Sex, Lies & Serious Money

29

Laurence took a deep breath and remembered to be British. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Have you any questions for me?”

“Yeah,” a sixty-year-old woman said, “what’s this horseshit about your being a schoolmaster at some upper-crust school in the U.K.?”

“Assistant schoolmaster, at Eton College, and the crust doesn’t get any more upper than that. I resigned yesterday, when your British counterparts made it impossible for me to return to a quiet academic life.”

“You blame the press?”

“Oh, yes, for everything. Always.” That got a laugh.

“What did you teach?”

“English literature and art history.”

“Why?”

“Because those are my subjects, just as maths and sciences might be another master’s.”

Someone else took over. “Where’d you go to college?”

“Magdalen College, Oxford.”

“Which one, Maudlin or Oxford University?”

“They are collocated.”

“What does that mean?”

“In the same place, one inside the other.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Google it. Next question?”

“Why did you buy this house?” She motioned at her surroundings.

“What? This house?”

“Yes.”

“I think Faith told you whose house this is. My only residence is in New York. I sold my Palm Beach house yesterday.”

“I thought that was your father’s place.”

“Until his death, four months ago.”

“Did he leave you any money?”

“He left me his house.”

“Now that you’re a billionaire, what are you going to do with it?”

“I’m a great deal less than a billionaire. Do your homework.”

“How are you going to spend it?”

“I think I’ll put about half of it into charitable trusts and piss away the rest.”

“Piss it away on what?”

“Anything I like.”

“Don’t you have a house in England?”

“My family does.”

“Who are your family?”

“People who don’t like to read about themselves in newspapers.”

The kid intruder spoke up. “Don’t you have an elaborate security system around this house?”

“You’ll have to ask Faith, it’s her house.”

“I have no idea!” Faith shouted. “I haven’t read the instructions yet.”

“Do you own a gun?” the kid asked.

“I’m an Englishman. We don’t own guns, except to kill birds and game.”

“How about a handgun?”

“We don’t own handguns. They’re for shooting people — our police frown on that.”

“Aren’t you an American, not a Brit?”

“I was born here, raised there.”

“So you’re a half-breed?”

“Sounds about right.”

“What’s your middle initial, B, stand for?”

“Bastard.” Another laugh.

“Are you related to Laurence Olivier?”

“No, not even when he was alive.”

“Then why is your name spelled like his?”

“It’s a mystery. Perhaps my mother was frightened by his Hamlet.”

“What Hamlet was that?”

“Stage or film, take your pick. Anybody got a real question?”

“What do you think of American women?”

“They terrify me.”

“Why?”

“Look at Faith — isn’t she terrifying?” Faith howled.

“Where are you going from here?”

“I’m already in California, so it’s an easy choice.”

“What do you like about California?”

“More places to get lost.”

“Why do you want to get lost?”

“So I won’t have to answer questions like this.”

“Where will home be?”

“Like the song says, ‘Any place I hang my hat.’ Except I don’t own a hat.”

“Oh, come on, you’ve got to go somewhere.”

“No, I plan to just dematerialize, as if I were on Star Trek. No one will ever see or hear from me again. I mean, what’s money for, if not to buy complete isolation.”

“How can a person live in complete isolation?”

“I’ll send out for pizza and Chinese.”

“Come on, pick a town or city.”

“Wherever they deliver pizza and Chinese.”

“Why pizza and Chinese?”

“My needs are simple — pizza, Chinese, and a bottle of Chateau Lafite, ’29, and I’m happy anywhere.”

“What was that wine again?”

“It’s a jug wine — I never buy wine that doesn’t have a screw top.”

“What are your hobbies?”

“Playing bad piano and killing salmon.”

“Where do you kill salmon?”

“Waist-deep in an icy Scottish river.”

“Is that fun?”

“I don’t know, I can’t feel a thing when I’m waist-deep in an icy Scottish river.”

“What’s so great about that?”

“The media won’t follow me there. They don’t enjoy being wet and freezing. I may take up yachting for the same reason.”

“Do you have a yacht?”

“Not yet.”

“If you buy one, will it be a super yacht?”

“Why would I buy a yacht, if it weren’t super?”

“What’s something you can’t buy with all your money?”

“My own country — at least, not one I’d want to live in.”

“Do you have a girl?”

“Whenever possible.”

“Do you prefer blondes or brunettes?”

“It hardly matters, they can change in an hour.”

From a young woman: “Do you like a Brazilian?”

“I’ve never met one, but I’m told they’re charming people.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“Wasn’t it?”

Faith stepped in. “Thank you, folks, now for pictures. Right over here, Laurence.” She stood him against a wall, as if for a firing squad, and the group gathered around, most with cell phones. Laurence gave them both profiles and dead ahead, as if in a mug shot. He smiled, laughed, and frowned, but resisted one cross-eyed, because he knew it would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Faith said. “This way out, don’t forget to leave your bar glasses.” She stood next to the bar and collected every one as they passed.

The kid reporter stopped to ask Laurence another question, but Faith got him by the collar and moved him toward the door on his tiptoes. “You’d better watch your ass, Chip Arnold,” she said. “One of my security guys nearly plugged you last night.” She closed the door firmly behind him and followed Laurence into the living room. “Great job, kiddo. I wish all my clients could handle them that way. That should get them off your back for a while.”

“Do I have to go to California,” Laurence asked, “or can I stay here in your house?”

“Sweetie, you’re welcome in this house anytime. Make yourself at home. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“What’s my next move?”

“Get a haircut and a shave from Betty and be returned to your former glory. I’ve got an eight o’clock flight to New York, and my car’s waiting.”

“Did you come all the way out here for this?” he asked.

“Of course. Stone called me last night, and I was on a plane at daybreak.” She shrugged. “It’s what I do.”

“And you do it very well,” Laurence said, giving her a hug, then he went and submitted himself to the tender ministrations of the estimable Betty.

And shortly, he was himself again.