“No way, pal!” I cried. “What’s your big wish?”
He cleared his throat, trying to look casual. “Well, along the lines of fixing up the estate, I, too, would like to make some repairs. On the villa in Antibes.”
“Definitely,” I said. “Repairs and upkeep for living expenses. What else?”
“A wine cellar,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “I always wanted a good one. Not the ridiculously expensive ones that investors buy. Just good wines to drink over time, so I can be a generous host and we can have great parties. Remember that wine cellar in the basement of Aunt Pen’s villa? Empty racks now, but it looked like she kept plenty of good stuff down there. I’d like to fill it up again.”
“Fine. Also goes into the year’s expenses,” I said, because I suspected that there was a much bigger fish lurking in this pond.
“Good, done,” Jeremy said briskly, moving as if to put his pad away, as if the meeting was adjourned.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’ve got something else on that pad.”
I craned my neck, trying to read what it was. He’d written it so faintly, and it had a big question mark after it.
“I haven’t finalized this one,” he said, looking a bit panicked.
“Oh, come on,” I said.
“No, really,” he said.
“Jeremy!” I coaxed in my sweetest, most supportive, most soothingly feminine voice. “I won’t hold you to it, if you change your mind. But it’s ‘no-fair’, not to tell.”
I could swear he held his breath for a minute, like a pearl diver about to leap off a cliff and plunge to great depths below, into a churning sea where most mortal men dared not go.
“We-e-ell,” he said uneasily.
“Jeremy, What-is-it?” I almost whispered.
And that was when he confessed about the Big Splurge, the Toy, as he called it.
“A yacht,” he mumbled. “And if you laugh, I’ll wring your neck.”
I wasn’t even sure I’d heard him correctly. “A yacht?” I asked sincerely. But Englishmen always think you’re laughing at them, even when you’re not. I don’t know what they do to kids in those boarding schools, but his ears turned bright red.
“I am not talking about some run-of-the-mill, show-offy monster tub made of stainless steel and epoxy and loaded with plasma screens and jacuzzis and strapped with jet-skis,” he said defensively. “The one I want is a classic motor yacht, built in 1926, an absolute beauty made of teak and mahogany, totally dignified, I assure you.”
“The ‘one’?” I echoed. “You mean, you have a specific yacht in mind?”
“Well, of course, my dear girl,” he said. “I am not given to idle dreams.”
“Where is it?” I asked. “Can I see it?”
“You can. And, more immediately, I can show you a picture of it. Would you like to see a picture?” he asked. I picked up a small pillow from the sofa and threw it at him.
“What do you think?” I shouted. He grinned, got up, went out of the room and out the front door and down into the street. Mystified, I went to the window, and watched him go to his car at the curb, open the trunk, rummage about and then return with what looked like a thick glossy magazine. When he came back into the apartment, he tossed it on the table next to me, laying it open to a dog-eared page. It was actually a fancy catalog for an upcoming auction to be held in Nice, France, for the benefit of an organization that raised money to protect the world’s oceans and marine life. The catalog had been well-thumbed, and the page he pointed to was for: Lot #28. A “classic motor yacht.”
“Oh, Jeremy!” I breathed, examining it closely. “It really is gorgeous! ”
That’s all I had to say to encourage him to plunge ahead enthusiastically. “It’s 35 meters long . . .” he began.
“I can’t do meters,” I complained.
“Really, what’s so complicated about counting in tens?” Jeremy countered. “As opposed to twelves, what’s the good of that?”
“Just translate,” I ordered.
“All right, it’s—” He took out his mobile, did a calculation, and said triumphantly, “It is one hundred fourteen point eight-two-nine feet. Say 115 feet. Anyhow, its weighs 170 tons, and can do a maximum speed of 15 knots—which is about 17 miles per hour,” he translated, seeing the blank look on my face.
“And,” he went on, “it’s already been refitted with new 250hp engines. The cockpit can seat eight people comfortably, and the cabins can accommodate six guests, still leaving room for five crew members. Which is just about right, so that you still have plenty of privacy. Of course, it does need some upgrading; but the great thing about it is that it’s had the same owner for years and years, and he’s just feeling too old to keep her anymore. He’s got a berth in Nice for it, which he’s selling along with it.”
He’d been reeling off numbers and speaking so quickly that I could barely keep up, but it was plain to see that he’d harbored this passion for some time, keeping it hidden while he turned it over and over in his mind, in that eager but self-controlled way of his.
“Does it have a name?” I asked, looking closer. I read it aloud. “Oh . . . Liesl’s Dream.”
“We could call it anything we want,” Jeremy said absently. But looking at the catalog brought him back down to earth. “Except . . .” His voice trailed off.
“What?” I prodded.
“Well,” he said, resuming his old cautious tone, “it’s just that we haven’t a hope in hell of getting it.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Because people get crazy at auctions, and sometimes, just to keep the other guy from getting it, they drive the price up. I don’t want to throw our money away if that happens. There’s only one thing worse than chasing a dream, and that’s coming really close, only to watch somebody else take it away from you.”
“Oh, swell!” I exclaimed. “Following that philosophy, Columbus wouldn’t have sailed the Atlantic, and Babe Ruth wouldn’t have hit a single home run, and Noah wouldn’t have built his ark ...”
“Do stick with baseball, and stay away from the nautical motifs, ” Jeremy suggested. “Anyhow, this is supposed to be something we both want, and I’m not sure I should drag you into it—”
“I’m sure! It’s a great idea. Come on, brace up!” I said, imitating my English mother’s pull-yourself-together scolding tone. “If you don’t take a chance on this dream of yours, I guarantee you that you will spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if only you’d showed up for this auction. Where are they holding this clambake, anyway?”
“At an hotel in Nice,” Jeremy said. “It’s a charity auction, which means there will be all kinds of politicians, collectors, celebrities, you name it.”
“Perfect! It’s all for a worthy cause. Are they selling other yachts? And don’t holler, I know this is the one you want,” I said hastily.
“It’s the only yacht in the auction,” Jeremy said darkly. “They’re selling a lot of other fancy stuff, none of which interests me in the least.”
Then I said the magic words. “Hey, this would be just the right way to do our ‘time off’ that you wanted. In a yacht! Travel all round the ports and islands of the Riviera. Imagine how liberating it would be for us to see the coast from a boat, just like the ancient Greeks! We could go in the summertime.”
Jeremy looked intrigued. “You could look the yacht over,” he said thoughtfully. “With your expertise on history, antiques and art, you could tell me if it’s really as good as they say it is. They allow viewing of it before the auction, by appointment, of course.”
“Fine,” I said briskly. “We’re going. Buy your ticket or do whatever you have to do, and get two, because I’m going with you to the auction. It gives us a target date for you to wrap up all your business and get us out of London.”
Chapter Seven
Well, getting The Lawyer Who Never Takes A Vacation to arrange for time off is a job for Wonder Woman. I got some unexpect
ed help from Jeremy’s mother (she’s my Aunt Sheila, because, after Jeremy’s father died, she married Uncle Peter, Mom’s brother).
Aunt Sheila lives in a pretty, modern apartment in Chelsea, and one evening, when we stopped in to see her, Jeremy told her he’d just been accosted outside his office by a guy who tried to convince him to spend his money taking “gladiator lessons” (very expensive, and requiring one to wear a toga.) It was then that Aunt Sheila offered her advice about how to put some distance between us and the aggressive salesmen who accosted us on a daily—and nightly— basis.
“Become a moving target, darlings,” she said. “Take the whole summer off. You’ll always remember having had a few months of being fancy-free, while you’re young enough to really enjoy it. Don’t tell anyone where they can find you. Let the office field your calls.”
"We’re not students anymore,” Jeremy reminded her. “Taking a ’gap year.’”
He always pretends to faintly disapprove of his mum, who grew up in the music scene of the Swinging Sixties, and who nowadays still manages to look top-drawer yet bohemian, her hair and figure still pretty much as it was circa 1964. She still wears the style of moderately short, A-line dresses and pale stockings and flat shoes of that era.
“All I’m suggesting,” she said mildly, “is a gap summer. If you can’t spare a whole summer at this juncture of your life, more’s the pity.”
I think it was the idea that he’d reached a “juncture” which finally got Jeremy on board, as if the whole world was telling him that he’d come to an important crossroads. So, Jeremy said that if summer was our target gap time, then in the springtime months before it, he’d work like mad to clear his schedule, preparing his clients to work with Rupert, the young guy in his office who was being groomed by Jeremy anyway.
As for me, I was the kind of freelancer who invariably ended up working when other people didn’t want to, like holidays and summers, so the idea of actually having a whole, luxurious summer vacation really was a grand indulgence.
“I think it fits right in with the Plan,” I said.
“And at the summer’s end,” Jeremy said, warming to the idea, “we can sort out all the other things we need to decide.”
Now, I want to say, here and now, that I was all for getting away from London and taking time off, even before Lydia appeared on the scene, literally darkening Jeremy’s doorstep. But now that she’d shown up, I figured we had all the more reason to vamoose.
Fortunately, since Jeremy was clearing the decks to take this time off, his work required him to do even more of those quick business jaunts to Brussels and Frankfurt and Antwerp, to schmooze his clients and prepare them for his hiatus. This kept him out of his bachelor apartment, and out of Lydia’s reach; and whenever he was in town, we always met at my flat. I was managing the trust when Jeremy was away, and I was counting the weeks until the auction.
I began to feel that we were on a lucky streak. The townhouse deal wasn’t easy, but Martin and I managed to pull it off with just a few minor skirmishes involving other buyers who finally backed off. The other apartments weren’t really filled with the kinds of “mod-cons” that buyers in this part of town expect. Doris and her husband, who lived upstairs, had such a small kitchen, and a leaky roof, that we were able to get a good price for it rather quickly. And downstairs, Gladys and her husband, inspired by the sale of Doris’ place, were now eager to sell and then move into their daughter’s house, rent-free, in Canada. Gladys’ ground-floor flat had old-fashioned plumbing and fixtures, which desperately needed updating, so this kept the selling price a bit lower than it might otherwise have been. The accountants and lawyers were actually a big help here; I think they felt protective of us now.
Jeremy and I e-mailed each other and commiserated over what needed to be done to bring the townhouse into the twenty-first century. To me, the house represented our future careers, and I sensed that, in launching an independent enterprise, how you end up depends a lot on how you begin. Therefore I wanted to make the place really work for us, by reviving the lovely, old-fashioned period detail yet making certain it had all the vital things we’d need to work from there. The wiring was ka-fluey, for instance. (All of it. Phones, electric, Internet.) And of course, whenever you’re remodeling, sooner or later somebody suggests knocking out a wall.
In this case, it was on the first floor, and it would combine two small rooms into one nice large sitting room, perfectly positioned between my office and Jeremy’s. I envisioned this big room as the place where we’d catch up with each other at the end of the day, as a bridge between our work and our personal life. And finally, Jeremy could have his garage in the basement, so he wouldn’t have to park on the street anymore. The house was solidly built and could take this level of renovation.
Good, I thought, that meant we had a strong foundation— metaphorically as well as concretely. Because it was clear to me that at summer’s end, we would be coming back here to make big decisions, not the least of which was whether our working and personal relationship was going to really last.
So. I guess you could understand why, just days before we were going to depart for the auction in Nice, I, still immersed in paving the way for our future, got a bit of a shock when I telephoned Jeremy at his apartment (where he had stopped off to unpack his business-travel suitcase and pack up his things for our summer off)—and, a woman answered the phone.
“Hall-ooo?” she said in her posh, well-rested way. I tried to tell myself that I’d dialed the wrong number, and got someone else’s high-end, neurotic ex-wife. But I knew it was her.
“Where’s Jeremy?” I said brusquely.
“And who may I say is calling?” Lydia said, and then giggled helplessly for his benefit. I heard him call out, and she said, “I think it’s a wrong number, darling,” just to stick it to me.
“Lydia,” I said in my best worldly-heiress voice, “this is Penny. Put Jeremy on.”
“Ooh, can’t do it,” she said. “He’s in the shower. But I’ll tell him you called.”
I won’t even mention all the expletives that ran through my mind. Fortunately I didn’t have to say them, because I heard Jeremy say plaintively, “Lydia, who is it? The office?” Then it dawned on him. “Is that Penny?”
“ ’Bye now,” she was saying, but Jeremy must have made a grab for it.
“Penny,” he said, quickly and contritely. “Is that you?”
“You’ve got ten seconds to tell me why you’re in the shower with That Person in your apartment,” I said calmly.
“I was not in the shower,” he said indignantly. “Is that what she told you?”
He must have made a face at her, because I heard her giggle again.
“Yes, we’ve been having oh-so-much-fun playing cat and mouse over you,” I said. “Why is she there?”
“She wanted some legal advice,” he said, sounding as if he knew perfectly well what I thought of that.
My voice took on a phonily casual tone. “Oh?” I said, still trying to sound like the sort of elegant woman who’s so confident that nothing threatens her. “And did you ‘recuse’ yourself, and refer her to another lawyer?”
“Well, I had to hear her out first, to see who to refer her to,” Jeremy said, a shade irritated with her, or with me, or with both of us, or women in general.
“She must have been frustrated all these months while you were away on business trips,” I said with a light laugh. “She must have been crouched over by the elevator waiting for you to show up again.” I expected him to reproach me, but when he didn’t, I knew that I’d guessed fairly correctly. “God, she did, didn’t she?” I marveled.
“Just about,” he admitted.
“My advice is, pack your duds and shoo her out of there and bolt the door and don’t look back,” I said crisply.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, dog that he was. Then I had a horrid thought, imagining his open suitcases lying about, a telltale sign for Lydia to see that he was going on an exte
nded trip.
“You didn’t tell her where we’re going, did you, Jeremy?” I asked pleadingly. “You didn’t tell her about our Plan, with our future enterprise and the yacht, and our great gap summer and . . . ?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “She did notice the suitcases, and asked for a number where she could reach me, because of this ongoing legal matter she’s got—”
I didn’t even wait for him to finish. I snapped, “Let her call through to your office, like all your other clients!”
“I did better than that,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you when I get there.”
At his surreptitious tone, I had the creepy idea that she might be listening, and that he suspected this, too. “Please hurry out of there,” I said, as winsomely as I could. “For my sake, all right?”
“I’m coming on wings,” he promised.
I braced myself for a delay, and excuses about London traffic. But Jeremy arrived pretty quickly, with all his suitcases stuffed in the trunk of his car, and he came bounding up the steps.
“So,” he said without ceremony, “want to know how I brilliantly handled the whole Lydia debacle?”
“Brilliantly?” I said as lightly as I could. “You let her into your apartment; you let her answer your phone. Brilliant? Hmmm . . .”
“She’s got some legal tangles about money and property with that Brazilian dude,” Jeremy explained.
“Did you refer her to Harold or Rupert?” I asked. Harold was a senior partner in Jeremy’s firm, and Rupert was Jeremy’s right-hand man.
“Neither,” he said. “I asked a mutual friend of ours, who works for a completely different firm, to look in on her.”
“Our friend?” I asked. “Who?”
“Not you-and-me ours,” he said hastily. “A close friend of mine from university. Bertie. Lydia knows him and trusts him, because he’s her crowd.”
“Did she go for it?” I asked, trying not to feel excluded by this “our crowd” business, yet I felt my heart bobbing up and down as if it had suddenly been chucked overboard and was clinging to a lifesaver to stay afloat.
A Rather Curious Engagement Page 5
