The hardest part will be the diamonds. Selling the diamonds. Converting the diamonds from beautiful sparkling possibilities into cold hard cash. That’s goingto take time and a certain amount of finesse. And of course a whole lot of Internet searches.
I have no idea how to sell diamonds or who to sell them to but we’ll get to that. First we’ll tackle the money. We’ll get that dealt with and then we’ll go from there. But even dealing with the money isn’t a simple task.
You can’t just wander up to a bank and hand the cashier one million U.S. dollars in cash unfortunately. It tends to raise concerns. Where you got it tends to be an issue. Tax is an issue. Hell, even currency conversion rate is an issue.
Luckily for us, Mark knows banks.
—
Sixty seconds up. I peer at the stick. The cross is blue.
Huh.
I try another one. Place it on the edge of the bathtub and wait.
It’s probably faulty. Could be faulty. Best not to get too involved in that result just yet. Think about the plan. Yes. The plan.
According to Mark, here’s what we need to do: we need to open a bank account where people won’t ask questions, where that’s the whole selling point of the bank. Not asking questions. Banks like that exist and Mark is going to find us one.
I’ll give you one guess as to the type of person you don’t ask questions to. Correct. Rich people. Very rich people. You’re probably noticing a theme here. I’m beginning to realize that being rich doesn’t really mean having money to buy nice things; it means having money to avoid the rules. The rules are there for theother people, the people without the money, the ones who drive you about in your cars, fly your planes, cook your food. Rules can be bypassed with money or even just the mystique surrounding money. Flights can vanish, people can find people, people can live or die without the hassle of police or doctors or paperwork.
If, and only if, you have the money to make things run smoothly for yourself. And with our bag we can make things run smoothly.
Sixty seconds done. I check the stick. That cross is definitely blue. Shit. How can that be, though? Isn’t it supposed to take ages to get pregnant? I suppose it has been two whole months of trying. No, can’t be. Must have done it wrong. I check the pack. No, I haven’t got it wrong; a cross means pregnant. Blank is not pregnant. Huh.
One test left. Not much pee left.
Sixty seconds pass.
Blue cross.
Shit. I’m having a child.
When I finally get out of the bathroom Mark is in the study booking us two flights to Switzerland. I stand over his shoulder for a few minutes until he turns.
“You okay?” He smirks. I’m standing there in silence. I guess he thinks I’m shirking my duties while he’s a hive of industry.
I try to speak but I can’t say it. I can’t tell him. It’ll mess up the plan. I’ll mess up all the plans.
“Yeah, I’m fine, sorry,” I say. “Completely zoned out.”
He chuckles as I head back out into the hallway to unpack the rest of our things.
22
Saturday, September 17
Pretty Woman
It’s 8a.m.in Terminal 5 of Heathrow Airport. We’re here early; our flight to Switzerland isn’t due to depart for another two hours.
Mark is on the phone to a man called Tanguy. Richard, Mark’s old Swiss banking colleague, put them in contact. You remember Richard. He was the one with Mark the first night we met, with the hooker? Well, it turns out all those hours of Mark babysitting Richard’s dates with escorts finally paid off. This time Richard’s hooking Mark up.
Tanguy works at UCB Banque Privée Suisse. Today I’ll be setting up a business account. Our very own shell account. It’ll be just a numbered account, no name, no questions. Innocuous. This way I can pay myself, or us, straight into my British business account through theshell account. Monthly. I can pay self-employment tax on those earnings. I can legitimatize the money. Once it hits my account it will just be plain old taxable income. There’ll be a solid paper trail, all perfectly legal, if not entirely ethical. We can pay off the house, invest, plan for the future, for the little life growing slowly inside me. Half Mark, half me. With the money in the bank the pressure will be off Mark to get a new job straightaway, any job going. He can take his time, find the right fit. We can go back to the way we used to be. We’ll have money for our new life together. Which I see is more important now than ever.
But first I need to get something appropriate to wear for our appointment. I have got to look like the kind of person who would be opening this sort of account, the kind of person who would have one million dollars in cash. We need to go shopping. I need a costume and Mark assured me we’d find something suitable here, in the designer stores of Terminal 5, hence our early arrival.
I look around the store options as Mark finishes up his call. The clean, fresh, gleaming glass fronts of Chanel, Hermès, Prada, Dior, Gucci, Burberry, Louis Vuitton, Bottega Veneta, as they bend all around the huge concourse. Their windows filled with beautiful, expensive things. Candy stores of shoes, jackets, dresses, and bags. Consumer heaven. Mark hangs up and turns to me, an eyebrow raised.
