Twenty-Eight #2
I unbuckle my seat belt and go to the cockpit, asking them to wait for me, I have some unfinished business to attend to.
Striding back into the watch store, I see the sales assistant catch sight of me as her shoulders slump.
“I would like to see the Patek again please.” My voice is different now. If I won’t let Clara get away with treating me badly,
I’m definitely not going to let this woman get away with it.
I pick up the watch and look at it closely, noting how both sales assistants tense. What do they think, that I’m going to
grab it and make a run for it? In an airport? Where would I go?
“I’ll take it,” I say.
The woman looks at me, blinking slowly.
“And how would you like to pay?” asks the man, with a supercilious smile that tells me he doesn’t believe for a second that
it will go through.
“American Express?” I ask, getting out my new Centurion card, black titanium, heavy, it speaks volumes without my having to
say a word.
The man looks surprised, but takes the card over to the cash register. I can’t believe I’m spending this much money in one
go without having something like a house to show for it. I have never spent this sort of money in my life, but I have never
had this sort of money to spend. My salary as the interim CEO is more than I could ever hope to spend. And I am not a spender.
I am a saver. There is little I would want to spend money on, but this, a gift for my father, is something I do want to spend
money on. I picture his delight at opening the box, pulling out the kind of gift I know he will love, a watch he will treasure
forever.
The female sales assistant joins the man, and I see their heads together, whispering as he puts the card through.
I see her look at my name on the card, grab her phone, presumably to google me, before looking up at me, the expression on her face changing.
She pales, and whispers to the man, who freezes.
They both look over at me, and I can tell they have suddenly realized who I am.
“Mademoiselle Cooke,” says the man, bringing me the bill to sign. “Will this watch be a gift? Would you like it gift wrapped?”
He is suddenly obsequious, his entire manner changed. “Is there anything else we can help you with? A watch for yourself,
perhaps? Patek have lovely watches for women, or perhaps something like the Cartier Ballon Bleu? It’s one of our most popular
watches at the moment, in a men’s size, of course.”
“No, thank you,” I say. “And yes, I would like it gift wrapped.” I turn to them, all smiles, remembering the scene in Pretty Woman, wondering if I could retaliate by demanding the saleswoman does not receive commission. It’s the kind of thing my father
might do, but as tempting as it might be, it would be cruel, and I am not cruel.
“Are you going anywhere exciting?” he asks, all smiles and graciousness as the saleswoman huffs and walks off.
“No.” I turn my back and busy myself pretending to look at my phone. I have watched this kind of behavior for years with my
father, people bowing and scraping as soon as they realize who he is. I have experienced a little of it, but nothing quite
so glaringly obvious as this. I don’t want to be rude, but they were rude, ready to dismiss me out of turn because I am in leggings and a T-shirt, because I do not look like someone who
would be a customer of theirs.
He hands over the gift-wrapped watch along with several platitudes and hopes that I will return. I give him a small, tight
smile and make my way back to the private terminal where my father’s jet is still waiting.
It is astonishing how quickly you can get used to luxury, I think, lying in the cream leather recliner, a cashmere blanket over my legs, a spicy Virgin Mary on the coffee table in front of me, my laptop open as I plough through emails.
I am alone in the jet save for the pilot and Alison, the flight attendant, who appears only when I need something. There is
a bowl of fresh fruit and a platter of pastries on the side, but I’m not hungry, too excited at seeing my father after what
feels like a lifetime.
The limo winds its way through the mountains, lush and green, impossible to believe they transform into ski slopes in winter.
The air feels crisp and clean, and I understand why my father is doing so well. Everything feels better here, no pollution,
no smoke, just the smell of pine, and nature, and the purest, sweetest air.
The clinic is a modern, boxy concrete-and-glass building set into the mountainside. I take a few deep breaths before going
in, walking through a hallway to a large reception area, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a clear blue lake. I stand at
the windows, admiring the view, about to text my father that I am here, when I hear footsteps.
“Hey there, Peanut!” There he is, thinner and frailer than I have ever seen him, but the twinkle in his eyes is back, and
his skin is tanned. He looks happy, and healthy, and I fling myself at him, determined not to show my shock at how I can feel
his shoulder blades poking into my arms as we hug, how fragile he feels.
“What do you think of the new slender Marty Cooke?” He steps back with a grin, and I shrug, as if it’s not a big deal. “It’s
good to see you, Peanut,” he says. “Want to have a tour? We can head down to the lake for a walk.”
“You can manage to walk that far?” The lake seems far below us and he seems so unlike his old, strong self.
“There’s an elevator for old farts like me. And a wheelchair for when I get tired.”
“You’re tired?”
“Not like I was.”
“Tell me everything,” I say. And he does, but briefly, and then, he wants to know everything about ipryy.
We walk around the lake for a little bit, but he gets tired quickly, and starts shivering. It isn’t cold, but I am not skin
and bone in the way he now is. I sit him on what I have to believe is a strategically placed bench, while I run back to the
elevator where there are wheelchairs, and blankets. I didn’t think he would need the wheelchair, he seemed in such good spirits,
seemed to have so much energy, but he sinks into it with relief, and I tuck the blanket around his legs, feeling more nurse
than daughter.
The wheelchair is electric, and he is clearly well-versed in how to use it, for which I am grateful. When he said wheelchair
earlier, I had visions of pushing him, and I am not sure I’m ready to be a nurse to my father. I don’t feel old enough. I
suspect I will never feel old enough.
“I trust you to do a great job, however overwhelmed you might be,” he says when I have filled him in on what ipryy is doing.
“I’m really not that overwhelmed,” I reassure him. “I’m only traveling to let the bad press die down, but I’m ready to get
back and grab the reins.”
“Don’t grab them too hard.” He winks at me. “I’ll be back soon to take them from you.”
“Thank God for that!” I say. While I’m thrilled he is doing so well—his tumors are shrinking, and he sees himself back at work in the foreseeable future—I wonder what that means for me.
I can’t go back to floating throughout the various departments in the company, surely?
I think of the foundation Clara doesn’t want me to spend too much time on.
Perhaps my father would let me run that?
Start the new foundation with Preeti. Something of a comedown from being CEO, but equally fulfilling, I hope.
I think of the sales assistants in the watch store at the airport, at what the past few days have been like; the work and
play in Cannes, the attention I have had, the way the manager of the Carlton fawned over us. I never thought I would be the
kind of person who lived like a millionaire, and more, I never thought I would be the kind of person who enjoyed living like
a millionaire.
But I do. I have enjoyed it. As much as I have loved learning about the parts of ipryy I didn’t know about, as much as I have
settled into the responsibility of filling my father’s shoes, as much as I have enjoyed all that has come with it. I am desperate
for my father to be well, to be back where he belongs, and desperate to regain a sense of equilibrium. But I would be lying
if I said I am not disappointed that in all likelihood I will be relegated to a side role again.
“How long are you staying?” my father asks as we make our way back to the main building. He winces suddenly, seeming to be
in pain.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he reassures me. “I’m feeling a little under the weather today. The chills. I think I have a cold coming on.”
I’m instantly concerned. “Let me get the doctor when we get back.”
“I’m fine! I need a nap. I’ve got hyperbaric oxygen therapy and acupuncture later this afternoon. After that, I’ll be much
better.”
“When are you seeing the doctor next?”
“Stop fussing over me.”
“I’m your daughter. I’m supposed to be worrying. I’m going to stay over and if you don’t feel better tomorrow, I’ll drag you
to the doctors myself.”