Resorting to Love (London, With Love)

1. Mia

Chapter one

Mia

After a final skim of my email, I press ‘send’ with a flourish and spin my chair toward the window. As I stretch my arms above my head, my shoulder clicks so loudly I look around to see if anyone else heard. Cradling my lukewarm coffee between both hands, I look at the street below. People walk briskly, heads down against the London wind, bags tucked tight against their sides as they rush toward their offices.

Reluctantly, I turn back to the mess of my inbox, swapping my coffee to my left hand and picking up my fountain pen. The pen is old-fashioned, but the fun-colored inks add a little joy to my day, so I stick with it.

“Ready, Mia?” one of my colleagues asks as they all begin collecting their reusable cups (this is London, after all) to head out for a takeaway coffee. We try to get out of the office as a team everyday—whoever can make it, at least.

My phone vibrates on my desk—an unlisted number. I swallow my annoyance at the interruption to my routine, waving my colleagues to go on without me. I leave my reusable cup and tepid coffee at my desk.

“Mia speaking,” I say, heading for what I hope is an empty meeting room.

“Ms. Davis?” The man’s voice on the other end of the phone is smooth, with an accent I can’t quite place.

“Yes, speaking.” The door clicks behind me.

“Ms. Davis, thank you for taking my call. I hope you’re available to talk now?” The man clears his throat. I tuck my foot under me as I lower myself into the chair, careful not to snag my black tights with the zip of my boot. “My name is Gerrard Meyer. I’m the chief counsel and one of the managing partners at Müller Meyer. I’m calling about the letter I sent you so we can arrange a time to talk in person.”

Thankful this is a voice-only call, I roll my eyes. I haven’t heard of Müller Meyer, but the idea that another lawyer would insist on discussing something in person is familiar to me. I know this guy’s type. The type of lawyer who is overly formal, thinks very highly of himself. The best thing to do, I know, is to match his tone.

“Would it be possible to meet with you here at my offices?” Mr. Meyer continues despite my silence.

My mind whirs. Back up a second. What letter?

“Mr. Meyer, I haven’t received a letter from you. What is this related to, please?” I put on my most professional tone, a well-practiced, careful mix of respect and dismissiveness as if I am far too busy to be dealing with him. I should be out getting a coffee right now, like every other day.

Handling this type of lawyer requires skill and careful planning. I Google Müller Meyer on my work phone while I wait for him to respond. It is indeed a law firm and Gerrard Meyer is associated with it. That’s something, I suppose.

“I’m afraid I’m not able to disclose that over the phone. You’re sure you haven’t received my letter? It was sent to your work address and confirmed delivered a few days ago.”

Together, we confirm the work address he has for me is correct. It isn’t impossible to find where I work online, so I’m worried this is some kind of scam. I can’t figure out what the scam would be, though. I fiddle with my necklace, a simple gold chain around my neck, weighing my options. I figure the chances are extremely high that this is nothing, but something has me curious enough to keep him talking. Maybe I can convince him to give me enough information to decide whether or not I should take this seriously. I’ll give him two more minutes, then I’m out of here. Maybe I can catch my colleagues and get that coffee after all.

“I can’t meet with you based on that little information, I’m afraid. I’m not sure what sort of urgent matter this is that it can’t be discussed by phone.”

Mr. Meyer’s voice changes, softer now. “It’s about your birth family, Mia.”

I freeze. I’m not exactly secretive about the fact that I was adopted as a baby, but it isn’t common knowledge, either. My mind races. How could my birth family have anything to do with me?

I must have taken too long to respond, because Mr. Meyer fills the silence, more firmly this time. “This is a sensitive matter, and I think it’s best we discuss it in person. Are you available to meet this afternoon?”

“I’m in North London. And at work,” I add as an afterthought. “Today does not work for me.”

“Tomorrow, then. We will arrange transport, of course, at no cost to you,” Mr. Meyer says, as if the matter is closed. He’s an excellent negotiator. Without me realizing, he has turned the discussion from whether we should meet to when and where. It’s a masterclass, and if I wasn’t so distracted, I’d be impressed. I mentally run through my calendar, cursing myself for not grabbing my planner on my way into the room.

“I’m sure transport won’t be necessary. I can get a taxi. Where are you based?”

“Müller Meyer is based in Bern.” Bern, Switzerland? How does that make any sense?

My heart pounds. I know the reason for my reaction is the mention of my birth parents, but knowing that’s the cause doesn’t help. Also, the formal way he talks is just annoying . I take a couple of slow, deep breaths to calm myself down.

I employ my well-practiced silence as I fiddle with a pen someone has left in the meeting room. I’ve found that sometimes the best way forward is just to be quiet and wait for the other person to come up with a solution.

There is the sound of methodical typing, and then Mr. Meyer says, “What I can tell you is that this really is quite important. It relates to your late birth parents’ estate. I have been trying to find you for quite some time now. I would suggest this is worth the inconvenience of traveling to discuss.”

This time, it’s Mr. Meyer who pauses, and I say nothing. I’m trying to piece together this new information. Why would my birth parents’ estate have anything to do with me? I was legally adopted just after birth. My relationship with my birth family was severed in law. Wait. My ‘late’ birth parents? They’re dead?

“Tomorrow afternoon suits us, but we can also be flexible.” Gerrard pauses again, and I hear more typing. The blank white walls of this room are closing in on me as I sit, staring at nothing, trying to comprehend what’s going on.

This must be important. Why else would he be so insistent? Then again, a person trying to scam me in or out of something would be making it feel important too, so I can’t trust that. I will not upend my day and reorganize my work for the rest of the week because of a declaration down the telephone. If what he says is true, there must be a certified letter somewhere. And if there is, well, that is a different story. The drive in me to find out how this relates to my birth parents is winning out over my skepticism. I can feel myself on the verge of agreeing.

Mr. Meyer appears to take my silence as contemplation of his proposal, rather than the shock that it is. “Oh, and Ms. Davis, you will need a passport, of course.”

Of course I have a bloody passport. I very deliberately put down the pen I’ve been furiously clicking, and take another deep breath. “Alright, Mr. Mey- Gerrard. Without this letter you talked about, I’m not going anywhere. But I will make some inquiries here and see if I can find it. If not, and you send me another one, and I receive it tomorrow, I can make tomorrow work. If this is absolutely necessary.” My curiosity has won out.

“Consider it done. A car will pick you up at two pm tomorrow, and will have you to the airport in time for the flight at three. My office will email you the details. If you’d like to add someone to the flight or extend your time here in Bern, Abigail will arrange everything.” Gerrard has a businesslike focus now.

Add a person to my flight? Why would I need that? And more to the point, why would whoever is paying for this be willing to fly me and someone else out for this mystery meeting?

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’ll look forward to your email, and I’ll confirm by the end of the day whether I’ve tracked down the letter.”

“Ms. Davis, I’d suggest ensuring you set aside some time for yourself, or with some trusted friends this weekend.” While Gerrard’s tone is light enough, his words lodge a sense of dread behind my ribs.

Half an hour later, I’m distractedly nursing my third coffee of the day, staring blankly at my computer screen. My boss has already agreed to give me tomorrow afternoon off, and I’ve managed to convince the mail room to try to find my missing letter.

No matter how hard I focus, thoughts about what Gerrard needs to tell me that is so important keep creeping in.

Flying me all the way to Switzerland, to hear whatever this news is? It has to be big; and if he’s willing to pay so much for it, he must need something from me. Nothing else makes sense. But I just can’t figure out what he might need from me. What the scam is, if this is one.

I’ve long since given in to distraction, and have been texting my best friend, Will, about the conversation with Gerrard.

Mia

I Googled him. He and his firm are legit. He’s arranging a car to pick me up tomorrow at 2 for a flight at 3

Will

and he didn’t tell you what about? is it safe?

Only that it’s about my birth parents' estate. And that they’re dead.

jesus. way to break the news. you ok, M?

Will knows I’m pretty indifferent about being adopted. I was adopted by fantastic parents who desperately wanted children. They dote on me. Always have. Nothing will change that. I love them; and I’ve never been interested in meeting a whole second family, like some people are. I grew up with the impression that my adoptive family were a better situation than I would have grown up in otherwise. I probe at my feelings. I don’t feel anything about the fact that they’re gone. Maybe it’s strange not to have strong feelings about my birth parents being gone, but the fact is; I don’t, and I never will.

Right before I head to lunch, a man in a polo shirt shows up at my desk.

“I’m from the mailroom.” He holds out an envelope sheepishly, a weak, lopsided smile on his face. “We found this. It’s dated a couple of weeks ago. My boss said to tell you we’re very sorry.”

I stifle my sigh and resist telling him that his boss probably didn’t imagine that’s how he would deliver the apology. My name is on the front of the crumpled, but unopened envelope. “Thanks for tracking this down.” I say, gesturing with the envelope.

I take it with me to a room. Crap. So Gerrard had been telling the truth, and here is the letter as proof. I slide my thumb under the gap in the seal, tearing it open.

A quick skim tells me everything I need to know. The letter introduces Gerrard, gives options for times he would be available for a call, several ways to contact him, and tells me to expect the phone call today. It includes his business card printed on luxurious card stock.

There’s no way I’m going to be able to concentrate for the rest of the day. As I wait for the elevator, I check my phone. There are a bunch of messages from Will.

Will

he’s paying for these flights, right?

are you just there for the day, coming back tomorrow night?

M…how can the flight leave at 3 if he’s not picking you up until 2? the flight must be at like…5pm, right? it takes ages to get through security.

MIA WHAT IF IT’S A PRIVATE JET???

A private jet? I must have misheard the flight time, or the pickup time, or something. I scroll through my emails, looking to see whether the email Gerrard promised this morning has arrived yet.

Dear Ms. Davis,

As discussed this morning at 10.17 am (9.17 am CET) with Mr. Gerrard Meyer, I wish to confirm your appointment with Mr. Meyer at 4.45 pm on Thursday 14th September.

I have attached details of your pickup at 2 pm.

Also attached are your flight details. If you have not flown by private plane before…

I stop reading. Holy shit. Will’s right. I skim the rest of the email, signed by Abigail Peterson . It tells me, like Gerrard said earlier, that I can bring someone with me, as much baggage as I like, and Abigail has even attached a one-page document explaining how ‘traveling private’, as she puts it, works. The email only adds to my confusion. Why would anyone bother to spend this much money on whatever it is they need to tell me? A private jet, even for a pretty short flight like the hour and a bit to Bern, must cost an absolute bomb.

Mia

It’s a private jet. I have no idea what’s happening.

I wander the streets waiting for Will’s reply, trying to distract my pessimistic brain from reaching the worst possible conclusions. The third time I unlock my phone for no reason, I decide to give Mum a quick call. Maybe she knows something about this.

Mum picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hello darling, what a surprise to hear from you during the day.” I can hear typing in the background. My mum, Lisa, is a psychologist.

“Hi Mum. Sorry, I should have checked if you were with a client,” I say, speeding up to overtake a slow walker.

“No, darling, of course not, I love to hear from you.” Mum conspicuously leaves ‘now tell me why you’re calling’ off the end of her sentence. My dark auburn hair is loose around my shoulders today, ending at my waist. I make a mental note to add ‘book a haircut’ to my to-do list as I tuck it behind my ear for the millionth time since I left the office.

“I’m just out and about, doing some window shopping at lunchtime. I’m starting to look for Christmas presents,” I say, inventing a reason for my call. I roll my eyes to myself as I remember it’s September, and the chances of my mother believing September-Mia is thinking about Christmas shopping are roughly zero. Despite being a meticulous planner, I despise Christmas shopping. I hate the expectation that you’ll find the perfect gift—it always seems like a recipe for letting everyone down.

“You’re starting your Christmas shopping?” Mum sounds as dubious as I thought she would. The sound of her typing in the background slows, then stops.

“What do you think Nana would like this year? I got her that tea set last year. Do you remember, it had that gold trim and the teapot had a built-in strainer? You don’t think she’d need another one, do you?”

“She still has the one from last year. How can I help, love?” I imagine Mum sitting at her desk, exasperated.

I’m weirdly reluctant to tell her about the call from Gerrard. I’m not sure why. Maybe because it’s about my birth parents, although talking about my adoption is generally a weirder topic for me than her. She never seems to find it particularly sensitive to talk about. I’d been hoping she’d volunteer some information. Unfortunately, the fact she hasn’t told me anything probably means she knows nothing.

Lisa is not known for her secret-keeping. That’s why they told me I was adopted at such a young age. It simply slipped out one day before my parents had decided how to tell me, and they’d run with it.

I hadn’t had to ask more than the classic ‘where do babies come from’ for my parents to tell me my birth parents couldn’t care for me the way they wanted, so had chosen them to be my parents. They told me I was their chosen child, which, for them, was even more special than a biological child. I’d loved that, growing up. I felt so wanted. As an adult, I know my parents had fertility issues and had tried for years to conceive naturally, suffering loss after heartbreaking loss. For pre-school age me, though, the story of being chosen had always stuck with me.

I hold back a sigh, realizing I’m going to have to bring it up instead.

“I’ve just… tomorrow I have a meeting with this lawyer I’ve never met before, and I don’t know what it’s about. I’m nervous, I guess,” I say, skirting the truth.

“You’re a fabulous lawyer, Mia, and you got to where you are because you think on your feet. Why wouldn’t the same thing happen here?” Mum has a good point; I am good at thinking on my feet. Ironic for someone who labors over every other decision she has to make.

“It’s okay to be nervous, love, but I know you’re going to be just fine.” Mum continues.

We keep chatting while I stroll past shops, admiring the beautiful dresses in the windows. I wonder out loud whether I should buy a new outfit for tomorrow. Mum convinces me that dressing well will make me feel more confident if I’m nervous. “And besides, darling, don’t you think you should treat yourself, occasionally, at least?” I don’t need more convincing than that.