by Fran Louise
I laughed at this. “Yeah, well they don’t know my family.”
“So you’re worried about the fallout from the investigation, the link between your father and Harry,” Fueller said after we’d considered the view for a moment. “Anyone who’s been within spitting distance of Harry in the last twenty years is financially linked to him somehow, whether they realise it or not. There’ll be plenty of people running for cover over the next few months. I don’t see why you have to worry any more than anyone else. I know there’s a family connection, but—”
“I want my own investigation,” I said, blunt with determination.
Fueller stopped. He lifted one brow and took a sip of his drink.
“I know my father. I know how he works,” I said, eyes narrow against the cutting sunlight. “He’s not happy about my divorce. Harry Benson isn’t happy about it, either. My father’s already made some melodramatic noises about taking a more active role in the board of directors.”
“With a view to what?” Fueller asked.
“Shutting me down,” I told him. “There are plenty of ways to ruin a company like mine if you can appeal to the greed of the stakeholders. I figured, worst-case scenario, that he might try to persuade the board to sell out to one of our larger clients. What that does is effectively turn us into an in-house lobby group.”
Fueller thought about this and nodded.
“But I have the feeling he might have done something a lot more stupid,” I said.
“Like what?”
I swallowed a mouthful of the whisky. “When he purchased controlling stock, he transferred us under his own group: Fitz Corp. It’s an old trick; he and Harry did it before. Once the share price levels, they start transferring assets to other, more profitable companies within the group.” I ran a hand across my face and sighed heavily. “It’s asset stripping, basically. I should have noticed earlier. I saw the stock price fall again right after the rumour got out about him joining the board, and I knew it was wrong. It should have gone up, not down.”
“That’s illegal as hell,” Fueller said, stating the obvious with a dry laugh.
“No shit,” I agreed. “The market knew what he was up to, even if I’ve had my head up my ass.”
I shook my head. “Now, two weeks later, I find out they’re investigating Harry. He’s been involved in just about every accounting transaction my father’s ever made.” My heart beat was a noticeable thud in my ears, but I kept my breathing even. I refused to panic, not yet. “So, what do you think, Bull? On a scale of one to ten, how convincing will I sound if I tell the FBI that I had nothing to do with my father and my father-in-law stripping assets from my company? Before, I might add, dismantling it at the expense of our shareholders and at a massive profit.”
Fueller let out a low whistle. “Well, now … when you put it like that…”
I breathed out slowly. “You get my drift, anyway. I need to know what the fuck he’s been up to. I need to know what’s coming.”
“If you want my advice – straight up, this is not a good time for you to be divorcing Elizabeth Benson,” Fueller said.
An abrupt laugh escaped me. “You’ve got to be joking. You were all for it last month!”
“That was before you told me about the share price,” Fueller said defensively.
“Yeah, well – too late, buddy. That horse has fled the stable.”
“Not yet,” Fueller said. “The papers haven’t been signed, have they?”
“No, but they’ve been submitted,” I said.
“Listen, until those papers have been signed, that stable door can still be bolted.”
My stomach complained loudly in the bucolic silence, whether due to hunger or the sheer notion of staying married to Elizabeth, I wasn’t sure. When I’d finally recovered the will to speak, I said. “Are you seriously telling me I have to call this off?”
Fueller shrugged and said, “Mightn’t be the worst idea. Unless he’s a completely irredeemable son of a bitch, I don’t think Harry Benson’s going to take you down with him if you’re still married to his daughter.”
I sat stock still, staring at Bull in the suddenly stifling silence. Call off the divorce? Every fibre of my being struggled against the idea.
Could I go back to that life?
The answer was no; I couldn’t; definitely not; no way. In the midst of the all the shit hitting the fan right now, this divorce was the only light glimmering at the end of the tunnel. Removing Elizabeth from my list of responsibilities was not simply putting an end to our shared misery, it was about a new future, starting afresh. It was a way of getting free from my family – their innate inability to live decent lives. I had to start living honestly.
“It’s not forever, kid,” Fueller added quietly. “You can file the papers again once the investigation is over, but it’d save you a lot of trouble in the meantime.”
The prospect of Harry Benson dragging me into his legal issues out of sheer spite was a sobering one. Nausea circled like a hungry bird, but I kept my focus on Bull. “Okay, let’s assume I call off the divorce,” I said after a long silence. The sun went behind a cloud and I blinked, readjusting to the light. “What else do I need to do?”
We talked about the various possible scenarios over lunch. Fueller recommended I lay low. I could continue to attend charity events and the like, but no obvious displays of wealth, nothing that could cause a backlash should the investigation veer in my direction. By the time the bill arrived, I was feeling a lot less optimistic than I had been arriving at the terrace earlier. The weight of what was to come was suddenly very real. Above everything else, the prospect of resuming my marriage was looming like a dark cloud. Bull was insistent I keep up pretences; no one, except me, Elizabeth and Bull, could know it was anything less than a full reconciliation.
I’d just lanced a wound; it was painful and unpleasant, but now I could start working on making it better. It was with this goal in mind that I turned back to Fueller after we’d parted ways.
“Wait up, Bull.” I ran down the path towards the older man, arriving at his side by the lake. “I’ve got a favour to ask.” I paused. “Remember a few months ago I asked you to look into that journalist?”
“Winters,” Fueller said, sharp as a tack. “Yeah, sure.”
“I got another one of those notes,” I said.
Fueller frowned. He frowned in a way that made grown men nervous. “You don’t say.” He considered my reticent features. “No idea who’s behind it?”
“There are more than a few candidates,” I said with a humourless laugh. “Anyway, it’s not about the notes.” My brow settled, a slight pain resonating in my tight jaw. “I want to know.”
“Know what?”
“About this kid,” I said evenly. “If she’s mine. For sure.”
Fueller’s brows lifted. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I guess that’s one way to stop the notes.” He paused for a moment, eyes narrow as he chewed over some unspoken issue. “You’d better be ready to find out, though.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “The mother’s in trouble with the ex. If I can prove the kid isn’t mine, it stops the notes and it’ll help her with this child support thing she’s got going. She could use a break.”
“I’m sure she could, but what if it is yours? Ever think about that?”
Smiling, I took a step back. “Let me worry about that,” I said. “Just take care of it, would you, buddy? I owe you one.”
#
Elizabeth appeared from the master bedroom in a flowing dress of pale, pink silk. I stopped what I was doing for a moment and stared at her. In profile, unobserved, she was a pleasure to look at. Her hair was swept up in a regal knot at the base of her neck, the dark blond tresses glinting in the dim light. The dress, while simple, was stylish and she did it full justice. It was her expression that caught me, though – the unassuming air I rarely saw; she seemed completely unaware of my presence.
Then she stared at her phone, h
er expression tightened into irritation. I looked away, the illusion shattered.
“I’m not taking a town car,” she said. “I told you, Jay. I want Teddy to drive us in the Mercedes. It’s so pedestrian showing up in a town car. We may as well hail a cab, for God’s sake.”
I walked away. She’d agreed to this temporary resumption of our marriage with open eyes. I hadn’t spared the truth, and she knew it was in both of our interests to lay low. Yet we’d only been back in the apartment two days and already she was like a bear with a sore head. She was jumpy and tense, at turns plaintive, at turns utterly inert. I was starting to wonder if she was self-medicating.
Entering the study, I slid my phone into the pocket of my pants and then checked the messy surface of the desk for anything else I might need. We were running late. I snatched up the pile of unread mail Anna had dropped off earlier, planning to read it in the car.
Stopping for a moment, I stared at the doorway, gathering my wits. How easily Elizabeth and I had settled back into our roles: the resentful husband and the bitter wife. It was as if we’d been born to it. The idea that we had actually been born to it—a match effectively engineered by our parents—made me feel physically sick. I took a deep breath, pushing back sensation.
This was not my fate. I refused to let it be.
She was quiet in the town car all the way to the event. The tension was a lumpy mattress on which we lay stiffly side by side. I distracted myself by checking over the paperwork. The stock reports were still a mess; in particular, the figures for the last three days were dire. Was it possible for the share price to sink any lower? If this got worse we’d be kicked out of the stock exchange by the end of the financial year. I stared blindly at the figures; could Fitzsimmons & Jones survive that? Reputation was a slippery son of a gun … once it was gone, it was very hard to get it back.
My hand fell on to the cream envelope; I was opening it before I’d even registered what it was.
She’s your responsibility.
Get the kid tested.
“Fuck.”
Elizabeth started at my rich curse. “What’s wrong with you?” she said, eyeing me in outrage.
Anger slashed me. Who the hell was sending these damned things?
She exhaled heavily. “We’ve arrived,” she said. “Could you at least try to pretend we want to be here? I only came because you insisted.”
“It’s for charity,” I said, my tone clipped.
Elizabeth was oblivious, already wound up, her eyes darting across to the dignified mayhem outside. “That awful public relations person said they’ll be photographing us like a couple of cheap celebrities; the least you can do is not embarrass me any more than I already am.” She swished her skirts. “And I’m not standing against one of those advertising spaces. You can tell your assistant he can find someone else to sell his vulgar products.”
“He isn’t selling any products,” I said. I folded the cream paper once, twice, and placed it into my pocket. “And Bull’s not my assistant. Just do what he says and let’s get this over and done with.”
We left the car to a barrage of lights and noise. I got out first and then waited for Elizabeth to come around from the other side of the car. I kept my expression even as the cameras flashed. Once Elizabeth was at my side, I looked at her, amazed to see a gracious smile curving her ruby red lips … I hadn’t seen that for a while. Humour jabbed me, but I was able to wrestle it into a polite smile. I touched my wife’s elbow and carefully escorted her towards the entrance to the exclusive marquee like a loyal husband. The second we were inside, I let go. Elizabeth fled.
Left to my own devices, I first checked my phone messages and then got my bearings. The event was being held inside a series of marquees. The crowd was well-dressed and well-heeled, but outside my normal social circle. They preened and carried on distracted conversations, all the while watching to see who was watching them. I was subjected to more than one curious stare as I wandered, hands in pockets, smiling courteously but mostly simmering with tension. I stopped by the seating area, ignoring the swish of practising models floating past on the catwalk, and thumbed the smooth square of cream paper in my pocket.
When was I going to get those damned test results back, anyway? The sooner I put this farce to rest, the better. It would also give me a convenient excuse to see Stella again. I exhaled, taking a seat and staring out at the view over the darkening city. Where was she tonight? Working? Probably. Though with a six-month old ... six month? How old would the kid be now, anyway?
Fueller appeared and slapped me on the back in a hearty greeting, making me flinch. The older man lifted his brows. “A lot on your mind?”
I smiled reluctantly.
“Nice tux,” he said. “I bet that cost a small fortune.”
“Nothing like a charity event to encourage displays of obscene wealth.”
“Is Elizabeth here?”
I nodded towards the bar. When I glanced back at Fueller, I was torn between agreeing with the intimation behind his raised brows and loyalty to my erstwhile wife. Elizabeth might be a thorn in my side, but I had married her. I’d also called off the divorce to serve my own interests. I could hardly throw her under the bus now, no matter how much I might abhor the situation.
“We’re both doing what we have to do to get through this,” I said.
Fueller shrugged. “She wouldn’t be the first one from the Hamptons set to mistake gin for happiness.” His expression hardened. “You need her sober for the interviews, though, Jay. You gotta help me out with this, okay?”
“She’s not a drunk, Bull,” I said.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“What about those test results?”
Bull winked at me. “Soon,” he said.
There was no time to discuss anything else in detail as the event coordinator arrived. The next two hours were bordering on excruciating. Firstly, I was assigned a small space on a tiny bench with barely enough room for a child to sit comfortably. Pressed between Elizabeth and some woman who looked familiar but who I couldn’t quite place, I was then subjected to a gruelling series of preternaturally tall and slim women striding past wearing pieces of fabric that seemed to have no purpose other than to strategically cover their secondary sexual characteristics.
One show ended, and then, astonishingly, agonisingly, another one started. The woman to my left started to lean on me after fifteen minutes or so. It didn’t take long to work out that she was under the effects of drugs, be it alcohol or something stronger. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, anything to escape the oppressive crush of the bodies.
My gaze meandered to the other side of the catwalk. My eyes snagged on someone. A couple of models moved in the way, the lights changing. Sitting up, barely breathing, I waited, my eyes pinned to the spot where I’d seen that face.
There! Stella’s features slotted into place in front of me like the answer to a puzzle. Shock detonated, firing my blood. She made no pretence of shying away from my observation. Her gaze, shadowed under the overhead lights, rested on me with hesitant warmth.
The lights went up suddenly. People everywhere were clapping. The models on the stage were streaming in single file, blocking my view of the crowd.
“Thank God that’s over,” Elizabeth murmured in my ear. “Can we go now? Bunny Monroe’s having a late supper at her apartment – we might still catch it if we leave now.”
A battery of sensation pounded inside of me. “I have a speech to make,” I said.
“I thought we just had to get our photo taken together?” Elizabeth said, slurring slightly.
I blew out a breath and stood up, desperate to escape these confines. “We have to do interviews; we have responsibilities towards this charity, Elizabeth. We’re not leaving.”
Impatient now, I stared across the catwalk. I could see above most heads but there was such a throng of people that I couldn’t separate them. It had been Stella. I was sure of it. There was no mistaking that face. My
whole body was resonating from the sheer impact of it. I could feel the imprint of our last meeting – that tender, hungry, stolen afternoon in the shrouded hotel room. It had merely whetted my appetite.
“There you are,” Fueller said, shouting over the noise as he reached my side. “Ready? Five minutes should do it—just get up and turn on the charm—and then we’ll head backstage to do a quick interview. I’ve got a decent rag doing the piece,” he said, looking smug. “I pulled this one out of the bag.”
After glancing about again only for a second, I nodded. She would still be here once I was done.
I kept the speech short, focusing on the work the designers were doing, and otherwise just making sure people knew how to donate. I took my charity work seriously; while I might abhor my family’s obsession with wealth and position, I couldn’t deny that they’d instilled in me a solid belief in charity. I was aware that it was one of the more perverse dichotomies of the super rich; tax avoidance and then charitable benevolence.
Elizabeth was wavering on the spot when I arrived back stage, a squat glass of clear liquid in one limp hand. “Honestly, darling—let’s go,” she said, as though I’d been abusing her patience. “You’ve done your duty.” Distaste seemed to engulf her as a couple of models ran past, laughing. “I’m sure they mean well but it’s awfully amateurish.”
She wasn’t the only one who wanted to leave. I had every intention of putting her in a car and turning tail in search of Stella. Excitement loomed in me like heavy mist. But that was something for later; something to look forward to once I’d finished this.
“Okay, let’s get this interview done,” Fueller said, pointedly ignoring my wife’s comment. He eyed her glass cautiously. “Can you leave that here, sweetheart? We’ll be done in fifteen minutes. You can pick it up on your way out.”
Elizabeth stilled. I was almost certain she was outraged, both by the gauche comment about the drink and the endearment. Like the well-bred woman she was, she put the glass down and didn’t comment. Her expression conveyed quite enough without the necessity of language.