The Long-Lost Jules

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  Lucky you. The last interesting man I met was my grandfather’s roommate at the nursing home.

  But, on second thought, be careful.

  Love and kisses.

  I went to bed dreaming of long-dead English queens and jam-covered bean sprouts.

  Chapter 3

  On Saturday night, there was a party in Bloomsbury for some of my friends from my pre–Atlantic Bank job at an international development consultancy called IDC. We had all met right after college and bonded through a fierce training program and then bounced around from assignment to assignment but somehow maintained our bond. We were a tight group, the eight of us who were currently in London, and I trusted them as much as I trusted anyone. Which is to say, a little bit.

  They greeted me with raucous cries of “Here comes the sellout!” and “How’s your golden parachute?” They had never forgotten that I deserted IDC to earn a private banker’s salary and move from my scruffy digs in Deptford to my miniature flat in Knightsbridge. That was two years ago, but these guys had long memories.

  “You’re just jealous,” I said, hanging up my Burberry coat alongside their faux leather and woolen jackets.

  “You betcha,” Bob the Bear said, lumbering up to envelop me in a huge hug. An American like I was, Bob had leapfrogged over the rest of us to become head of the London office. His nickname said it all; his paunch hung comfortably over a generous belt, and his shoulders were easily as broad as any linebacker’s.

  When Bob liked your work, he roared in approval. When he wasn’t happy, he roared even more loudly. At Atlantic Bank, Audrey never liked my work. She expressed her approval of the Kristens and Matts and Jakes with a small, almost imperceptible half smile. Her disapproval, with which I was very familiar, was a faint wrinkling of her eyebrows and a minute compression of her thin lips.

  With an effort, I pushed her out of my mind and settled down to enjoy the evening.

  After several margaritas (the theme of our get-together was “it’s still summer vacation”), I found myself telling Dorcas and Stephen about my strange encounter that day. “Hmm,” Stephen said, tugging on his beard. “Leo Schlumberger . . . that name sounds familiar.”

  “He pronounced it the French way. Schlum-bear-zhay,” I volunteered. “Rosie says he’s French-Israeli, whatever that means.”

  “It means he’s interesting,” Stephen said.

  “I can look him up for you on Monday,” Dorcas offered. “I know you say Rosie’s good with computers, but I’m better.”

  Dorcas was in her early sixties, of a generation that had grown up without PCs and Macs and iPads, but she had fallen in love with the technology as soon as it was introduced. I admired her. Despite the graying hair, sensible shoes, and unending supply of twin sets that seemingly marked her as a dull suburban housewife, she was in fact a cutting-edge computer whiz.

  “Sure,” I said. Then, “No! I really don’t care—never mind.”

  We played a party game, Have You Never, as different from my office fun facts and Freaky Fridays as possible. The idea was to catch out your fellow players in a lie—in which case the liar had to either swig a bottle of beer or scarf down an entire slice of pizza. With pepperoni, onions, and extra anchovies.

  “Have you never . . . gone skinny-dipping?”

  Dorcas claimed that she had never, at which Bob reminded her of a diplomatic incident involving a sweltering day and a seemingly deserted lake in Eritrea. To keep her company, he swigged a bottle of beer too.

  I kept my mouth shut, a reminiscent smile on my face.

  “Have you never”—he paused, looking straight at me—“run straight into danger?”

  A ripple ran through the group. Momentarily sober, we all looked at each other. Our careers took us to some of the most desperate places on Earth, and avoiding danger was more a hope than a reality.

  I kept silent.

  “Ames?” he questioned.

  Still silent, I gulped down the bottle of beer, and the room erupted in applause. Bob shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger, and the game moved on.

  We all sang a drunken round of “God Save the Queen” and “God Bless America” to close out the night; I bestowed kisses all around and then clambered into my Uber at around two in the morning, happily blitzed and full of bonhomie.

  “Have a good night, then?” the driver asked.

  “Great!”

  He turned on a soft-rock station, and we roared away. I gazed out the window at the bright lights and endless activity of a warm Saturday night in London for the short ride home.

  But as I closed the car door behind me and started up the front stoop to my building’s outer door, a tall shape materialized out of the darkness behind me.

  “Hey, Jules,” Leo said.

  I jumped about ten feet into the air and let out a small screech. He moved in closer, so close that I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck.

  “Have a good night?” he asked. But his tone wasn’t playful or amused like the Uber driver’s.

  “Yes,” I said, reflexively shifting into a defensive stance. My father had insisted on self-defense training; we had spent too much time in dodgy countries for him to allow any vulnerability.

  “Um . . . sorry to approach you like this,” he said, backing up a step. I thought he sounded genuinely apologetic, and I relaxed a little. “I was just passing your place after a night out and thought I’d see if you were available to talk.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “I thought we agreed to stop apologizing,” he said, with a slight smile in his voice.

  “Okay, fine.” I was happy to abandon British pseudopolitesse. “How about you just leave me alone, then?”

  “I wish I could,” he said feelingly. “But I need you to help me—”

  Another voice broke the warm stillness of the night.

  “Is this man bothering you, then?”

  It was a London bobby. He loomed even larger than Leo, his hand on his nightstick and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Sorry,” Leo said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I babbled to the bobby as Leo eyed me in astonishment. “I don’t know this man, and he—”

  “Be on your way, then,” he said crisply to Leo, who melted into the night without another word—but not before sending a reproachful look my way.

  Perhaps smelling the alcohol on my breath, the bobby said sharply, “And you, young lady, should be safe inside by now. Good night, then.”

  “Thank you. Good night. Thank you.”

  Of course I dropped my keys on the sidewalk while the policeman watched, frowning. But I didn’t care about his disapproval. He had dispatched Leo much more swiftly than I seemed able to do, and for that I was grateful. I waved goodbye to my hero as I unlocked the door and slipped inside.

  But now I knew I would have to do something about Leo.

  Chapter 4

  He left me alone for the rest of the weekend, but on Monday morning I spotted him immediately on the tube as it rumbled from station to station in a loop of endless stop-and-go, enlivened by the occasional power loss and abrupt squeal of brakes that knocked the portly fellow next to me smack into my ribs. Leo smiled tentatively at me and tried to squeeze through the sea of packed-in people toward me, but even his height and strength were unequal to the task. As soon as the doors opened, I dashed up the steps, taking them two at a time, and panted through the security desk at work.

  The next day, he was waiting for me outside my gym when I emerged after a particularly boring session on the treadmill. He was holding two coffees and trying to look hopeful and harmless. I ignored him and entangled myself in a mass of Asian tourists; a selfie stick whacked him in the forehead, and I whipped away through the crowd.

  I wondered if he could possibly be as harmless as he seemed.

  By Thursday, I still hadn’t figured out what to do about him; despite his ineptitude, he seemed to have uncanny luck at
finding me. Still, I was surprised when I looked up from my computer to see Yvette, Audrey’s personal assistant, standing in front of my desk. “Your ten o’clock is here,” she said shortly.

  “My ten o’clock?” I didn’t have any appointments that morning, but Yvette had already turned on her heel and marched back to her own desk. Heaving a sigh, I smoothed my pants and stood up, confused.

  Then I turned the corner to our little reception area, and my breath caught. There, standing by Yvette’s desk, frowning over his cell phone and looking very, very tall, was Leo.

  I should have known, I realized belatedly. He had popped up everywhere else: at my gym, on my commute, on my street. Of course he would show up eventually at my office. I drew a deep breath. “Mr. Schlumberger,” I said coolly, determined not to show any emotion.

  Still, maybe the best thing would be to simply let him tell me his tale; I could set him straight and send him on his way. Maybe I would even learn something from him.

  “Doctor Schlumberger,” Yvette corrected me. She smiled at Leo, and he smiled back while I seethed. If he wanted to flirt with empty-headed, stick-insect Yvette, then why didn’t he annoy her and leave me alone?

  And of course I hadn’t washed my hair this morning, and I was wearing another dull gray pantsuit, and my glasses were slipping down the bridge of my nose. I wanted to look invulnerable and icily professional for this confrontation with him—not mousy and colorless.

  But then, that was my banker persona—the eminently forgettable Amy.

  Wordlessly, I gestured toward the glass-enclosed conference room, and he preceded me in, making a great show of pulling out a chair for me and standing until I was seated (for Yvette’s benefit, I supposed).

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed at him. “This is too much. I’m going to call the police.”

  He looked astonished. “What? What for? What have I done?”

  I sighed. “Never mind.”

  “That woman—is she one of the sorority girls? The pseudo-French stick insect?”

  I almost smiled at his echo of my thoughts. “Not really. Yvette’s an assistant, not a banker.”

  “Ah,” he said. “So, she’s not mean to you?”

  Everyone in this office is mean to me, I thought. I’m the fish out of water. Then I said, “Wait a minute. Do you mean Yvette’s not really French?”

  “With that accent? I’d say she’s straight out of Manchester.”

  Now I really did smile. But I recovered myself quickly and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Um . . . I’m in the market for a private banker.”

  “Do you have net investable assets of at least twenty million dollars?” I asked politely. “If so, we would be delighted to discuss your business.”

  “Well . . .”

  I started to stand up to indicate that this meeting was over, but he grinned at me and I remembered myself, sinking back into my seat.

  “I suppose you want to tell me about Jules,” I said, crossing my legs primly. If I had to be mousy, by God, I would be the mousiest Amy ever.

  “Why are you calling yourself Amy?” he asked.

  “I . . .” I stopped and shook myself mentally. “Actually, because that’s my name. And I thought I would be asking the questions, not you.”

  We eyed each other with mutual expressions of distrust.

  “I thought professors love to talk,” I said.

  “Actually, I prefer the Socratic method: asking questions and letting the truth emerge.”

  I let myself slump farther into my chair and began fidgeting with my hair.

  He looked disconcerted. “Sorry, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said uncomfortably.

  I smiled inwardly and took my advantage. “Why are you looking for a woman named Jules?”

  “Why are you calling yourself Amy?” he countered. “At first I thought you must be running from an abusive boyfriend or ex-husband—”

  I drew myself up, affronted.

  “But once I got to know you, I realized that you didn’t fit the profile.”

  I was my father’s daughter. I was not a victim. Or a runner. But it troubled me that he had figured that out so quickly. “You don’t know me at all,” I said sharply.

  He smiled at me. “Well . . . perhaps we could remedy that?”

  I was insulted that he thought I would fall for his easy charm. Yvette might be fooled, but I wasn’t.

  “Get out,” I said, forgetting all my good intentions.

  To my surprise, he stood up. “Look, Jules, Amy, whatever you’re calling yourself, I’m sorry if I . . .” He stuck there, clearly unsure what exactly he had done.

  I opened the glass door and waited. After a moment, he shrugged and left.

  Yvette glanced up at me. “That was quick,” she commented.

  “Unfortunately, he doesn’t have enough money to fit our profile,” I said loudly. Leo, waiting for the elevator just outside the open office doors, turned and winked at me.

  I spent the rest of the morning arguing with the Dubai Atlantis about the penthouse. They claimed it was being held for an American celebrity, and I argued that my sheikh was much more important. I won by offering a positively obscene amount of money, and we hung up on the best of terms.

  Then my sheikh informed me that the girls had decided they wanted to go to New York instead and would like the presidential suite at the Four Seasons. Also, they wanted to bring their new puppies, so could I please arrange for quarantine to be waived for the dogs?

  Oh, yes, and wire them $100,000 in cash for the trip.

  Steaming, I filled out the currency transaction report that bankers are required to file for cash transactions of more than $10,000—we filed thousands of these every year—and started a round of negotiations with the Four Seasons. The other vice presidents in my office (the three Kristens, the two Matts, and the two Jakes) all had assistants, but I was deemed unworthy of the perk, so I did all my dirty work myself.

  All the sheikh’s dirty work, that is.

  But the truth was that I had crashed and burned at the IDC job with my recklessness in Chechnya; for this reason alone, I had to make the Barclays job work. I couldn’t flame out again. If that meant that I had to be meek, humble Amy with my coworkers for another year or two—or three, God forbid—well, so be it. I had to make this work.

  So I was not in a good mood when Leo waylaid me outside my office at the end of the day.

  “Jesus,” I said. “You again?”

  He looked tired. His beard was well beyond a five-o’clock shadow, and he definitely needed a haircut.

  “Me again,” he agreed. “Sorry. Fancy a drink?”

  “Not with you.” The hell with it, I thought. My coworkers could bully and intimidate me, but not a random man who couldn’t even call me by the right name.

  “How about some fish and chips, then? I know a smashing little pub just around the corner. . . .”

  He was well in control of himself; his accent was pure British.

  My mouth watered, but I said, “No, thank you.”

  “Um . . . all right, then. We can just walk and talk.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  While he argued, I glanced down at my phone and tapped the Uber app. Moments later, a dark car glided up to the curb, and I hopped in.

  “Bye,” I called, leaving Leo staring after me. His face was a mask of anger now, and he seemed to be muttering to himself again. I smiled in satisfaction as I settled back into the seat.

  Leo popped up all week. It was positively genial, so I couldn’t feel much beyond annoyance and some amusement, but he wouldn’t let up. When I took the tube to work on Monday, he was there, waving at me from across the crowded car. When I came out of my hairdresser on Wednesday morning, he was there, waving from across the street. And when I arrived at my office building on Friday morning, he was there too, holding the door open for me with a polite flourish.

  Belatedly it occurred to me that I had been
too hasty in throwing him out of my office. I should have had that “conversation” he wanted and figured out how to get him out of my life.

  Besides, in the bustling financial district of the city of London, with Savile Row–clad bankers jostling kamikaze bicycle messengers for space, Leo, in his professor’s tweeds (metaphorically speaking), was the least threatening thing around. Still, I tried. “I could get a restraining order, you know.”

  He laughed out loud. “For what?”

  I bit my lip. “If you would just tell me what this is all about, maybe I could help. Or at least steer you in the right direction.” Away from me, I thought.

  “I did tell you!” he exclaimed.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Yes, I did.” He thought for a minute. “Didn’t I?”

  “No.”

  He smiled at me—the first genuine smile I had seen on him. It transformed his face, but I was immune to easy charm, especially in a man who kept calling me Jules. “Fish and chips, then? At noon?”

  “Noon,” I agreed. Best to get it over with, in a public place.

  “Hey, Jules,” he said, his smile deepening.

  I turned away.

  “Okay, then. Amy.”

  I turned back.

  “Love the trainers.”

  I looked down to see that in my rush to leave the office, I had put on one blue sneaker and one white one. Crap. I looked up to scowl at him, but he had already disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter 5

  That morning, we had a meeting on mandatory volunteer work. I barely managed not to point out the oxymoron and listened with growing amusement as Audrey reminded us that everyone had to log forty “volunteer” hours per year. “We’re doing a publicity campaign on our commitment to community service,” she explained solemnly.

  Kristen R. waved her hand in the air. “Kristen S. and I helped build a village in Costa Rica last summer!” she announced. “It was so inspiring!”