A Rather Curious Engagement

by C. A. Belmond

  The receptionists gave us dazzling smiles and acted as if we were visiting royalty. I could see how an heiress could easily be fooled into thinking she’s really as important as all this cooing, delightful fanfare implied. Personally, I found it slightly alarming. Jeremy and I were ushered down one long corridor after another, until we found the accountant in his glass-and-mahogany-and-leather lair.

  Martin was an owlish fellow who gazed at us from across his enormous, glass-topped desk that had nothing on it but a pad of lined paper and a ballpoint pen. Here was a man who moved billions, yet all the computers and faxes and files were buried in the offices of his underlings, which we’d just passed through. He gestured for us to take the two seats on the other side of his desk. These were like huge black leather mitts. I immediately got lost in mine, until I figured out how to skitter myself forward, and perch only on its edge. Jeremy sat in the one next to mine, with each of his arms resting on a colossal leather arm of his chair.

  Martin had very cropped light-yellow hair with matching eyebrows. He was Scottish, older than us but not that old, certainly not old enough to be as punctilious as he was. He was given to single-word sentences followed by long, empty pauses. He’d say, “So . . .” and then make some rapid notes for long moments, during which I tried to read them upside down, but couldn’t. Then he’d say, “Now, the total net worth of your share, Penny, combining the London flat and its contents, the sale of the painting, and the car in Antibes . . . and the garage . . .” and he’d scratch out some more, “less the death taxes . . .”

  Sheesh, I thought as he scratched away. I knew perfectly well that he already had these figures somewhere on a computer, because he’d e-mailed it to me, but he seemed to think he had to spell it all out to us, personally, in terms any idiot could comprehend, by showing the math worked out right before our eyes.

  “And yours, Jeremy, for the villa in the South of France . . .” Scratch, scratch, scratch. This man, believe it or not, was rumored to be a genius with handling large investments and estates. Only somebody that important would dare to make everything sound so simpleminded.

  Jeremy tolerated this for a brief bit before he jumped in impatiently and said, “Martin, we know what we’ve got. Let’s talk turkey, okeh?”

  Martin smiled broadly at him, then at me. Oh, I realized. It’s about me. There are some men who will never admit that women are born with brains, too.

  Somehow Jeremy managed to speed him up a little. Not a lot, but we got past the almighty boring taxes, and when Martin asked, with a slight gleam in his eye, “Now how risk-averse are you?” I simply couldn’t wait for Jeremy to give him our prepared answer.

  “We like to sleep nights,” I said bluntly. “We’re not looking for any strange ways to shelter the money, no offshore stuff, no funny business.”

  He smiled tolerantly, glancing infuriatingly at Jeremy for verification before saying, “All right then. What I suggest is that, apart from certain expenses which I’ll elaborate on in a moment, you each invest your money for a period of one year, during which you hold off on making any major commitments to family members and friends. This will give you time to assess what you really want to do.” He again turned to Jeremy. “Shall we deal with Miss Nichols’ inheritance first, or—?”

  “We’re going to share it,” I said. Martin raised an eyebrow, and the pencil stopped.

  “We want to protect the whole estate,” Jeremy explained. “We want to create a joint trust in both our names—”

  “Oh? How much of the inheritance do you wish to—combine?” Martin asked.

  “All of it,” I said.

  Martin actually sat back in his chair, stunned.

  “But—my records show that you are not, married, is that correct? ” Martin asked, looking genuinely confused.

  “That’s correct,” Jeremy said.

  Martin cleared his throat and looked apologetically at Jeremy. “I must ask this. Do you plan to marry in the near future?”

  We had been asked that question so many times lately and, when it came from strangers, we had a stock answer. “Our plans on that score,” Jeremy said, “are private at the moment.”

  “I see,” Martin said briskly, visibly adapting. But he glanced at me warningly now, in a tone indicating that he’d seen more than a few relationships go down in flames, and said, “But, Miss Nichols, you do understand that, in the event that in the future this situation, ah, changes; you may want things spelled out clearly now, as to how the money should be, er, divided in the event of an, um, irreconcilable dispute.”

  I knew that he was trying to protect me. Still, the last thing I wanted right now were visions of romantic misery—the cheating, lying, abuse, betrayal and general torture that men and women can inflict on those they once claimed to adore. I felt it was tempting fate, to conjure up these images in the face of our shining future.

  Then Jeremy did something truly heroic. He said, “We do not expect that sort of eventuality, but, should it occur, since Penny’s share was initially larger than mine, if the trust should ever have to be divided, she should get three-quarters.”

  Martin raised an eyebrow. “Ah,” he said. “Well, I’d be comfortable with that.”

  I turned to Jeremy, astounded. “You didn’t tell me you had that up your sleeve,” I said.

  “It’s the only way I’ll agree to combining it into a trust,” Jeremy said gently.

  And somehow, after that little exchange, things took off from there. Martin got on board now, and was ready to discuss investment and savings ideas. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to invest in, Miss Nichols?” he asked.

  So it was then that we proposed our trial balloon about buying up the townhouse, and Martin prepared his little pin to pop it. His first and immediate response was, “Mmmm. Real estate. Been going through the roof, so to speak, in your area, but been falling in others, so it’s hard to say . . .” Insultingly, he didn’t even write it down on his pad. His pale brows furrowed.

  “This is the building you are in now, Miss Nichols?” he asked. I nodded.

  “Well, if you’re keen on the property market, quite honestly, there are better options than London right now for tax savings. Dubai and Hong Kong, for instance. I could check around—”

  “No!” I said, a bit panicked at where this was going. “It’s not just any old property we want. It’s more personal than that.”

  “Call it our little enterprise,” Jeremy said firmly.

  Martin looked at us from one to the other, and, I think, it began to dawn on him that we were not the usual type of customer who unsentimentally wants to just increase the coffers. One good thing about having lots of money is that it seems to give you a license to be eccentric.

  “All right,” he said briskly, “I’ll look into it. I can even help handle the purchase of it, if you wish.” He turned a page in his pad. “Anything else?”

  “The trouble is, there are so many things,” I said. I told him of the ones I’d been considering: plant a forest, save the fish, build a whole new town that was totally environmentally good, help a children’s wing of a hospital, fund archaeological digs and start a museum that would rescue fragile artifacts . . . I had already set aside those correspondences I’d received, as the ones I cared about to show the accountant.

  “I would put those under the category of charities-and-philanthropy. A charity is an excellent idea, and one that I was going to recommend,” Martin said. “You should decide this together, by picking one or two worthy causes that you really think you’ll want to continue contributing to over time, and I will look into them for you and advise you. You needn’t make this decision right away; in fact, I encourage you to wait until you’re certain. You have time. But I wasn’t asking you about philanthropy at the moment. I just want to know if there are any stocks that you are interested in. I can always recommend some to you, of course, but—”

  Jeremy mentioned a few stocks, and then they both looked at me.

 
; “Well,” I said boldly, “I want to invest in our own business. Once we figure out what we want to do. That’s what the other townhouse apartments are for. Our offices.”

  Martin looked a little flummoxed, as if I’d suddenly starting speaking in an obscure, foreign language that he was unfamiliar with. “Do you plan to start a company?” he asked. I turned to Jeremy for help.

  “We think we might,” Jeremy said. “We have not developed a business plan yet.”

  “Then here is what I suggest,” Martin said. “Make an estimate of your upcoming year’s expenses. Think about if you have any other repairs or purchases, large or small, plus whatever you both think you’ll need to live on. Eventually, this will settle into a fairly consistent category each year of general upkeep and living expenses. We’ll make sure that you always have enough cash available for this. But, apart from such regular expenses, let’s say that this year you will also have three major expenditures.”

  He actually held up three fingers to tick them off visually. “One, your ‘Business Development’ idea, which is the purchase of the other apartments in the townhouse. We’ll put some extra money aside here for operating expenses in case you want to open home offices there this year. Two, your Charity; I’ll set aside a reasonable deduction for that, and I won’t need to know which one you want to do until the next tax time.”

  Jeremy and I were both waiting for the third item. Martin had filled his pad with tons of notes, but now he put down his pen and said something unexpectedly human.

  “And three, you might allow yourselves one big Personal Splurge,” he said, smiling, “because it will make it easier to stick to this plan. That will leave the bulk of your inheritance to be locked up for a year in safe investments; I’ll put together a recommendation for a one-year portfolio. After a year, you can reassess and decide what you want to do long-term. But,” he added, rising now to see us out, “I won’t lock anything away until I hear from you on just how much you’d like to set aside for—fun.”

  Chapter Six

  "Martin had some good ideas, overall,” Jeremy said as we went back to my flat. He looked at me searchingly, and I knew that he was feeling responsible because we’d found the accountant through Jeremy’s connections.

  “Yeah, I guess in the end, Martin’s a good egg,” I said, as we went upstairs. “He warmed up at the end. I loved his idea of the Splurge. But geez, he acts like we’re little kids. He wasn’t exactly explaining the theory of relativity, you know.”

  “Yes, well, you’d be surprised at what he has to deal with every day,” Jeremy explained. “People get windfalls and within a year it’s gone, to family and so-called friends. Sports figures and actors who have more money than they know what to do with, but plenty of people telling them to buy a bigger wristwatch and a car and a house for everybody they ever knew. Or brokers with big city bonuses at the end of the year who blow it all on nights out with champagne, foie gras hamburgers and, er, worse.”

  As we walked in the door, the phone was ringing. I let the machine answer it, but when I heard my father’s voice, I picked it up. My parents wanted us to know that they’d be coming to Europe soon, and I wrote down the dates.

  I told my dad that we’d just been to see the accountant, and planned to set up a trust, to squirrel away the money until we really knew what to do with it.

  But even before I could tell him about Martin’s suggestion that we pick one Splurge, my father, who seldom butts in to give advice, said, “Fine, this is all very sensible. But remember that life is also meant to have some luxe, calme et volupté.”

  I knew that this expression meant a lot more than just the sum of its parts of luxury, serenity and sensual joy. “Too much austerity is not good for the blood,” Dad went on. “Very hard to sustain because it’s so extreme. You should have une petite indulgence,” he said. “Some-zing you’ve always wanted to have.”

  It was the very same advice as Martin’s, only my dad, being French, made it sound more thrilling, and as soon as he said it, I felt that life was handing me one of those messages from fate, where you could almost hear a bell ring.

  “I agree,” said my pragmatic English mother, having picked up the extension. “It should be a real indulgence, something truly exciting and out of the ordinary. You and Jeremy should sit down right this minute, and brainstorm until you come up with it. Run out and get two pads of paper and two pencils.”

  “What am I, six years old?” I groused.

  But after I handed the phone to Jeremy, who wanted to say hello to my parents, I went off and did just as I was told, rummaging around for pads and pencils, and putting the kettle on to make tea. When Jeremy rang off the phone, he said, “Your mother is right, we shouldn’t wait to think up our Splurge. Let’s do it right now.”

  “I already got the pads and pencils,” I said. “Here they are.”

  So we plunked right down on the sofa, each gazing at a blank page, and looking off into the distance, dreaming. It took longer than you might guess, narrowing it down to one splurge that we’d ordinarily never dare think of doing. It wasn’t as easy as I expected. Sure, I could imagine everyday indulgences: walk into a jewelry store and nab whatever struck my fancy, buy new clothes . . . I started scratching these things on my pad, just like Martin, but I was vaguely dissatisfied. After all, I truly felt that life had given me more than I ever dreamed. Whatever we chose should really mean something.

  I glanced up to see how Jeremy was doing. He was very, very quiet, gazing out the window. His handsome face, with those blue eyes and dark lashes and dark hair, looked quite serious. And I realized that while I had been scratching away on my pad, he had made barely a sound. I surreptitiously craned my neck to steal a look at his pad. Not much written, indeed . . .

  “You’re not supposed to peek,” came his scolding voice, even though he was still looking out the window.

  “Aw, c’mon, let’s compare,” I said.

  “I’m not ready yet,” he said.

  So I waited. And I waited and I waited. I made tea. I made a nice tray of little sandwiches with no crusts, and cookies, and a few slices of the miniature orange pound cake we’d picked up on the way home, and little dishes of jam. And then we nibbled on the food and drank the tea. And the sun started to slip down in the sky, casting a burnt-orange glow across the room. And still, he didn’t write.

  “Jeremy,” I said finally, in what I thought was a tone of infinite patience, “time is going by. Our lives are going by. It’s fish-or-cut-bait time. Let’s compare.”

  “You really are a nosey woman,” he said, but he put his pad down on the table. “You go first,” he insisted.

  “The best I could come up with,” I admitted, “is that I definitely want to fix up the Dragonetta.” That was the vintage 1930s auto that Great-Aunt Penelope had bequeathed to me. “After all,” I explained, “it got her safely out of wartime Italy, and it’s where she hid the painting. She said it brought her luck. And Denby says it has a great engine . . .”

  Denby was the mechanic on the Riviera who had assessed the car as valuable and certainly worth fixing up; he was just waiting for me to give him the go-ahead.

  “Of course, that would also mean repairing the garage,” I warned. “That roof is askew, and there are holes in one of the walls; you saw what mice did to the car’s upholstery.”

  “Fine, fine. You don’t have to convince me,” Jeremy said approvingly; he’d been an auto buff since he was a boy, and he loved that car so much that he even had a modern replica of it. “What else did you come up with?” Jeremy inquired.

  I blushed a little. “Um, clothes,” I said. “Nothing hysterically expensive. I just want to have enough well-made, beautiful items, so I can actually wear them instead of just saving them for special occasions.”

  “Perfectly all right,” Jeremy assured me. “Clothes make the woman. But I consider things like the car and clothes just upkeep. What Martin called our year’s expenses.”

  “Right,” I agreed
. “We should set aside money for them, but I don’t really think it’s what Martin and my dad meant about our great Splurge.”

  Jeremy leaned forward, and actually took my hands in his.

  “Penny,” he said in a serious tone. “I just want to say one thing. I know that we agreed to make this little hiatus of ours an experiment, to see what we really care about in life, and what we want to do with our future. Well, I want you to know that, sure, as far as career and all that are concerned, yes, I am exploring my options. But when it comes to love—”

  He paused here, a trifle embarrassed, but then he pressed on resolutely, “When it comes to you, well, I’m not feeling experimental at all. I know how I feel about you, and that won’t change. I just don’t want to rush what I feel is happening naturally all on its own, between us.”

  He said this so earnestly, so gently, that I could scarcely believe such a beautiful moment in my life had come so effortlessly, as if we’d been flying on the back of a white swan that just made the downiest, softest of landings. I was actually choked up, and I couldn’t speak right away. When I did, all I could say was, “Ah, babe . . .”

  “I told your father so, too,” he said, “when you were in the kitchen.”

  I was shocked. “You told him what?”

  “That we’re not fooling around, that we’re serious,” he said matter-of-factly, picking up his pencil again and squinting at his pad. “He knew what I meant. He also knew what it meant for me to say it aloud, to him, especially.”

  “My God,” I said, awed. “How very medieval, yet chivalrous of you.” I kissed him, then peeked at his face teasingly. Now he did become self-conscious and a bit stern, as if dealing with an unruly student.

  “Chivalry, nothing,” he said briskly. “Fact is, I was merely getting my dibs in early. No other man will stand a chance with you now, at least where your father is concerned. Can we put these pads away?”