“How quickly can you wire it to me?” I ask, keeping casual. “I’m thinking of making an offer on an apartment,” I add as an explanation. “I’ll need it for the down payment.”
Mr. Grant’s frown clears. “Ah, perfect. Are you sure you wouldn’t want to make the deal through the family trust? It would serve you well in capital gains tax—”
“No, no,” I interrupt quickly. “I’d prefer to do this on my own. A project,” I give him a dumb blonde grin. “Like, be a grown up.”
He gives a doting smile. “Just send me the account number you need it wired to, and you’ll be all set.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grant. I’ll get the details to you soon.”
He nods and we shake hands, and just like that, I’m walking out of the bank with my new life one step closer to reality.
My cellphone rings just as I’m stepping onto the sidewalk. I check the caller ID, bracing myself to ignore Brent or Cam, but instead, it’s Olivia.
“Hey?” I answer.
“I’m so hungry,” Olivia groans. “I’m on day two of a sugar detox, and I swear, visions of cake are dancing in front of me.”
I laugh, despite myself. Olivia is the one sweet friend in my clique of society bitches – the only person I’ll miss, besides Cam, I realize with a pang.
“Meet me for brunch?” she asks hopefully. “You can eat dessert for me, I’ll have salad and live vicariously through you.”
I pause. I should get out of town as soon as possible, before Brent realizes what’s going on, but I haven’t gotten everything figured out yet and I’d like to see a friendly face, one last time.
“OK,” I agree. “I’ll see you in twenty.”
As I cab over to meet her, I try to think of what I’ll say. There’s no way I can tell her the truth about what’s going on with me, but I need an excuse, something to cover why I need to pull a disappearing act. Maybe a fight with Brent—it wouldn’t be so far from the truth, after all.
Olivia is waiting in a booth at the back, mournfully eyeing a woman eating waffles at the next table.
“Hey sweetie.” She gets up to kiss me on the cheek, then pauses. “Is everything OK?”
I take a seat. “Not so much,” I reluctantly admit. Her brow creases with worry, and as I’m debating exactly what to tell Olivia, I realize: she might be the only person who can help me. If there’s ever been a time to let my guard down, it’s now. “Listen, I need to get out of town for a while. I’ll need to open a new bank account, maybe overseas? Somewhere that no one will ask questions or be able to trace the account back to me. But I have no clue where to start.”
“Wow,” Olivia exhales. “Isabelle, what’s going on? I mean, this is the kind of thing people do when they’re hiding from the mafia. Or in trouble with the IRS.” She sits up straight and stares at me intently. “Oh my God! Are you in trouble with the IRS?”
“Nothing like that. Don’t worry,” I reassure her, thinking fast. “It’s just Brent, you know?” The lie rolls easily off my tongue. “He’s going to spend every penny of our trust if I don’t squirrel some away.” Well, that part’s true at least. Olivia was at my apartment when UPS delivered Brent’s five thousand dollar, vibrating leather massage chair.
I feel a stab of guilt as Olivia’s anxious expression fades, replaced by a sympathetic smile.
“Hmm.” She gets out her cellphone and scrolls through her contacts. “OK, I think I’ve got someone. He’s very discreet. Just tell him I referred you and he’ll talk you through everything.”
I exhale. “You’re the best. Thanks.” I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “Now, how about we get you some food before you pass out?”
The waiter brings our salads, and we chat a little about charity events and gossip, but Olivia can clearly tell my mind is elsewhere.
She pauses, like she’s trying to figure what to say. “I know you don’t open up,” she says quietly, “And that’s OK. But just know, if you ever need anything, I’m here.”
I feel a tide of emotion. “Thanks,” I say, trying to keep it together. “But I’ll be fine. I’m just going out of town for a little while. I need a vacation,” I smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Some time to recharge. And maybe a little poolboy action to distract me.”
Olivia gives me a look like she’s not buying it – especially after my asking about foreign bank accounts. But she doesn’t argue. Instead, she brightens. “You can use my beach house in St. Lucia. It’s on a private beach, totally remote. We have a staff there year-round, they’ll take care of everything you need. Including the poolboy.”