Green Tea Won't Help You Now! (8 page)

Would Alex have heard my real name? I could not kid myself there. He had.

Still. To the world at large, Laetitia Corvera-Fabergé was an intoxicated it-girl who spent her time partying at jet set locations all over the globe. She was no humble, hard-working, good-humoured yoga teacher like Trixie Beaumont. I—that being the person who lived inside my body at the moment—felt no connection to the woman I had been in the past. The drugs, the booze, it was all so far away... Some blurry memory, like a half-forgotten dream.
 

The sound of tyres on sand made me look up. There is always sand in Venice.
 

The Jaguar pulled around the corner and stopped right in front of me. Alex got out and this time he was not wearing a suit, but a pair of old blue jeans and a plain, light blue t-shirt. The ensemble showed his athletic physique to its best advantage. My breath caught in my throat. He was magnificent.
 

"We're colour combined," was the first thing he remarked.
 

He was right. I was clad in a short jeans skirt, a light blue tank top and converse sneakers. I looked down, briefly fearing my real name was written on my shirt front. I smiled awkwardly and I did not need to fake it. The knowledge of our secret business connection was enough to turn me into a psychological pudding and his physical presence finished me off completely.

"Hi." He loomed over me, but kept a distance of approximately three feet.

"Hi."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."

"All right. Lead the way."

"This way."

We started walking, both with our hands in our pockets, like two helpless teenagers.

"What happened to the Cadillac?" I asked with a shaky voice.

He smiled shyly. "It's not that comfortable for everyday use. The Jag's far better sprung."

"Yes, they are... I mean, it does look as if it were."

Argh!
 

All right, I needed to watch it. Humble, hard-working yoga teachers did not possess any in-depth knowledge about the comfort of Jaguars. The granddaughters of dukes did. I had to be very careful to keep my two personas apart. (Okay, okay, my concentration was a bit off, but please! It was not my fault! Have you ever seen a Norse god smile shyly? It would break the best of us! Nobody with an ovary in her body would keep her head under such circumstances! Scratch me some scratch! No, that is not how you say it. Cut me some slack!)

"Do you have a car?"

"No. I have a bicycle."

"I see you're living in the right place."

"I agree. — The restaurant's over there. Odds and Eggs. I love their egg benedict with shrimp."

"Sounds promising."
 

My oh my
,
this conversation is going to be cumbersome
, I thought.

I was contemplating what to say next when my backside played a jingle and vibrated with some resonance. Or at least the phone inside my rear pocket did.

"Gosh, sorry, I'd meant to turn the sound off. Hold on a sec." I fished the offensive instrument from my jeans about to turn it off, but then I saw the message. It was not a text message but a photograph. It was... a baby!
 

I stopped dead in my tracks and gazed at the screen, dumbfounded. It was indeed the picture of a tiny creature in yellow rompers, resting on a tanned, masculine arm. The text beneath it read: "Tamzin says hello."

"Oh my God," I whimpered. Hot tears shot into my eyes and I held out an arm to lean against Alex. He was the only available thing I could lean against. He took hold of me willingly enough.

"Are you alright?"

I sobbed and nodded. "It's only...," I sobbed again, "It's only that... oh it's so wonderful! I'm an aunt! Look!" I handed him the phone. He moved it around so that the sunlight would not blind the screen. He was scrutinising the image quite intently, with narrowed eyes and furrowed brows.
 

"Look how tiny she is!" I exclaimed. "She was not supposed to be born for another two weeks!"
 

I felt a pang of remorse. Had it really been my early morning call that had sent Jude into what she had called a 'shock discharge'?

"Mmmh..." Alex murmured and zoomed the picture. "Is that a Patek Philippe Triple Date Chronograph?"

"What?" I shrieked and wrenched the phone from his hand. "I'm showing you my first niece ever and all you care about is my brother's watch? Give that here!"

"Your brother has a six-hundred thousand dollar vintage watch?"

"Huh? What? No, of course not!"

"But it looks likes one for sure."

"Don't be silly," I blurted, trying to save the situation. "That's a smuggled fake from China, that's what it is, he works in the port, they find them all the time."
 

It
was
a freaking Patek Philippe Triple Thingamy and it would not even be the most expensive watch among my brother's extensive collection. Men and their stupid toys!
 

I tried a different tactic to get him off the scent. "Oh, I think I'm going into shock!"

"I'd say you need a drink but..."

"No. Sorry, I'm just overwhelmed. I did not expect it would touch me so. I'll quickly type an answer, okay?"

"Sure."

I wrote: "YEAAAH! I'M IN TEARS! TELL ME WHEN I MAY CALL!"

"Puuh," I said conclusively.
 

"You're pretty emotional for a yogi." Alex's mouth was twitching in amusement.

"Yes, aren't I? Sorry, I can't help it."

"I like it."

"Do you?"

"Yes..."

 
One of his arms encircled my waist and before I could have voiced my protest in any way—not that I wanted to—he kissed me.

"Ooh."

"Better?" he inquired.

"Yes, much."

Our conversation went significantly smoother afterwards.
 

We found a table at the Odds and Eggs, ordered breakfast and I gave him a detailed, but distinctly modified account of how my brother had met his wife. He in turn told me about his sister Amy, who had married a guy from Texas with whom she had two kids, a boy and a girl. Amy and her husband, so I was informed, were in charge of the family hotel.

"It's more of a lodge," Alex explained. "A lot of wood panels, a fishing pond, a few horses—"

"Horses," I cried in delight. Equines
are
the Corvera-Fabergé family passion after all.

"Yes, three or four of them. My brother-in-law takes the tourists into the mountains with them."

"What breed are they?"

"Mustangs, what else?"

My eyes widened. "I never saw a Mustang in real life."

"That can be arranged. Were there many horses where you grew up?"

"Yes, quite..."

"The lord and lady rode you down when they went on a fox hunt?"

"All the time."
Only it was I who rode the local children down when I went on a fox hunt.
 

"Tried it?"

"Not really..." That was not strictly a lie because I never
tried
it. Trying implicates you have a choice in the matter. Every Corvera-Fabergé rides. In fact, nobody in my family ever set a foot on the ground when they were outside the house.
 

It was definitely time to change the subject. "Did you run people over on skis as a child?"

"Yeah, sure did. I was banned from quite a few slopes before I got hold of myself and applied my talents to racing instead of tourist bashing."

"How considerate of you."

"Yes, wasn't it... have you ever been on skis?"

"Er... Yes, once or twice..."
In fact, every winter until I went to rehab.
 

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes, very much. Can you still do it? After your injury?"

His eyes narrowed. "Did you google me?"

I grimaced. "Of course I googled you when I received a letter from your lawyer. I had to know who I was up against, hadn't I? It's always important to know the enemy."

"I'm pretty sure that's not a yogical motto... Hmm. Sure, I can still do it, but I couldn't do it for a whole season of racing. Unfortunately, I don't have much time to ski for pleasure anymore, even if I sometimes get the chance to test our products. We're equipping several racing teams and they need people with knowledge and racing experience they can rely on. It's my favourite part of the job, to work with the pros. The skis are real high tech and it's extremely satisfying to see my stuff make it to the top. I hope after the IPO we'll have the cash flow to invest in a new research facility and expand our ski segment. It's high time. After the last failed attempt to go public, we lost many capable engineers because we had to put valuable projects on hold. Like the InspYre line, which will be our push into new territory."

"Ah? Ah." I was a sure a hole in the ground was opening at that very instant for me to fall into, screaming and flailing my arms.
 

One of his feet gently prodded one of mine. "You were saying?"

"Ah. Yes. Right. So, do you expect everything to run smoothly this time? With your IPA?"

"O. — Yes. Actually I'll fly to New York tomorrow to collect a few papers which we need to proceed. My co-proprietor will sign them later today, but they're not in New York, so I'm not sure if it's tomorrow or the day after when I'll be back. I was assured one of the company lawyers is going to fly to them in person in order to pick up the papers and carry them to the company headquarters. I'll go with my own attorneys to have them check the documents, then I can sign them, too, and bring a copy back with me."

I took in a sharp breath. "What nonsen—cra—I mean, that sounds very complicated and not very practical."

 
I had this vision of an exasperated carrier pigeon, flying back and forth across the North American continent for no reason whatsoever. In a sensible world we could just sign the papers here and now. We would probably leave a few butter stains, but we would not have to sponsor the aviation industry in the process. I ground my teeth.

 
"Yes, it is," he agreed. "But these rich people are complicated. Or rather they're used to having it their way."

I sniffed. "Aren't you rich yourself?"

"Yeah, I guess I am, but I'm not
that
rich. These people have more money than a single person can handle, believe me. Never worked for it either. It's no wonder they're completely insane."

I swallowed a mouthful of food before I had chewed it. It stuck uncomfortably in my gullet. "Oh, really, do you think so? I mean, are they? That is, who are they? Are they famous?"

He frowned. "Actually, it's just one woman. But she's not active in the firm. From what I hear, she's one of those heiresses who never eat, bake in the sun until their skin shrivels and are constantly higher than a kite."

The waitress brought more coffee and I almost expected her to say,
"Hah, man, that girl, she's the one to blame, and don't you let her fool you".
 

"I understand. Shrivelled... And totally bonkers. Have you met her?"

"No, but I met her brother pretty often when we started to go bigger with Hard Pack. He was the one who thought we were the right kind of investment for his sister's money. Man, he's a figure. Honestly, I thought those people only exist in the imagination of Hollywood screen writers. James Bond could not hold a candle against him, he's the archetype of an English snob. You surely know the type."

James Bond is most definitely not English! He's a Scot with a Swiss mother! And my brother's not a snob, he's a nob!
 

I let it go. What did these Americans know?
 

"Yes, let me guess, reddish blond hair? Slightly watery blue eyes? A name like Percy Herbert or Tarquin St. John? Launcelot Smythe-Smythe-Smythe?"

He laughed. "Not so far off the mark. He's a dark guy. I think they married into the Spanish aristocracy or something. The family name is Corvera-Fabergé. Sounds like a fake, doesn't it? The only interesting thing about the man is that he plays polo. Crazy sport. I want to try it."

"Fabergé?" I feigned disbelief. "Like the eggs?"

"Odds and Eggs."

I giggled nervously. "Was he the one who decided it was not yet time for you to—how do you put it—to go public?"

"No, that was his underling. A man called Jacob Weinberg. But I heard a rumour the woman had disappeared on a coke-fuelled sex trip with her dealer, some yacht broker, and was simply not available to sign the necessary documents. She's some sort of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Did it with every ski instructor in Courchevel, they say."
One. It was ONE.
"The brother suddenly also, 'retired', from business around that time. He was probably a crook or something. But their money's still good, what can I say. I hate to depend on these people, but right now I need them. I can tell you one thing though: once the shares are out there and they have sold theirs with the profit they hope to make from them, I never want to see or hear those people again in my life. — Hey, what do you say. I take the day off and we just hang on the beach?"

My brain had a hard time processing his last question. I was still hung up on the coke-fuelled sex trip.
 

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Damn accurate, to be sure.
 

I must have looked rather like a carp. Mouth open, eyes ajar.

His face fell. "Sorry, Trixie, I'm doing it again. I'm such a bully. You probably have classes later."

"Yes and I also have to call Ry—Ricardo and his wife, my mum, my dad, my sister... And the plumber's coming at three."
And by plumber I mean my Yale Law School educated carrier pigeon Craig O'Neal, who'll fly back to New York as soon as he has received my signature, so that you can fly there tomorrow and take a copy back to LA.

"Yeah, I understand. The great event has to be duly celebrated."

"Why, of course! I hope you will not contradict me if I claim that my niece is the new Messiah and a Nobel prize winner for both medicine and literature... and at least one gold medal is an absolute must."

He coughed uncomfortably.