Hide-and-Seek

Dedicated to my parents

hide-and-seek (n.) – a game in which several children hide while one child counts to a particular number without watching the others and then tries to find them

(Definition of hide-and-seek from the Cambridge Academic Content Dictionary © Cambridge University Press)

Chapter 1

The office was large and looked on-trend opulent–plenty of natural light through large windows, grey walls, black leather furniture and contemporary art on the walls. I couldn’t say that I liked it. I preferred more classical interiors. Be that as it may, it was intended to show, along with its location on the top floor of the highest building in the city, that the owner of this place had a lot of financial power. The April morning sun shone brilliantly in the clear, blue sky, adding saturation to the professional décor of a site where tens of millions of multiple currencies were routinely made before some people had their first cup of tea. I was sitting in one of the two very expensive-looking custom-made armchairs at a large coffee table in the part of the office where the owner would want people to feel more comfortable, a few meters away from his big meticulously organized working desk with two big computer monitors. The man I was meeting was one of the most successful money wizards in the City. His name was Jared Shannon, and he was a few years younger than me and a couple of billion dollars richer. The latter fact was annoying, the former was baffling.

Why would a man of his level want to talk to me about my little country project? I mean, I realized I was not an average Joe, but I could hardly be of any personal interest to him unless he micromanaged everything in his company, which was highly unlikely. He had enough people below him in his empire whom I could meet and to get what I wanted without meeting the man. It could only make sense if he was into aristocrats and their lands. Whatever the reason, I was there, and it was all that really mattered at the moment.

I was trying to concentrate and appreciate the moment of this opportunity, but it was proving hard to do because of the hangover I’d tried to suppress with some painkillers before the meeting. It had not been a good idea to go to a party last night and spend half of it flirting with some open-minded young women to schmooze them into a more meaningful conversation in my apartment later. One of them was susceptible to my oratorial skills and I had to wake her early and put her in a cab to give myself enough time to be presentable for this meeting.

“Well, I don’t think I have any more questions,” Jared said, still nonchalantly holding what looked like my proposal. He was a tall man in a good shape in his late thirties with a face that projected intelligence and confidence, sitting in the other armchair in front of me on the opposite side of the table. “Perhaps you’d like to ask me some questions?”

He was wearing an unpretentious but extremely good quality custom-made T-shirt and a pair of jeans, accompanied by a pair of matching Louis Vuitton sneakers. Anyone who didn’t know much about quality outfits wouldn’t even look twice at this man on the street. I, on the other hand, knew a thing or two about sartorial choices that made you stand out among the initiated. Someone had done a decent job putting together this look for him. No watch though. Apparently, he was one of those people who could afford any watch in the world but used his phone to check the time. It said “new money” to me. No tradition yet.

I like to feel comfortable in my outfit as well, but I am not a T-shirt type of person. I had on a nice light brown jacket by Orazio Luciano and a white dress shirt by Jean-Manuel Moreau I had ordered in Paris. I had done a bit of research about Jared’s company, and I knew about their casual attire policy. I could be casual. I was wearing a pair of Luigi Borrelli jeans with a comfortable pair of Tod’s loafers. That was my type of casual. My watch choice was a silver and blue dial Patek Philippe World Time, a platinum-cased reminder of the kind of money my family used to have. It’s something that a watch aficionado would appreciate, a conversation piece, but it would sadly go unnoticed with watch-less folks for sure. I had to look like I had other options for my project besides this one.

“I’m good,” I said, feeling relieved that the meeting was about to be over and looking forward to having a big cup of coffee. “I’d just like to thank you for this opportunity to meet in person.”

I wasn’t really good, but things hadn’t been great recently and this deal was very important to me. I had a few friends with money, but they hadn’t shown any interest in my idea, so it had taken a bit of mingling with people I didn’t care for much. I had been leaving hints here and there that I was developing an idea of using some parts of my family estate for housing construction. Those were the people with good connections and that had led me to securing this meeting, a potential cornucopia of desirable investment, even though I had not expected to get acquainted with the man himself. My idea of building a few cottages for rich people had to seem quite minuscule to him. However, someone once said that everything important begins with something trivial and I surely hoped it would be true in this case. Besides, one must be flexible when it comes to making money these days, even if one with a noble title must turn some of their oldest parks into property slots. I had to roll the dice to restore my financial situation before I would be forced to sell things I would like to keep. Oh, there was this other thing, of course, that I had to remember – my father had told me that it would be my last chance to use the family’s funds which had seen better days. If this thing didn’t work, I would probably have to be forced to take some online courses and study accounting or something. Get an honest job, as it were. But I tried not to let that “little detail” cloud my judgment.

“There’s one thing though.” He looked at me and smiled. “You really don’t remember me, do you?”

“Excuse me?”

Jared slapped his knee and chortled. “Man, I was thinking all this time that you didn’t want to mix personal stuff and business, but I can see now that you have no idea who I am.”

This was starting to feel a bit too strange for my taste. I’m not used to people I don’t really know well talking to me in such an informal way. Beggars can’t be choosers though. I’d have to play along for the moment.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. I know who you are.” I tried to sound as professional as I could. I even smiled through my teeth. “Have we met before?”

“Yeah, we have.” He stopped laughing. “All right. We know each other from way back.” He looked at me and added: “And when I say, ‘way back,’ I mean all the way to when we were kids. Well, me at least.”

That wasn’t helpful at all, and I ventured another guess. “Did we go to the same school? I think I would’ve remembered you.”

“No, we didn’t.”

Jared stood up and went to his desk. He picked up a photograph in an expensive-looking silver frame and brought it over.

“This is my mother,” he said.

I held the photograph. The woman looked vaguely familiar. She could have been anybody, but I felt that Jared expected me to recognize her.

“I see.”

“She used to work in Maple Grove House,” Jared said, waiting for some sort of a-ha reaction from me. “Susan Shannon?”

“Oh, the cook?” I asked and looked at the photo again. “Of course, Susan. I remember her.”

I remembered the name but had totally forgotten what she looked like.

“So, you must be …” I tried to guess because I couldn’t remember how many children she had.

“Little J,” Jared finished.

“Of course, Little J,” I said looking at him and slowly recognizing the little rascal I used to see around our house when I was a teenager. Susan had one son. It was coming back to me now. Little J and my little brother used to play in our garden. They were kind of friends, I think.

How could I miss this in my so-called research? His last name was still Shannon, for God’s sakes. Why did none of my acquaintances mention that to me?

Now, it was starting to make sense why we were having the meeting in his office instead of a meeting room. For a minute there, I started to foolishly imagine that, perhaps, my “brilliant” proposal wasn’t that infra dig for a tycoon like Jared after all. The meeting was slowly turning into something awkward even for me. I was in the process of getting the coveted financing from the son of our family’s former cook with whom my little brother used to play tag all the time. To make matters worse I failed to recognize him and his mother. This was not what you’d call a “good beginning” for a professional relationship.

Jared took the picture and put it back. There was a short pause that made me a bit more uncomfortable, but he didn’t seem to be offended by my poor memory.

“I realize it’s way overdue but I’m sorry about your brother,” Jared said finally. “Charlie was a great boy. I loved him like my own brother.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, relieved that we were talking about something else but, at the same time, hoping that there would be no questions about my little brother. I added just in case there would be more: “We all loved him, and it still hurts to talk about him.”

The office that seemed so vast at the beginning of this meeting seemed to be getting smaller and smaller. Even though money was a rather sensitive subject to me, I tried to focus on my pragmatic objectives to stay calm. I had to get this investment so I could smooth out the consequences of some of my financially disastrous decisions. Not many people were aware of how bad my situation was, and I wasn’t going to reveal it unless it was absolutely necessary. I had been able to keep the pretenses quite well, but I had too many bills that were urgently waiting for my attention.

“Weird though, after all this time … they’ve never found him,” Jared said, not getting my hint.

Chapter 2

I’m in the third-floor corridor that leads to the attic. I’m approaching the stairs and want to check if anyone is up there, but something catches my attention. I’m getting closer to the window, and I see Charlie in his white shirt running away through the garden.

“That’s not fair,” I scream. “We’re supposed to hide in the house. Cheater!”

Charlie can’t hear me. He’s too far away. His shirt disappears behind the old oak trees.

I’m running downstairs after him and then …

I woke up screaming his name.

I sat up in my bed, confused. I hadn’t had this dream for a long time thanks to the therapy that seemed to be working. Why would I suddenly dream about the last time I saw my little brother alive? That stupid meeting with Jared. That’s why.

My therapist used to tell me that the dreams “allow us to consolidate and assess our memories” and dreams of someone we lost “are influenced by some unresolved issues.” He also told me fifteen other possible reasons behind those dreams that I forgot and never tried to remember. We worked a few techniques out with the good doctor for me to “come to terms with the past trauma,” which I’d hoped I didn’t need to do anymore.

It’d been three days since I had that chat with him. No news so far. I supposed I’d have to figure out some other way to get the money if I didn’t hear from Jared’s people within a week. No point in waiting longer than that.

Most of the people around me had been extremely patient with my shenanigans that went all the way back to my school days. Back then, I figured that being the oldest offspring from an old and respected family would be my lucky ticket to whatever successful future I had in mind. Even though it was somewhat out of the ordinary for a boy like me, I started to deal a bit in drugs here and there to increase my allowance and to feel more independent. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the beginning. I didn’t do it to be popular. I was that already and some. It was just an entrepreneurial itch to control my own life, to be above all the rules of the house and instructions you must follow to be “the son your parents can be proud of.” I figured they had Charlie for that, and I could just have a bit of fun on my own before I took over as the successor. After a few small successful deals, I presumptuously started to believe that drugs could turn into some serious enterprise or give me some innovative experience at least. It also gave me the confidence to scale up my operation. Unfortunately, I lost the first batch that I was supposed to get my first big income from. The police mounted an unexpected raid on my boarding school and paid a visit to our dormitory. I was lucky to be able to flush most of the stuff down the toilet and throw the rest out of the window. To pay back the dealers though, I had to secretly sell some things from the house. There was a bit of a situation when it was discovered, but I managed to get away with it. That, however, did not teach me a lesson. I just failed to see the sign that it was not for me. Unexpectedly, I got more money from the sale than I needed and decided to get even more weed to establish myself as a serios player. The future was mine for the taking, I thought. Only the next time I would lose both my weed and my brother.

Meanwhile, it was time to get on with my day and do something productive for a change.

As I reached for my phone, apart from usual let’s-get-a-drink messages from my buddies, I saw there was a message from Jared.

Finally!

He wanted to meet for a drink. Let’s make it casual, it said. Did that mean that I had gotten what I wanted? I couldn’t really tell what he thought about my prospects after we reminisced about his mom and Charlie.

“My people will be in touch with you,” he’d said, when the interview had finished.

Yes, I remembered that he used “my people” and I’d thought it had not sounded good. So why was he sending me a message himself? Whatever it was, it was better than no news. I sent a few messages back canceling some appointments, which also were going to include alcohol consumption. Let’s get a drink with the son of our former cook who was a hundred times richer than me. Drinking was something I wasn’t too bad at. However, I needed something more to take the edge off. It was an important meeting, and I did not want to cock it up.

Just as I was about to get into the shower, my phone rang. The screen showed Natasha.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I said. “How are things?”

Natasha Cunningham and I had been having a relationship for a year, which one could describe as “occasional friends with benefits.” She was one of the most beautiful women I’d evet met, a real head turner when we’d been out together. Natasha knew how to dress to stop other men breathing. She had made a wise decision not to look like a clone of all those celebrities who were famous for being famous. She went for Linda Evangelista type of chic, kept her beautiful hair short and looked gorgeous in everything. She liked glamor and being at the center of attention, which suited me because I kind of liked those things myself – they were good for my business projects. Natasha was a pragmatic lady, maybe a bit too pragmatic for her age. She was twenty-five. Started as a hostess in a fancy restaurant when she was twenty year old, Natasha developed a slew of extremely useful connections with people who kGOlnew people with titles and money. She quit being a hostess, read Dostoyevsky and Dickens to educate herself, became a socialite supported by some generous gentlemen and moved on to more ambitious projects.

Natasha had heard about the Montagues and the beautiful estate with a single heir who had been available for the taking and had arranged to bump into me at some event “by accident” and we had some more “bumping” a bit later in my apartment. Our almost-twenty-year age difference didn’t bother her much. She had a goal of getting an old and titled last name with lots of money. She had neither of those things yet, but she was incredibly determined and had kept me as one of the possible candidates to fulfill her dream. What I liked about her was that she had never lied to me about it and hadn’t minded my little adventures “on the side”.

“I’m well, Sasha,” she said. She liked to use a Russian diminutive for Alexander. She thought it sounded sophisticated when we had been out but didn’t speak one word of Russian. “So, I called Christopher to see if he was still on for tonight and found out that you aren’t going with us. I thought you’d make more time for your friends and me in your extremely busy schedule.”

I detected sarcasm in extremely busy schedule but decided to let it pass. I had not been known for being terribly over occupied. Besides, it was somewhat unusual for me not to participate in a drinking outing with my university mate Christopher Deven who apparently was on Natasha’s speed dial these days. It sort of made sense because he was also one the “aristos,” which had made him a person of interest for Natasha. As far as I knew, she hadn’t made any moves towards his estate yet. Natasha had just enjoyed being seen surrounded by people who had coats of arms over their entrances. Be that as it may, I made a mental note about Christopher being mentioned but let it pass as well. “Right, I have a business appointment,” I said, looking for my robe.

“I hope she’s worth it,” she said laughing. Natasha wasn’t a jealous type, but she liked to joke about it.

“Nothing compares to you, dear,” I tried to sing the line from a famous song.

“Sasha, you’re a terrible singer. When can I see you?”

“I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” I found my robe and was ready to go to take that shower.

“Okay.” She rang off. Natasha never wasted her time.

Chapter 3

Jared met me at the entrance to his office building in the early evening. I was on time and ready for any type of conversation thanks to a magic substance called Ching, which conveniently was in a tiny brown glass jar, snugged in my blazer’s inner pocket. I had picked it up from a reliable friend with pharmaceutical background on the way and had taken a bit of it to be extra ready.

“Thanks for coming, Alex,” he said shaking my hand.

“My pleasure,” I said.

He had a similar casually expensive look. It seemed that he didn’t want to be bothered with anything that had buttons on and was sporting a dark blue linen T-shirt with no print on and a pair of black jeans with black deerskin sneakers. I’d say the whole ensemble was purchased in a Zegna boutique. A bit too humble for a man like Jared, but who was I to judge?

Since it was an informal situation, I’d decided to keep it simple and to look like I was on my way to some sport event. I chose a doeskin wool two-button blazer from Ralph Lauren; you can’t go wrong with classic. Besides, it could get a bit chilly in the evening. A stretch checked shirt from Corneliani was tucked into a pair of cotton tailored trousers from Brunello Cucinelli. I also felt comfortable in my Carlos penny loafers by Santoni and was on time thanks to my dad’s discontinued blue dial AP Royal Oak. I had kind of tricked him into lending that horology masterpiece to me for a business meeting a few years ago. “It would go well with my shoes, don’t you think?” I believed my line was. I forgot to give it back to him after the meeting and he never asked about it either. Back then, we could forget about things like that.

“Let’s get a pint and sit down by that window,” Jared said, pointing to the farthest corner of the pub.

The place was not too far from Jared’s office, but I was a bit surprised that he chose this old unpretentious, like his wardrobe, place. People with new money often like to show they have it, but I imagine Jared wasn’t one of those people. Perhaps he owned the place. He probably bought it secretly to show other people how humble he was or something. I bet there would be some fancy kind of craft beer with a fruity flavor and healthy snacks.

We grabbed our beers and sat down at an old table.

“Cheers,” Jared said and drank a good half of his glass. “That’s more like it!” he said and put his glass down.

I took a sip. The beer was good. Nothing pretentious, but a good old lager. I had some more and decided to let him talk.

“Listen Alex,” Jared said after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I just wanted to have a chat with you away from the office. So, there’ll be no shop talk tonight.”

Great! I came here for nothing.

“We’ll do all that next week,” he continued.

Now, that sounds better. Let’s chat away.

“Let’s finish these and order another round, shall we?” he said and, without waiting for my approval, he gave a sign to the bartender for more beer. “Bottoms up?”

Now, that is the game I play well. We drained our glasses.

“I come here all the time. Hugh, the bartender, knows me well and doesn’t mind bringing drinks over when I ask him,” Jared said.

He definitely owns the place.

“Okay,” I said.

“They say it’s one of the best pubs in town,” Jared said, looking around.

“Never been here.”

“You’re probably wondering why we’re meeting here.”

“That crossed my mind. Yes.”

“Well, perhaps, you don’t know this, but I spent quite a bit of time overseas. Your family was good to my mom, and she was able to save some money so we could go to our relatives in the States.”

I didn’t remember any of that. Why would I? Jared was not in my circle of friends. He was not on the same level as me socially either. In fact, I didn’t think I had ever talked to him much when we were kids.

Hugh, a middle-aged man with tattooed hands and a goatee, brought our drinks and put them on the table. Jared just nodded to thank him.

“I didn’t really want to go across the pond because I enjoyed my time here. The little cottage behind the main house my mother and I shared and the time playing with the local boys and …”

“Charlie,” I ended the sentence for him.

“And Charlie. Right.” Jared smiled and lifted his second glass. “Here’s to your little brother.”

Jared took a hearty sip from his glass. I followed suit.

“There was just something about that boy,” Jared said. “He was so kind and …what’s the word I’m looking for here?”

“Gregarious.” I made my guess and meant it about my little brother.

“Right. Kind and gregarious.”

Jared emptied his glass. He was thirsty and I had no problems with that. I could be really thirsty if I wanted to. So I emptied mine as well.

“Now, could I ask you to tell me exactly what happened?” Jared said after a short pause. “I mean, I know the story, but I haven’t been to the house ever since I left when I was a kid. I heard it from my mother, and I read something in the papers, but it’d be great to hear it from you.”

Okay. So that’s what those two rounds were for – to soften me up and prepare for the sad story. It takes more than two beers to make me emotional. A delicious meal and a movie about little puppies in trouble might do a better job. Beer only makes me alert and curious. Well, up to three glasses that is. After that we either put the percentage of alcohol up a notch or we just keep at it until one of us cracks, goes to the bathroom, and breaks the seal.

Well, Jared was my potential investor, my only potential investor, and he wanted to hear the story. As reluctant as I was, I had to comply. But I needed to use the restroom to “powder my nose” before taking a walk down memory lane.