Sex, Lies & Serious Money

15

Marge Mason let herself into apartment 15 and went directly to her new office. She had spent the day before arranging the room and making file tabs and ordering office supplies. As she sat down the morning light struck the little check-writing machine on her desk. It wasn’t where she had left it, and the angle of the light revealed a fingerprint on the metal surface. She held her own fingers near it and compared: it was larger than any of her prints.

She remembered something she had once seen on television; she found a roll of cellophane tape in her desk drawer, applied a length of it to the print on the check writer, then peeled it off, taking the print with it. She took an index card from the drawer and applied the tape to it, then noted the date, time, and circumstances on the card and signed it. Her phone rang.

“Good morning, Mr. Hayward’s office.”

“Good morning, Marge, it’s Laurence.”

“Are you up? I didn’t hear you when I came in.”

“I’m up, and I’m in England.”

“England? I thought you were coming back to New York from Wichita.”

“I did, but my stepfather has had a heart attack and surgery, so I came to be with my mother.” He gave her the telephone number. “Best to reach me on my cell, though.”

“Of course. How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know — a week or ten days, I suppose. I have some business to take care of here. Everything all right there?”

“I think so, but when I came in this morning I noticed that my office wasn’t quite the way I left it.”

“It’s the hotel maids,” he said. “They come in every day, and they move things around.”

“Ah, I should have thought of that. Is there anything I can do for you here?”

“I don’t think so. You can pay the bills as they come in. E-mail me anything you’re uncertain about for approval.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll let you know when I have a return date. Oh, I hired the driver from the chauffeur service I’ve been using. His name is Oliver Mann. Please put him on the payroll at seventy-five thousand a year, with effect from yesterday.”

“Will do.”

He gave her Oliver’s phone number. “You can call him for his Social Security number and address, et cetera. If you need to run any errands, Oliver will drive you. He’ll be at the apartment every day to help you, should you need him.”

“Grand.”

“I have to go now. Call me, if you have any questions.”

“I will. Goodbye.” They both hung up.

Butch was having an idle moment in the shoe department when his cell rang.

“It’s me,” Curly said.

“What’s up?”

“My ex-lawyer friend is here, and I need some information for the incorporation papers. What do you want to call it?”

“How about Internet Arts?”

“Sounds good.”

“Rent a post office box in that name, and have some stationery printed. I’ve already arranged for a website, internetarts-dot-com, but there’s nothing on it yet. Put that on the stationery, and have some cards printed for both of us. Change the pounds we took to dollars and use that for expenses. Oh, and put this motto on the stationery — ‘Fine art at your fingertips.’”

“How much should I have printed?”

“Not much, we have only one client — customer. Gotta run.” He hung up.

Laurence sat down for lunch on the terrace with his stepfather; his mother and Theresa had gone to the village to shop for dinner.

“I’ve accepted an offer from my partners for the agency,” Derek said.

“Was it what you wanted?”

“Nearly. I also spoke with a friend in real estate who’s familiar with our properties. He says I should ask eight million and take seven for this place.”

“How about Wilton Crescent?”

“Ask and get ten million. Unless it’s a Russian or an Arab, in which case I should ask fifty percent more. Trouble is, that market isn’t what it used to be.”

“Let me make you a different sort of offer.”

“All right.”

“I’ll give you twelve million pounds sterling for both properties, with a guaranteed lifetime tenancy for both of you. That way, you get a pile of cash, but you don’t ever have to move.”

Derek looked at him narrowly. “You can come up with that kind of money?”

“I can. What’s more, you should have a chat with your accountant. You might be able to shelter much of it from the tax man by taking payment in the States. I can arrange for the people who handle my investments to handle yours, too.”

“I don’t think I want to have that particular chat with my own accountant, but my chief financial officer at the agency would know exactly how to handle that.”

“Perhaps that’s best.”

“Laurence, I accept your offer with pleasure.”

“Nothing need change for you. I don’t expect to be spending that much time here. I’d love for you two to visit me in New York, though. I have lots of room, and if you want more privacy, I own a second flat in my building.”

“Give me a few weeks to get hale and hearty, and we’ll take you up on that.”

“When you’ve got things sorted out, have your solicitor draw up a contract, and I’ll sign it and put the cash anywhere you want it.”

Derek smiled broadly and shook his hand.

Theresa came back from her shopping trip with Dot, and the two of them had a drink in the cottage before going over to the main house for dinner.

“You like this estate, do you?”

“I think it’s superb,” she said.

“I’m glad, because I just bought it — and the London house — from Derek, with a lifetime tenancy for him and Mom.”

“Congratulations!”

“Something else.”

“What’s that?”

“You have interior designers at your store, don’t you?”

“Yes, in the home department.”

“I own a second flat at the Fairleigh, number 14A, one floor down from my apartment. It’s furnished with hotel things, and I’d like it redone. Can you call somebody there and have them put their best person on it?”

“Certainly. I’ll call the department head.”

“It’s a two-bedroom apartment. Do you think a million dollars would handle everything?”

“I’ll give them that budget.”

“Good. I’d like it done in, say, six weeks, please. They can have samples and drawings for me when we get back.”

Theresa looked at her watch. “She should be back from lunch now. I’ll call her.”

“There’s a phone in the study.”

She went there.

Laurence took a sip of his drink and sat back in his chair. He felt very good about this; it was much more rewarding to do something for the people he loved than just to spend the money on himself.

That night at dinner with his very happy parents, his mother turned to Laurence. “You know,” she said, “we’d been thinking about doing over the Wilton Crescent house. A friend of mine, Susan Blackburn, is one of London’s top designers, and I was going to speak to her about it. Now, though, I’m going to have her redo it for you, Laurence, and that will be our gift. You’ve made us so happy.”

Laurence had to fight back the tears.