Chapter 27
NOELLE
I covered my ears as Matt launched into another verse of “Sweet Jane,” imitating Lou Reed’s talk-singing...more talk than singing.
Then I jumped up and kicked open my screen door. “Will you shut up. Jane doesn’t even like Lou Reed.”
“I noticed. She turns her nose up at her healthy snacks now.”
“I got some bacon.”
“No, thanks. We’re cleansing her palette.”
“Good luck with that.” He returned to his bicep curls but switched to humming.
I shut the door in case he decided to start up again. I had to concentrate.
Because I quit 92 West instead of waiting for my pink slip, I did not qualify for unemployment benefits. Dina would probably be happy to change my status to terminated, but I wasn’t going to beg.
I didn’t need to beg. My parents had a lot of money, not that I’d go crawling to dad after my career, the career he denigrated, just blew up in face, but I didn’t need to do that, either.
My mother had an inheritance from her parents, and she’d bundled that up in trust funds for me and my sister before she passed.
Vivienne had already dug into hers to buy a house in Boston, on Dad’s advice, but I hadn’t touched mine.
I’d never been unemployed before. I didn’t need a house; I just needed to survive until I figured out what I wanted to do.
At least my announcement hadn’t doomed the tour. Ticket sales remained brisk for the remainder of the dates, and as far as I could tell, Ashley was able to limp along with her failing vocals with a combination of tricks and distractions. The critics noticed, but the fans didn’t care.
But the tour wasn’t my business anymore.
I dragged a chair into my walk-in closet, balanced on it, and reached for a battered accordion file, crammed behind some shoe boxes, on the top shelf.
Crushing it against my chest, I hopped off the chair as Jane curled her body around my suitcase. “Don’t worry I’m not leaving you with Matt again.”
She streaked past me on her way out of the closet and I called after her, “Oh, I see how it is. You want bacon and...catnip. That’s not catnip, missy!”
I set the file on my kitchen table and sneezed at the dust that rose from it and swirled in the sunbeams from the window. I wiped it down with a dish towel and flipped it open.
I grabbed the first stack of papers and thumbed through some statements—mostly bonds and money market funds. I’d be leaving those. I knew there were some certificates of deposit I could raid for a month or two without incurring any penalties.
The next stack got a little more complicated with stocks and commodities. I’d need an accountant to go through those with me but not yet.
When I got to the CDs, I plucked a yellow Post-it from the first stack. My nose tingled as I recognized my mother’s handwriting. I read the note aloud to myself and Jane. "This is your independence, Elle. I want you to always have the freedom to choose your own path, even if that’s not medicine."
I sniffed and blinked away the tears. Even though Mom was the doctor in the family, she didn’t expect me or Viv to choose that road—unlike Dad. Dad got even more invested in that path for us after Mom passed away.
Despite Dad’s controlling ways, only one twin complied. I hated to be the disappointment of the family and once Dad found out I quit my job with 92 West, he’d be ready with an, I told you so. And various suggestions about what I should pursue next. He couldn’t help himself.
I plucked out two CDs, the oldest ones, and put them aside. Those should be able to float me for about six months while I looked for work.
As I stuffed the papers back into the file, I decided to have a look at some of the other investments. These included those that Dad did on our behalf—business interests, private equity, hedge funds. I’d really need an accountant to sort through these when the time came.
I perused the papers and folders fanned out in front of me, and Jane jumped onto the table from the windowsill, scattering a few onto the floor.
“Learning all kinds of anti-social behaviors from Matt.” I leaned over to scoop up the mess, and two words caught my attention: Baker Street.
What the hell?
I flattened several sheets of paper on the table with my hands, leaving the Baker Street one on top.
The form detailed a private equity investment. In Baker Street? My Baker Street?
Maybe Dad had more faith in my career than I thought he did. The idea lightened my heart. He never told me. He must’ve believed in me more than I realized. He knew what it meant to me.
Then I saw the amount. One million dollars?
Why would Dad invest a mil in Baker Street? My light heart dropped like a stone. Did he get me the job? No. I interviewed for that position after finding out about it from my friend’s mom. I showed them my portfolio, which basically consisted of flyers for indie bands.
I snorted. Dad wouldn’t tell me if he did interfere. Knowing my personality, he’d understand that I would’ve rejected any hint of nepotism for my first job.
Hard to believe he’d find me a position that would lead me to drop out of uni. So, Dad pulled strings to get me the job of my dreams. I suppose I should be grateful, but it left a sour taste in my mouth.
I sifted through a few more of the Baker Street investment documents with a furrowed brow, murmuring the phrases that jumped out at me but made no sense. “Preferred voting shares. Investment contingencies. Conditions attached.”
Investment contingencies? Conditions? Dad never attached any conditions to investments he made with Mom’s money on our behalf.
This felt like more than just a token...and a million bucks proved it.
I ran my finger along one paragraph with his signature and stumbled across the date. That date didn’t match my start date at Baker Street. Dad made the investment in the company over a year after I started working there.
August to be exact. My mouth went dry. I knew that date. I didn’t have to search it. The date lined up with the end of my career at Baker Street. It corresponded with the Australia tour—and the end of my relationship with Conor.
“No.”
I pushed back from the table so quickly, papers spilled to the floor again. This time I didn’t bother to pick them up.
The date. The tour. Conor.
Oh, hell no.
***
Despite the song, I did not love Paris in the summer when it sizzled. For the tenth time in the back of this taxi, I peeled my bare thighs off the vinyl seat by shifting my body. I harbored no expectations of relief. They would soon stick to the new spot.
When the driver joined the traffic on Champs-élysées and I spotted the Arc de triomphe, I knew we were très proche or proche enough. If I spent another minute in this car, I’d melt.
In my halting French, I asked the driver to pull over, and I handed him a fistful of Euros. When I stepped onto the sidewalk in the sweltering air, I tugged my silk slip dress over my damp thighs.
I glanced at the map on my phone once before tucking it in my crossbody bag. I didn’t want to look like a tourist—I wasn’t a tourist. I had business in Paris. Very important business.
My white sneakers hit the pavement, and I maneuvered around people taking selfies along the boulevard and dashing into the middle of the street to get a shot of the arc. Horns blared and French expletives poured from the windows of taxis and Ubers.
I patted a tissue on the back of my neck, bare beneath my very French up-do, and rounded one très fashionable corner.
The hectic vibe of the main boulevard lessened, and the horse chestnut trees provided welcome shade, although my sneakers squelched against the dark pink blossoms on the ground, probably staining them forever.
I approached the gate and held up my passport for the guard to inspect. “Noelle Martine. He’s expecting me.”
“He’s expecting me too.”
I whirled around at the sound of Conor’s Irish accent in the middle of Paris. “What...”
Conor gave a little shake of his head, darting a gaze at the guard, and I recovered.
“Yes, he’s expecting Mr. Conor Flynn, also.”
The guard’s eyes widened for a second in recognition, and his hand shot out for Conor’s passport. “Papiers. Papers, please.”
Conor creased open his passport on the photo page and handed it over.
I held my breath as the guard spent several seconds glancing from Conor’s passport photo to his face. Maybe he already had strict orders to shoot him on sight.
Then he handed the passport back to Conor and opened the gate. “Bon jour.”
As we walked up to the solid green door, I tilted my head toward Conor’s. “What are you doing here?”
“Probably the same thing as you.”
“You couldn’t possibly be here for the same reason.”
“Oh, I think I am.”
“How did you know I was going to be here today? This can’t be a coincidence.”
“Ivy Chase’s brother, Matt, is very talkative when he wants to be—and very resourceful. Told him we had a little Five2Go emergency, and the guy was on it.” Conor shoved his sunglasses into his hair and squinted. “It was kinda scary, actually.”
“Yeah, don’t let the stoner persona and his fondness for Jane fool you. He’s dodgy.”
“Fondness for Jane?”
“My cat, remember? Wait.” I put my hand on his arm as he reached for the doorbell. “What do you think you know?”
“I know about a deal Gordo made with the devil to finance Baker Street.” He jabbed his finger at the door. “And that devil lives here.”
I licked my lips, but my shoulders relaxed. Having Conor beside me made sense. And it meant the world.
He rang the doorbell, which echoed in the expansive house.
A butler, I guess that’s what he was, answered the door, his quirking eyebrow the only evidence of his surprise at seeing Conor standing beside me.
“I’m Noelle Martine and this...” I jerked my thumb at Conor “...is my friend.”
Conor’s body stiffened beside me at that label, but he locked eyes with the butler as if daring him to toss him out.
“Very well, Mademoiselle, Monsieur. I’ll announce your arrival.”
“No need to stand on ceremony. He hates that.” I breezed past him, and Conor followed. “Just direct me to his office.”