Cents and Sensibility

by Maggie Alderson

  The current sticking point was that his father wanted him to go and work at Fishercorp on a daily basis to get him ready for his inheritance and he just wouldn’t do it.

  What made Jay really furious about the whole thing, was that although neither of his uncles had children, his aunt had three sons and a daughter, all of them already working in banking, but his father wouldn’t even consider any of them for the big gig.

  We were lying in bed one afternoon, ‘resting’, as Jay liked to call it, when a call from his father’s PA prompted a major outburst from him and I finally got the whole picture.

  ‘He has this antiquated fixation that it has to pass from the oldest son to his oldest son,’ he was saying, pacing around the bedroom, naked, as usual. ‘Just because that is how it has always been. It’s like something out of an Icelandic chronicle. Jay, son of Robert, son of Robert, son of Robert…

  ‘He wouldn’t even hand it on to my Uncle Ed, who has been gagging for it all his life, let alone any of my cousins. I mean even my girl cousin, Lauren, is more interested than me. She has an MBA from Harvard and she’s worked at Morgan Stanley since she left college, but no, she won’t do and my banker-wanker – as you call them – boy cousins won’t do either. It has to be me and I say, no. I know nothing about that world and I couldn’t care less. Stalemate.’

  ‘So why do you keep talking to him about it?’ I asked, still fairly mystified. ‘Can’t you just tell him no, you don’t want to run a bank, or whatever it is, and that’s the end of it?’

  ‘Well, I could do that – if I want to be completely disinherited,’ he said, sounding irritated.

  ‘Would that really be so bad?’ I said quietly.

  He looked at me like I had suddenly started speaking Swahili. I felt the great divide yawn between us again. But it was obvious to me: it was the great monolith of the family money that was making him so unhappy, but it seemed he couldn’t let it go any more than his father could.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t leave it there.

  ‘Would you really be completely disinherited?’ I asked.

  ‘No, of course not, he can’t touch my trusts, they became mine the day I turned twenty-one, but I wouldn’t get anything else. The Hippo would get it all.’

  I knew that was a very sore point. The Hippo was his half-brother, Todd, by his father’s second wife, Jaclyn, a razor-thin, multi-facelifted, couture-clad, major feature of the social pages, with an apparently insatiable appetite for money and prestige. And having clawed her way up to Sutton Place from humble origins in Queens, she was brutally ambitious for her son.

  Jay openly loathed him and called him the Hippo, because he was somewhat on the chunky side. He’d shown me a very cruel story New York magazine had done earlier that year, featuring a long-lens paparazzi shot of the two of them side by side at the family’s Palm Beach house, in swimming trunks. ‘The Hunk and the Hulk’, it had been called.

  From what Jay had told me, every pound Todd gained made Jaclyn more determined that in the long term he would triumph as the Fisher heir. And her ambition for her son was equalled only by her jealous hatred of the trim and handsome true heir. As far as I could tell, she was a major cause of the friction between Jay and his father, which she did everything possible to inflame.

  ‘Forgetting the Hippo for a moment,’ I persisted, ‘aren’t your trusts enough to live on?’

  He started to get that small crease between his eyebrows. I should have taken it as a warning.

  ‘You tell me,’ he said, raising his arms. ‘You’re living on it.’

  ‘Well, it seems like enough to me,’ I said, stung, but determined to keep my cool.

  ‘I guess it is,’ said Jay, shrugging. ‘But it’s not as simple as that, it’s not just about the money, it’s the principle. You see, since my brother died, I’m the heir. It’s my birthright. And like I said, if I bailed, my dear little half-brother would get it all.

  ‘The funny thing is, though, I don’t even think my father would want that. He might think I’m a useless piece of shit, but he’s a very old-fashioned guy at heart, and when Bob died, I was next in line and that is how it has to be, in his book. Anyway, that’s why he keeps trying to force me to become what he wants me to be, not who I am. He’s determined to have me on his terms and I’m determined not to let him.’

  As he spoke, Jay’s face had taken on a set look I had never seen before; his jaw was quite clenched. He was incredibly stubborn, I realized – and maybe not as different from his father as he thought he was. But I could see that would not be a politic thing to say.

  ‘And even aside from that and how much I hate the Hippo’s spoilt, ignorant, bigoted butt,’ he continued, ‘I can’t let him inherit – for the memory of my brother, I can’t let that happen. Bob loathed the Hippo even more than I do. I mean, Bob was a chip off the old block. He started reading the financial pages when he was at school, and he loved going into Fishercorp – as a kid, that was a treat for him – but he was a good guy too.’

  He looked at me sadly.

  ‘I wish you could have met him, Stella, you would have loved him. He was the best of any of us. So, no, the Hippo does not inherit.’

  ‘I think I can understand that, Jay,’ I said, still not ready to give up. ‘But nevertheless, how can you expect to get the whole thing, if you’re not prepared to do something for it?’

  The little crease was now a full-on frown. But still I didn’t stop.

  ‘I mean, you may not share his values, but it sounds like your dad works really hard to keep it all going, so why should you get it all for nothing? Surely privilege always comes with responsibilities, as well as all the good bits? Nothing’s for nothing, Jay.’

  I paused for a moment, before ramming my point home.

  ‘Wouldn’t Bob have told you that?’

  I watched his face turn to stone before me. His eyes, which were normally so full of gentle smiles for me, were hard and cold.

  ‘You know what, Stella,’ he said, the sides of his beautiful mouth curling downwards. ‘I thought you were on my side. But it turns out, you’re just as uptight as the rest of them. And you know what else? You don’t have a fucking clue what you’re fucking talking about, so why don’t you just shut the fuck up?’

  And with that, he grabbed his clothes from the bedroom chair and left the room and shortly afterwards, judging by the slammed door, the apartment.

  I just lay there in a state of shock. We’d never had a proper row before and this had been a really nasty one. Why hadn’t I shut up? I knew even as I was saying it, that I was going way too far, but I couldn’t help it, because that was what I really thought. I had to say it. I couldn’t live a lie with him, it would just have festered inside me.

  And, really, I didn’t understand his attitude. How could he expect to inherit all that money without lifting a finger to be involved with any of the administration it entailed? It was the only thing about him that I didn’t understand.

  That and the way he seemed to be happy to spend his whole life merrily doing nothing. He wasn’t stupid, far from it, and I couldn’t compute how he could just while his life away as he did, however pleasantly.

  And deep down inside there was a little part of me that couldn’t respect that. I might not have shared my father’s phobia about inherited wealth, but I did – I now realized – have his work ethic. Big time.

  I lay there for a bit longer and when Jay didn’t come back I started to wonder what to do. Was I supposed to pack and leave before he returned? I got up and dressed, just in case he’d gone out to buy me an air ticket, and then I waited around for half an hour, and when he still didn’t come back, or call me, I decided to go out myself.

  I didn’t have a particular destination in mind, I just wandered around SoHo, looking at the shops and the galleries and the people, which normally entranced me, but none of it held any charm. Eventually I decided to head over to Café Gitane. I thought its familiarity might comfort me.

  Jay was alread
y there, sitting at our usual table with his head in his hands. I went over and sat down opposite him. He looked up, with tears in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, honey,’ he said, reaching for my hand. ‘What took you so long getting here?’ And his mouth curved up into its more familiar smile.

  I started to speak, but he got in first.

  ‘I’m truly sorry for swearing at you, like that,’ he said. ‘But I just can’t deal with all that stuff, it sends me crazy. And the way you put it, you’re probably right about what Bob would have said – and, if I’m honest, my mom has said something similar. So you just hit a sore spot.’

  He leaned back with his hands behind his head and sighed loudly.

  ‘It’s just that when my dad gets on my back about it – and Jaclyn weighs in – I just flip in my head and it makes me even more determined not to do what he wants. I’m sorry I took that out on you. Real sorry.’

  ‘No,’ I said, reaching over to pull down his hands, so I could hold them. ‘I’m sorry. I should have shut up. I know how much all that upsets you and you’re right, I really don’t understand it.’

  ‘Well, go on then, let’s try and talk about it.’ He sighed deeply again and squeezed my hands back. ‘That’s what my mom always tells me I have to do – talk about it – so go on, ask me something. Anything.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, tentatively. ‘If you want to have it both ways, couldn’t you make a show of getting involved a bit now, just to mollify your dad and get him off your back, and then, after you inherit, hand it all over to your better-qualified cousins to look after, and just be the titular head?’

  I could see he was making heroic efforts to try to stay calm.

  ‘But I don’t know where to start with any of it, Stella. I mean, I just have to open The Wall Street Journal, and I get a migraine. It’s not just that I’m not interested, I simply have no aptitude for it. It makes me feel dumb and I’m not dumb.’

  ‘But surely you did business at college, or something?’ I asked.

  That was what George and all his money-bunny pals had done. It seemed to be automatic setting for all of them, whatever they finally ended up doing – and most of his cashed-up pals had some kind of hilarious pretend job – so it seemed obvious that Jay would have done that too.

  He shook his head and laughed, ruefully.

  ‘Oh, Bob did all that, which meant I didn’t have to. So do you really want to know what I did at college, Stella? That is, until my poor brother fell off that balcony and Daddy dearest forced me to drop out…’

  I nodded, encouragingly, and he leaned towards me.

  ‘I did architecture, at UCLA, that’s what I did. Special area of study, domestic architecture – funny, huh?’

  And as I took it in, I did have to laugh. It was all such a stupid mess.

  ‘So that time at Willow Barn wasn’t the first time I’d seen your dad,’ he continued. ‘I went to a lecture he gave at my college. It was so great. I wrote an extended essay on your family home actually, Stella. Got an A, too. How funny is that?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me all that before?’ I asked, incredulous.

  He shrugged.

  ‘I was embarrassed. I felt like some kind of groupie. Then, when it turned out he hated me it was too late and just seemed to make it all more complicated, so I kept quiet.’

  The craziness of the situation gave me the courage to ask my other big question.

  ‘So if you had to stop your studies, but you won’t go and work at the bank, isn’t there something else you could do? I mean, we’ve had a great time these few weeks, but don’t you get bored just hanging out, Jay? Don’t you want to do something with your brain?’

  He looked at me, smiling sadly.

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I just don’t talk about it.’

  I looked at him expectantly.

  ‘I have a foundation,’ he said. A charitable foundation that I set up in my brother’s memory.’

  ‘What kind of foundation?’ I asked, determined to make him open up about this side of his life. ‘What’s it called?’

  He looked a bit uncomfortable, glanced away for a moment, and then leaned towards me.

  ‘It’s called “B & Me” and it helps young drug addicts with artistic inclinations through rehab and then mentors them into careers.’

  I nodded encouragingly, trying to look more impressed than I really was. Most of his rich-kid pals had toy charities like that. Zaria had set up a rest home for retired beauty-counter sales girls – her mother’s one-time profession – who had fallen on hard times.

  We’d gone to a gala benefit for it a couple of weeks before, which had rather sickened me. OK, so it had raised money for the home, but as far as I could tell, it was really just about having fun and dressing up for Zaria and her spoilt friends, and for getting your face in the society pages with your halo glowing.

  If each of the female guests there had donated just one piece of the jewellery they were wearing, I’d thought at the time, the home would have been secure in perpetuity.

  But despite my misgivings about guilt-assuaging, money-bunny charity work, I kept a positive look on my face for Jay – I was just so pleased to hear that he did something apart from enjoy himself.

  ‘Well, you are the original secret squirrel, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it before?’

  ‘I don’t talk about it to anyone, except my mum, who’s involved too; it’s too personal. I keep my involvement as low-key as I can – pretty much anonymous, actually – but seeing as how you clearly think I am a total lamebrain, I’ve told you. That was what I was doing out in LA. Stuff to do with that, OK?’

  I decided it was time for us both to lighten up.

  ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’ I said. ‘Got a wife and family I should know about? A secret identity as a superhero?’ I leaned across the table to pinch him in the ribs.

  He giggled like a little boy – Jay was really, adorably ticklish.

  After that, everything was fine between us again, and what had started out as a hideous row actually made us closer. But a few days later another problem reared its head – when it turned out our attitude to the paparazzi had been a little overcasual.

  I was down in Café Gitane on my own one morning, while Jay was off playing tennis, and I opened ‘Page Six’ of the New York Post, to see a picture of the two of us, looking truly appalling in our yoga gear. Well, I did anyway. ‘Fisher in the Shallows’ was the heading.

  After Jay Fisher’s dalliance with megastar Jericho, whose girl bumps are insured for almost as much as his monthly income, and his recent flirtation with succulent Argentinian beef heiress Patrizia Fernandez, it seems New York’s favourite billion-heir playboy is easing off a little in the glamour stakes. He was spotted this week holding hands with this unknown grunge queen. Not exactly what you’d call chic central, are they?

  By the time he got back to the apartment, he’d seen it too.

  ‘Time to skip town, I think, honey,’ he said, throwing the paper on to the kitchen countertop. ‘Did you see this?’

  I nodded. ‘Well, at least they didn’t know who I was,’ I said. ‘Actually, I’m surprised they even recognized you. We look like a pair of homeless people.’

  ‘So,’ he said, hugging me from behind. ‘Shall we disappear? Flee down to Mexico? Get lost in the Caribbean? Or somewhere more exotic?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ I said, feeling rather inhibited. I didn’t want to sound like I was raising my hand for my ultimate dream holiday, which would probably have been a couple of weeks at an Aman Resort somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, if he had really wanted to know. ‘You choose.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Give me your passport and I’ll fix it. It will be a surprise.’

  And he disappeared off to his study, whistling. An hour or so later he emerged grinning and sent me off to Barneys again, to shop for a beach holiday, somewhere warm and, as he put it, ‘not uptight’.

  I didn’t argue.

>   The next morning we were out at JFK, checking in for a flight to Venice – which Jay told me firmly was not our final destination.

  ‘Don’t get all excited about La Serenissima,’ he said. ‘Lovely though it is. We’re just going to change planes there.’

  I was so caught up in the fun and intrigue of it all that when my mobile rang, I answered it without checking the incoming number first. Mistake. It was my father and he was shouting at me.

  ‘I know who you’re staying with in New York, Stella Montecourt,’ he was shouting, ‘because it’s splashed all over the Daily Mail today. So I don’t care if you’re not talking to me, because I’m not talking to you either. You have completely broken your promise to me and I’m wounded. Wounded, do you hear me?’

  And we raced to be the first to hang up. The only boring thing about mobile phones, I realized, is that you can’t slam them down on people.

  20

  Venice looked so beautiful from above I was momentarily sad we weren’t staying there – and I did have a particularly good view of it from the cockpit of the light aircraft I was sitting in. Jay put his arm around me.

  ‘OK?’ he said.

  I nodded. Very OK. We’d arrived at Venice airport, collected our bags and then he’d led the way out of the terminal and along the road which was signposted ‘Water Taxis to Venice’, with all the other tourists.

  At first I’d thought he’d been kidding all along and we were going to be staying there, after all – the Cipriani? I wondered for a thrilling moment, the Gritti Palace? – but then, just before we reached the quay, he’d pushed open the door of a nondescript building to our left.

  There wasn’t much in there apart from a couple of bored-looking security guards and the usual luggage X-ray machines, and it wasn’t until we were putting our bags on the conveyor belt – no queues here – that I realized where we were. A well-dressed elderly couple were coming the other way, and they nodded at us as they came through.

  It was a moment of recognition I had experienced several times with Jay in New York, at various elite but discreet sports clubs he had taken me to. It meant – we’re rich, you’re rich, we’re all rich, because if you’re here, you’re rich. We were in the private plane terminal.