attentive nurses. See you soon.”
Jo finished the call in an ecstatic mood, revealing the news to her sister, nephew and parents in their Barbican living room.
“The doctors have given Adam the all clear. There won’t be any permanent damage, although he will need a ton of physical therapy. Who needs bullet proof vests when you have a laptop?”
Jo’s mother looked confused.
“It turns out,” explained Amy, “that when that horrible guy shot Adam from behind,” she shuddered at the recollection, “the bullet went into Adam’s backpack, which was actually his laptop case and deflected off his computer and lodged in his right shoulder instead of his chest.”
“The miracles of modern technology, hey? Maybe I’ll have to learn to properly use one of those things,” chimed in Joseph Lavelle.
“No, Dad. The image of you amid your papers with glasses is far too precious,” objected Amy, “and anyway, now you can use Mum, our newest technical whiz. Talking of which, can we begin our presentation now?”
“Yes, we’re very curious,” said Jo sitting down with Jack on her lap.
Amy tossed over a bag of jelly babies. “Surely you don’t think that sitting with you is entertainment enough?”
Amy opened up her mother’s laptop and, with a flourish, projected a presentation onto the living room wall, while Nancy Lavelle handed out copies of the material. Jack proceeded to chew on them rather than the jelly beans bribe.
“Very impressive,” nodded Jo.
“Well listen to it first!” said Amy. “Remember, you are our mock clients.”
Amy started the prepared speech. “Thank-you for coming. It is our pleasure today to present to you with an overview of YogaDesks, a revolutionary concept in revitalizing your workforce, alleviating stress in the corporate environment, and enhancing creativity and productivity.”
Jo’s new phone rang. Amy glared at her.
“Actually, it adds a realistic element to the presentation, don’t you think?” teased Jo. She looked at the caller ID. “I’m sorry, but I have to take this one.”
As she left the room, Jo could hear her father saying, “Don’t they usually provide tea at these meetings?”
“I was about to book you for a formal interview for the program since that seemed to be the only option left to get some time to talk,” said the familiar and welcome voice on the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry Ben. It’s been crazy this past week, as you can imagine. I’ve been locked up for so many hours in various Police and FSA interview rooms, I sometimes wondered if I was the one under arrest.”
“It’s OK. Believe me, I understand. I’ve had to do a few of those sessions myself since we broke the story. I hope our alibis match. But, have they given you the weekend off?”
“Yes, I suppose. Oh wait, I just remembered, my CFA exam is tomorrow.”
“Oh. I see. Right then.” Ben sounded disappointed.
“But there’s always next June. My career in finance is currently hanging in the balance and my exam preparation fell a little behind for some reason this time around.”
Ben left no room for further excuses. “Then be ready. Five o’clock. Weekend bag. Pack light. I’ll pick you up.” The phone went dead.
Jo smiled and shook her head. Are we back at the beginning, she wondered.
Back in the living room, Jo’s mother was busy pouring tea and Amy was settling Jack in front of a Thomas the Tank Engine episode.
Jo took over the tea pouring. “Mum, you’re the corporate executive now, remember.”
Amy switched to the next slide showing Nancy Lavelle’s credentials. “I would like now to present the founder of YogaDesks, Nancy Lavelle.”
Jo’s mother started off her talk in slightly unsure fashion, explaining the origins of yoga. However, she soon gained in confidence, speaking with authority on its many benefits, especially when combined with meditation techniques. The presentation moved quickly to the tangible business benefits of reducing stress and increasing a sense of well-being in a company workforce. Amy came back to conclude with the various options, programs and pricing structures offered by YogaDesks.
At the end of the presentation, Jo and her father burst into enthusiastic applause, genuinely impressed by their family members’ efforts.
“So, basically,” said Jo, speaking with a mouthful of cookie, “you are planning to go into City offices – legal firms, banks etcetera – offer on-site yoga and meditation classes paid by the company, with the pitch that it makes employees better at their jobs. Amy does the business side, Mum and her instructors do the guru part and you make a bunch of money in the process. A big ‘Om’ to that.”
“Well, Jo, as ever, you are very pragmatic in your explanations, but yes, that is the basic concept. Except we are not planning to do it,” replied Amy.
“Well, what’s this all about then?” asked Jo’s father.
Nancy was beaming. “What Amy means is that it is no longer just a plan. We have already signed three companies on twelve month contracts.”
“That’s absolutely fantastic!” exclaimed Jo.
“Forget the tea,” chimed in Joseph Lavelle, “this calls for the 61 Latour.”
“Well, before you go get it, would you like to share your news too darling?” asked his wife.
“No, you can do it for me. It’s not that exciting,” he replied, modestly.
“Well, girls, your father has signed a publishing deal for his new book. His agent called to tell us it was finalized this morning.”
“Better make that two bottles then Dad,” said Amy.
“Yes, we’ll toast to the brilliant family and the unemployed daughter,” said Jo playfully.
Her mother looked concerned and put her arm around Jo.
“Don’t worry sweethear
t, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Give it some time.”
“Yes,” said Jo nonchalantly, “in fact I think I might get away for the weekend and clear my head. I do have some ideas.”
“Away on your own?” Amy raised an eyebrow.
Jo felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Well Ben’s actually planning it.”
Her mother now raised both eyebrows. Jo’s pallor deepened.
Their father returned, reverentially proffering a bottle before him. He paused.
“What’s with the silence? You girls conspiring?”
“No,” said Amy, “Jo’s just telling us of her plans for a weekend of relaxation – and maybe some exercise thrown in.” Jo elbowed Amy.
“Excellent, excellent. Well all gather around. No sudden movements. Don’t want to spill a drop.”
Basking in the after effects of the velvet beverage, Jo and Amy sat close together on the sofa.
“Can I ask how things are with Chris?” ventured Jo.
“You can ask,” replied Amy, “but I’m not sure I have an answer. Clearly we have some things to work out.”
“Yes, I’d say so. How could he do that to you? To our family?”
“Look, I’m not excusing his actions. But after some lengthy discussions, I’m convinced he believed his motives were good. He says he did it to protect me, first and foremost, and our family – meaning him, Jack and myself. And he was as shocked as we were when that vile Eric guy pulled out a gun. He believed that if we escaped with the information and exposed Butterfly that someone would always be after us. I guess we’ll find out. I don’t know; it’s almost impossible to fathom. All the events happened so quickly.”
“I’m staying here for a few days and then maybe we’ll try some counseling. I think we need professional help, and not just for this. But if we can find a way to make it work again – I mean look at him,” she turned to look at Jack, “anything that can produce such a beautiful creature, can’t be all bad. This business with Mum should be good too. I’ll work part time and Dad will look after Jack when I’m busy. His idea.”
“Has it caused a lot of trouble for Chris at work?”
Amy laughed. “No, quite the opposite. It looks like he’s on track to become one of the youngest senior partners ever. Chris suspects that some of the higher up lawyers at Whitfield must have known exactly what was happening at Butterfly, even helping it along in exchange for their business. So now they may be scared about what Chris knows.”
“Well, for what it’s worth now, I’m sorry I dragged you and Chris into it. My options seemed really limited at the time.”
“Are you kidding? You managed to pack more excitement into a couple of months of working than I could muster in years slogging away in the City. I wouldn’t have wanted to miss being part of it – well now I know we’re all okay.”
Jo noticed the time. 4.15 pm. She jumped up. “Better get ready.”
Amy kissed Jo on the cheek. “Tell him he has the sister approval. And that’s pretty tough to accomplish.”
Jo kissed her back. “I’m sure he’ll be relieved.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
At 5.00 pm precisely, Ben called from the lobby of the building. Jo was running ten minutes late, but eventually made her way down in the elevator to the parking lot.
She looked around for the blue VW Golf and was startled by revving and a loud honking drawing up next to her. At first she was irritated that the idiot in the new silver Aston Martin was using the car horn to make her move, but then she noticed it was Ben in the driver’s seat; a clean shaven and exceedingly sophisticated looking Ben.
Ben alighted and walked around to open the passenger side. Jo motioned towards her large suitcase.
“Did, I not mention the pack light part?” asked Ben.
“Your information on where we were going was on the light side,” shrugged Jo. “What did you expect?”
Ben eyes slowly made their way up Jo from her high heeled black boots to the low waisted jeans hugging the contours of her hips, to the thick but fitted cream turtle neck sweater.
Jo eased into the sumptuous dark leather of the interior. “You’ve been holding out on me,” she said.
“Well, confessions upfront. It’s not technically mine. Actually, it’s not mine in any sense. It’s on loan. Some of the celebrity friendships survived the happy break-up – all the cool friends sided with me of course. Anyway, where are we going?”
“I thought you were going to tell me that.”
“Well, here’s the way I see it,” said Ben, producing his Exec Jet card, “I reckon I’m in pretty good standing with the BBC. It’s the biggest white collar crime to hit the UK and the station is milking its exclusive information for all its worth. So they owe me, us in fact, a few hours on this. How about skiing in Zermatt? They’ve had some excellent early snow fall. Or some sun in Santorini or a cultural weekend in Florence?”
Jo thought for a minute. All the options sounded enticing, if a little surreal.
“Actually, I think I’d like to go back to the beginning.”
“Oh, no. Not Cambridge, where the venerable, and now disgraced, Charles Bray began his illustrious career…”
Jo covered Ben’s mouth. “No, the beginning of my involvement with Butterfly. Aix-en-Provence. I know a great hotel. Delicious food, superb wine, large soaking tubs.”
“You’ve sold me. Let’s go.”
The view from the jet as they circled over London was mesmerizing and the air when they arrived at Marseille airport was fragrant and enveloping with its relative winter warmth.
They rented a car and Jo gave Ben directions as they drove. Jo was amused to encounter the same female receptionist at the hotel who had last seen her in her sodden state. She was noticeably more charming toward Ben.
“Bonjour, Monsieur-dame.”
“Um, Bonjour,” attempted Ben. The receptionist politely switched to English as Jo marveled at her new found courteousness.
“How may I help you? A table for dinner? A room reservation?”
“Both actually,” said Ben.
“And your names, s’il vous plait?”
“Ben Faber and Josephine Lavelle.”
Jo noticed a slight tensing between the eyes of the receptionist as she typed Jo’s name. Jo wondered if it was all coming back to her.
“And will you be needing one room or two?”
Ben faltered slightly in his suave demeanor. “That’s a good question.”
Such a situation was clearly not new. “Well may I suggest one of our suites? It has two interconnecting bedrooms. So you can decide later how many you wish to use.” She even managed a smile at this point.
Ben looked at Jo. Jo addressed the receptionist “Ca serait parfait.” The suite was booked.
Later, in the candlelit dining room, Jo and Ben talked and talked, covering all the missed conversations. They were so engrossed, they hardly noticed that the procession of seven gourmet courses had ended and the dining room was empty of guests, save for them.
The conversation finally turned to Butterfly, with Ben asking Jo if she knew what had happened to her ex-colleagues.
“No, I don’t. Not for the most part. I was too occupied conducting espionage to make many close friends. I know the offices were closed the day after the news broke. I suppose everyone is busy finding new positions. It shouldn’t be hard. Butterfly’s reputation for hiring the best was at least true, and I don’t think many of the employees had any idea where the major profits were coming from.”
Jo suddenly laughed. “Oh, I did get an update on Serge Clayeux, my French colleague. I think he was quite pleased with their demise. And he already has a new job. His father runs a private equity firm in Paris and they just acquired a portfolio of hotels that Serge has been asked to oversee. I think it will suit him quite well.”
Jo sensed a hovering presence behind her. She turned to see their waiter holding up a pale blue shawl. “Excusez-moi, but maybe Mademoiselle and Monsieur would lik
e to take coffee out on the terrace? The night is un peu froid, chilly I mean, but may I suggest…” he held out the shawl.
Jo leaned towards Ben and whispered, “That’s French for, ‘Please can you clear off now? Our shift ended an hour ago.’” Turning to the waiter, “Mais, bien sur. Merci pour tout.”
Jo brushed her cheek against the cashmere around her shoulders, taking in the soft scent of lavender that the shawl captured. They stood at the balustrade of the long stone terrace, sipping hot espresso and marveling, as only city dwellers do, at the multitude of stars.
The moment was interrupted by the ring of Jo’s phone. She looked apologetically at Ben. “Sorry, what a way to interrupt a starry Provencal night scene. I thought it was switched off.”
Jo briefly wondered what it was that couldn’t wait. Only her family, Ben and Adam had her new number.
“Hello?” she ventured.
“Ciao, er, hello,” came the unexpected and slightly faltering female reply. “I hope you will forgive my intrusion. Your mother gave me this number. It’s Isabella.”
“I’m sorry?” Jo was still confused.
“Isabella Radcliff. Professor Henry Radcliff’s daughter.”
“Oh, I see. Hello Isabella.” Jo remembered their distinctly formal encounter at the memorial service and the confusion over the call was still not alleviated.
“Jo, I want to apologize for the manner in which I acted toward you. It was a difficult time and you were working with Dr. Bray…”
“Believe me, I understand. No need for apologies.”
“Thank-you, but that is not the only reason for my call, although I will try to be brief. Given recent developments, my father’s department is obviously not proceeding with the establishment of the scholarship offered by Butterfly Investments. But it is my family’s wishes that we establish a similar program in my father’s honor to further graduate research in his fields.”
The Girl Inside Page 28