by Julia Ariss
"I see," he said, squeezing his eyes shut wearily, sightlessly. "I need to talk to you alone, somewhere less crowded. It's time."
"I'm content to pack it in if you want to gradually pick our way through-".
"Let's go," he said, frowning.
Suddenly his arm was around her back steering her hurriedly past their table where she nimbly plucked her wings from her chair, as he pushed through the crowd toward the door. "Why the rush?" she asked shortly thereafter, as they stood outside, composing themselves. Her wings were now ruptured irreparably, a casualty of their swift departure.
"My car is just a few blocks down."
She stood with her arms at her side indicating a refusal to budge. "Jack. You just escorted me out commando style. What is it? Talk."
He placed a hand on her shoulder and eased her a few more feet away for privacy. "A couple of things. I wanted to tell you earlier this afternoon that, in fact, I think some of your ideas are thoughtful and courageous. But. You need to trust your own instincts more. The thing is you've got to be more careful, Fanny. You're making a huge mistake."
"Mistake? That's a bit vague and... and honestly, could you be any more ambiguous?"
"I've probably said too much."
"Ya think? Sheesh. I'd much rather be careless and make honest mistakes then hole up wondering how things might have unfolded, hemming and hawing about my life's purpose when there's a boy's well-being hanging in the balance."
"Listen. George Raskell is incredibly persuasive. But I don't know that you'll necessarily be working for the forces of good over there. You haven't signed anything, have you?"
"No."
"The good news is there's still time for you to get out; there's still time for sober second thoughts," he said, reaching for her arm, "And Fanny, there's something else-"
"Gah! There's more? I'm not sure I can handle any more good news," she said, pulling her arm from his grasp and shooting him a look. She watched as he slowly shook his head. "And spare me that judgey, all-knowing look, like I haven't fully grasped the situation. I know George quite well, thank you. He detests corporate greed, by the way. He's tenacious and he's earned his success - in his own right, I might add - but he doesn't lord it over me like I'm some half-wit wannabe. And -"
"What.".
"I happen to know he's a philanthropist. His support for charities is far reaching. He likes to give back." She looked significantly at Jack whose eyes were glazing over. "Your old boarding school has been among them," she added, with emphasis.
"Oh. Well that changes everything. Say no more," he said, with a wave of his hand. She refused to dignify his maddening sneer and neatly sidestepped him, striding primly over to a garbage can. "What are you doing now?" he asked, massaging his temple roughly.
"Wing disposal. They got clipped on the way out."
"Maybe that's exactly what they needed. A good clipping."
"Well now. That's that," she said, brushing her hands off efficiently, and looking through him with practiced tedium, as she rummaged in vain for a saucy retort. "How's that for timing?" she asked, raising one arm to claim an incoming cab. "I won't need a lift, after all. Good night."
Jack stood with his head bowed and his fist clenched; then he angled his head back and sighed, and spat out a terse good-bye as she slammed the door shut. As her cab inched into traffic she saw that he had already advanced half a block away. George was most likely an unwelcome reminder of the awkward years, a threat, and a grudge harboured, she supposed. Briefly, when Jack had pulled her in close on the dance floor, she'd wondered if he was flirting. In retrospect, she realized it was probably just a pathetic attempt to showcase his moves. He was such an exasperating bundle of contradictions, with his mood ricocheting between courtly civilities and crushing censure; it tainted her outlook on the evening and their dance, which had provided an unexpected jolt of pleasure. But in the end, there was simply no getting past his prat-like outburst and the corporate slime that clung to him like mildew.
***
The jewellery clerk's face was lit up in a promising way as she took the brooch from its soft pouch and held it up for inspection. Fanny stood inert at the counter, observing her reaction. She'd already waited several days for the appraisal results in delicious suspense. She decided it was really a toss-up between a delighted smile and the fixed perma-smile of the assured professional.
"Incredible craftsmanship. You must get compliments," the clerk gushed, leaning in companionably.
"I do," Fanny said, tingling with optimism.
"The detailing is exquisite... really, really exceptional," the clerk continued, saucer-eyed and beaming. She placed it gingerly inside its box.
"I thought it was just a pretty cast-off but I have a friend who has some expertise-"
"It's always wise to bring these finds in," the clerk said handing her the appraiser's letter. “Just in case."
"In case of what?" Fanny asked, tilting her head.
"In case it's genuine. But of course, this is a reproduction. You must have suspected..."
"Huh?"
"That it was counterfeit."
Drat. “No. I've had too much time to imagine otherwise. A genuine fake? Bizarre."
"Yes. A very clever one, I must say. As I mentioned before -convincing workmanship. No paste here. The diamonds are moissanite. It's a copy of an original vintage Birks piece. They're often marketed cheaply to the unsuspecting on EBay, but they get what they pay for. China," she mouthed ominously through her Cheshire cat grin.
"Who knew?" Fanny muttered into her wallet. She counted out three hundred dollars, thus concluding her business and made for the door, clutching her purse in a death grip. And why is it... that I persist in fantasizing that I'm somehow marked for untold riches, destined for lottery fame and such? Honestly. And just how exactly am I going to scrape by until my first paycheck? Couch change, I guess. Ugh. And where the heck did I hide that emergency credit card? Gawd. And when is that George going to return my messages? Jeez. Her purse started vibrating and she dug out her cell and parked herself on a bench to take the call.
"Hi!"
"It's Tish. Why aren't you answering your texts?"
"Oh. Hi. Sorry, it's my phone. It devours them. So that explains why George isn't getting back to me. Gah! We still have some things to sort out with my contract. I'm anxious to get started. I should call-"
"He's out of the country. You haven't heard?"
"What? Forever on the move, that guy. He's like the artful dodger. Ha. Business again?"
"No. I mean he's left the country. Fanny, he's on the lam!"
10
"I don't understand. What do you mean?" Fanny said, blinking rapidly.
"He's in hiding! We've been duped." Tish wailed from the other end of the line.
"Hiding from what?" Fanny asked tensely. She touched the base of her neck as her heart hammered against her chest.
"His assistant called me to tell me that Revenue Canada has launched an investigation based on a tip from the media. She thinks the directors at The Endowment Fund have been bilking the taxman. Evidently the foundation issued hundreds in millions in receipts for goods and services it claims to have received under the tax shelter arrangement but the receipts were fudged and far exceeded the value of the donations. And the cash they received - for its participation and tax-receipting abilities - was funneled into the hands of the directors and the companies instead of the charities."
"Into George's hands?"
"And his grody associates."
"Then why did we set our sights on Barrington? They're part of the establishment. Was that George's idea? He couldn't have believed Jack would want in on such a scheme."
"He wanted a legitimate, high-profile donation for the books, to cover up what's actually been taking place. That's why he hired us, to do his bidding, so his charitable status wouldn't be revoked. I suppose I encouraged him, unwittingly. He thought he had us all hoodwinked, but Jack clearly smelled a rat."
/> "Are you sure this isn't just a big misunderstanding. George is committed to these charities. And he's interested in the homeless problem, and Erasto. He gives back quietly. He's given a substantial donation to his former school. Anonymously."
"Everybody knows that donor was Jack," Tish scoffed. “Well, I knew. I came across it on his assistant's desk and when I asked if I should prepare a press release, he got quite touchy. He gets very haughty about privacy. I suppose I may have mentioned it to George, in passing."
"But George also cares deeply about the marginalized, the underprivileged, helping others... Doesn't he?" Fanny faltered.
"I've come to the conclusion that the only thing George cares deeply about is George. He's probably in some Caribbean tax haven right now sucking back beach cocktails and checking his bank balances. In the meantime, if this story breaks - oh God! My job prospects are going to dry up and my career will tank. And you should be worried too."
"My career? No... that's the least of my-"
"Everyone, and I mean everyone at Queen's always kidded me that George would end up a swindler. Oh, that I had paid attention," Tish moaned. "And it's no consolation that we've been hustled by the best... "
Fanny felt herself drifting off. "Uh huh... uh huh... Mmm hmmm...," she heard herself mumble as Tish railed on afresh about her career, her worries for herself, the unfairness of it all, and her bitterness. Eventually the rant became white noise, background noise, and secondary to the din of the roaring in her head. It was too much to process at once. Her overwhelming sense was of numbness, and a grimy fatigue, like she needed a shower; a cleansing shower.
George had told her she was lightning in a bottle. She'd delighted in the expression, his silver tongue - the possibilities. He wanted to mine her talents, he'd said. She recalled reading, somewhere, that one of the great traits of con artists was the degree to which they flattered their victims.
***
Fanny was collapsed on her chaise the following morning, wrapped in her bathrobe, staring absently at her fern, and listening to the rain. The previous day's drama had reinforced her appreciation for the value of dullness. Tea seemed like too much effort. She was munching shortbread to anaesthetize her thoughts, and yet they strayed. She hadn't signed anything. If she had been a victim, she reflected, it was of her own unchecked imagination; she'd been waiting for her day-dreamed future self to emerge victorious, with George by her side.
Her mother had not raised her to believe that boyfriends were necessarily the answer, and whenever Fanny had tried to force the issue she'd only proven her right. She'd had relationships in the past, always short in duration, because the fiction she wove, ever a romantic tale, didn't mesh with reality. And now George had spun his web of deceit. Her niggling worry was that she had been grateful to be in the thrall of the big man on campus.
She brought her gaze back from the middle distance to the clear presence of her laptop. A thought occurred to her and she plunked the computer on her lap and hastily googled the home page of the tabloid. Her suspicions veered darkly toward an exposé or worse featuring the Endowment Foundation, and George, but her eyes pounced on an attention-grabbing headline about Barrington instead, too tempting to ignore.
When she clicked, an image appeared of Jack posing in his office, looking relaxed and confident. She wrenched her eyes from the photo then scrolled down to the article. "In a bold move, Jack Fitzwilliam, chairman of Barrington Global," she read, "confirmed his organization is set to donate seventy million dollars to fund the operation of a supportive housing project for homeless youth. This will be the largest single donation to a facility of this kind in Canada. Once complete, the complex will include eighty residential units. 'It's impossible for homeless youth to take control without stable housing,' Fitzwilliam said, 'and its imperative to create a sense of home, especially with youth who are particularly vulnerable. But you also need to respond to their distinctive needs.' There will also be residential treatment beds in a wing reserved for those struggling with substance abuse. 'It should be quiet and calm so they feel safe,' he added. Mental health services and a net of family and community supports will be put in place as well as follow up care. It is hoped the municipal government and private donors will also contribute. 'Many of my employees have been touched in some way by one or more of these issues, and I feel confident they will support this initiative wholeheartedly.'"
Fanny read on in amazement. He'd hinted at his understanding of the issues but he'd stopped short of full disclosure, though he must have had his reasons. Nevertheless, that it would be too late for Erasto, did not take away from the enormity of the act, of his generosity. She had been too easily nettled by his brusque tone, had written him off as cavalier, when his small kindnesses, where she was concerned had been piling up all along. She put her laptop aside and slowly reclined to have a proper think but was soon roused by the phone. It was her father.
"Dad?"
"Hello Fanny, how are you?"
"Hi. I just found out about the Barrington donation. I'm guessing you've heard already."
"Ah yes, big news, that."
"Yikes."
"I take it you read about it in the-"
"Online. That vile tabloid again. They've managed to get an exclusive, somehow. But never mind, it's a good news story for once. Great news actually... staggering news."
"It's a lot of dough. Yes, your Jack is a stand-up fellow. Evidently he's been at it for months, plugging away. Big-hearted, I'm told. Katherine is very proud, naturally. That's why we were in town. The board had to meet to approve the final numbers."
"You didn't let on. You're a model of discretion... "
"I was under the illusion it was strictly dancing. We make a handsome pair you see. No, I didn't know. Board business. Katherine just told me this morning. Erm, Fanny?"
"Yes."
"Every silver lining has its cloud."
"Oh, gawd. What now?"
"Yes, well... there's a venomous little piece by the same reporter lurking in the business section that concerns me a good deal more. At first I thought it might be a case of poison pen but I'm afraid it's probably true and it affects you."
"By any chance does it feature George Raskell, Dad?"
"The same. But you weren't named. I trust you haven't been ensnared in that racket."
"No... nope," she sputtered, welling up.
"So sorry, dear."
"He kept stalling on the paperwork, so I've been spared. Just. I found out yesterday. Ugh."
"Cheaters never prosper, or so they claim. I don't envy him his heavy conscience. It's a steep price to pay."
"Mmmm... he'll be forced to look at his sorry, treacherous mug in the mirror every morning." She brightened momentarily at the thought.
"I rest my case. Don't worry. Perhaps you can have your old job back. You're Jack seems like an all-round great guy."
"He's not my Jack, Dad."
"No, no, I suppose not. Would you like to come home for a bit, till things sort themselves out?"
"Yes! No, no. But thanks, Dad. I suppose this is some sort of grim life lesson I'm expected to learn from for allowing my fantasy machine to run at full throttle."
"Always liked your unruly imagination."
"Anyway. Don't worry, I'll keep you posted."
"Bah. One of life's pesky little roadblocks. You'll get past it and find your way. Don't trouble yourself too much. It'll all come out in the wash. Bye darling." And then, having mastered to perfection the rare art of leaving well enough alone, he hung up.
The wash. "Humph." Fanny seized her laptop and scrolled down the Money section of the tabloid and quickly opened the piece on The Endowment Fund. It was concise, decidedly lacking in sensation, with no mention of Tish, but it left little doubt the jig was up for George and company.
She got up and made for the kitchen to put the kettle on, then turned back mid-stride and flopped back down again. She got up again and found her purse and after rifling through, found a busine
ss card, the one Jack had given her. She ran her finger over it and bit her lip. She wanted to hear his voice, to hear him say her name, to talk and clear the air but she needed to bypass his assistant to avoid spinning some pathetic yarn about the reason for her call, so she texted him instead. She'd barely placed her phone down when it rang.
"Hello Fanny. Sorry, I don't have much time here. It's been a busy day. I trust you've heard our news."
He sounded rushed, brusque. "I won't keep you," she said. "I just wanted to congratulate-"
"Listen Fanny, I was going to get in touch anyway. I wanted you to know that you can rest easy about your friend Erasto. At least for the time being."
"What? You've seen him?"
"Yes, he's out of danger. I tracked him down with the help of a social worker, and we've arranged for him to get the help he needs. He's in a good place. An outdoor leadership facility in Shelburne, Ontario that serves youth with mental health and substance abuse issues. I imagine he'll be there for the better part of a year. It's the only one of its kind and has excellent success rates. And. He seemed very reassured at admission. Oh, and he wanted to thank you."
"Thank me? I feel like I've done squat. Thank you. That's fantastic. I can't even begin to tell you how relieved-"
"I have the resources so it didn't feel like much, until I met him. You were right. He's a great kid. The pleasure was mine."
"I still can't... Look Jack, I know you have to go but I wanted to at least acknowledge the donation, your incredible generosity. You didn't say-"
"I couldn't say. It needed board approval and the timing was critical. I wanted it to garner as much positive attention as possible, which can't be done well without marketing and media, unfortunately. We still need to attract more funding."
"You gave an exclusive interview to that reporter. You shook his hand."
"Don't worry; I washed. I didn't want to detract attention from our announcement with noise about our former employees. Lesser of two evils. Just as the corporate crusader story was losing steam he got wind of Tish's and your dalliance with The Endowment Fund. I eliminated the risk he'd write about you."
