Twenty-Eight
We are planning on using the next few days as something of a mini vacation. The conference is winding down, and Jerome and
I have never had a romantic break away from home before. What could be more romantic than the South of France?
I want to leave the Carlton, head to the hills, to St. Paul de Vence, to Saint-Tropez. I get a text in the morning from a
friend of my father’s who heard I was in town. He has chartered a yacht for a week, and invites us to join. They are currently
in Antibes, he says, and will be heading to Saint-Tropez, then down to Corsica and Sardinia, on a yacht that is 255 feet long,
that can accommodate sixteen guests in the height of luxury.
I’m lying in bed in my robe, flakes of buttery croissant scattered all over the sheets, a large café au lait on the nightstand
next to me. Jerome is in the shower as I play on my computer, looking up the name of the yacht, scrolling through the sumptuous
pictures as I sip the rest of my coffee and grin like an idiot.
FREEDOM’s impressive leisure and entertainment facilities make her the ideal charter yacht for socializing and entertaining with family and friends. FREEDOM comes equipped with a large selection of water toys, including a thirty-one-foot Novurania tender with 440hp of inboard power.
More toys available on board are a Scorpion RIB, Sea-Doos, Jet Skis, SEABOBs, a large sea pool, and an inflatable slide from
the bridge deck.
I hear the water stop. Minutes later, Jerome walks into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist.
“This is insane!” I barely even notice him, turning my laptop to show him the yacht, the pictures of the saltwater pool, the
huge inflatable yellow slide. He leans over me, but doesn’t say much. Oddly, he doesn’t seem as excited as I am, and there
is a small muscle twitching in his eye, which usually means there’s something he’s not telling me.
I close the laptop. “What is it?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“What?” My heart skips a beat. Is it my father?
“I have good news and bad news. The bad news is I have to fly to New York. My brother’s wife just left him and he’s a mess.
He wants me to come and stay with him, so I’m leaving. But, the good news is, you could go to Switzerland and see your dad.
He’s got his phone now. You should call him.”
I stare at him, before bursting into tears of relief, as Jerome puts his arms around me, all irritation forgotten. Yacht?
What yacht? I’m going to see my father.
I take out my phone and call Marty, not knowing if he will be available to pick up, but he picks up.
“Peanut!”
My eyes fill with tears. I haven’t spoken to my father in weeks. I have thought about this moment since the moment he left,
imagining hearing his voice, hearing him sound healthy and strong, and here he is, sounding just like his old self.
“Never mind me. How are you? How’s the treatment? How’s Switzerland? My God, it’s good to hear your voice.”
“I’m doing great. Everything seems to be working, and honestly, I’ve never felt better. I’ve lost quite a bit of weight, so
I need to build myself back up, but the tumors are shrinking. The treatment is a success.”
I don’t mean to burst into tears. My father has never been one for outbursts of emotion, but the relief is so great, I find
myself sobbing like a child. I attempt to regain my composure, but it takes a while. My father is silent, waiting.
“I’m so sorry,” I keep saying, once I have stopped crying. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cry. I’m just so relieved.”
“I know, Peanut. Me too. Where are you, anyway? I know you’re not in California.”
“I’m in Cannes. Jerome is flying to New York later today and I’m going to stay with the Desais next week. They have an island
off the coast of Kenya! And then I’m going to India, but I thought maybe I’d come and see you this weekend?”
“Peanut! That would be fantastic! And hey, don’t worry about all the shit with the Journal piece. Clara told me what’s going on. It will all be fine.”
“You spoke to Clara?” I feel a pang of hurt that he spoke to Clara before me.
“I called to speak to you, but when I heard you were away, I got the lowdown. I hear it has been a bit rocky since you’ve
taken over?”
I feel a pit in my stomach. “What exactly did Clara say?”
“She’s only looking out for you,” he says. “She wants you to succeed, but she’s worried.”
“She doesn’t need to worry. Not about me. We’ve all been too busy worrying about you.”
“You definitely don’t have to worry about me anymore. I’m about to go for a hike, and I’m doing great.”
While he’s talking I’m quickly googling flight times on my phone. It’s around seven hours to Zurich.
“Marty? Are you up for a visitor?” I blurt out.
“Would you really visit?”
“I can come and see you. I can change the plane and be there by tonight.” Please say yes, I think. Please want me to come
and see you. Please allow me to be your daughter.
“I would love that!” he says, and for once, his voice sounds as excited as mine.
At the Nice airport, even though I’m in the private terminal, I ask to be taken in to the main terminal to buy a gift for
my father. I noticed Pavit’s watch in the car last night. It was a very beautiful Patek Philippe. My father likes old jeans
and soft T-shirts. He likes nondescript clothes that feel good on his body, that are easy to move in, but he splurges on cars,
and watches.
I find the watch immediately. The sales assistants were chatting when I walked in. They looked at me, but didn’t ask if I
needed help, didn’t end their conversation. I am guessing I do not look like the kind of woman who would buy a Patek Phillipe
watch. I’m in leggings and sneakers, a T-shirt and scarf, my hair scraped back in a messy bun. I have none of the markers
that speak of wealth. I look like a young woman who is merely window shopping.
“Excuse me?” I have to say it twice before the woman reluctantly breaks away from her conversation. “May I see this one?”
“This one?” she says in disbelief, perfect English with a thick German accent. She looks at the watch I am pointing to. It
is a Patek Philippe Nautilus men’s watch in stainless steel, and my father would love it.
“Yes please.”
“You know this watch is ninety thousand Euros?” she says with what looks suspiciously like a dismissive smirk.
I stare at her, hiding my shock. I didn’t know watches could even be that expensive. I swallow. “May I see it?”
She almost raises an eyebrow, but manages to resist. Silently, she unlocks the glass cabinet and takes the watch out, before turning to her colleague on the other side of the store. He immediately walks over.
“Mademoiselle? May I help you?”
“Yes. I would like to see this watch.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” I hate that he is calling me mademoiselle. Not that I am a madame, but it feels patronizing, as
if he is pointing out my youth, my immaturity, my not belonging in this store.
He takes the watch and places it on the counter. “This watch is ninety thousand Euros,” he says. “Perhaps you would be more
interested in the ‘fun’ watches? They are much more affordable.” He smiles.
I am embarrassed, feeling like I don’t deserve to be here. Rather than continue the conversation, I thank them and leave,
noting how they smirk at each other, but all the way to the plane, it bothers me.
On the jet, I settle into the leather seat, making myself comfortable, still unsettled by the sales assistants. Another thought
enters my head, yet more to unsettle me: My father told me that Clara had doubted me. It strikes me suddenly as disingenuous,
that she should be emailing me friendly messages, as if everything is fine when behind my back she is telling my father I
am out of my depth.
The old Missy would have done nothing, would have carried the information silently, felt unsettled and belittled, would have
waited for the feelings to pass and carried on as normal. I am not the old Missy anymore. I am the CEO of ipryy, at least
for the time being, and I will not have anyone, including Clara, diminish me to my father.
I think about emailing her, but don’t want this in writing. Instead, I pick up the phone and call her. Her assistant picks
up, and patches me through immediately.
“Hi, sweetie!” she says as if I were still the indulged daughter of her boss, a younger woman she has loved and mentored.
“Hi, Clara. Listen, I’m going to keep this brief as I’m on the jet waiting to take off, but I understand you have been worrying that I am out of my depth.”
There is a silence.
“What?” Clara sounds shocked. “That’s not true. Who said that?”
I could lie, not throw my father under the bus, but it is my father after all, and she would never dare question my father.
“My father. I just spoke to him and he expressed your concerns about me. I wish you had come to me directly, Clara. I have
never liked the game of telephone, and if you have anything you’re worried about, you need to bring those worries to me, not
my father.”
“I am so sorry, Missy,” says Clara, her voice now serious. “You are absolutely right. I should have come directly to you.
For the record, I wasn’t saying I was unduly worried, more that there is so much going on, I was concerned about you being
up to speed. You did seem overwhelmed before you left.”
“I think much of my being overwhelmed was when I hadn’t been provided enough information,” I say pointedly.
“You’re absolutely right. I know there was that email mix-up. I’ll make sure your father knows that wasn’t your fault.”
I sigh and shake my head. “This is the point, Clara. Until my father is back at his desk, which will hopefully be soon, I
am the CEO. That means that you do not run back to my father reporting every step I make, and if you have any concerns about
me, you bring them directly to me. What I can’t have, Clara, is you undermining me.”
Clara’s voice is quiet. “I understand.”
“I’m going to spend a few days in India, and then I’ll be back. I don’t want to have any slip-ups when I get back. No mistyped
emails, or meetings going on that I don’t know about.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”