The Spanish Promise

by Karen Swan

  Marina stared at her, the slight mocking look in her eyes gone now. She was quiet for a long moment, just watching as Charlotte calmly sipped her coffee. ‘You said there were three ways of getting rich.’

  They’d been circling the drain but now they were getting to it. ‘That’s right. Inherit, earn, or gain it.’

  ‘And what’s the problem for those that gain it?’

  Charlotte sighed. ‘Well that usually leads to what’s known as SWS – sudden wealth syndrome.’

  ‘It has a name?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. A bit like PTSD, the shock can be overwhelming. It’s a pretty toxic blend of all the worst elements of the other ways of becoming rich: inheritors’ guilt, plus earners’ emotional expectation gap. People might crave money, they might dream of never having to worry about a bill again, but when it happens, particularly if it’s sudden and they haven’t had time to work towards their goals – say they have a lottery win – they’re just not prepared; not for the admin and business side of it, nor the emotional vacuum, nor the sudden lack of shape to their days or any kind of impetus to do things. Believe it or not, and I do know how patronizing this sounds, but struggle builds character – it fosters determination, grit, perseverance, and money takes that all away. Seriously, it’s tough.’ She looked back at Marina levelly.

  ‘And that’s why people need you.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘People hear the title wealth counsellor and think it’s some fluffy job. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Where there’s money, there’s often crisis.’ She held the older woman’s gaze, yesterday’s conversation vibrating like an invisible thread between them.

  ‘Excuse me, waitress?’

  Marina looked up. A couple had sat down at a nearby table and one was tapping her wrist impatiently. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she murmured, looking frustrated.

  ‘Sure. But I have to ask you one last time, before you go. Before I go –’ Charlotte looked at her meaningfully – ‘you’re quite sure you don’t know Carlos Mendoza?’

  Marina tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. She swallowed nervously. ‘. . . Yes, I’m sure.’

  Her hesitation had been louder than the reply. ‘But you are Marina Quincy?’

  ‘. . . Yes.’

  ‘And you live at Apartment 8, 94 Calle del General Garcia de la Herran, Carabanchel?’

  Marina gasped. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘The same way I knew you worked here.’ She didn’t need to articulate that money could buy things other than cars and clothes. Charlotte sat back with a shrug and a sigh, a pitying look in her eyes. ‘But if you’re really telling me you don’t know him, then I’ll have to take you at your word.’

  They stared at one another and Charlotte could see she wasn’t the only one holding back, that Marina was telling her only half-truths. There was more. She knew more. ‘. . . What if I did know him? What would it mean?’

  Charlotte shrugged. ‘That’s confidential, I’m afraid. Unless you can confirm you are the person I’m looking for, then I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the situation.’

  ‘Waitress!’

  ‘Fuck,’ Marina hissed in Spanish, staring down at the tabletop. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘What time do you finish?’ Charlotte asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  ‘Not till later. I’m doing a double shift.’

  Charlotte tilted her head to the side sympathetically. ‘Double shifts are tough,’ she said quietly. ‘Hard on the feet. Back.’

  Marina shifted her weight, bone-aching weariness in the gesture. ‘Yeah.’ She was exhausted, not just from a day of it, but a lifetime.

  Charlotte leaned in suddenly, cornering her quarry. ‘Let me come to your apartment this evening. We can talk more then.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’re running out of time, Marina. Carlos is not a well man. It’s important we speak.’

  Marina hesitated, then nodded, conflict puzzled across her face. ‘Okay.’

  ‘But this time, there will need to be full disclosure – from us both.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘She’s lying.’

  Mateo recrossed his legs again. They had swapped the country club for his town club, the Casino, but fundamentally they were in the same space: seats on the terrace, the scent of money in the air, drinks between them and a hot anger burning in her client’s eyes. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Little things – she repeated my questions, exhibited grooming behaviours.’

  Mateo’s eyes narrowed with bemusement. ‘That is very . . . specific. How do you know about such things, Miss Fairfax?

  Milton, whose plane had landed exactly ninety minutes earlier, leaned forward, physically inserting himself into the conversation. ‘I’ve long held a suspicion that Ms Fairfax is in fact a spy,’ he quipped.

  Mateo chuckled. ‘I could well believe it.’

  Charlotte smiled as she looked between them both. ‘Part of my job is being able to read people. My clients are sophisticated people, easily able to present a veneer to the world. I have to be able to see beyond what they are telling me and read what they are showing me.’

  He tapped his finger several times against his lips, watching her closely. ‘And you think she knows my father.’

  ‘So far she’s only admitted she knows of him, although that’s hardly exceptional given your family’s profile – but yes, towards the end of our conversation, she indicated she might; she was fishing for more information.’

  ‘And what did you tell her?’

  ‘Nothing specific. I mainly explained my role in great detail, showing her the scale of the problems that come with great wealth—’

  ‘Thereby implying great wealth is coming her way.’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘Exactly. She was definitely tapping me up. But I also made it clear unlimited wealth is a poisoned chalice. When I made initial contact yesterday afternoon, she just denied everything outright: she was the proverbial rabbit in headlights. Deny, deny. This morning, though, she brought extra food with my order, she loitered at my table . . . she’d clearly been thinking about our conversation. She wanted to know more.’

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘I’m going over this evening to give her a final chance to admit to the connection with your father. Now that she’s begun to allude to it, it should get easier to draw her out and find out exactly what’s going on between them.’

  ‘She’s probably realizing that if she has no contact with anyone else in your family, and with your father being so unwell, Charlotte here is potentially her only lifeline to the money,’ Milton added.

  Mateo frowned at the bluntness of his words. ‘Do you think she trusts you?’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t think she’s a woman who trusts many people, but we’re establishing something of a rapport. But Dan’s right – if she thinks I’m her only link to the money, that’s a powerful incentive to her to come clean with me.’

  Milton looked at Mateo, the somewhat obsequious expression he’d worn for greeting Lord Finch on his face again now. ‘How is your father? Any further progress to report?’

  ‘I’m pleased to say he is responding well to treatment and gaining strength; he’s even trying to talk. The doctors have told us they hope to have him sitting up in bed within the week.’

  Milton’s expression changed. ‘Well I’m glad to hear it, of course. But if your father can sit and talk, then he can also sit and dictate. In theory, he could have that donation drawn up by the end of the weekend.’

  ‘I see, yes,’ Mateo said hesitantly.

  ‘Marina doesn’t know he’s recovering, does she?’ Milton looked over at Charlotte who could only shrug.

  ‘She’s not admitting to knowing anything right now. I mentioned he was in poor health.’

  He was quiet for a moment. ‘In which case, let her continue to think he is ailing. She might be more inclined to accept an offer, on the grounds that something is better than nothing.’ M
ilton held his hands out as if it was all so simple. ‘I reckon we’ve been going about this the wrong way, tiring ourselves out trying to move money, find loopholes and second-guess what she knows or is expecting. There’s a much simpler, more direct way. Rather than you trying to block your father’s actions, Mateo, you need to take decisive action yourself – approach her directly with your own offer but one with conditions attached: if she accepts it, she waives the right to receive any further gifts, donations or bequests from the Mendoza estate. You could get the lawyers to draw up the exact wording so that even if your father recovers and proceeds with his gift, even if you can’t stop that, she won’t be allowed to accept it.’

  ‘You mean, we ambush from the other direction?’ Mateo asked, looking both impressed and appalled at once.

  ‘Exactly. There’s so many other unknowns – with her playing hard to get and your father not yet able to communicate, we have no way of knowing whether he told her of his intentions before his stroke; and if he did, what he told her to expect. All we do know is that right now, she can’t contact him and vice versa and that’s our strength. Let’s run interference between them.’

  ‘But my priority with making contact was to try to understand who this woman is – what she means to my father and why he feels the need to do this for her. I’m not sure I want to . . . cheat her.’

  ‘It’s not cheating her,’ Milton shrugged mildly, clasping his hands together. ‘She’s free to sign or not sign. No one’s holding a gun to her head.’

  Charlotte looked between the two men. ‘I think what Dan’s saying is that this is a compelling bird in the hand scenario for Marina.’

  ‘Precisely. I think that would be pretty attractive to someone in her straitened circumstances, and it wouldn’t take much in real terms to satisfy her needs – even offering an amount far below your father’s proposed gift would still prove life-changing. Plus the prospect of court action against someone like you, Mateo, would be highly daunting to her. I’m assuming you would contest the gift if it actually went through?’

  ‘Well I suppose we’d have to but—’

  ‘So then this could save you all that hassle, pain, drama, headlines. Who knows? She could decide to hold out for the whole shebang but you’ve got nothing to lose at this stage. Why not give it a go and try to head her off at the pass? Get your lawyers to make the offer and see what she says.’

  Charlotte watched Mateo closely. He was looking conflicted. His eyes met hers.

  ‘Actually, I think I’d like Charlotte to take the deal to her.’

  ‘Me?’ she asked in surprise. ‘But I’m not a lawyer or banker.’

  ‘No, but you are the one building a relationship with her, she’s more likely to listen to you. Dan’s right, this is worth a shot. I’ll consult with my advisers and decide on an authorized amount you can go to her with. I’ll also get my legal team to draw up any ancillary paperwork so that if she goes for it, she signs a binding agreement there and then – as Dan says – agreeing to waive any future gift or donation from the Mendoza estate.’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘. . . Okay. Well, I’ll progress things with her tonight and take it to her, see if she’ll bite; but she’s a shrewd woman and she may well have a game plan; she might even have anticipated all of this.’ Charlotte tipped her head to the side questioningly. ‘What if she won’t sign?’

  ‘Then it will come down to the matter of time – does my father recover sufficiently to make the donation, in which case we are facing a lengthy court battle? Or does he die before it can be enacted?’ He shrugged sadly. ‘Neither one is pleasing to me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry this is happening to your family, Mateo. It’s already a stressful enough time,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘I feel I have begun mourning him already. Whatever happens, it will be hard to get past the sense of betrayal that is attached to the donation – how he could put her before us, his family.’

  ‘Well, I hope at least that is something our professor will be able to help with. It may give you closure on that score.’

  ‘Professor?’ Milton asked, sounding bemused and crossing his ankle over his knee, looking across at Charlotte question-ingly. He wasn’t the sort of man to bend the knee to academia.

  ‘Dr Ferrante, a history professor at Carlos III University. He has agreed to research the family’s history for us. He should be here any moment, in fact; I asked my PA to book enough time for us all to talk first, but if we do end up needing his services, it could be very healing.’

  ‘Healing? Really?’ Mateo shifted position in his seat, looking uncomfortable again. ‘At our last meeting, you said you thought my father was acting from shame, as though there’s something we should be ashamed of.’

  ‘That was just a hypothesis, I could be completely wrong. But even if I’m not, Dr Ferrante is an academic, not a gossip and not a journalist. The point of the exercise would be simply to try to identify the reasons why your father is doing this. Is it just about her – an infatuation – or is something else compelling him?’

  They lapsed into silence as the waiter set down their drinks – Pisco Sour cocktails – Charlotte taking a moment to soak up the view. They were on the rooftop terrace, a gentle breeze and cream umbrellas softening the glare of the heat, neatly clipped box trees dotting the perimeter as white-jacketed waiters glided between the baroque white-iron tables and chairs. Every table was booked, Madrid’s chic set enjoying their aperitifs before they headed down to the mirrored two-Michelin-star restaurant downstairs.

  ‘Well it all sounds intriguing,’ Milton drawled, with a tone that suggested it was an amusing diversion. The ‘soft’ politics of wealth were always lost on him. He was driven by bottom lines, risk and growth. ‘He’s a history professor, you said?’

  Charlotte gave a polite smile. ‘That’s right; he’s attached to the Humanities division at Carlos III University. He’s done similar work for me on other clients several times now. It’s amazingly interesting. Illuminating even. Mateo, do you have that TV programme here, Who Do You Think You Are?

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t watch television.’

  ‘Ah. Well, it’s similar to that. Every family has stories that have been forgotten or lost. It’s something of a privilege really to be acquainted with your own personalized history.’

  ‘I will have to reserve judgement on that.’

  ‘Of course. But please remember, you’re not being judged in any way. Dr Ferrante is a very skilled and discreet man, methodical in his work.’

  ‘But this is an odd request for him, is it not, to do a research project like this? I would have thought he would look down on something like this. Academics are purists, they hate selling out.’

  ‘He told me once he views these projects as history in the singular – the macro-events of the political and social climate of the time, playing out in the confines of the family unit.’ She smiled confidingly. ‘And let us not forget, every academic has an overdraft. And at this time of year, when the university term is over and they’ve got a little time to dedicate to a few weeks or so of private work . . .’ She shrugged. ‘He’s got to eat.’

  Mateo sighed heavily. ‘Well, let us hope your professor is—’ He shifted position slightly, just as his gaze caught on something – or someone – behind her, an interested look coming into his eyes. ‘Ah, Dr Ferrante I presume? We were just talking about you.’ He rose, holding out a hand.

  Charlotte leaned forward to set her drink down on the table, moving to turn round.

  ‘Dr Ferrante couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. A sudden family matter has come up. He’s had to fly to Barcelona for a few weeks and has asked me to stand in for him,’ the voice behind her said—

  ‘You’re Charlotte, right? Doc Hall’s tutee?’

  Through the blur of her hangover, she saw a melange of green eyes, a clear gaze, bright blonde unbiddable hair, a gappy smile. He smelled of lanolin soap and coal smoke, his handknit jumper anachronistic against the public school cricket swe
aters the rest of college was wearing.

  ‘. . . I’m Dr Marling. Nathan.’

  Was he underwater? His voice sounded echoey, distant, as though coming to her in a dream. So many dreams. She turned, her body on autopilot, hand out even though she had no conscious thought of putting it there. Her eyes were swept up by his, like fishing nets scooping her out of the sea, green stars that shone in her sky, day and night, regardless of the rising sun or the waxing moon.

  ‘Doc left a note in my pigeon hole. He can’t make it. Emergency root canal. He’s asked me to take the tutorial.’

  ‘Has he?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘ Yes.’

  ‘But you’re far too young.’

  A tiny frown puckered his brow. ‘I’m doing a master’s.’

  ‘Okay. You’re too handsome then,’ she teased, amused by his earnestness.

  The frown deepened. He shifted his weight. ‘. . . He wants us to discuss free will.’

  Where was he from? She couldn’t place his accent. She’d never met anyone from outside the M25, not properly. ‘Or we could exercise some free will of our own and go to the bar,’ she said, guessing the idea of a midday drink would scandalize him. He looked so . . . innocent, somehow. She hugged her books to her chest and leant her head against the wall, giving him one of her sleepy, sexy smiles and letting her hair fall over one eye. It was one of her favourite games, seeing how quickly she could reel them in. ‘You do drink, don’t you?’

  Could he tell she was mocking him? His face betrayed nothing, his gaze open and clear as he took in the sight of her, up close. People always seemed surprised she had freckles, as though they were somehow too bourgeois for a girl like her. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Yes? What’s your nipple?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  She’d arched an eyebrow. ‘What’s your tipple?’

  ‘Oh. I . . .’ Confusion clouded his features but the word was in his head now, the image . . .

  She gave another languid smile, feeling like a cat toying with a mouse. ‘What did you think I said?’