Rapacious revenge battles lascivious love and constant concupiscence.

It's 1995. The internet is about to transform society. Janie Ligon, Levi
Strauss’s newly appointed General Manager for the United Kingdom, hopes
the same for her career. But within six months her life is thrown into disarray
when Samuel, her perfect husband of 24 years, seeks a divorce. Janie refuses
to become the punch line in the cliched story of a middle-aged man leaving
his marriage for a trophy wife. When she cannot convince him to stay, she
feels entitled to exact the revenge she believes is rightfully hers. Meanwhile
Samuel feels he is experiencing true love for the first time in his life, that he
has found a soulmate. These contradictory feelings collide as events unfold
in England, Scotland, and Silicon Valley.

Excerpts from Indie Reader Review

With all the hallmarks of a Martin Amis novel, this is a smart, elegant, pleasant
read about smart and elegant people doing unpleasant things. Fascinated with
the personal will to power, Levin populates this riveting, ugly novel with high-
flyers concerned only with how to get what they want and with scant regard
for the human wreckage left in their wakes as they do so.

Nor do the parallels with Amis end with the novel’s characters. Levin has a
deep and abiding interest in transatlantic culture, moving with ease from
America to the United Kingdom. And, like Amis, his principal interest is in
that milieu as it was lived in the dwindling years of the twentieth century —
a time, as he notes, without IMs and Twitter. There is lots of sex — though
Levin has the good sense not to get too agricultural in his descriptions — and
much playing of hardball, both by the betrayers and the betrayed.

Samuel, who resists for only so long an illicit dalliance with a woman he meets
through an ad in the long-running London satirical magazine Private Eye
(Levin knows exactly how this works; the ad is word-perfect), is the archetype
of a person who married young before working out exactly what they wanted
from life. His wife Janie is (at the outset, in any case) also an object of
sympathy. Not averse to her own extramarital affairs (with a woman whose
tongue, we are informed, is altogether more skilled than Samuel’s), she is
trapped as well, which becomes clear as the novel develops — specifically by
societal expectations of women in business and the ingrained nature of the
role she comes to inhabit in that sphere. Then comes the divorce itself, the
machinations of which occupy the entire second half of the novel, the whole
woven into a rich and detailed world of fast cars and private schools.

Excerpts from Book Life Review

This brisk novel of divorce and vengeance finds Janie Ligon, an American
executive working in the UK, facing the end of her marriage and finding
herself consumed, at the start of a tricky divorce, by anger and a desire for
retribution against Samuel, her husband of 24 years.

Levin sets this story of a woman scorned in the mind 1990s, the dawn of
the digital era, when “E-mail was a novelty few used, at least in England.”
Samuel’s correspondence with Alison is old-school, letters in which the pair
address each other with real yearning.

Chapters from Janie’s perspective pulse with justified bitterness, creating a

tense, engaging contrast that powers the plot. Deep concerns of reputation,
deftly captured by Levin, motivate both leads throughout, which makes the
muted reaction to the breakup from daughter Hannah a telling, relatable
detail. Despite the title and the power of Janie’s anger, the letters and the
love story overshadow the story’s most compelling element: Janie’s rage at
betrayal.

Takeaway: Human story of love, betrayal and retribution, at the dawn of

the digital era.
 Janie
Ligon’s
Revenge

Danny Levin
 Chapter 1

Nancy Mitchell is passing the soccer field when she hears the ambulance
siren. It’s her daily walk in Cuesta Park – fifteen acres of playing fields, trees,
and tranquility… a tranquility intermittently interrupted by the life-affirming
sounds of children at play. This is the reason she chose El Camino Hospital
over the more prestigious facility at nearby Stanford University. It was her
choice because she can work anywhere. Such are the perks enjoyed by a nurse
with twenty-five years of experience, and a Doctorate of Nursing Practice.
This walk will be cut short, however. The ambulance probably has a patient
requiring her attention at the Intensive Care Unit.
The EMT repeats what he told the doc when he arrived.
“Found her unconscious in her own bed. Call came from a painter
working in the house. Said she’d gone to lie down. Wasn’t feeling well after a
Pilates class. Became nauseous. Asked for help to the bathroom. Didn’t
vomit. Returned to bed. Eyes rolled back in her head, and she lost
consciousness. That’s when he called 911. House is just off University Avenue
in Los Altos. We were there in ten minutes. Vital signs normal when we
arrived. Still are.”
With no obvious cause, the diagnosis proved tricky. Finally, an MRI
revealed a ruptured brain aneurysm. The operation required drilling through
her skull. The leaking blood vessel was clipped, the excess blood drained from
the cranium.
The woman, Alison Cohen, is in an ICU bed. She appears to be sleeping
peacefully. Nancy Mitchell knows it’s really a Level 5 coma. Alison is a
strikingly attractive blonde with smooth, unblemished skin. Looks a lot
younger than the 56 years listed on her chart.
Her shift over, Nancy Mitchell is departing when she senses a movement.
Too slight and too brief to pinpoint, but something, and her pulse quickens.
 A level 5 coma means no brain wave activity, which means no conscious
thought, which means no spontaneous movement, which means Nancy
shouldn’t have sensed anything. But she had. She was certain. And she can’t
help but recall an incident two years ago.
A fifty-eight-year-old man was in a similar coma after a stroke. His living
will instructed that life support be removed when there was no brain wave
activity. After three days, his wife tearfully confided that if there were no
change the following day, she would honor his wishes.
The next morning, Nancy saw a small twitch in the man’s right index
finger. No one else saw anything. There were no overt comments that Nancy
must have been mistaken, but that was what everyone thought. It was a
common enough occurrence, seeing some sign of life because you wanted to.
But Nancy’s certainty caused the wife to delay removing life support. For the
next three days, the flat line on the monitor remained unchanged as everyone
watched in vain for any sign of consciousness. On the fourth day, the man
opened his eyes. His ultimate recovery was not 100%, but he walked out of
the hospital a week later, aided only by a cane.
Nancy moves closer to Alison, staring intently, straining to detect even
the slightest movement. Nothing. She is trying too hard. She steps back and
replicates a yoga deep-breathing exercise. Her eyes go into a soft focus that
encompasses Alison’s entire body. The room is quiet, and Nancy’s heightened
awareness makes the respirator sound thunderous. She loses track of time…
and then she sees Alison’s right eye blink.
Nancy drags a chair close enough to hold Alison’s right hand in both of
hers. The measured calm of her voice belies the pounding of her heart.
“Alison, my name is Nancy Mitchell. I’m a nurse, and you’re in the
Intensive Care Unit of El Camino Hospital, just a few miles from your home.
You suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm this afternoon. That’s a small defect
in a blood vessel, sort of like a bubble on the inner tube of a bicycle tire. It
burst, and the blood leaked into the cranium that surrounds your brain. The
cranium’s a closed system. The blood had nowhere to go. The pressure of the
leaking blood caused your brain to shut down, and you lost consciousness.
The surgeon clipped the blood vessel, and then drained the blood. You’re in
a coma now. This will allow your body to recover from the trauma. Right
now, you need to relax and sleep. That’s all you need to worry about, sleeping
and relaxing. I promise we’ll take good care of you.”
Nancy sits silently for another minute, still holding Alison’s hand, hoping
that the gentle pressure conveys some measure of reassurance.
“I’m leaving now, Alison, but I’ll be back later, and there will always be
someone here, looking in on you. We’ll take good care of you, I promise. Just
rest for now.”
There is no logical basis for her certainty, but Nancy believes that Alison
heard every word.
 Chapter 2

Forty miles to the north, Janie Ligon sits in the splendor of her thrice
renovated San Francisco Victorian. Serves the bitch right. That’s what you get for
ending a happy marriage and breaking up a family.
Jim Smith had just called. The painter he recommended telephoned with
the news that Samuel’s wife was taken to the hospital that afternoon after
losing consciousness. Nothing more, so Janie could only hope for the worst.
Some bad news for Samuel that wasn’t her doing. What a delicious way to
start the weekend.
Thirty-two years ago. That was when she first met Samuel Cohen. Spring
of 1970, her senior year of college, attending the National Model United
Nations conference in New York City. Over a thousand college students
pretending to be UN delegates for a week. The daily meetings and debates
were okay, the evening parties were better, but all of New York’s bars and
nightclubs were the best. So much more on offer than the fraternity parties
that dominated college life in Virginia. She’d been a delegate the previous two
years, but this year applied for a staff position, thinking it would afford her
more free time. She was the rapporteur (the UN’s fancy word for secretary)
for one of the standing committees. When she arrived, she learned that a last-
minute illness had rendered the committee chairman too sick to attend. His
replacement was Samuel Cohen, the Secretary General, and one of the two
Harvard students running the conference.
She had no idea how much preparation was normally required, but
Samuel handled the position as if it had been his original assignment. He
radiated a charisma that commanded attention and kept the sessions moving
along. He moderated discussions with a light hand, and an unexpected sense
of humor. It was a pleasant change from the raucous committee meetings
she’d attended the previous year.
He was the classic tall, dark and handsome, with deep-set brown eyes,
a perfectly formed mouth and a dimpled chin. Like every male college
student that year, his dark hair covered his ears and collar. Because she sat
so close to him for several hours each day, she noticed that his hands were
large and his fingernails neatly trimmed and clean. At the end of the second
day, she decided he was definitely a candidate to become the one.
He left the committee meetings promptly, and she never saw him at any
of the evening parties. At the end of the fourth day, as he walked away, she
approached from behind, slipped her right hand into his left and entwined
their fingers. When he looked around in surprise, she smiled and said,
“Well, Mr. Secretary General, are you ready to relax a little?”
And he was. As she expected.
As a child, Janie intuitively grasped that she could push the boundaries of
acceptable behavior if she was smiling when she did so. Shortly after reaching
puberty, she discovered that same smile could transform her appearance from
ordinary into attractive. Perhaps average was a better description than
ordinary. Hair, eyes, nose, cheekbones, mouth – all average. Until she smiled.
And then she became noticeable… and noticed.
Shortly thereafter came the revelation that if she carried herself as if she
were beautiful, if she acted the part, then her attitude, combined with that
smile, would create a self-fulfilling prophecy. She would be, if not beautiful,
then certainly a lot more attractive in person than she might appear in a photo,
not necessarily to everyone, but to enough men. At her high school in
Virginia, that was how she managed to date both the captain of the football
team and the school’s primary dope dealer, easily navigating between those
two divergent groups.
By the time she arrived at Randolph-Macon Woman’s College, she’d
discovered that a lot of men, including some quite handsome ones, were
entranced when a woman was a little more forward than was expected of a
demure Southern belle. They seemed to relish not having to work so hard,
especially at the outset. However, neither did they desire an easy conquest.
She learned the delicate balance required to keep their interest aroused
without quickly or easily satiating it.
When the National Model United Nations conference ended, Samuel
invited her to Cambridge for a weekend. The previous week, four students
had been killed at Kent State while protesting the war in Vietnam. The week
of her arrival, the Harvard faculty voted to make final exams optional for
seniors so they could do anti-war work. This was a level of political
involvement that transcended Janie’s experience at Randolph-Macon. So
too, did Samuel’s seriousness, which exceeded that of the frat boys she
dated in Virginia.
During those last weeks before graduation, Janie assessed her options.
She knew she would have to work. The women who didn’t typically came
from wealthy families, which most certainly was not her situation. Or were
getting married, which was usually the culmination of a time-honored path
for Southern belles, a path with the traditional milestones of being pinned
sophomore year, lavaliered junior year, engaged senior year, and then married
shortly after graduation. Janie deliberately avoided this path, not that there
weren’t more than a few Southern gentlemen who made advances in that
direction. She wanted more than getting married, at least the way those frat
boys regarded the institution.
While she couldn’t articulate exactly what she wanted, Janie knew it had
to be more than the typical married life. She’d known this ever since her high
school English teacher gave her a copy of Betty Friedan’s book, The Feminine
Mystique. The book did not recommend that women pursue full-time careers.
Or that women demand equal rights in the workplace. The only specific
advice offered was that women should prepare for life after their children left
home.
Still, the book had a society-altering impact because Friedan tapped into
the vague sense of malaise felt by thousands of educated women whose lives
were circumscribed by child-rearing and attending to the domestic needs of
their husbands. There had to be more. This was the visceral reaction of many
women who read the book, especially the women who wrote reviews and
essays about it. There had to be more became the launching pad for the feminist
revolution. It was a feeling Janie assimilated. But she knew she wanted it now,
not after her children left home. She wasn’t even certain she wanted children.
Samuel was smart and ambitious. He was handsome. And he was about
to graduate from Harvard. He might be the one.
Samuel told her he would be working in the Boston area after
graduation. Thus, it was easy to accept the offer of a classmate to join some
friends who would be renting an apartment on Commonwealth Avenue in
Boston. She moved during August and found a job the following month.
By November, she had moved most of her clothes from that shared
apartment to Samuel’s in Cambridge. She was pleased when February
arrived, and he asked her to marry him. But she wasn’t surprised. For
months she’d been acting as if they already were married. Passive
aggressive? Self-fulfilling prophesy? She neither knew nor cared. It worked,
and that was all that mattered.
She was surprised twenty-four years later when Samuel told her that he
wanted a divorce. She became seriously pissed off when she saw the
younger woman who would replace her, the trite cliche of the younger
trophy wife acquired by the middle-aged man. That was when she started
planning her revenge.
 Chapter 3

Not all the nurse’s words register, but enough for Alison to experience
the relief that comes from understanding what had previously been
unknown. The relief is short lived, however, as she grasps the reality of her
situation.
She remembers the feeling started during the Pilates class. She was there
to relieve the stress, to stop thinking about the problems she faced, to focus
on the movements, to feel those deep muscles engaging, working,
strengthening her core. But Anne Macintosh kept making unwelcome
intrusions. How could her best friend betray her so horribly?
And then there was Theo. No matter what she did to put her son in
situations where he could succeed, he always managed to find a way to fail.
Just another year of college, and he’d be out making his way in the world.
But while he was telling her everything was fine, he was actually flunking
out. And his solution? Take a year off and travel the world. She couldn’t
believe he was serious. Once again, she would have to step in and make the
best of a bad situation, just as she’d been doing for the past five years.
Searching for solutions to these two problems made her head feel like
it was about to explode. Well, apparently it had, or at least one tiny portion
of it.
So now she was in a coma, in a hospital, unable to move or talk, worried
if she would be able to hear the next person who spoke to her. Regardless
of the misfortunes that might befall her, Alison rarely felt sorry for herself.
From her no-nonsense parents, she’d inherited, and then internalized, the
attitude that life was like the weather: whatever happened, happened. You
prepared as best you could by dressing appropriately, and whenever your
clothing wasn’t sufficient, you changed clothes and went about your
business.
But there seems no way to persevere now. For the moment, all she has
are her thoughts. And those thoughts gravitate back to her first meeting
with the man who became Theo’s father, Alan Beatt.

Alison was offered a place at St. Andrews University after graduating from
her Scottish high school in 1964. But she hesitated.
Money wasn’t the issue. There was virtually no cost once you were
accepted. Shortly after World War II the government decided that everyone
should have access to a university education, and automatically paid
everyone’s tuition. The program was expanded with the Education Act 1962,
which added grants to cover housing and food costs.
The issue was uncertainty about what she wanted to study. When she
confided this to her father, she harbored a vague hope that he would react
with a spontaneous offer to pay for a gap year of travel. But he never
mentioned the possibility. Instead he said she could continue to live at home,
and work for a year. Home was Blantyre, a small Scottish town a dozen miles
southeast of Glasgow, where the work would be.
When Maureen Galbreath, a classmate who went off to the University of
London, returned for the Christmas break, she telephoned and invited Alison
to lunch. They agreed on a Wednesday, Alison’s day off, and, after a brief
discussion, settled on the oyster bar at Rogano. Neither had been, but from
what Alison heard, it seemed the kind of place where she could dress up and
mingle with Glasgow’s sophisticated crowd.
When Alison arrived, she almost didn’t recognize Maureen. Her long,
black hair was now cut into a geometric bob so short and severe that it looked
like a helmet. Maureen must have seen the surprise on her face. Before Alison
could say anything, she explained, “It’s the same cut Vidal Sassoon gave Mary
Quant.” She pirouetted and asked coquettishly, “Do you like it?”
Alison took a moment to study her friend’s new look. “It took me by
surprise, but it suits you,” she said, and decided she meant it. The sharp angles
of the bob pleasingly highlighted the full mouth and round face Maureen
inherited from her Italian mother.
When Alison’s eyes drifted down, she was surprised again.
“That’s an awfully short skirt, Maureen,” she said, not certain if she was
envious or disapproving.
 “It’s a miniskirt and they’re all the rage in London now.” Maureen seemed
both pleased and a little embarrassed by the attention. “C’mon, let’s get to the
bar before it’s too crowded to find a seat.”
They passed a gigantic display of fresh shellfish on cracked ice – oysters,
clams, mussels, and gigantic prawns still in their shells, small black eyes staring
lifelessly from tiny heads.
When the bartender asked what they wanted to drink, Maureen
immediately replied, “A whiskey sour, thank you,” with an aplomb that so
startled Alison, she was momentarily speechless when the bartender inclined
his head questioningly towards her.
“She’ll have one as well,” Maureen interjected, and then grinned at Alison,
“How else d’ya think I’ll get those raw oysters down?”
Alison absently ran her hand along the smooth mahogany surface of the
bar as she regarded their reflections in the mirror. They were a study in
contrasts, and not just because of her own long, blonde hair. Maureen had a
dark complexion whereas her skin was so fair she rarely ventured out in the
sun uncovered. She was five inches taller, but the difference appeared greater
because she was slender, while Maureen was all voluptuous curves.
The friendship was cemented by their almost preternatural teamwork
playing field hockey, not just for their school, but the county team as well.
Alison was the center midfielder, her long legs and speed allowing her to range
fearlessly into fullback territory close to their own goal where Maureen, the
sweeper, would intercept balls and then pass them to Alison, often before the
other side realized what was happening. Alison fondly recalled the
exhilaration she experienced, flying down the field, a step ahead of the other
team’s midfielders.
When the bartender returned with their drinks and asked for their order,
Maureen pointed to the display and said, “I’ll have a dozen of those oysters,
thank you.”
Alison decided she wasn’t that adventurous and, after verifying that they
were cooked, ordered a half dozen of the huge prawns. She watched Maureen
slurp one oyster after another, finally asking, “Do you just swallow them
whole?”
When Maureen said yes, Alison turned to briefly survey the now-crowded
restaurant behind them. She thought there must be a whole world out there
she knew nothing about. Geometric bobs, miniskirts and swallowing raw
oysters were probably the least of it.
Halfway through her oysters, Maureen ordered another pair of whiskey
sours, and Alison’s head was buzzing when they finished eating.
“Shall we visit the Kelvingrove, then?” Maureen asked.
“It’s a long walk from here,” Alison said, thinking that what she really
wanted was to lie down.
“We’d never make in our high heels anyway. We’ll take a taxi.”
The Kelvingrove was a combination museum and art gallery both visited
as children. Back then, the attraction was the natural history exhibits, with the
life-sized animals on display, some in the open courtyard on the ground floor.
This afternoon, after a brief nod to the nostalgia of their youth, they went to
the art gallery upstairs.
They were standing in front of a still life painting when a low voice from
behind them said, “Very effective for a two-dimensional painting, isn’t it?”
They turned simultaneously, and Alison saw a slender man, slightly taller
than herself, wearing a grey tweed jacket, blue chambray shirt and dark green
corduroy trousers. Thin lips formed a half smile that conveyed a bemused
expression, and his eyes twinkled, as if he knew a pleasant secret that he might
share with them.
She glanced back at the painting, and saw there was no depth, just height
and width.
“Are you a fan of Anne Redpath?” He addressed the question to the space
between the two of them.
Maureen answered, “Not really.”
“She’s one of our greatest Scottish artists,” he continued, “at least in my
opinion. It’s her use of color that makes her so special.”
The half-smile broadened as he extended his hand, “Alan Beatt.”
His sandy brown hair was as long as the boys in school, but he was older.
Not as old as her parents, but old enough that Alison reflexively responded
with a handshake and her name, just as her parents taught her. And then
watched Maureen do the same. She noticed a faint smell of tobacco and
assumed it must be from his tweed jacket. Her father’s similar jacket had the
same smell.
He was so pleasant; it would have been churlish not to accept his
invitation for a cup of tea at the museum’s café. He described the building’s
history, and his fondness for certain Scottish artists. He was upset that the
Kelvingrove, along with several other historical structures, had been targeted
for demolition by the Bruce Report, which he criticized as a misguided
attempt by soulless engineers to revitalize Glasgow. Neither she nor Maureen
had ever heard of this report, but he was so animated that she found herself
sharing his outrage. Had he produced a petition, she would have signed it
without hesitation.
At work the following day, what she remembered most vividly was the
ease and grace with which he spoke. It made him more attractive than the
visage resulting from his angular features. She assumed Maureen’s miniskirt
was the reason he approached them. Her surprise was genuine two days later
when he appeared at the men’s shoe store where she worked and invited her
to lunch.
And that was it, her dating life ending before it had even begun.
 Chapter 4

Alison was accustomed to being with older boys because of the time spent
with her older brother’s friends, but Alan Beatt was a lot older. Still, being
with him never felt awkward. He treated her as an equal, introducing her to
his friends with the same relaxed demeanor he’d displayed at the Kelvingrove.
When her parents realized how much time she was spending with him,
they urged her to end the relationship.
“He’s thirty-four years old,” her mother said, making little effort to keep
the irritation out of her voice. “You’re only nineteen. That’s just too big of an
age gap. Surely there must be some boys your own age you’d enjoy more.”
It was the same voice Alison heard whenever her mother felt put upon
for having to explain what she regarded as obvious.
Alison attempted to describe what she was experiencing. Alan listened to
her, really listened to what she had to say. He was curious about even the
most mundane occurrences in her working day, finding humor in some,
offering clever observations about her boss or co-workers in others. When he
occasionally regaled her with tales from his military service in the Far East, or
his travels to Europe, she felt she was looking into that other world she first
glimpsed with Maureen at Rogano’s oyster bar. She was flattered when he
described each new project he was assigned at work, asked for her opinions,
and then listened attentively to her suggestions.
His friends were sophisticated. Like Alan, almost all of them worked in
publishing. They had quick minds and delighted in the sharp jabs of repartee.
Once she overcame her initial reticence, she started giving as good as she got,
and soon earned their respect. She went from being tolerated as the girl Alan
brought along, to being embraced as his girlfriend.

Good Morning, Darling

I love you so much.
 I will be thinking of you this morning as I do every morning and every afternoon and
every night. Think of me as being beside you this morning, for that is where I will be, as I
am beside you all the time, day and night.
All will be well this morning, so do not worry. And all will be well every morning
because I will be beside you and together we are more than enough for anything. I love you
Alison – more than you know.
Alan

Never before had she been the recipient of such regular expressions of
love and affection – in person, when she saw him every day, and then in
writing, with notes that arrived almost as frequently.
When soft persuasion failed, her parents made good on their threat to cut
off both support and contact if she continued to see Alan. She didn’t care; she
just moved in with him.

Hello! Girl That I Love!

I am writing (with my new pen that I got for Christmas) to tell you that I adore you.
Thank you for last year. A year of extreme joy and happiness, full of love and
tenderness. Months, days, hours of having you with me and knowing I have your love. What
a year of happenings. Things, experiences, thoughts, actions – all full of love for each other.
Thank you for the happiest year of my life. I will, I promise you, try to make next year an
even happier year for us both. I love you, Alison. Will you marry me next year? Please?
Alan

Alan’s belief in her instilled a quiet confidence. Even though the year’s
work was to have been temporary, a brief way station before university, he
encouraged Alison to find something with more potential than selling men’s
shoes.
She was hired as the receptionist at a branch office of one of Glasgow’s
largest estate agencies. Her job was to answer the telephone and keep track
of the appointments for five agents. One morning an agent called in sick, and
she was unable to reach the client to cancel the showing scheduled for later
that morning. Alison was the only person in the office, so she locked the door
and met the client at the property.
 She had been paying attention to the chatter in the office, and to the
occasional snatches she heard of telephone conversations. How difficult
could it be to show a house? Still, she was nervous.
The client seemed not to notice, and the showing went well. She was
aware of how protective agents were of their clients, so she was suitably
deferential when she explained what happened. There were no ruffled
feathers, and the client purchased the property.
The branch manager let Alison become more involved, and soon she was
selling and appraising property full time. Within three years she succeeded
him as the branch manager and had her own personal assistant. By then, most
of her friends had graduated university and for many, being a personal
assistant was the best job they could find. Alison decided she’d made the right
choice by continuing to work instead of going to university. Just like she
decided the right choice was agreeing to marry Alan. Her parents finally came
to accept the situation, and the rift was healed.
Alan remained supportive even when her income started to exceed his,
soon by multiples. The estate agency work was rewarding on a personal level
as well. She felt she was performing a valuable service for her clients, and
many expressed their appreciation. Of course, there was the occasional
exception.
One client initially expressed appreciation when accepting the offer she
presented for his house, but then called back the following day to say that he
had changed his mind.
“I already told the buyer that you accepted his offer,” she said.
“It’s only been a day. Tell him I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because someone came by last night and offered a higher price.”
“You can’t do that. You know that verbal acceptances are binding.”
“Oh, come on, Alison, it’s only been a day. Just tell him I changed my
mind. It will hardly be an inconvenience. You’ll still get your commission, and
I’ll get more money.”
“You can’t,” she repeated doggedly, “it’s just not right.”
“Alison, are you going to tell him or not?”
 “Yes, I’ll tell him, but you’ll have to find another agent to represent you.
I won’t do business this way.”
The only surprise was the criticism from some of her male colleagues who
thought she should have kept the client, and the resulting commission. Alan
said she did the right thing and remained encouraging as she went from the
estate agency to opening her own retail stores and then to retail consulting.
They moved from his tiny apartment to a larger one, and then to her dream
house on the outskirts of Glasgow.
A dozen years into their marriage, everything was perfect, and Alison
came to believe that meeting and falling in love with Alan made her life
special, that this was her secret dream fulfilled. Then Alan’s midlife crisis
arrived, and she cursed herself for thinking about that childhood dream.
He had to find himself, he said, but he couldn’t do it while he was living
with her in Glasgow. There wasn’t another woman; he professed to still love
her. He would be leaving, and he would return when he found himself, but
he wasn’t certain when that would be. He refused to take any of their joint
money, which she later reflected was only fair, since virtually all of it had
resulted from her efforts. To finance this journey of self-discovery, he cashed
in the life insurance policies he had purchased before they met.
Alison was devastated. She spent much of each day wondering what she’d
done wrong, what they could have done differently together. She was only
beginning to acclimate to his absence when, barely four weeks after his
departure, a letter arrived.

Hello, Alison,
This is going to be a very difficult letter to write to you.
I have thought of you every day and, more especially, every night since I left you. I have
relived time and time again the night I drove away from the house and you. Can it be only
four weeks? I want to see you, Alison. I have so much to talk to you about. Not so much
of me, but of you, of us. I want to talk to you, to listen to you for hours. I have such a lot
to tell you – not all of which you’ll like, and I want to know so much about you. It may
well be that you will refuse to see me, for I can promise you little and you might think a
meeting would be painful for me too, but to see you again – if only for twenty-four hours –
I would endure it. Would you? Christ knows I have given you enough pain and anguish
without adding to it. I would hope not to give you any more, so if you won’t see me I will
try to understand. But to see you and talk to you would, in addition to the pain, give me,
and I hope you, some joy.
What I propose, if you agree to meet me, is that we meet in London – being equidistant
to both of us. I would like you to book us into the Basil Street Hotel on either Wednesday
or Thursday the twenty-seventh or twenty-eighth of this month. I will of course pay for the
hotel, and if you are unable to raise the return flight to London, David will give you a signed
check of mine to pay for it.
I will understand if you read this and say to hell with him. But if you would reread
this and consider it before deciding, then that is all I can ask of you. You need only cable
me here with either ‘yes’ and the day – or ‘no.’ I would, of course, meet you at the hotel and
not the airport. I want so much to see you and talk to you right away, and the airport and
tube and taxi are not the places for that. If you agree, would one o’clock on whichever day
be suitable for you? You could catch the ten o’clock shuttle.
Please see me, Alison. I do know and realize I have no right to ask you to do anything,
but I believe it to be important for both of us. Can you cable me Monday or Tuesday (the
eighteenth or nineteenth) at the latest, to enable me to book a flight from here?
With my love,
Alan

He wrote again before their meeting.

My Alison,
It is midnight Christmas Eve. Where are you? What are you doing? I am here, alone
in my room with my thoughts for company. And my thoughts are of our Christmas Eves
in the past. Of you putting your presents for me on one side of the tree and covering them
with newspapers and of me going afterwards with my presents for you. Of us getting up
tomorrow, having breakfast and then sitting on the floor beside you opening our presents
alternately one by one…… For me that is the real Christmas – not this.
Alison – no more Christmases apart. Not ever. Please.
Alan

They spent that night at the hotel, and the next one as well. The biggest
change was that he wanted a child. They had not discussed children since her
unplanned pregnancy during the first year of their relationship. She hadn’t
known much about birth control. It was not until several years later, in 1974,
that birth control pills became easily available. She’d relied on his assurances
and was devastated when she became pregnant. She was barely twenty years
old, and hardly ready to have a child. Abortions were neither common nor
easy to obtain, but a willing doctor was eventually found. It was a difficult
year, an awful year, and neither broached the subject of children again.
Until now, when he said he wanted a child. He spoke of the family they
would create together. He was persuasive, and two years later Theo was born.
She was thirty-four and he was forty-nine.
The bliss seemed endless at the time, but in retrospect it lasted only a few
years. There was no bright line of demarcation. Her first inkling of the change
came when the repartee no longer seemed quite so clever or amusing.
Conversations once effortless were now more of a slog.
Like a detective, she looked for clues that might explain the change, but
could find none. She remembered a comment her father made when she first
started seeing Alan. He told her that notwithstanding her current fascination,
she would eventually outgrow him.
Perhaps they had outgrown each other. She sensed that he harbored
similar feelings, yet was no more willing than she to broach the subject. For
several years they muddled along in this altered state, and she wondered how
long it would have continued had he not been diagnosed with inoperable lung
cancer, the mortal side effect of the smoking that kept him so lean.
The initial prognosis was three months. He lasted fourteen. She stopped
working and cared for him the entire time. Much to her surprise, a measure
of their lost intimacy was restored. And then he was gone, just as the spring’s
first flowers were blooming.
Alison was not superstitious, but as events unfolded, she started to believe
that perhaps misfortune did come in threes.
If Alan’s death was the first, the second was a by-product of Alan’s dying
wish that she sell their large house and move to a flat. Fewer repair hassles, smaller
maintenance costs, and lower taxes, he said. He approved the newly renovated,
ground-floor unit she found, and she and Theo moved a few months after
Alan passed. Six months later, while they were on a week-long holiday, a water
pipe burst, and the flooded water sat untouched for several days, exacerbating
the time, the cost, and the inconvenience of the repairs.
The third was totally unexpected. It started during the repairs. Alison
became aware of pain that was different from anything she’d previously
experienced. Sometimes sharp, other times dull, it radiated from the right
side of her chest, occasionally spreading all the way back to her shoulder
blades. It came and went without any apparent cause or discernible pattern.
Most disconcerting were the times it awakened her in the middle of the
night.
She thought it must be some sort of delayed reaction to Alan’s death,
or more likely, the cumulative effect of caring for him over those last
fourteen months. Her doctor referred her to a surgeon, Alan McKay, who
performed some tests, and then explained that the problem was her
gallbladder.
It was an organ that sounded familiar, but she did not have a clue what
it did. Probably because McKay said it had to be removed, only a little bit
of the explanation stuck – a small sac just below the liver that collected bile.
It was not quite as expendable as the appendix, but the body could function
perfectly well without it.
He described the keyhole surgery he would use for the removal. Her
first reaction was disbelief. How could he possibly maneuver remotely
through that tangle of organs he’d just described? And with those tiny
instruments? He assured her it was safe. That she would recover more
quickly than if he took the old-fashioned route and cut her open. That was
the clincher. She wanted to minimize the time away from Theo so soon
after Alan’s death.
When she awoke after the operation, McKay’s face displayed all the
anxiety she felt before the operation. Because of the drugs it took a while
for the reality to sink in. While operating remotely through the keyhole,
McKay accidentally cut her bile duct. To repair the damage, he had to open
her up. She almost died on the operating table. What was originally planned
as a few days in hospital turned into weeks. And then another six months
of rest, recovery and rehabilitation.
Thus, it wasn’t until Theo’s winter break in January 1994 that they
visited family friends, Sheila and Sandy Livingstone. Five years earlier, the
couple had moved from Glasgow to Kingsley Green, a small village south
of London.
It was just old friends getting together, laughing and enjoying each other’s
company, until the second night, when the conversation turned to her work…
and Sandy made an observation… that caused Alison to see a simple truth
hiding in plain sight. The prospects for her retail consulting business were
infinitely greater in London’s environs than in all of Scotland. More than the
larger population base was the difference in consumer attitudes and spending
habits. The thrifty Scot might be a stereotype, but like all stereotypes, it was
largely true.
Then there had been the cottage for rent, less than a mile up a narrow,
winding road from Sheila and Sandy’s house. Dense shrubs and trees shielded
the building from the houses on either side, and the one across the road as
well. From the backyard there was a sweeping view down the wooded
landscape of a valley where only a few houses were visible, and they were tiny
in the distance.
It was smaller than she and Theo were used to, but large enough, and it
had the same sense of pastoral isolation they enjoyed in Scotland. It was a
five-minute drive to Haslemere, a village large enough to have a British Rail
station. There was direct service to London: forty-five minutes on the express,
sixty on the local. Sandy noted that Waterloo, the train’s London destination,
was also the station for the direct train to Paris through the new tunnel under
the English Channel.
“Think about it,” said Sandy, with an air of wonder, “a train from
Haslemere to Paris, with just one transfer. How amazing is that?”
Thus was a leisurely spring transformed into weeks of to-do lists covering
every aspect of the move. September found them comfortably ensconced in
what they now called their Haslemere cottage.
 Chapter 5

During January 1994 Samuel Cohen had a conversation that would result
in a similar move to England that same September. This was the 23rd year of
his marriage to Janie Ligon, yet it was only the third time moving was a topic
of discussion.
Immediately after marrying in May 1971, they moved from Massachusetts
to Georgia, specifically Atlanta, touted as the hub of the New South. In some
ways it was. They became friends with a bi-racial couple residing in their
apartment building on Piedmont Avenue. It was here that they hosted a coffee
for Maynard Jackson during the political campaign that resulted in him
becoming the first black mayor of Atlanta. However, they were also living
across the street from that quintessential symbol of the Old South, the
Piedmont Driving Club.
Work was nothing special, hers especially, as a glorified secretary. She
couldn’t see a path to something better… until what happened after Samuel
started looking for a new job. Back then, the primary place to look was the
want ads section of The Wall Street Journal. However, most of the listings
required an MBA, and he didn’t have one. A combination of frustration and
chutzpah caused him to answer one anyway.
He told her, “I wrote I didn’t have an MBA, but that I was just as smart
as anyone who did, and I was a fast learner.” She thought it a fool’s errand,
even when he got an interview.
He briefed her afterwards. “It’s a loan production office for the First
National Bank of Chicago. Because interstate banking isn’t allowed, they
solicit the loans from regular offices in major cities across the country, and
they’re about to open one here in Atlanta.”
His disappointment was palpable when he concluded, “But they won’t
consider me because they believe an MBA is necessary to handle the loan
analysis that the job requires.”
 Samuel liked the man, John Eggemeyer, who had just moved to Atlanta
to run the office. He shared some local knowledge to help John settle in, and
invited him to join a weekly basketball game.
A month later, John asked Samuel to meet with a man named Larry
Butler, who was visiting from Chicago. Samuel had no idea why, but went
anyway. Turned out Larry Butler oversaw the bank’s professional hiring and
executive development.
Samuel briefed her again. “Larry told me I didn’t have sufficient
knowledge to operate in a remote office, but at the bank’s main office in
Chicago, there would be enough people available to fill in the gaps while I
learned the job of being a loan officer. Plus I could get an MBA at night…
and the bank would pay for it.”
“You’re not going to tell me that you took the job without first discussing
it with me,” she said.
“I am, and I did,” he replied, “Here’s why. They’re going to pay me the
same salary as the MBAs they hired this year from the top business schools.
Something about salary parity. But I hardly listened to the reason because the
amount is more than the combined total of what we earn now.
“Chicago has two excellent business schools – the University of Chicago
and Northwestern. The extra money will allow you attend one of them. With
an MBA, you won’t have to remain stuck in a secretarial job.”
She accepted the logic and embraced the move. Within six months she
was attending Northwestern full-time during the day, while Samuel was doing
same at the University of Chicago, albeit part-time at night. She remembered
how Samuel’s casual cultivation of John Eggemeyer had resulted in an
unexpected job offer. She undertook a purposeful cultivation of Don Jacobs,
one of her professors, who was known for his close ties to the Chicago office
of McKinsey & Co. This was where she wanted to work. Management
consulting paid the highest starting salaries for newly minted MBAs, and
McKinsey was considered the gold standard. She graduated, and accepted the
job offer Don Jacobs told her to expect.
McKinsey sent a small team to each assignment. They worked with both
senior and mid-level management – almost always men. The information they
requested was invariably delivered by administrative assistants – almost always
women… women just like she’d been two years earlier. Janie recalled the
words of Henry David Thoreau – most men lead lives of quiet desperation – and
occasionally wondered how many of these women were experiencing the
same, pre-MBA quiet desperation she endured.
The hours were long. She traveled at least four days each week, and
sometimes five. A decade later Tom Wolfe would coin the phrase, Masters of
the Universe, to describe investment bankers on Wall Street. Back then, that’s
how McKinsey’s consultants regarded themselves, and events often justified
it.
Phil Purcell ran the Chicago office. Sears Roebuck was his client. They
hired him, and he took Sears into the financial services business. Stocks and
socks was the derisive description after Purcell engineered the acquisition of
the stock brokerage firm, Dean Witter Reynolds. The laughter stopped after
his successful introduction of the Discover card. His last act was to sell all of
Sears’ financial services to Morgan Stanley. Purcell went with the sale, and
within a few years, he was chairman of Morgan Stanley, one of the oldest and
largest investment banking firms in the country.
A fellow consultant, Steve McMillan, had Sara Lee as a client, and they
similarly hired him. He eventually became CEO and led a combination of
internal growth and external acquisitions that made Sara Lee one of the largest
consumer foods companies in the nation.
Such was not to be her fate.
At the end of her first year, shortly after Samuel received his MBA, he
was offered a position with a private investment firm in Palo Alto, California.
He asked her to request a transfer to McKinsey’s San Francisco office and
was stunned when she declined.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I’m building my reputation with the partners here in Chicago.”
“It’s the same firm. How difficult can it be for other partners to see the
value of your work?”
“You don’t understand how the firm works. Your credits accumulate with
the individual partners; they’re not transferable the way you envision. Besides,
the first two years are critical. The firm’s policy is either up or out at the end
of the second year. It will just send all the wrong signals if I ask for a transfer
at the end of the first year.”
There was more discussion… until she laid down the law. “I’m not
leaving Chicago. If you want to go to California, you’ll have to go by
yourself.”
She followed him to Atlanta, and then to Chicago. It was his turn to defer
to her. After all, he claimed to be committed to the principle of equal rights
for women.
A few days later he floated a compromise.
“You’re traveling all the time, home only on weekends. The California
investment firm just purchased the Rexall Drug Company in St. Louis, and
I’ll be there several times each month. That’s virtually next door to Chicago,
and I can be here for those weekends. You’re working with a client in Seattle.
That’s reasonably close to San Francisco, and you can fly down and join me
for the occasional weekend there. Why don’t we try living in both places? It’s
what two-career couples are doing these days. We’ll probably see each other
just about as often as we do now.”
She agreed. Samuel returned one or two weekends each month, and no
one in Chicago knew that he was now living and working in California.
When she didn’t make the cut at the end of the second year, joining
Samuel in California suddenly became very appealing. She found a position
with Del Monte in San Francisco, and two years later, a better one with Levi
Strauss.
 Chapter 6

It was during those first few years working for Levi Strauss in the early
1980’s that Janie Ligon started the process of taking control of her life. She
hadn’t done too badly so far. A dozen years removed from college, she had
an MBA, McKinsey on her resume, and an executive position at an iconic
American corporation. But much of that just happened. The MBA because
Samuel accepted a high-paying job in Chicago. The job at Levi Strauss
because coming to the Bay area was the only viable alternative after McKinsey
let her go. She wanted more agency, more control over the trajectory of her
life.
Janie decided the two most important aspects of taking control were what
and how: what she wanted from her life, and how she was going to get it.
How was easy. She would get what she wanted by utilizing the long-range
planning she learned at McKinsey. To this she added a pearl of wisdom from
McKinsey alum Tom Peters, co-author of the best-selling business book, In
Search of Excellence. Peters noted the inaction often caused by long-range
planning, what he described as paralysis by analysis. His antidote was ready, fire,
aim. In other words, do something, don’t just study it. Of course, this was
appropriate only if the consequences of a mistake would not be permanent.
If they weren’t, then seeing the actual results immediately in the real world
would always be preferable to speculation. Thus, Janie’s version of long-range
planning included the willingness to try different tactical approaches, and not
be discouraged when one didn’t work. Just adjust and try again.
What was more complicated. Initially, it was a short list – just money and
career. These were the most important things she wanted out of life. A lot of
money that would come from a successful career. How much money? Who
knew? Certainly a lot more than she’d grown up with. Although without was a
more accurate description. She remembered when her father divorced her
mother so he could marry his secretary. Janie was 10 years old at the time.
Her mother struggled financially to feed and clothe Janie and her two younger
brothers. Janie never wanted to find herself in such a situation. She undertook
various plans to maximize the savings that would protect her from enduring
similar financial privation.
Sex was not on the initial list. Janie had known for years that penetration
never induced an orgasm. For that, she needed oral stimulation, and she’d
come to believe what a friend once told her, a tongue is a tongue, and Samuel’s
seemed just fine. Until she met Annmarie Scichili, and decided that sex should
be on the list after all.
Like Little Orphan Annie, Annmarie’s freckled face was framed by a mass
of curly red hair. Her outgoing, almost boisterous, personality fit the
stereotype supposedly resulting from redheaded children receiving extra
attention from their parents.
Annmarie was working for The Gap. After Levi Strauss, it was the Bay
area’s second most successful company founded and controlled by a Jewish
family. Mickey Drexler was well into his transformation of the company
and Annmarie was sourcing some of the new, Gap-labeled products.
A half-dozen years younger than Janie, Annmarie was married, and her
husband was both attractive and charming. Nothing that gave Janie even a
hint of the seduction Annmarie eventually engineered.
The first time was unbelievable. Janie remembered looking down and
seeing that mass of red hair buried between her legs, followed by the sweet
sensation of one orgasm after another, until the pleasure finally became
more than she could bear. Maybe a tongue wasn’t a tongue after all, so
exquisite was Annmarie’s.
Annmarie was unabashedly bi-sexual. After that first encounter, Janie
decided she cared little for labels and gave no thought as to what she might
be. All she wanted was to experience those orgasms again and again. Which
she did… for five spectacular years before Annemarie relocated to Italy.
She told Janie that the tension between Drexler and the Fishers – Gap
founder Donald and his son, Robert – was becoming increasingly
unpleasant, and it was time to get out of Dodge.
When it came to her career, Janie decided Levi Strauss was no different
from Del Monte, or any of the large corporations that were McKinsey
clients. For every position, there were always plenty of capable people. The
crucial criterion was often the decision maker’s comfort level. In business,
this was a manifestation of the phrase, one of the boys. If you were one of the
boys, it was virtually guaranteed that the decision maker would be
comfortable with you. It might not guarantee being chosen, but it was a
huge advantage.
If you were one of the boys, maternity leave was not part of your vocabulary.
Only in the most extreme circumstances would you take time off to have a
child. Beyond the bare medical minimum, you’d never even consider taking
time off after the birth. Business came first. It was that simple.
Giving Samuel a child had been a reasonable price to pay to patch their
marriage back together after he moved out. Especially since it had little impact
on her career. Samuel was happy to attend to Hannah in the evenings, and
the au pair did all the heavy lifting during the day. This left Janie with plenty
of time for the extra work required to convince senior management that the
job was her most important priority. The only difficulty was assimilating the
one-of-the-boys culture. This involved far more after-hours drinking and
socializing than she anticipated. But she adapted, becoming one of two people
chosen for a special cross-training program. For her that meant learning about
sales and marketing to augment the financial analysis she’d learned at
McKinsey.
She was impatient, and regarded her promotion to head of Women’s
Wear as coming two years later than it should have. She labored to make the
fit more comfortable for the average female consumer and sales doubled. Of
course, that might have resulted from a doubling of the advertising budget,
but who cared? The results spoke for themselves, and she decided the next
step up the career ladder was an overseas posting. She knew this would be
tricky because Samuel’s work was local. He developed office buildings and
business parks in Silicon Valley.
Theoretically, Samuel could do his work anywhere, but his specialty was
obtaining the requisite government approvals for projects where no one
wanted anything to be built. Opponents typically came in two varieties:
NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard), and BANANA (Build Absolutely Nothing
Anywhere Near Anything). Somehow, she could not see this expertise being
transferable to a foreign country.
It was an expertise that paid well. Far more than she earned. And he spent
much of it on her. Two Porsches, the second one a 911 SC convertible envied
by the few who saw it in the company’s parking garage. Jewelry coveted by
the women she worked with. And what he didn’t spend on her, he spent on
the family. Frequent vacations in Europe, a month exploring Maine, an
Alaska cruise, two different summer camps for Hannah – one in Maine near
the Atlantic Ocean, the other in Washington near the Pacific.
An overseas posting would mean giving up these perks, but her career
was the number one priority, and this was what the long-range plan dictated.
Thus it came to pass in January 1994 that she set out to convince Samuel.
 Chapter 7

“Tell me again why this overseas assignment so important,” Samuel

asked.
They were sitting in the front parlor of their San Francisco Victorian.
Samuel had just finished his bedtime reading to Hannah, who was about to
celebrate her twelfth birthday. Janie thought that was too old for bedtime
stories, but he’d been doing it since Hannah was born, and neither appeared
inclined to give it up.
“It’s all about the money,” she replied.
“You mean your salary and bonus?”
“No, I mean the money the company makes overseas.”
His puzzled expression elicited elaboration.
“I guess we’ve never discussed it, but the company generates more than
half of its profits overseas now. You know our basic 501 jean, the one that
sells for $29.99 at JC Penney?”
“Yes.”
“In Europe, it sells for $79.99. Because our total cost is essentially the
same for both, we make almost five times more profit on each pair sold over
there.”
He whistled softly. “I’m impressed. How do you manage to get such a
high price in Europe?”
“Product positioning. We sell exclusively to high-end boutiques.
Participating in that process and being responsible for such outsized profit
contributions is critical to getting the love from Bob Haas.”
“The love from Bob Haas?”
“He has such a touchy-feely approach to management, it’s shorthand for
the promotions and stock options he hands out. Ever since he took the
company private in 1985, it’s been a one-man show at the top. The formula
is simple: go overseas, generate a ton of profits, come back to a position in
senior management.”
“How long would it be?”
“Two or three years, maybe four. There’s no specific timetable. I’ll get a
raise. Add the overseas perks and we’ll have enough money to maintain our
lifestyle. You won’t have to work. You can become a gentleman of leisure.”
Sales did not come naturally to Janie, and she knew the part about Samuel
becoming a gentleman of leisure was a stretch. He was the antithesis of
whatever that actually meant. He worked all the time. Except he hadn’t been
doing much work for the past two years. The Bay area was in an economic
slump that might last another few years. There was no demand for the new
office buildings and business parks Samuel developed. Her logic was so
simple, she was certain he would see it. He could be just as happy not working
overseas as he was not working in California. She hoped this would provide
the tipping point.
There was another factor bubbling beneath the surface. To accommodate
the economic slump, Samuel had undertaken some activities he’d always told
himself he would pursue if he had more free time. Reading all those books
he’d accumulated. Enhancing the basic guitar playing skill he’d learned as a
teenager. Improving from a beginner to an accomplished golfer.
He pursued all three as fervently as he pursued his real estate projects.
The reading was easy, but only marginally more time consuming because of
the avidity with which he pursued the other two. There were weekly guitar
lessons and twice-weekly golf lessons. And hours of practice. After almost
two years he realized that mediocrity was probably the best he could achieve
in either activity. His real estate projects might not have garnered national
publicity, but he knew they were first-rate. Mediocrity was acceptable for a
part-time leisure activity, but not for all the time and effort he was expending.
Truth be told, he was ready for an excuse to gently let go of these two
pursuits.
Samuel never discussed any of this with Janie, and once he agreed to
accommodate her overseas move, she saw no need to ask further questions.
The next several months were frustrating for Janie, yielding only failed
applications for positions in Brussels and Spain. Then, at the beginning of
June, the General Manager in the United Kingdom unexpectedly decided to
return home. And wanted to be back before the end of August, so the family’s
two boys could start the school year on time. This meant the position had to
be filled on a much faster schedule than was typical. Janie got the job, but
there was one, final step in the process.
Levi Strauss prided itself on having a family-friendly working
environment. This was part of the reason for the company policy of having
the entire family visit the country before the executive finally accepted the
overseas assignment. The other part was simple practicality. The more the
entire family bought into the move, the greater the likelihood the executive
would succeed in a foreign environment.
This was the reason Samuel and Hannah joined Janie for a week in
England in June. In an event of pure happenstance, Samuel learned from a
college classmate about a consulting position in London. He interviewed, and
a month later was offered the position. Janie couldn’t believe the salary.
Coming to the country cold, and his compensation would be equal to hers.
Without missing a beat, she suggested he use his paycheck to continue
funding their living expenses.
“I’ll continue to defer my paycheck into those special company
accounts,” she said.
Of course, he agreed. She’d already established the precedent. This was
part of her plan to guarantee her financial security.
Levi Strauss had a special savings program for all employees. The interest
rate was a little higher than any bank offered, just enough of a differential to
entice most employees to deposit some money there. Because no taxes were
due until funds were withdrawn in retirement, that money was a stable source
of funds for the company. A win/win for the company and its employees.
Then there was another program for executives. A portion of your
current salary, plus all of your annual bonus, could be deferred and invested
in another account. Again, no taxes due until the money was withdrawn in
retirement. Another win/win that nearly every executive used, but typically
for only a small portion of their paycheck, most of which had to be used for
current living expenses. A dozen years earlier, Janie had sold Samuel on a
turbo-charged version of these two programs.
“If we use your income to pay our living expenses,” she’d said, “I’ll be
able to save almost everything I earn for our retirement. The money will be
invested in risk free accounts that pay higher interest rates than we can get
anywhere else.” Samuel had agreed it was a no-brainer. Janie assumed this
arrangement would end when they moved to England. But with his
unexpected job offer, it could continue.
All well and good… for their retirement… if they retired together. If not,
if they divorced, Samuel would be entitled to half of it. Such was California
divorce law. Nothing she could do about that. Besides, that was decades in
the future, and she was also concerned about her financial security in the
present. She needed protection in case Samuel went wobbly a second time
and moved out again.
This meant creating a nest egg Samuel knew nothing about. While they
had separate checking accounts, they filed a joint tax return. She could open
an account without his knowledge, but how could she fund it without him
knowing? And how could she keep it off their joint tax return? Jim Smith
helped her find the solution. Jim was married to Donna Smith, and Janie had
a vivid memory of their first encounter.

It happened in 1977, when women were the exception in business, even

when it came to middle management positions. That was the reason Janie’s
curiosity led her to attend a cocktail reception for career women being held at
the Palmer House. This was an older hotel at the edge of the Loop in
downtown Chicago that reminded her of the Statler Hilton in New York
where she’d met Samuel.
Shortly after her arrival, it became apparent that this was primarily a
networking event for women who sold residential real estate. She concluded
it was a waste of time and was about to leave when she was approached by a
dark-haired woman who, like her, wore a tailored white blouse and a skirted
business suit, charcoal grey versus her navy blue.
The woman regarded Janie appraisingly for a moment and then said, “I
take it you’re not a realtor.”
“No,” she said, letting her head turn to observe that almost every other
woman was wearing a dress. “Are you?”
“No, I’m a product manager at Quaker Oats.”
 Janie had yet to be involved in a consulting assignment at a consumer
products company. Perhaps this event wouldn’t be a complete bust after all.
“I’m a consultant with McKinsey,” she said, extending her hand, “Janie
Ligon.”
The woman took her hand, “Donna Smith.”
“What are we doing here?” Janie asked.
“Good question. I don’t think we’re going to learn much. Let’s get a
drink at the bar downstairs.”
Janie soon learned that Donna was ambitious, and possessed a biting
sense of humor. She was willing to participate in whatever silly corporate
rituals had to be observed to move up the corporate ladder. But in private,
especially with another woman, she was willing to mock these rituals, and
even her complicit participation. “What are we going to do? We’re not going
to change the basic business culture, so we have to adapt.”
At the conclusion of that first meeting, they agreed to meet again, and
soon sharing drinks and a meal became a Friday evening ritual both looked
forward to, trying different restaurants, usually someplace quiet, where they
would not have to shout to be heard. And where they would not have to
worry about fending off men who regarded two attractive women on a Friday
evening as fair game. The Cape Cod Room at the Drake Hotel became a
favorite.
Janie’s consulting assignments had been strategic in nature and far
removed from Donna’s life in the trenches. Still, there were some
commonalities between her fellow consultants and Donna’s peer-group
managers. Almost all were men, at least once a week they went out drinking
together, and there was a level of braggadocio neither experienced with other
women.
They were comparing notes on this last point. This Friday, they were in
the plush confines of the Whitehall Club in the recently renovated Whitehall
Hotel, a half block off Michigan Avenue and just south of the Drake.
When she arrived, Donna had said, “I thought this was a private club.”
“It is. When my husband worked at First Chicago, he was responsible
for the loan to the man who renovated the hotel. As a gesture of support, he
purchased a membership in the club. We came a few times for dinner, and
the food was surprisingly good.”
While they had traded stories about work, and shared their personal
histories, their respective husbands had not previously been mentioned. Janie
was not anxious to share that Samuel was living in California and so had not
asked about Donna’s husband, a person she assumed must exist, given the
wedding ring.
By their third drink, Janie was becoming more loquacious than usual.
“There’s this one member on the team I’m working with now. He’s only a
few years older, but is he ever full of himself. A few nights ago, we all went
out for drinks after a long day, and Steve, that’s his name, Steve, started
telling us about his time at Auburn. Specifically about a bet he made with
three fraternity brothers: who could be the first to sleep with all of the
school’s cheerleaders.”
“Good thing he wasn’t at Yale.”
When Janie regarded her questioningly, Donna deadpanned, “It’s an all-
male school. The cheerleaders are men.”
“Oh.” Janie wondered if the liquor was slowing her thought process.
“Anyway, Steve proudly proclaimed that he had won the bet, and started to
describe one of his conquests. I was sitting there quietly, not quite believing
he was about to provide details, when one of the other consultants nudged
him and nodded in my direction. He stopped mid-sentence and said
something like, Sorry, Janie, and before I could respond, someone else
changed the subject. What is it with these guys, anyway? Why does so much
revolve around their dicks?”
“I don’t know.” Donna’s brief response and tone of voice indicated that
this was not a topic of particular interest.
But Janie was on a roll now, and paying little attention to such nuances.
“It’s as if they think that having a dick makes them special. It’s so crude.
I’ll take the finesse of a tongue over the brute force of a penis any day I’m
looking for satisfaction.”
She punctuated this statement by gulping the last of her drink and
looking around for a waiter.
Donna said, “Well, a tongue is a tongue, regardless of the sex of its
owner.”
 “Damn right,” Janie said absently, her head still twisted away as she
continued searching for a waiter.
Donna waited for Janie’s attention to return to their table. “I’m gay.”
“You’re what?” Janie was visibly startled.
“I’m gay. I know a lot about tongues.” Donna was smiling.
She had grown to appreciate Donna’s directness, but this was completely
unexpected. “But,” she stammered, “I thought you were married,” looking
pointedly at the wedding band on Donna’s left ring finger.
“I am. My husband, Jim, is gay, too. Actually, he’s more asexual than
anything else, at least around me. He’s a stockbroker with William Blair.”
Janie recognized the name as one of the local brokerages in Chicago, an
old-line firm with a staid reputation.
“We met at a mutual friend’s party in 1970. He’d been working for three
years by then, and I was in my second year at Quaker, where I’d started right
out of college.
“He asked me out, and then kept asking me out. No passes, just a chaste
kiss at the end of each date. I kept going because he was funny, and I was
really enjoying myself. It wasn’t until we’d been seeing each other regularly
for almost a year that he told me he was gay. I assume he waited that long
because he wanted to be relatively certain that I was as well. I can’t remember
whether he suggested we get married, or I did. It was one of those all-night
discussions that you think you’ve had the last of when you graduate from
college. The more we talked about it, the more sense it made. Not only from
a business standpoint – you know you start to get funny looks when you’re
not married by the time you’re in your mid-30’s – but from a lot of other
perspectives as well. We like each other; we’re best friends, actually. We
bought a far nicer house that either of us could have afforded on our own.
“Anyway, that’s why Friday nights are so convenient for me. That’s the
night he goes out on his own. Speaking of which, why are you always free on
Friday nights?”
That was when she told Donna about Samuel’s move to California.
“He got a good job offer in Palo Alto and wanted us to move.”
“Why didn’t you?” Donna asked. “That’s close to San Francisco, and
McKinsey has an office there, right?”
 “Yes, but the firm has a two-year-up-or-out policy.”
“What?”
“At the end of the second year, they either promote you or fire you.”
“That sounds pretty brutal.”
“It’s not quite as bad as it sounds. They give you plenty of time to find
another job and they give you a good reference. They want to make the
transition as painless as possible. Creates a cadre of ex-McKinseyites
favorably disposed to hire the firm for future consulting assignments.”
“Clever,” Donna said, “but I still don’t understand why you didn’t
move.”
“The decision is made at the individual office. If I’d moved, that two-
year clock would have re-set and I would have had to start over. I had nine
months of good feedback from the partners here in Chicago and it just didn’t
make sense to throw that away. I’ve got another seven months before my
two-year review, and hopefully I’ll be able to transfer after that.”
“How often do you see each other?”
“One or two weekends a month. He works for a private investment firm
that owns a company in St. Louis and whenever he visits there, he comes to
Chicago. Nobody knows he’s moved. We belong to a small tennis club, and
he was able to come back often enough to play in the club’s annual
tournament.”
The sharing of these confidences, combined with the alcohol – she had
downed five martinis by the time they departed at 9:00 – resulted in Janie
feeling slightly reckless. They shared a cab home, and the first stop was
Donna’s brownstone in Lincoln Park. Janie turned her head when they
embraced goodbye in the back seat of the cab. That slight turn meant that
instead of Janie’s cheek, Donna’s lips touched her mouth. Janie found it a
pleasant sensation and the brief kiss was a form of bonding that cemented
the confidences they’d exchanged that evening.

Two years after Janie moved to California, Quaker Oats asked Donna
to relocate to San Francisco and revive the operations of The Magic Pan, a
crepe-based specialty restaurant. The move propelled Jim to the San
Francisco office of a larger, national firm – Donaldson, Lufkin & Jenrette.
When the limited appeal of crepes made The Magic Pan unrevivable,
Donna chose to stay in San Francisco and work for Wells Fargo.
Janie introduced Samuel to Donna and Jim at a dinner shortly after their
arrival in San Francisco, and the chemistry was instantaneous. The couples
quickly became best friends. They vacationed together – a long weekend at
the Ahwahnee Hotel in Yosemite National Park, a three-week tour of
France. There were frequent weekends at each other’s second homes –
Donna and Jim’s at Lake Tahoe, Janie and Samuel’s in the Napa Valley.
And dinners once or twice each month in San Francisco, usually at a
restaurant Janie had sussed out from the restaurant reviews. Their Pacific
Heights condo was where Samuel staged a surprise party to celebrate her
40th birthday. Samuel loved Donna’s suggested wording for the invitations:
Your presence will be your present. Janie loved the mink coat Samuel gave her…
at least until animal rights advocates made wearing it awkward.
Janie had a special relationship with both Donna and Jim because she
knew their secret, the one that Donna had shared back in Chicago, the one
that she never shared with Samuel. Janie traded on that secrecy when she
approached Jim and asked that he similarly keep their conversation strictly
confidential. He agreed, and Janie told him about the account she wanted,
but didn’t know how to make a reality.
He told her that if she invested the money in stocks that paid no
dividends, and if she never sold anything, there would be no income and
therefor no need to report the account on their joint tax return. He was
happy to open the account for her.
It took another month before Janie determined how she could deposit
money into this account without Samuel’s knowledge. It was a variation on
money laundering.
Whenever Janie took a business trip, she paid the expenses with her
personal credit card. She would then submit the expenses to Levi Strauss
for reimbursement, which was usually made by direct deposit to the
recipient’s bank account. However, a check could also be requested, and
this was what Janie did. Instead of returning the money to her personal
checking account, she would deposit the check into the special account Jim
had established for her.
 Jim was careful never to place the money, even temporarily, in an
interest-bearing account. Rather, he let the money sit there, not accruing
any interest, until he purchased stocks that paid no dividends. Since Janie
never sold anything, there was nothing to report to the IRS, and there was
no need to mention this account on their joint tax return. The result was an
ever-growing nest egg that could be used if the need ever arose, if Samuel
ever went wobbly on her again.
Of course, she would share this account with Samuel when they retired…
if he was still with her when they retired. And if he wasn’t … well, it would
be all hers, wouldn’t it. Janie could never forget the year-long separation she
endured when Samuel moved out during the seventh year of their marriage.
He was unhappy, and apparently she’d missed all the signs. Marriage
counseling revealed that all he wanted was more intimacy and children. She
readily agreed, and their daughter, Hannah, was born less than a year after he
returned. Janie didn’t think Samuel would ever leave again – he was too
devoted to Hannah for that to happen – but one could never be 100% certain
about anything, could one.

While Janie remained in England for a rushed transition during July and
August, Samuel returned to San Francisco to coordinate everything required
for the overseas move. The only loose end was the fact that his job was in
London, which was sixty miles from the Levi Strauss headquarters in
Northampton.
“You don’t want to spend five hours commuting every day,” she told him,
“To solve that problem, I’ve found a nice flat in central London where you
can stay during the week. And then you can come home on the weekends.”
Home was the house she found in the village of Church Brampton. It
didn’t have a street address, but a name, Almondbury. Just another of the
changes she would experience during her stay in England.
The house was seven miles from the office, twice the distance of her
commute in San Francisco. If everyone had to make sacrifices for this
overseas assignment, those extra five minutes each way would be hers.
 Chapter 8

By December 1994, Samuel could not remember a lonelier existence.

When he arrived in September, Janie’s plan sounded good. And it was… in
theory. He would live and work in London during the week, and then return
to Almondbury in Church Brampton on the weekends. The reality, however,
was a disaster. The isolation he experienced after work was excruciating.
He managed a dozen people doing real estate analysis for a division of
Arthur Andersen. At 45, he was between fifteen and twenty years older than
his new associates. That age gap would have made fraternization difficult in
any event, but what made it well-nigh impossible was his co-workers’ primary
form of socializing – serious drinking in smoke-filled pubs. He abhorred
smoking and his drinking began and ended with the occasional glass of wine.
Colleagues his own age working elsewhere at the firm all had families that
occupied their free time during the week, and getting together on the
weekends was a non-starter because none lived remotely close to Church
Brampton.
He saw Hannah only on the weekends, and only now did he realize how
much of his life in San Francisco had revolved around her. The sea change
had occurred three years earlier, when Hannah was nine years old.

Samuel told Janie he wanted to stop using au pairs, that they should take
a more active role in their daughter’s upbringing. Janie’s response was
brutally direct.
“No, absolutely not. What we have is working. And besides, I don’t have
the time.”
He persisted, and she eventually relented, albeit partially.
“OK, I’ll agree to no more au pairs, but you’ll have to do everything that
the au pairs did – take Hannah to and from school, prepare her meals,
coordinate transportation for her after-school activities, do her laundry,
everything.”
By then, Samuel had formed his own company, and worked from a home
office, so he decided it was doable.
It was awkward at first, all this time spent with Hannah, but soon a level
of mutual comfort evolved. Even with the au pairs, he always read to her
each night. She often liked to read along, so he would lie beside her on the
bed, Hannah snuggled under the sheets while he lay on top of the comforter
and held the book between them.
She usually fell asleep while he was reading. If she awoke when he arose
from the bed, he would just lean over and kiss her forehead, and tell her it
was time to go to sleep. As all young children seemed to effortlessly do, she
would close her eyes and immediately fall back asleep.
The reading continued, but soon she wanted to talk as well. “Tell me a
story about when you were a kid.”
His sharing made her comfortable sharing. Often it was something that
happened at school. Occasionally it was a problem with a girlfriend.
The concept of quality time went out the window. Samuel concluded the
premise – that it was the quality of the time you spent with your children, not
the quantity – was little more than a convenient rationalization for busy
parents. There was just time, and there was no way to know when the
important moments might arise.
Like the time when science was the only subject giving Hannah difficulty.
Enough difficulty that she was close to failing the subject.
One afternoon when he arrived to collect Hannah from school, he found
her in the library, scowling at her notebook.
“What’s the problem?”
“We have to write a short essay about these stupid insects. Mine is the
lesser water boatman. It’s just so stupid, and I don’t know what to say.”
“Let me see.”
She handed him two pieces of paper. One had a picture of the insect and
two paragraphs of text, information typically found in an encyclopedia. The
other was the start of her attempt to re-word those two paragraphs without
engaging in outright plagiarism.
“Hannah, I couldn’t do any better. This is incredibly boring.”
 He paused, wondering what to say next, and then it came to him.
“Look, this is just a homework assignment. How would you like to try
something completely different?”
She nodded in the resigned way that said anything had to be better than
what she was doing.
“Pretend you are the lesser water boatman. This tells you what it is and
what it does. Now write as if you were the insect yourself. You can take these
facts and then use your imagination to make it more interesting.”
Like a cartoon with the light bulb shining over the character’s head, she
grinned and started writing. He went to a nearby chair and waited a while
before taking her home. That evening she read part of it to him, concerned
that she might have gone too far.
“Hannah, write what feels right to you. Make certain you stay within the
bounds of what you know the insect can and cannot do. But after that, write
whatever you think will convey what it’s like to be the lesser water boatman.
Make it come alive.”
Although pleased with her effort, she still expressed trepidation when he
drove her to school the following morning. When he picked her up a day
later, she needed no prompting to tell him about her day.
“I wasn’t even paying attention in science class when Mr. Bolton started
handing back the homework assignments. And then he was standing in front
of my desk, saying that my homework assignment was the best in the class.”
Overnight, science went from one of her worst subjects to one of her
best.

There were no opportunities for similar moments here in England where

Samuel’s only contact with Hannah during the week was a desultory
telephone conversation each evening.
 Chapter 9

When they were living in San Francisco, Samuel regularly ran in Golden
Gate Park. Regents Park was only a half mile away from his flat in London,
so he mapped out a five-mile route, and started running there each evening.
One evening in late November, he paused at the entrance of his building to
admire the full moon. He was startled by a sound that seemed half-moan, half
howl. After a few moments of looking in vain for the source, Samuel realized
that he was the involuntary source, and the cause was his loneliness.
He tried to rationalize his situation. He told himself he should be on top
of the world. His fellow real estate developers in California were twiddling
their thumbs because of the downturn in the market, while he was fully
engaged here in London. The rationalization worked during the day, but
never in the evenings. Which was why a chance encounter the following week
had unexpected repercussions.
Most evenings, he stopped on his way home from work at one of two
food halls to purchase his dinner: Selfridge’s on Oxford Street or Villandry
on Marylebone High Street. This evening he chose Villandry, a longer walk,
but pleasant in the unexpected warmth of mid-December. He’d been
surprised to learn that the warming waters of the Gulf Stream extended all
the way to England.
Villandry might not have the extensive selection on offer at Selfridge’s,
but the atmosphere was more pleasant, and Samuel knew that everything was
made fresh daily.
He had just selected a small quiche from a display of freshly prepared
food near the cash register when he heard, “Is that the spinach and cheese or
the traditional Lorraine?”
Surprised – he thought he was the only customer – he turned and saw a
blonde woman regarding him expectantly. He did not respond immediately;
no one had ever spoken to him in here. She smiled and nodded in the
direction of his hand that held the quiche.
Why was she talking to him? “Uh, it’s a quiche Lorraine.”
“Do you come here often?”
This was seriously unusual. “Once or twice a week.”
“Just for the food out here, or the restaurant as well?” She gestured with
her head towards the empty tables in the back.
He was about to pay for the quiche. He pulled a £5 note from his wallet.
“I’ve never eaten at the restaurant. They only serve lunch, and this is a little
far from where I work, so it’s just the food out front.”
“Anything you particularly like?”
He handed the money to the girl behind the cash register. “These quiches
are good. And there’s a bread they occasionally have that’s filled with large
chunks of apricot. I think it’s perfect with either Brie or Cambozola.”
At the same moment he felt the change drop into his open hand, he heard
a man’s voice.
“Sorry for the delay. I’m ready now.”
The woman said, “Excuse me, I have to go now. Nice talking to you.”
“You, too,” he said to her departing back. Beyond her, he could see the
diminutive, balding man who was occasionally behind the cash register.
Walking home, he watched an instant replay of the brief encounter on the
movie screen in his head.
The Brits he’d met so far were mostly formal, almost standoffish. Her
ease and openness were inviting by comparison. Nor did she have the accent
he associated with the toffs he encountered at work – arrogant assholes was
the term in California; here in England, they were called toffs. Typical British
understatement, coupled with a touch of obfuscation. No, her accent was
softer, more of a lilt.
The image of the woman was blurry. She was attractive, but all he could
remember with any clarity was blonde hair and an engaging smile. He would
be of little use to a police sketch artist.
If the encounter had occurred in San Francisco, he would have pushed
the erase button and quickly forgotten the entire incident. That was how he
made his world work after Hannah was born. He didn’t want her to be raised
by divorced parents. To eliminate temptation, he forced himself to see
women only as people, not as intriguing and beguiling feminine creatures.

Years later he would learn how successful this strategy had been. Samuel
was back in San Francisco and visiting with Terri Osaki. She’d been his
Administrative Assistant/Girl Friday when Samuel worked at Lincoln
Property Company, and then followed him in the same position when he
started his own company. They were discussing how oblivious Samuel had
been to some of the things that were happening in the offices at Lincoln
Property Company.
“You had no idea that two people in our group were sleeping with each
other,” Terri said.
“Really?” Samuel was surprised.
“Yes, really,” she said, and paused. “I suppose at one level it’s slightly
endearing, your complete lack of interest in gossip.”
“What do you mean?”
“Most people would have asked who they were. You didn’t.”
Samuel shrugged. “What else was I oblivious to?”
“That most of the women in the office thought you were gay.”
“What? Why in the world would anyone think I was gay?”
“Most of the women had either seen or met Janie at a company function.
And almost to a person, they didn’t think she was very nice – aloof, cold,
unapproachable, take your pick. They couldn’t figure out what you were
doing with her because you were so different, not to mention a lot more
attractive. A couple of them decided you would be easy pickings.”
“Easy pickings?”
“For an office romance.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, but you were oblivious. They couldn’t get any reaction from you.
Nothing at all. So they added everything up. Cold fish for a wife, and she’s
not very attractive. You dress impeccably. You live in San Francisco. And
you’re not interested in other women. You must be gay. It was the only
explanation that made any sense.”

But Samuel’s whole world seemed different here in London. He was

lonely, and he wanted some connection. The desire wasn’t primarily sexual.
During the year Janie and he had lived apart – when he moved out because
he was unhappy, and then returned after marriage counseling – during that
year Samuel had sowed the wild oats he hadn’t before their marriage. Perhaps
because it occurred during his late 20’s instead of his early 20’s, perhaps
because it was just his nature… whatever the reason, he found casual sex not
particularly enjoyable. It was a step up from masturbating, but not that much
of one.
He wondered if he would ever see that woman again. In a city of seven
million, that was unlikely. Still, he couldn’t get her out of his mind.
Place a classified ad, he told himself. If she doesn’t answer, you can forget about her.
In the meantime, you can stop wasting your time by speculating.
So, he placed the ad, and stopped thinking about her. Until a response
arrived five weeks later.
 Chapter 10

“Are you serious, Sheila? You want me to look through the personal
adverts in Private Eye?”
Alison regarded Sheila Livingstone skeptically. Sheila was a great friend,
her advice often invaluable, but this was preposterous.
“Yes, I am serious.” Sheila paused to sip the cup of tea Alison had just
placed in front of her. They were sitting at the small table in Alison’s kitchen.
She looked up and continued, “It’s been three years since Alan died, and
you’ve settled into a new home. It’s time you put yourself out there so you at
least have the possibility of meeting someone. You don’t want to spend the
rest of your life alone.”
It was January 1995, prompting Alison to ask, “Is this a New Year’s
resolution you’ve made for me?”
“Noooooo.” Sheila elongated the word, as she often did when making a
point.
Before she could say anything more, Alison said, “I’m hardly alone. I’ve
got Theo…”
This time, it was Sheila who preemptively jumped back in. “Of course,
you’ve got Theo. He’s a lovely child. And you have your family and friends,
and the people you work with, but you’ve spent most of your life in love with
a special man, and I can’t believe you don’t want that again.”
“But the personal adverts?” Alison’s voice remained laden with disbelief.
“In Private Eye?”
“I assume you want someone who’s literate and has a dry sense of humor,
and that pretty much describes their readership. Besides, you’re hardly going
to meet another man the same way you met Alan.”
Sheila reached down to the large purse on the floor next to her chair. Her
hand emerged with a magazine.
“Here’s the most recent issue,” she said, regarding it for a moment,
“January 27th, and look, there’s a picture of Camilla.” Sure enough, it was a
photo of Prince Charles’ infamous mistress. A cartoon bubble had her saying,
I couldn’t marry Charles. He’s notoriously unfaithful.
Sheila extended the magazine. Alison regarded it with same combination
of distaste and curiosity she’d felt when watching her biology teacher dissect
a frog.
“Go ahead,” Sheila said, waving the magazine with a gentle persistence.
Sheila was barely five feet tall, but Alison knew that underneath a patina
of politeness there was a steely resolve that had helped her raise four willful
daughters. Her husband, Sandy, was only a few inches taller, and Alison
affectionately thought of them as a pair of mature munchkins. They’d been
unfailingly supportive after Alan’s death. They were the primary reason she
and Theo left the familiar environs of Glasgow.
Alison took the proffered magazine with the same exaggerated sigh of
resignation that Theo recently started using. As she hoped, it elicited a small
laugh. Sheila sipped her tea while Alison started thumbing through the pages.
“My goodness,” she exclaimed a few moments later.
“What is it?”
Alison handed the magazine to Sheila with her left hand, her right index
finger pointing to a spot on the open page.

A Brief Encounter at Villandry

You were the blonde woman who asked me about the small quiche I was purchasing.
I was the tall American who responded and then watched you walk away. In the spirit of
furthering cordial Anglo-American relations, please let me buy you a cup of tea, or a glass
of wine. I am recently arrived, and would be grateful for suggestions of other food halls like
Villandry. Please reply to Box 8593.

Sheila finished reading and looked up questioningly.

“I’m the blonde woman.”
“Really.” Surprise was replaced by excitement as Sheila continued,
“Details, girl, I need details.”
“Not much to tell. Remember those handmade sweaters I sold in my
shops?”
 “Yes.”
“They were sourced by a French couple, Jean Claude and Marie Gasquet.
A few months ago, I received an announcement that they had opened a food
hall and restaurant called Villandry on Marylebone High Street. I was in the
area and decided to drop in on Jean Claude. A quick look and I realized he
could use my help with his retail display. We were discussing the terms of a
short assignment when he was called downstairs to the kitchen. I was waiting
for him to return when this tall man came in. We were the only two people
in the shop and I decided to ask him a few questions, a little impromptu
market research.”
“When I said details, I meant about the man.”
“Let’s see, he was tall, well dressed, dark hair. I think he was attractive,
but I can’t remember for sure.”
“Perfect. You can dip your toe in the water by responding.”
Alison considered her options. Sheila would not easily let go of this idea,
and she did like that the man had used the word please twice in his notice.
“All right,” she agreed.
“Splendid, I’ll help you write the response now.” Unspoken was: before you
change your mind.
A few minutes later, the brief note had been written.

I am flattered that you remember me, and quite taken with your enterprise in seeking
to find me. Your memory is better than mine, so please send a photo.
Alison

“Perfect,” said Sheila. “I’ll take it to Private Eye, have them add a box
number and provide your address so they can send you the reply. If you don’t
like the photo, you can just forget the whole thing.” She placed the note and
the magazine in her purse.

Dear Alison,
Thank you for responding. As requested, I have enclosed a recent photo. I hope it meets
with your approval. My schedule is flexible. Just pick a time and a location convenient to
you, and I will meet you for a cup of tea, or a glass of wine, your choice. I very much look
forward to seeing you again.
Yours sincerely,
Samuel

The black and white headshot appeared to have been taken for business
purposes. A full head of dark hair, deep set eyes, full mouth – it was a
handsome face. The somber expression was what concerned Alison. Alan’s
quick wit had spoiled her. She had no interest in meeting a humorless
businessman. She decided to postpone any action and placed the note and
photo in a desk drawer.
A few days passed before Sheila, during one of her regular visits, asked if
there had been a response. Alison retrieved the note and photo. And then
explained her ambivalence.
Sheila studied the photo and then said, “I’ve rarely seen a business pic
where the subject is smiling, and he is rather attractive. You ought to meet
him. Schedule it for when you must be in London anyway. Perhaps he’ll
surprise you. How many Americans do you think read Private Eye? Not many,
I would venture.”
Alison sensed a firmness that belied the casual suggestion and agreed.
Her brief response suggested a 1:30 meeting in late February at the Basil
Street Hotel.
 Chapter 11

Alison ascended the stairs of the Basil Street Hotel. The lounge and bar
area occupied a large, open space on the floor above street level. The space
was deserted, so the solitary man seated by a window had to be Samuel.
He rose as she approached, introduced himself, and then helped remove
her coat. Alison caught a glimpse of brightly colored braces underneath the
jacket of his conservative charcoal suit. He might not be a boring businessman after
all.
He stood over a head taller as he pulled back her chair, but once seated,
their eyes met at the same level.
“What can I get you to drink?” he asked.
“I think I would enjoy a glass of champagne, please.”
“Anything to eat?”
She paused to consider the question.
“A smoked salmon sandwich would be very nice, thank you.”
He walked across the room to place their order at the bar. When he
returned, they spoke of the hotel. She remembered it being a little grander,
but then her last visit had been almost a decade earlier. She commented how
the location was central to all of Knightsbridge. Then, as everyone in the UK
eventually did, they spoke of the weather. In Scotland, she told him, the
weather changed so quickly that there was a saying: If you don’t like the weather,
just wait five minutes. She learned that he had arrived from San Francisco the
previous September, the same month she completed the move from
Glasgow.
The champagne and sandwiches arrived.
“I ordered the same as you,” he said. “I’m used to cream cheese and lox
on a bagel, and I was curious. This looks like a regular sandwich.”
“Yes, but its Scottish smoked salmon, not as dry or as salty as lox. It has a
more natural flavor. Served on whole wheat bread with butter, well, I think
it’s divine.”
He took a bite. “You’re right, it is moister, and it does taste better.”
“Thanks for responding to the notice I placed,” he continued.
“I was impressed that you went to so much effort to find me. Just out of
curiosity, what made you think I was a reader of Private Eye?”
“Nothing more than a hopeful guess. It was really a shot in the dark as I
ran it for only one issue.”
“Only one time, really?”
“Yes, why?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said, wondering what the chances were that Sheila
would have picked that issue.
“The man I saw you talking with at Villandry, is he the owner?”
“Yes, I was discussing a consulting assignment.”
“Consulting.” He paused to consider the word. “Something we have in
common; that’s what I do as well.”
When she asked what kind, he replied, “The very expensive kind. I’m too
embarrassed to tell you how much they charge for my services.”
“And who charges these exorbitant rates for your services?”
“Arthur Andersen. I work in their insolvency division, managing a small
group of people. If a bankrupt company has any real estate, we decide what
to do with it. How about you?”
“Retail consulting. For Villandry, it was how to display the products in
the food hall in a more inviting manner.”
She explained that there hadn’t been enough to justify an assignment, as
most of the revenue was generated by the restaurant portion of the shop.
When he asked how she got into retail consulting, she described her first
assignment. “It was for a shopping center in Glasgow, a vertical mall actually.
That was what a real estate developer envisioned in an abandoned building.
It was only a block from the main shopping street, close enough to entice an
insurance company to become his financial partner. They insisted that he find
a consultant with retail experience to coordinate the tenant selection. I wasn’t
doing consulting at the time, but because of the two retail shops I owned, I
was one of the people he interviewed for the assignment. I think I got the job
because he liked my vision of each tenant being a specialty shop, rather than
part of a large chain. I created a list of prospective tenants, sold each one on
the idea and then decided where each should be located within the building.”
“Sounds very impressive. How did it work out?”
“Very well, thank you. The center was named Prince’s Square and the
developer convinced Prince Charles to attend the ribbon cutting for the grand
opening. I was able to speak with him for a few minutes. He was actually quite
nice.”
“I guess that was when he was still happily married to Princess Diana,
although based on what I’ve read recently, it doesn’t appear that marriage was
happy for very long. I must admit that I’m at a loss to understand the
fascination with the royal family.”
“Not much different from your Hollywood celebrities in America, is it?”
“Fair enough, but they’re not supported with taxpayer money. And it’s
not just the family, but their pets as well. I read that one of the Queen’s corgis
recently bit someone. I don’t suppose they’ll be putting the dog down for
that. Do you have any pets?”
“Do dust bunnies count?”
“Only if you have to feed them.”
She smiled, reminded of Alan’s wit.
And so it went, until she noted the time and said that she had to depart
for another appointment.
Samuel escorted her downstairs and hailed a taxi. As he held the door
open, he asked to see her again. “Let me think about it,” she replied. “I’ll
write to you.”
 Chapter 12

Years later, Samuel would wonder if their relationship would have

blossomed in the world of Instant Message and Twitter. In 1995, cells phones
were just starting to become common. To attract new customers, one British
company, Orange, was offering unlimited minutes for less than $10/month,
and not just for a promotional period, but forever. E-mail was a novelty few
used, at least in England. Thus, when Alison wrote to him, and he responded,
a pattern of correspondence was established.
Marshall McLuhan first coined the phrase, the medium is the message, in the
late 1960’s, but no one really understood it back then. It wasn’t until 1981,
when George W.S. Trow published his long essay, Within the Context of No
Context, that the general public started to gain some inkling of the extent to
which the medium of communication could influence the effects of that
communication.
In the solitary confines of his London flat, Samuel wrote long letters to
Alison. Had he conveyed the same information in a conversation, no doubt
Alison’s mind would have wandered. She might have lost interest completely.
Even if she listened closely, no way she would have remembered everything.
But not with a letter.
Mind wander, or lose interest? Put the letter down and pick it up again
later.
Can’t remember everything? Read it again.
Not clear about some point? There it was, a constant source of reference.
Plenty of time to appreciate both context and subtext.
At the time, Samuel had no idea of any of this. He just wanted to talk to
Alison through those letters.

Dear Alison,
There was a mail strike/work slowdown this past weekend. When I called and asked
when a letter sent on Saturday might arrive, I was told anytime between tomorrow and
Friday. It is now Monday evening and since I cannot talk with you (something I would
really like to do) I guess I will have to talk at you via this medium. I just returned from
running and the blood is pumping enough that it will be late before I finally am tired enough
to sleep. My body has not yet fully adjusted to the change, not just the time zone, but the
regular hours in an office. When I had my own business, I had more control over my time
and could easily arrange a fair amount of physical activity. Now I am reduced to running
around Regents Park whenever my schedule permits, which is often late at night, as happened
today.
One evening this past week when we were both working late, one of my associates gave
me a personality profile software program he had just discovered. It was remarkably accurate
for him, and he wanted to share his surprise and delight with someone. The program has
you draw a picture by offering you six alternatives for each of a series of choices. First is a
house, the six choices primarily differentiated by the shape and placement of the windows.
Then six alternatives for the fence, the gate and the path leading to the front door. Then six
choices of different shapes and sizes for various objects and their placement: a tree, a pond,
the sun, clouds and a snake. At the conclusion I received the following printout.

Your character has a strong emphasis on being ‘outgoing.’ This means you are either
sporty or a partygoer who loves wining and dining, etc. You are an extrovert, often behaving
brashly, and occasionally displaying exhibitionist type traits.
It’s not so surprising that you should feel that others often misunderstand you for you
are a deeply complex and difficult person to fathom. You prefer people who are ‘multi-faceted'
rather than stereotypes and you abhor vanity, shallowness or bigotry in others.
Others find you non-hostile and easy to approach. This is due mainly to the image you
project of being receptive to others. This does not mean that you suffer fools or enemies gladly
– merely that you give them a chance. Those who willingly wish ill against you, or mistake
your receptive manner as weakness, are soon stunned by your rebuke when you find out
about them.
Much of what we become is formed in the early years of our life by our parents and
family. When you were young your mother was always there for you: very loving, generous
and warm. She put her family first, before all else, and you respect her greatly. Surprisingly,
this has not been a major factor in shaping your character and the person you are today.
Other major factors in your childhood or adult life have been more influential on you!
 Your mother and father were not a close couple. They are shown in your picture as often
divided in their relationship.
You can be very introspective, often thinking deeply about life and its purpose. Your
picture indicates you possess a major capacity for reflecting on a variety of subjects especially
on philosophical or possibly emotional issues. You possess a strong belief in at least one
specific discipline: religion, sexual equality, science, animal rights, politics, etc.
In astrology one of the most passionate star-sign types is the Scorpion. You possess many
of the Scorpion traits: passionate, hot and exciting in love and sensual pursuits. In life you
will pursue anything which fires your imagination for as long as it captures you. This type
of dynamic obsession can overcome unbelievable odds and obstacles and enables you to achieve
great things. But this same power can lead to great pain and extensive self-damage especially
in matters of the heart.
This has happened to you: your picture is showing repression of all these things – the
fire is not burning as bright as it once did.
Summary of other traits and personal tastes:
Decision making: Plays safe – avoids taking chances.
Daydreams most of: Romance or self-heroism.
Worst nightmares of: Loneliness, being trapped, bad health.
General outlook: Very optimistic.

I was, and remain, more than a little surprised at the accuracy of the profile. There are
some traits that I have been aware of for some time, but I am amazed that they could be
predicted so accurately from a simple drawing. You can regard it as a screening device.
I could not get you out of my mind for the entire weekend. At one level I realized I was
simply projecting an awful lot of my own thoughts/dreams/desires on to you for I hardly
know you. Yet, at another level I thought I knew more than I could rationally explain.
And then at another level I decided I did not really care what it was because I felt so good.
It has been a very long time since I felt this way – like a 15-year-old kid. And the funny
(at least to me) thing was that not one of my thoughts was sexual.
That was the constant. I just wanted to talk to you. Your Scottish lilt is lovely to listen
to. The way you pronounce my name is at once both sensual and a little musical. And the
wonderful aspect about it is that you are just speaking normally.
I realize an hour and a half of conversation is hardly the basis for a relationship, but
there was something special there – for me at least and I assume for you also to some degree,
as it is rare for one person to feel something that the other does not in any one-on-one
situation. That knowledge has helped me through many situations when I felt awkward, for
I realized the other person most likely felt the same way. I look forward to talking with you,
long conversations, and seeing you again.
Yours,
Samuel

Dear Alison,
You asked about my feelings. I am not certain this qualifies, but I literally burn with
desire to excel at whatever I undertake. At different times it has been different things. And
I don’t quite know where I obtained this obsessive quality. College I would guess, although
I was never a particularly good student, either in high school or in college.
In athletic endeavors it is a trait that has become more pronounced as I have aged.
Ten years ago, I took-up squash because I was tired of getting beat-up on the basketball
floor. After fooling around for a few years, I decided I wanted to become good. I took
lessons, trained, entered lots of tournaments and generally played a lot. When I made it to
the A level at age 40, I decided I wanted to be ranked in the top 10 in the country by the
time I reached the over-45 division. I beat that objective by being ranked 9th four years
later while still in the over-40 division.
My mid-life crisis. I had undertaken an ambitious real estate development project while
running my own company. I had no money but as the costs mounted, I managed to convince
consultants to work on a deferred-payment basis and banks and individuals to lend me
lots of money. At one point I had debts of over $1.5 million. If I had slipped, I would have
fallen into financial oblivion, as I had borrowed against everything I owned except my
wardrobe, and that was excepted only because I could find no lender willing to take it as
collateral. At the very last minute I was able to secure a financial partner, but it was a
chimera for we were soon at odds and rather than compromise I forced him to buy me out
of the project. I had all my debts repaid and made a little bit of money, but I had lost the
fire in my belly.
A friend helped me to understand the concept of integrity: living one’s life with integrity
towards whatever one’s beliefs are. At his behest, I articulated the three beliefs that I wanted
to guide me: live large (as in having ambitious dreams and goals), love learning, and suspend
judgment. Although I have not articulated them for several months now, they are still there
in the back of my mind all the time.
 He also taught me the idea of being open to possibilities. And that is why I have no
expectations about how our relationship evolves. I have suspended judgment and am open
to the possibilities. And that is why I am finally comfortable writing letters that I thought
would be difficult. This is how I feel. It is all very real and very important to me, and even
as I write this, I am learning about myself. Even if I never see you again, there has been a
shift in my life, and I like it.
I know that I am working now for two reasons: to prove to myself that I can reinvent
myself successfully (perhaps, to paraphrase your comment, I will always want the latest
version of that t-shirt); and to make a difference in the lives of the people who report to me
at work.
I realize this has been a little like what computer people refer to as a core dump. At
one level you probably know more about me than most people, yet obviously at another level
you do not know very much either.
The proverbial ball is now in your court. I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours,
Samuel

Alison suggested they meet again.

Dear Samuel,
You have been so open, showing your integrity and so much of yourself, that my feeling
is (and I’m usually right when I have these feelings) that I would prefer to talk face to face.
You may have divined that I guard my privacy ferociously. I am blessed with a generous
number of close friends, and they all say that I am the most private person they know. But
they also say that, once I have given my trust to someone, I am (they say) the most generous,
loving and caring of friends. This obviously applies, with more intensity, to intimate
relationships.
The qualities I value most are sincerity, trust, generosity of spirit, integrity, loyalty,
sensitivity and truth. I admire enthusiasm for life, as I respect anyone who does their job to
the very best of their ability and takes pride and pleasure in it. This feeling encompasses
anybody, from a waiter to a brain surgeon. You may have noticed that many people in the
service industries here seem to resent what they regard (and in many ways what the class
system has instilled in them) as a servile role in life, instead of making it a source of pride
and accomplishment.
 A sensitive man is a reasonably rare discovery. I suppose that the qualities I list above
might to some ears sound old-fashioned – so what? There is so much self-interest abroad –
all too obvious, for example, in business and politics. Another old-fashioned word is
manners, which we try so hard to convey to our children. The very basic please and thank
you mantra which you hear yourself repeating ad nauseam seems a chore – until one day
you realize, much to your delight (and relief), that it has just become as natural to them as
breathing. In my world (which is not always practical), it is manners and not money that
makes the world go round.
Sometimes in life there is a chance to seize the moment. Perhaps this is one.
One of the joys of my life is that it has been generously garnished with surprises. Of
course, there have been unpleasant ones, but I like to think of “surprise” as a happy and
enchanting word. I adore surprises: it must be the child in me.
No matter what, you have paid me the greatest compliment in saying that you have
recaptured feelings you had at 15. How lovely!
I once used the term exceptional man. Your letters are exceptional, and perhaps the
logical conclusion is that you are too.
Until I know someone well, the telephone is not an easy means of communication for
me – rather more functional than personal. So, I will go with my feeling, which is to
telephone you and arrange to meet again when we can talk freely face to face.
Yours,
Alison
 Chapter 13

Samuel took the train to Surrey, about the same distance from London as
Church Brampton, only southeast as opposed to due north. The destination
was Eastwell Manor, where Alison would meet him for dinner. This was a
family home that had been converted into a hotel. Only registered guests were
allowed beyond the main floor, but the brochure described twenty-three
rooms/suites. An awful lot of space for the family that originally occupied
the dwelling. The grounds appeared similarly large, but spring had not yet
arrived, no flowers were blooming, and the landscaping was more barren than
verdant. After a brief wander, Samuel returned to a sitting area off the main
lobby, settled into a wingback chair and soon fell asleep.
When Alison arrived, she was struck by the contradiction. On the one
hand, Samuel was clearly a mature man. There was a small bald spot at the
top of his head she’d not seen before. But he looked as innocent and
vulnerable as a child, his double-breasted, camel-hair topcoat swathing him
like a blanket. She resisted the urge to gently brush back the hair that had
fallen across his forehead. Instead, she gently touched his arm, and he awoke.
Samuel’s first thought was that Alison looked even better than he
remembered from their meeting at the Basil Street Hotel. He might not have
remembered much from the brief encounter at Villandry, but he had a vivid
recollection from their lunch. Smooth, unblemished skin. Bangs that covered
her forehead, with the rest of her blonde hair hanging straight to her
shoulders with a slight upward curl at the end. A fine-boned nose and well-
defined cheekbones. An incandescent smile. Teeth that were regular, but not
movie-star perfect.
As before, she wore little make-up. At the Basil Street Hotel, he’d thought
her beautiful, not in the way of fashion models, or the perfectly coiffed and
impeccably dressed women he occasionally saw on London’s streets. Rather,
a natural beauty.
 This evening, she still looked beautiful, but she was dressed like a fashion
model. Or a fashion model posing as a business executive. A deep purple
blouse was open at the throat, exposing a thin gold chain. A stylized black
jacket without either buttons or lapels extended halfway down a straight skirt,
also black. A purple, scarf-like belt clinched the jacket around her waist. The
jacket’s full-length sleeves were rolled up a couple of turns, and the long
sleeves of the purple blouse were rolled over the jacket’s sleeves. She looked
elegant while simultaneously conveying the impression that she was a
professional businesswoman.
They retired to the dining room, a stiff and formal place. Heavy curtains
covered the windows, thick carpeting covered the floor, and a hushed air
covered the room. Few people were present at this early dining hour of
6:30.
Alison had spent most of their previous encounter answering his
questions. This evening, she had a few of her own.
“I told you my path to consulting. What was yours?”
“It’s not as if I planned this. I was developing offices and business parks
in the San Francisco Bay area, at least until an economic recession ended the
need for new buildings. I decided to support my soon-to-be ex-wife’s career
by agreeing to accompany her overseas. Didn’t expect to work, but was told
about this consulting job, interviewed, and was then offered the position.”
“Tell me what you liked best, back when you were doing development
work.”
“Seriously? You really want to hear this?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve often said it’s like playing a chess game, except that overstates the
complexity. There are a series of strands that have to be woven together to
make a successful project. The first is envisioning what will work best on the
land, and fit in with the existing community, and still be profitable enough to
attract the necessary money. Then there’s convincing everyone that the vision
is viable – the neighbors, the local government, the financial sources. Once
all those people are on board, you have to coordinate the architects and
engineers, and all of the other consultants to create the drawings, and then
the contractor to get it built. And finally, tenants have to lease space, which
requires marketing and lease negotiations. In California, the entire process
can take from three to five years, and when it all works, when the buildings
are finished and occupied, well, that’s about as rewarding as it gets.”
As he spoke, she heard the bantering tone become more serious.
“And then there’s one other thing, but I hardly ever mention it, so you’ll
have to promise not to laugh.”
She was so taken aback by the request, she replied, “My turn to ask if
you’re serious. You want me to promise not to laugh?”
“I am, and I do.”
“Okay, I promise not to laugh.”
“When I was a Boy Scout, we were told to always leave a campsite in
better condition than we found it. That’s what I like about development,
creating something that leaves the land in better condition than I found it.”
She laughed.
“Hey, you promised.”
“Sorry. It’s just that I’m having difficulty envisioning how a business park
could be an improvement on a meadow or an orchard.”
“Fair enough. That’s what you people over here refer to as a greenfield
site. My developments were all on what you call brownfield sites, land that
had previously been used for industrial purposes. Believe me, what I built was
a lot nicer than what I found.”
“Okay,” she conceded.
After coffee and desert, Alison drove Samuel to the train station for his
return journey to London. She wondered if he might kiss her goodbye, and if
he attempted to do so, how he might navigate this simple act from his bucket
seat and across a manual transmission.
She parked the car, and before she could say anything, he took her hand
from the parking brake. She watched as he lowered his head and she felt his
lips gently kiss the back of her hand. A chivalrous kiss of her hand like she’d
seen in movies. But his head remained bowed and first his mouth and then
his tongue caressed the back of her hand and wrist. The sensations were as
erotic as his actions were unexpected. She rested her head against the back of
her seat and closed her eyes. She felt him turn her hand and then his mouth
was on her palm. She sighed. One of her fingers was enveloped in his mouth.
She moaned softly.
Immersed in the sensations, she lost track of the time. She heard him say,
“My train is arriving, and it’s the last one to London tonight.” She opened her
eyes and saw him sprinting towards the platform.

Dear Samuel,
I feel incredibly close to you. This amazing feeling has formed after spending only a few
hours together. Most people would take weeks, months or years to achieve this and some
would never achieve it all.
Should I spend hours analyzing this? Or should I say How wonderful and just accept
and enjoy it. My tendency is the latter. Sometimes in life it is perhaps pointless to ask why,
why, why. ----------- Why not!
When you made love to my hand (that was how it felt) in the station car park, for me
it was a blend of tender and erotic. An incredible blend.
I start to show you more of myself and I feel SAFE doing so. For me this is essential
and happens only rarely. I think because your letters have been so revealing and totally
honest that I cannot but feel utterly unthreatened. Not always my experience of men. You
are an exceptionally sensitive man yet strong enough to describe your weaknesses. A rare
combination I can assure you.
Sometimes the things in life you don’t expect are all the more precious because of that.
I will see you next Thursday. Take care of yourself until then.
Warmly,
Alison

That Thursday was the day they agreed to meet for lunch at her suggested
restaurant, Joe’s. Samuel left the office and hailed a cab on The Strand. “I’m
going to a restaurant, Joe’s, in Chelsea. Do you know it?”
“Right-o, guvnor. It’s across the street from a women’s clothing store the
same bloke owns. No problem with his ego, eh, naming both places after
himself.”
Another example of The Knowledge. A colleague at work told him that this
was the term for knowing the city, but especially the best route between any
two points. Every taxi driver had to possess The Knowledge before getting a
license. Over 300 standard routes had to be memorized, as well as all the
places of interest within the entire city: museums, monuments, hospitals,
police stations, theatres, the list went on and on. In addition to a written exam,
everything was tested in a series of oral exams; typically, a dozen were
required to achieve a passing grade. The entire process could take four years
and was rarely competed in less than two.
Samuel saw the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, then Green Park, with Buckingham
Palace in the distance. But with all the turns taken, he no longer knew what
direction they were traveling. At least he was comfortable; London taxis were
cavernous compared to those in the US. The elevators were the opposite,
especially in the older buildings: tiny and cramped compared to the ones in
America. Given the choice of where to put the extra space, the Brits had
properly chosen taxi cabs over elevators; an elevator ride was usually
measured in seconds, but time could stand still when a taxi was caught in
traffic.
Joe’s had the feel of a French bistro, the tables close together, the buzz
of conversation pleasant, not too loud. The unwritten dress code appeared to
be informal, although in London that meant almost everyone was stylishly
attired. There were some ladies who lunch, many no doubt fresh from
shopping across the street at the owner’s clothing store. With only a few suits
in the crowd, this would be a pleasant change from his typical business lunch.
Samuel took some deep breaths to quell the butterflies that had been
fluttering in his stomach since leaving the familiar confines of his office. A
few minutes later, he saw Alison enter the restaurant and watched heads turn
as she was led past the bar and up the two steps towards the dining area. He’d
come to realize that she wasn’t quite as tall as she looked; he guessed five feet
six or seven inches. The combination of her slender body, long legs and
exceptional posture were responsible. How did she manage to keep her back
perfectly straight all the time, even when sitting?
“I’ve had a chance to look at the menu,” he said when she was seated.
“It’s more ambitious than I expected. I was under the impression that
England remained a bit of a culinary backwater. But then, perhaps I was
overly influenced by one of my first meals here. They served French fries
with the spaghetti and meat balls.”
Alison laughed. “You mean chips; you’re in England now. And I’ll bet
that didn’t happen in London.”
“Okay, chips, and yes, it was at a pub a long way from London. And we
did eat at picnic tables on the lawn in the back. But still, starch with the
starch?”
“London’s different. Ever heard of Gordon Ramsay?”
“No.”
“His restaurant, Aubergine, isn’t too far away. It just received a Michelin
star. In any event, I do hope you like the food here. This is one of my favorite
restaurants.”
The waiter took their order and departed. He reached across the table
and covered her hand with his.
“Alison, I have something to tell you.”
He paused.
“I’m in love with you. I know I’ve alluded to it in my letters, but I’ve
never said it outright. I realize it must sound crazy given that we’ve spent
only a few hours together, but there it is.
“The reason I’m telling you here is that I wanted to do it in a public place,
where you wouldn’t feel pressured. Too often a man will tell a woman he
loves her to get her to go to bed with him. It’s what my college roommate
once told me: Men give love to get sex, and women give sex to get love. That’s not
what I want. But I did want you to know how I feel.”
She smiled but remained silent.
He removed his hand. “I won’t mention it again, at least not this
afternoon, so let’s enjoy lunch.”
Afterwards, he suggested a walk.
“Don’t you have to get back to work?” Alison asked.
“No, I told the office I’d be out for the afternoon, preparing for a
business trip up north tomorrow. I have to be at Heathrow for a 7:30 AM
flight.”
“You’re in luck then, as I know this neighborhood.”
“That’s good, because I certainly don’t. What is this neighborhood
anyway?”
“I’m not certain of the proper name,” she answered. “We’re sort of at
the confluence of Knightsbridge, Chelsea and South Kensington.”
 Almost immediately after leaving the restaurant they rounded a corner
and Samuel did a double take. “Now that’s an interesting building.”
“I thought you might like it,” she said. “It’s shops and restaurants now,
but it used to be Michelin’s headquarters here in the UK. There aren’t many
art deco buildings in London, and this one is almost over the top. I’m fairly
certain the stained-glass windows…”
She raised her head towards the second floor. There was a large stained-
glass window with an image of the Michelin man smoking a cigar and kick
boxing.
“…were added when the building was renovated. What I really like is
the open ground floor that invites you in, with those old cars from the 1920’s
amidst the retail displays. Worth a small detour.”
When they walked along Walton Street, Alison explained that these were
some of the shops she approached to sell their products at her shops in
Glasgow. “I convinced them that it would expand their business because
there were a lot of affluent Scottish women who would not regularly make
the journey to London to shop.”
After an hour of leisurely meandering, he asked, “I don’t know it as well,
but would you like to see my neighborhood?”
Alison agreed, and they took a taxi to Bryanston Square, four blocks
north of the Marble Arch. Samuel gestured towards the key garden in the
center of the block.
“I’ve had a key to access this garden since I first moved in, but I’ve never
used it. I was told that only residents in the buildings overlooking it get keys,
and then only if they pay a small fee that covers the maintenance costs. Shall
we take a tour?”
The garden was a long, narrow space, that extended the entire north-
south length of the block. Trees and shrubs lined the perimeter, softening
the visual impact of the high, wrought-iron fence. An oval gravel path
roughly followed the line of the fence, with a manicured lawn in the middle.
Park benches were placed in miniature cul-de-sacs at irregular intervals.
Other than a solitary, elderly woman sitting on one of the benches, they were
alone in the late afternoon quiet.
“I can see why they keep it under lock and key,” he said. “In San
Francisco, a place like this would be filled with homeless people.”
When they exited through the wrought iron gate, Samuel asked Alison if
she’d like to stay for a light supper. “We can buy some food and I have a
bottle of good champagne in the refrigerator.”
She paused momentarily before agreeing. At a nearby grocery store, he
purchased some fruit, bread and cheese.
 Chapter 14

In a movie, everyone watching would know how this evening would end.
Not Samuel. He was genuinely oblivious of the implications when he
extended the dinner invitation. He just wanted to spend more time with
Alison. After all, he hadn’t touched her since his declaration of love at Joe’s,
and that had been nothing more than placing his hand atop hers. He hadn’t
kissed Alison, other than her hand at the station car park after dinner at
Eastwell Manor. He’d been a perfect gentleman, he told himself, and that
would continue.
The flat was up one flight of stairs. The entrance was a small hallway that
divided the space, bedroom to the left, living room to the right. At the end
of the living room, an opening to the right revealed the kitchen. A round
table and two chairs sat in front of a window that looked out on the key
garden. Two tall windows offered the same view from the living room.
“I think those windows are twelve feet tall,” Samuel said. “The property
manager told me this building used to be a single-family home and this floor
was a combination living room and entertainment center for the house.”
The living room had a contemporary sectional sofa with a stone and
wrought iron coffee table. A large, free-standing television that was modern,
almost futuristic, a small Bang & Olufsen logo barely visible. A bookcase that
was not quite full. A pair of tall floor lamps. Other than the table and chairs,
the kitchen was empty, the counters clear, the sink clean.
Samuel opened a bottle of Laurent Perrier and poured two glasses. He
handed one to Alison, and then raised his, smiling as he offered a brief
salutation, Welcome.
They ate at the kitchen table. They were almost finished when Samuel
rose from his chair. He couldn’t think of a way to articulate his burning
desire to kiss her. He just leaned over and placed his lips on hers.
She was surprised, yet her hand instinctively reached up to his face,
caressing his cheek. He pulled back and then reached down to lift her to her
feet. No words were exchanged as they embraced, the kiss more insistent
now. Alison let her body melt against his and felt his hardness.
She broke the kiss, and said in a hoarse whisper, “Let’s go to the
bedroom.”
Samuel hid his surprise. It was only then that he realized how this evening
would end.
She entered first, but immediately on crossing the threshold, felt her
knees start to buckle. She leaned against the wall, her head tilted down, her
breathing shallow. He placed a hand underneath her chin, slowly raised her
head and gently kissed her lips. An involuntary shudder rippled through her
body.
“Please give me a few moments in the loo.”
“It’s just there.” He nodded towards the door at the corner of the
bedroom, then stepped outside and shut the door to give her more privacy.
When he re-entered a few minutes later, she was in bed, waiting under
the covers. He undressed silently. His eyes widened when he pulled back the
covers and saw the dark blue lingerie, including garter belt and stockings. He
bent to kiss her mouth. She slid her hands around his neck and pulled him
down alongside her.
He nuzzled her neck as his hands circled her back to unclasp her bra.
She shifted slightly to ease its removal, and then lay back and closed her eyes,
feeling his mouth on her breasts, then trailing down her stomach, and then
she was lifting her hips as he removed her panties. Her hips arched reflexively
when his tongue found her center. She moaned his name and reached down
for him. She felt his weight shift and then he was on top of her, and they
were joined.
Afterwards, they lay side by side on their backs, arms outstretched. She
turned towards him. “Tell me how you feel.”
He started to speak but stopped. The words running though his head
sounded too trite to repeat out loud.
“Let me play some songs for you.”
The small stereo on the dresser had the same futuristic look as the
television. Small glass doors slid open when his hand got close. He pushed
a button, a circular disc rose, and then closed after the CD was inserted. He
selected a song and crawled back into bed alongside her.
And so it went for a half dozen songs, Alison listening to unfamiliar
lyrics, not picking up everything, but enough to realize that if Samuel was not
a complete romantic, he certainly had a strong streak.
She sat up and started to remove her garter belt and stockings. His arms
encircled her from behind and he kissed the back of her neck. She turned
around, found his mouth with hers. A long kiss, and then she pushed him on
his back. This time, it was her mouth trailing down his chest, and then she
was on top of him, the pace more languorous as they found a slow, steady
rhythm. She came, but his hands continued to guide her hips. She came again,
and still his hands kept her moving. His body stiffened and they came
together.
She collapsed alongside him and they fell asleep almost immediately. A
few hours later they awoke, made love again and fell back asleep. She was
snuggled against his back, both of her arms wrapped around him, when the
alarm awakened them.
He showered and dressed as quietly as possible in the confined space.
“Sleep in as long as you want,” he said. “I’ve left a set of keys for you on
the bureau, in case you want to go out for coffee or breakfast before you
leave. I’m afraid I don’t have either. Just leave the keys when you finally
depart, and the door will lock behind you.”
He bent over to kiss her goodbye.
“Last night was amazing, Alison. I’ll call you tonight, as soon as I get
home.”
She purchased some fresh-cut flowers and left them in a vase on the
kitchen table, along with a note. The front of the card was a simple, child-
like drawing of a couple holding hands in the gondola of a hot air balloon.
Inside, she wrote:

Darling Samuel,
Here we are starting out on our journey. And isn’t it woooonderful?
With my love,
Alison
 The following day she sent a letter.

Dear Samuel,
One of the moments that touched me most was in Joe’s. Can you guess? You had
very carefully and thoughtfully chosen a public place to tell me you are in love with me so
that I should not feel compromised. It was so typical of your behavior to me – loving and
instinctively right. Thank you for a special moment I shall always treasure.
I know I shall always treasure the entire 18 hours. It had its own momentum and
was perfect. The sheer ecstasy of discovering each other’s body and the exquisite pleasure
that ensued. Lying in each other’s arms satiated and at peace... The unwelcome intrusion
of the alarm... Looking up at you as you dressed to meet the day (and looking gorgeous)
and stooping to kiss me a tender goodbye… Hearing the flat door close and lying,
luxuriating dreamily before gently preparing myself for the day… Walking in the
morning sunshine to buy flowers and a card to leave for my lover...
Our wonderful telephone call to end the start of that snatched day and the pleasure
of your voice as you naturally and easily expressed your feelings about my responses to our
lovemaking. Yes, it will be a long two weeks before we can be together but what things to
remember and savor during the wait.
You are that exceptional man I talked about in my first letter. You are lovely, witty,
warm, kind, highly desirable, with a complex and fascinating mind, honest and with
integrity – should I go on? Another time, and preferably in your arms.
Please look after yourself, Darling, as you have become very precious to me.
Your Alison
 Chapter 15

Go with the flow. One of those New Age expressions common in

California. But this was the first time Samuel had done so without much
thought as to where the flow might be taking him.
The time with Alison was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He felt
like something inside had shifted, that he was now a different person. An
incident made him wonder if the aura he projected had changed as well.
A block north of his flat there was a small church that looked like it
belonged in the ancient part of Rome, not central London. It was constructed
of a weathered, white stone. When Samuel sat on one of the stone benches
in its courtyard and turned away from the street, the only view was of the
church, and it felt like being in medieval Italy.
Walking home one afternoon, he rested on one of these stone benches,
seeking a few moments of quiet contemplation. As he raised his face
towards the warmth of the sun, he noticed a small child on the other side
of the courtyard. She looked to be two or three years old, and was bundled
in a down-filled parka that gave her body the appearance of a miniature
Michelin man. She was accompanied by a young woman, presumably either
her mother or nanny.
He returned his gaze to the sun, but in his peripheral vision he saw the
little girl walking towards him. Grown men didn’t engage with little girls so
he continued to avoid looking at her. Until she climbed onto his lap. He
was completely surprised. Even the young children of friends in San
Francisco had never done this. The little girl was staring up at him and
smiling. He reflexively extended a protective arm to keep her from tumbling
off. He returned her smile, and ventured a tentative, Hi.
The child said nothing. She just sat there, smiling up at him. A minute
or two later, the young woman walked over the retrieve the little girl.
Samuel didn’t know what to say and apparently she didn’t either. There
were more wordless smiles as he gently lifted the little girl from his lap. He
watched the two walk away, hand-in-hand. The little girl turned once to
look back, her enigmatic smile barely discernible in the distance.

Not only was Samuel busy at work, he was now traveling to

Almondbury once or twice during the week in addition to the weekends.
The reason was his daughter’s unhappiness.
During much of the week in England the previous June, before Janie
accepted the promotion, they had looked at several alternatives for
Hannah’s school. The final choice was Northampton School for Girls,
which appeared to be a mirror image of Hamlin, the all-girls school Hannah
had attended in San Francisco.
Except they hadn’t considered the geography. Hamlin was located on
Broadway in the center of San Francisco. The distances between Hannah’s
classmates were measured in blocks, which made spontaneous bonding and
visits easy. In rural Northampton, these distances were measured in miles,
which effectively eliminated anything spontaneous. Even with advance
planning, the two-lane country roads typically meant a half-hour drive each
way.
This wouldn’t have been so daunting had there been after-school day
care, which was where Hannah typically spent 2-3 hours each day after classes
ended at Hamlin. Part of the time was devoted to study, and part to various
activities with classmates. There was no after-school day care at
Northampton, and the only after-school activity was field hockey, which
Hannah had never played.
The seeds of friendship are planted in the casual time girls spend together.
Without this casual time, it was difficult for Hannah to make friends. And this
was exacerbated by an unfamiliar environment with behavioral norms that
were more formal than casual California. It was easy to understand why
Hannah was not a happy camper.
In January Samuel learned that Hannah was similarly unhappy at home
when Janie was away for business. Once or twice each week, Hannah would
be forced to spend an unpleasant night in the cigarette-smoke-filled
environment of the housekeeper’s home.
 So Samuel started returning to Almondbury on the nights Janie was away.
The journey – tube, train and taxi – was almost three hours. This meant he
had barely an hour with Hannah before her bedtime, and for him to arrive at
work on time the following morning, he departed when the housekeeper
arrived, and before Hannah arose.
The solution finally seemed obvious: boarding school. Living with her
classmates 24/7 would surely facilitate Hannah making friends and
assimilating.
While the rationale for boarding school was simple, choosing one was
not. England had invented boarding schools, and the number of choices
was mind numbing.
Samuel and Janie spent two weeks reading through the ratings tables
and other guides to narrow the choices to a manageable number. Then, five
weeks were devoted to visiting these schools. The journeys were long, not
because the distances were so great or the roads so bad, but rather because
the freeways were so few, at least compared to California. None of the
schools was close to a freeway, which typically meant twice the expected
driving time. The 80 miles to Cheltenham Ladies’ College took over 2
hours. The 150 miles to Sherborne School for Girls required almost 4
hours.
The trains were no faster. The hub and spoke system required a stop in
London. The car journey of 80 miles to Cheltenham Ladies’ College became
a train journey of 170 miles – south to London and then west to
Cheltenham. Not to mention the travel time in London between Euston,
(where in-bound train arrived) and Paddington (where the out-bound train
departed).
The most unusual architecture was at Downe House. The school was
originally built for a religious order called the Sound of Silence. The place
felt as austere as the name implied. Many of the buildings were Spanish-
style white stucco with red tile roofs, a normal sight in California, but
incongruous in rural England.
The Uppingham School was founded almost 200 years before America,
and boasted the presence of Anthony Way, a boy the same age as Hannah.
He’d just appeared in a BBC mini-series where his angelic voice resulted in
a recording contract, and a performance before the Queen.
Cheltenham Ladies’ College was the last school visited and became the
unanimous choice. The reason was the school’s secret weapon, one that
was surreptitiously unleashed on families experiencing the same questions
and uncertainties that were on the verge of overwhelming not only Janie
and Samuel, but Hannah as well. That secret weapon was Mrs. Jenny Piper,
the Housemistress of Farnley Lodge, where Hannah would be living.
This was the first time any school placed such emphasis on the
residence as opposed to the academic program and the school’s facilities.
Not that Cheltenham took these for granted: their test scores were among
the highest, and the facilities, many in a series of gothic stone building
arranged around the grass lawns of a quad, were first rate. Rather,
Cheltenham wanted the real parents to fully understand the role Mrs. Piper
would play as the surrogate parent.
Jenny Piper embodied the ideal blend of characteristics in an authority
figure. She would be the stern taskmaster administering consequences when
clearly defined boundaries were breached. But she would also be the
compassionate companion, listening sympathetically to the travails of a
teenage girl.
She was of average height, with mousy brown hair and regular, but
plain, features that eyeglasses did nothing to enhance. Yet her love of
Cheltenham Ladies’ College, and her joy at being the Housemistress of
Farnley Lodge, created a glow that transformed what should have been an
ordinary appearance into something special.
She would take care of Hannah, not coddle her, but make certain she
had every opportunity to assimilate into this new environment. Over the
years, she had helped countless other girls achieve this same goal.
A palpable sense of relief came with the realization that the search was
over.
 Chapter 16

After that spectacular first night with Alison, Samuel stopped having sex
with Janie. She was so busy with work, and so infrequent were their conjugal
relations anyway, he was certain she hadn’t noticed. But his life was so busy,
he wasn’t having sex with Alison either. Rather their relationship flourished
with letters and telephone conversations. Until he managed to take Alison on
a mid-week business trip of three days to the west of England. She left him
with the memento of a small hickey on his neck, something he’d last seen in
high school.
But it was large enough for Janie to notice when he stepped out of the
shower after a five-mile run on the following Saturday afternoon. “What’s
that on your neck?” she asked.
Why are you here in the bathroom on a Saturday afternoon? he wanted to ask. But
unable to conjure a reasonable answer, he remained mute.
“You’ve been having an affair, haven’t you?” Janie’s tone was strident
now.
Samuel had known this moment would come, had rehearsed countless
times in his mind what he might say. But like most unpleasant tasks, he’d been
postponing it. Flustered, he could recall none of his rehearsed lines, and his
response came out in a rush.
“No, it’s more than that. I’ve met another woman. We’ve fallen in love
and I want a divorce.”
Janie must have been expecting this response. Her reply was immediate,
and she pushed the button he dreaded the most.
“I want you to come downstairs right now and tell Hannah.”
She turned and was gone.
There was none of the relief Samuel thought would exist when he came
clean. If anything, it was the opposite. Inside, his stomach was thrumming
with anxiety. Outside, his whole body felt like he was submerged at the
bottom of a swimming pool and could move only in slow motion. The simple
process of getting dressed was difficult.
He had no idea how Hannah would react, but he knew it would not be
pleasant. He heard Janie as he descended the stairs.
“Hannah, come in here please, your father has something to tell you.”
A muffled reply, and then Janie’s voice again, “Yes, now.”
Samuel arrived at the kitchen table as Hannah was sitting down. She
looked up at him expectantly as Janie repeated, “Your father has something
to tell you.”
“Hannah, I met a woman and we fell in love with each other. That means
your mother and I are going to get divorced.” The words sounded matter of
fact, but they were like lead weights being dropped into his stomach.
Before he could continue, Hannah pushed back her chair and was gone.
Perhaps just as well, as he had no idea what to say next. He watched her turn
the corner and heard her footsteps on the stairs. He looked back at Janie.
He knew this was his fault, but he wanted to blame her.
“Was that really necessary? Was that the best way to handle this?”
“It was your choice. You’re the one who chose to have an affair. You’re
the one who chose to break-up this family.”
He had no response to that truth, so he silently left the table and walked
upstairs.
He found Hannah in her bedroom. She was lying on her bed, pencil in
hand, looking at a blank page in her notebook.
“Hannah, are you okay?”
She nodded yes, avoiding his eyes.
“Hannah, look at me.”
She raised her head.
“Do you want to talk about this?”
“No.”
He could hardly blame her, but he had no clue what to say next.
“Well, whenever you want to, just let me know. Are you okay now?”
“Yes.”
What else was she going to say?
“Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”
 A half hour later, a taxi deposited him at the train station, and he was
headed back to the flat in London.
Samuel had to return to San Francisco the following week for business.
There was no one in London he could confide in, no one he could turn to
for advice, so he called Jim Smith and asked to meet for dinner.
Jim and Donna Smith had been his and Janie’s best friends in San
Francisco. The foursome had been inseparable… until Donna died from
brain cancer three years earlier.
Samuel felt that no one knew him, and his relationship with Janie, better
than Jim, and he chose to unburden himself over dinner at the Elite Café,
a Cajun restaurant on Fillmore Street. This was one of the few restaurants
with a handful of old-fashioned, curtained-off booths, in this case, located
along one wall of the large, open dining room. These booths afforded
almost complete privacy in an otherwise crowded and bustling restaurant.
Samuel told Jim everything. How he met Alison. How surprised he was
at having fallen in love. How amazing the feeling was, unlike anything he’d
previously experienced. But also, how guilty he felt. About betraying Janie.
About breaking his personal vow that Hannah not be raised in a divorced
household.
“I’m planning to stay in England to be with her, Jim. Am I crazy?”
“Have you slept with her?”
Samuel was startled, but after a moment’s hesitation, replied, “Yes.”
There was an awkward silence. Samuel spooned a mouthful of the
restaurant’s famous gumbo.
Jim sat quietly until Samuel looked up. “And…” Jim said.
“It was fantastic.”
“I think you should go for it, Samuel. You don’t want to be one of those
guys at the nursing home: eighty-five years old, sitting in a rocking chair on
the porch, drooling and wondering what your life might have been like if
you’d followed your heart.”
“What about Janie?”
“She is one of the toughest women I know. She’ll survive,” Jim said, and
then added, “Besides, how could you stay with her, feeling the way you do
about Alison?”
 And then Jim was confiding in him. About the woman he met during
his recent trip to Carnival in Rio. Dancing all night. Intimate conversations
in the pre-dawn quiet. The instant chemistry, unlike anything before, even
with Donna.
Rio? Dancing until dawn? Jim was the most buttoned-down guy Samuel
knew. Rarely drank, not a hair out of place, his jeans never wrinkled, even
his t-shirts looked pressed.
Jim talked about returning to Rio, about having this woman come to
visit him in San Francisco.
What a pair we are, Samuel thought.
It would not be until six months later that Samuel would meet this
extraordinary individual, and it would turn out to be, not a woman, but a
young man.
Samuel might have looked like the cliché of the middle-aged man
trading in his wife for a younger model, but it wasn’t true because Alison
was nearly three years older than Janie.
Jim, on the other hand, was the cliché of the middle-aged gay man taking
a much younger man as a lover. And, like most such clichés, the relationship
would dissolve a few years later.
 Chapter 17

Once the rage subsided, Janie’s first thought was, I don’t have time for this
crap. She was just settling into her new role, and what a role it was. Even when
she was head of Women’s Wear, she was just another executive at Levi
Strauss. But here in England, she was Levi Strauss. She was accepted as an
equal with the country’s business leaders, or at least the ones she met. Like
Stuart Rose, who would soon become Chairman of Marks & Spencer, and
eventually be knighted for his contributions to the retail industry.
As General Manager for all Levi Strauss operations in the UK, she’d get
the lion’s share of the credit when things went well. But this was a dual-edged
sword, with comparable blame assessed when things did not go well.
The good news was that she was here in England, not back at company
headquarters in San Francisco, where another of Bob Haas’s initiatives was
spiraling out of control.
It was difficult to criticize Bob. His academic credentials were
impeccable: Phi Beta Kappa at Berkeley, a Baker Scholar at the Harvard
Business School. In between, he served two years in the Peace Corps, and
immediately after receiving his MBA, spent a year as a White House Fellow.
Finally, three years at McKinsey before joining the family business. He was
the great, great grandnephew of Levi Strauss. His father, Walter Haas, ran
the company for 23 years before Bob assumed control – first as Chief
Operating Officer in 1982 and then as Chief Executive Officer in 1984.
Bob used the analytic skills he acquired in business school, and honed
at McKinsey, to implement a two-step process. First, he took the company
private. This eliminated the pressure all public companies faced: the need
to produce ever increasing quarterly earnings to satisfy Wall Street. Then,
he implemented a program of improvements to the production and
distribution operations. The result was a short-term dip in profits that
would be more than offset in the long term… but only if sales increased.
And therein lay the problem. For all his intelligence and business skills, Bob
Haas lacked the charisma that could inspire subordinates to outperform
expectations and boost sales. Nor did he possess either the fashion intuition
or the marketing savvy that could turbocharge sales. Fortunately, there were
two individuals who could.
The first was Pete Thigpen. During the decade Bob Haas was making
his way up the corporate ladder in San Francisco, Pete Thigpen was building
the Levi Strauss brand in Europe, and doing it incredibly well. So well, if
there hadn’t been a family member like Bob Haas, Pete Thigpen would have
been the company’s next CEO. He was a leader who possessed charisma.
After his success in Europe, and after Bob Haas was appointed CEO, Pete
Thigpen could have gone anywhere. But Pete had been a Marine after
graduating from Stanford, and he believed the organization was more
important than the individual, and once you joined the organization, you
remained loyal to it. So, he accepted the role of President of US Operations,
and willingly ceded both the spotlight and the credit to Bob Haas. Rumor
had it that the icing on the cake was the private conversation Walter Haas
initiated at a crucial moment in the sequence of events, the essence of which
was that Walter would make certain the company took care of Pete.
The second individual was Bruce Springsteen. More than any other
person, Bruce Springsteen obviated the need for either fashion intuition or
marketing savvy. He wore Levi’s 501 jeans – most notably on the cover of
his 1984 album, Born in the U.S.A. This was more than a thousand times
more effective than a celebrity endorsement or all the clever ads an agency
could produce. The simple act of Bruce Springsteen wearing Levi’s
turbocharged sales for a decade, a decade during which the problem was
not selling the jeans but making enough of them to keep up with demand.
Booming sales and record profits allowed Bob Haas to divert enough
money to salve his social conscience, and Janie was okay with that – his
company, his money. But it also allowed him to implement some initiatives
she regarded with more than a little disdain. One related to the annual review
process. Instead of the supervisor reviewing his direct reports, there was a
360-degree process. Everyone reviewed everyone they interacted with:
supervisors above, direct reports below and team members alongside. It
seemed like half her time was devoted to those damn reviews, and they all
had to be written in detail, no simple boxes to check.
Much of it seemed such a waste of time. What direct report was going to
criticize his supervisor? Did she really care if one of her direct reports thought
she was too demanding? Wasn’t business about doing whatever it took to
make a profit? Was Levi Strauss supposed to be a feel-good factory?
Fortunately, that idea was scrapped after a year. Unfortunately, his most
recent brainstorm had already lasted longer, and she feared it would prove to
be even more disastrous. It was a review of the supply chain process that
started shortly before she moved to England. Such a review made sense. The
company was far behind the curve when it came to just-in-time inventory
management practices. But somehow that strategically focused project had
morphed into a reengineering of the entire company.
The third floor of the main building was now filled with over two hundred
employees creating a new-and-improved Levi Strauss. As if that weren’t
enough, there were another two hundred consultants from Arthur Andersen
assisting in this grand scheme.
The company gossip mill was in overdrive. Some jobs would be
eliminated, others would get a new name and description. Everyone would
have to reapply, either for their old job, or some new one that might not be
even remotely similar to their previous one. There was no guarantee you
would keep your existing job, or get a new one.
When an Arthur Andersen consultant came to talk about your work –
what you were doing and how that fit into the big picture – you might be
participating in your own redundancy. The company was transformed from
the kingdom of feel good to the fiefdom of insecurity.
She supposed Levi Strauss was big enough, the brand strong enough, that
even this cluster fuck could be survived. She avoided most of it by being in
England, where company operations were simple and straightforward by
comparison. Her only concern was that her rabbi in the company, Tom
Kasten, was the Levi Strauss executive in charge of the entire process. If he
suffered, she might absorb some of the fallout.
In the end, Tom Kasten survived, as of course, did the company, but
Janie was not surprised when a post-mortem revealed what a disaster the
entire process had been. $850 million spent, and the primary goal – more
timely deliveries to key customers – was not achieved. J.C. Penney, the
company’s largest customer reported that deliveries for its all-important,
back-to-school line were running 45 days late. In a moment of rare candor,
Tom Kasten admitted, “I don’t think we fully accomplished anything, to be
honest.”
But that analysis was still years in the future in 1995, when Bob Haas
initiated another plan, this one affecting every one of the company’s almost
40,000 employees. If a series of sales and performance goals were met over
the next six years, every employee would receive a bonus equal to one-year’s
salary. Every employee. Not just the executives.
Janie knew this was ground-breaking stuff, and yet she still
underestimated the reaction she would receive when she announced it in
person at a company-wide gathering. The cheers were raucous, and seemed
to go on forever.
Unfortunately, after a slight uptick in sales the following year, there
ensued a decade-long decline. In fact, sales never again achieved even 1995’s
level.
Overall, during Bob Haas’s tenure of more than twenty years running
Levi Strauss, annual sales had grown from just under $3 billion to just over
$4 billion, hardly groundbreaking. During the same period, sales at The Gap
grew from a miniscule $22 million to almost $15 billion. Yet the same
business press that continually lathered praise over Bob Haas barely
mentioned Don Fisher’s achievements in a comparable role.
 Chapter 18

Janie realized she would have to make the time to deal with Samuel. So,
she set aside her anger at his betrayal. She set aside her resentment about the
time away from this most important job in her career. She had to hold this
marriage together.
She’d suspected something was amiss. Seeing that hickey on Samuel’s
neck confirmed her worst fears. Still, she was convinced a confrontation with
their daughter would bring him back in line. But it hadn’t.
Surely he still loved her. What Samuel had done with Mike and Ellen
Walsdorf was proof, wasn’t it?
That relationship started after Samuel first met Mike in 1973. They
worked in the same division at the First National Bank of Chicago. They
became fast friends, and the wives joined in almost immediately, the two
couples doing all the things childless twenty-somethings did in Chicago:
dinners out, from elegant to deep-dish pizza; movies; concerts; parties where
the alcohol flowed; the occasional evening of bridge. It was the winter of 1978
when Samuel made his first grand gesture.
Janie was six months away from her two-year review at McKinsey, and
Samuel was living in California. He arranged his schedule to be back to
celebrate her 30th birthday in February. He told her they would drop by Mike
and Ellen’s house, and then go on to a quiet, celebratory dinner. When they
arrived, Janie found thirty of their friends all shouting Surprise! as they entered
the house. The champagne flowed freely, and the catered buffet offered food
as good as any restaurant’s. Of course there was the requisite birthday cake,
plus a sculpture Samuel purchased for her from Robert Pierron, a local artist
whose workshop they’d visited frequently. She learned from Ellen that
Samuel had arranged everything from California, not just the food and wine,
but the plates, flatware and glasses as well, insisting that all Mike and Ellen
had to do was provide the space.
 The couples saw each other less frequently after Janie moved to
California, but even after the children were born, they vacationed together in
Hawaii. It was the year before they moved to England that Samuel made his
second grand gesture. To celebrate Janie’s 45th birthday, he sent Mike and
Ellen plane tickets to fly from Chicago to California, and then treated all of
them to a long weekend of wine and gourmet food in the Napa Valley. They
dined at her favorite local restaurants – Mustard’s, Il Fornaio, The French
Laundry, Chandon – visited wineries and spent hours just talking on the deck
of their townhouse in Yountville. It had been a perfect four days. Samuel
wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t love her. And that love couldn’t have
evaporated in less than two years.
There were so many reasons she wanted to stay married. She’d worked
out the partnership so carefully. For the past dozen years, he’d paid their
living expenses, allowing her to bank most of her compensation. She didn’t
want to lose that.
Nor did she want to lose being on his arm when they attended company
functions. He was always one of the best-looking men there. She remembered
a party where an administrative assistant unceremoniously plopped herself on
Samuel’s lap, wrapped her arms around his neck and had her tongue in his
mouth before he realized what was happening. She remembered when Mike
and Ellen had visited San Francisco during the year Samuel moved out and
they were attending marriage counseling sessions. Samuel made a special visit
to the house just to see them. In a quiet moment when the men were out of
the room, Ellen turned to her and confided, “I’d forgotten how good-looking
he is.”
Janie decided marriage counseling was the best way to remind Samuel of
his love for her, to remind him of the love they shared.
She had no trouble convincing Samuel to attend the sessions with Keith
Stoll, the marriage counselor suggested by one of her associates at work.
Samuel told her he was so impressed with Keith that he would attend
individual sessions as well. Janie did so too, even bringing Hannah to one.
She harbored a vague hope that Hannah might help facilitate a reconciliation.
Keith asked Hannah, What do you think about what’s happening between your
mother and father?
 Hannah’s reply left Janie speechless. I’m surprised that it didn’t happen two or
three years ago.
Janie took notes during the joint sessions with Samuel, much as she’d
done when they went through the same process in San Francisco with
Katharine Dusay. But it didn’t feel the same.
To remind Samuel how much she loved him, she sent letters, all hand-
written in her small, precise script – perfect Palmer penmanship at 3/4 scale.
She referenced their shared vacation memories. She praised every aspect of
his life and work that she could think of. She conjured images of idyllic family
life, like opening presents on Christmas morning.
Years later, she could recall few specifics, but she remembered vividly
how hard she worked on those letters, how she felt like she was pouring out
her heart and soul, how vulnerable she made herself.
Sometimes it worked.

I cherish so many things about our life together, both the joys and the struggles. You
gave me joy and love and support and caring. I miss your smile and laughter and
conversation. I miss your soft hands and lips and so many, many other parts of you. I will
love you as I do now until I leave this life and beyond.
I absolutely believe that you are my soul mate – that being who has a special and
sometimes unexplainable connection with me. A soul mate who believes in me and my
goodness and worth and helps me find peace and happiness. A soul mate who gives without
regard to getting something in return or to the consequences of the sacrifices incurred in loving.
I know for certain that I am your soul mate as well. How? It’s just one of those very deep,
instinctual feelings. Just as I am comfortable and familiar with the skin that covers my
body, I know that you and I have this very special offering to give each other. I knew from
the very moment of meeting you in 1970 that we were destined to spend our lives together.
I pledged to love and cherish you forever. It was a promise I intend to keep because you
are the most special person in the world. With you, life can be wonderful and safe and full
of love.
I love you and miss you so very much. I want you to be happy and healthy and at peace
with yourself. I didn’t know you were so unhappy. Now I do and because I love you so
deeply, I want to give you what you need – what we both need.
 Samuel thought, How could anyone not be affected by such expressions of love? But
then he would remember the previous time, when they went to marriage
counseling sessions with Katharine Dusay in San Francisco. Back then, Janie
provided similar expressions of love, and made similar promises to change.
And how long had those changes lasted? Barely a year. And then their life
reverted to the way it had been before he moved out. Did she really think that
he would not remember?
For some of the other passages, his reactions vacillated between anger
and disbelief.

You have introduced me to numerous new kinds of literature and authors, and I was
wrong to say that you were buying too many books. I benefited greatly from our home library
and the information and ideas you discussed with me as a result of all the reading you did.
Thank you for keeping my intellectual faculties stimulated and sharing with me.

All those years… all those books… and now, an apology? Samuel
remembered the criticism, which he ignored. It wasn’t as if she had to forego
anything because of those purchases. Once he started earning a good salary,
he regarded books as essential purchases. He had no recollection of the
discussions she mentioned.

I’ve always admired (and envied) your ability to create a vision and stick to it. That’s
a characteristic of true leadership. How many people can point to real things/buildings that
are alive with people being productive as evidence of what they have contributed to the world?
That’s very special.

Even allowing for their over-the-top nature, these feelings had been a
well-kept secret. Samuel would have almost died for even a few such words
over the past twenty years. When he was fired from his job at Lincoln
Property Company and expressed a desire to do the same real estate
development work on his own, Janie had only one response: Get another job.
When he insisted on sticking to his vision and said that it might be a year
or two before he generated any income, she said she didn’t care, as long as he
used his savings to continue paying the family’s living expenses, so she could
continue to invest her income in the Levi Strauss deferred compensation and
savings accounts. It was a struggle until the end of the third year, when one
project brought his cumulative earnings to an amount that was substantially
greater than any job would have generated. He refrained from saying, I told
you so, and Janie never admitted that she might have been wrong in demanding
that he find a job. Nonetheless, she was appreciative when he gave her a
Tiffany three-diamond ring to celebrate his success.

You are a wonderful father and Hannah loves you very much. She is very lucky to have
you for a father. I cherish that you were willing to make her as important as your career
and your personal interests. Thank you for being an equal partner with me in raising her.

An equal partner? Who was she kidding? She had been AWOL for most
of Hannah’s life. When Hannah wanted a dog, Janie’s response was the same
as when Samuel wanted to stop using au pairs: Fine, as long as you do all the work.
I don’t have the time.

Thank you for shouldering all the responsibility and burden of packing up the houses
and straightening affairs to be able to move to England. You were very generous in offering
to do it all and telling me just to concentrate on my new responsibilities. You were totally
supportive and unselfish in giving so that I could realize my dreams.

Nice for that to finally be acknowledged. At the time, she’d just

accepted his efforts as her due.

Thank you for giving me the three-day golf school.

Before Janie could attend that school, she needed golf clubs. Samuel
purchased a complete set for her after consulting the pro at the San Francisco
Golf Club, where he was taking lessons. The pro also helped him choose an
attractive bag, and golf balls with some sort of female-oriented logo.
Janie’s first comment after looking over everything was not, “Wow, this
is really nice. Thank you so very much.” Rather, she examined the golf balls
closely, and then asked, “Are these the same golf balls you play with?”
 Samuel was so surprised at the question, all he could manage was a
reflexive, “No.”
“Then take these back. I don’t want women’s golf balls. I want the same
ones you play with.”
And then the cartoon light bulb went on over his head. Janie had a
permanent chip on her shoulder about women not being treated equally with
men. The issue never arose at home because Samuel bent over backwards to
make certain he shared equally in all the housework, and never reminded Janie
that he earned substantially more money than she did.
The golf pro was the opposite of sexist. The clubs were actually for men
because the golf pro thought they were perfect for a beginner but did not
come in a women’s model. Samuel just accepted the golf pro’s
recommendation for the balls. Later, he would learn that women’s golf balls
had a lower compression than men’s because their swing speeds were slower,
a biological fact that had nothing to do with societal norms. At the time,
however, he simply acquiesced to her request.
Her one-word response: Good.
Look on the bright side, Samuel thought, at least she finally thanked me for the
golf school.
 Chapter 19

At what turned out to be their last joint session, Keith Stoll said, “Most
people in my position don’t offer their own opinions. I’m the exception; I do.
I’ve been seeing the two of you for several months now, together and
separately. It’s possible for two highly intelligent people like you to rationalize
almost anything, including staying married. However, my belief is that you’d
both be happier if you were not married to each other.”
Janie and Samuel simultaneously asked, “Why?”
“Both of you have become highly skilled at conflict avoidance. I couldn’t
get either of you to describe a fight you’d had about anything. Do you realize
how unusual that is? For a married couple never to fight about anything?
“I know there had to be disagreements, but you managed to ignore or
work around them, rather than work through them. That conflict avoidance
resulted in each of you building your own little world.
“Imagine two circles. In most marriages, those two circles intersect and
overlap, a Venn diagram, if you will. I assume that was the case when you got
married. Over the years, though, it changed, with the circles gradually moving
away from each other until they were close, right next to each other, but no
longer overlapped.
“Think about your vacations. First, you almost stopped taking them
together, and then, when you did, it was like two people who happened to be
in the same tour group.
“One of you mentioned an Alaska cruise you took a few years ago. I made
a point of asking each of you in your individual session about what you did
on that cruise. You were together for over a week, but other than one shore
excursion, neither of you could recall anything you’d done together other than
eat meals, and that was always at a large table with other people.”

This was the moment when Janie knew her marriage to Samuel was over.
She rapidly segued from supplicant to combatant. She would fight for
parental control over Hannah. And she would plan her revenge. Samuel might
spend the summer celebrating with the bitch who had stolen him from their
marriage, but she would spend the time creating her new image as a single
working mother.

Samuel was grateful for Keith Stoll’s independent validation of his

departure from the marriage. It lessened his guilt considerably. Now he could
now look forward to the first summer of his new life in England.
He started spending weekday nights at the Haslemere cottage where
Alison lived with her son, Theo. He was a weekly boarder at a private
school, and came home only on weekends, so they had the place to
themselves on weekday evenings. Providing plenty of time they could
devote to intensive study… of each other. The primary communication
consisted of sighs and murmurs of encouragement as they discovered what
new touch gave pleasure, what new movement elicited an unexpected
moan.
One night, they lay facing each other on the bed, both naked, except
for his white shirt, which Alison asked him to leave on. For a long time they
kissed, their hands exploring, but their bodies not touching. Samuel could
feel his cock swelling and straining towards her, until it just barely grazed
her leg.
Almost as if that touch were a signal, she pushed him onto his back and
mounted him. There was the familiar warmth as he entered her. When his
hands rose to her hips, she gently pulled them away. “Just lie there,” she
whispered.
She sat astride him, looking down and smiling, her hands braced on her
thighs, only their loins touching. She was motionless, and her eyes held him
motionless as well. A minute passed, maybe two. He lost all sense of time.
She started to unbutton his shirt, but only her hands and fingers were
moving, and her eyes still held him frozen. Samuel felt a sudden, unexpected
contraction that tightly enveloped him. His entire body tightened in
response, but Alison appeared not to notice. Her eyes remained locked on
his, keeping him still, and her fingers continued to slowly unbutton his shirt.
 The contractions continued, but without any discernible pattern. The
erratic timing increased the erotic sensations, which were as pleasurable as
they were unfamiliar. He closed his eyes. He opened them when he felt her
hips start to move up and down. She told him not to move. His shirt was
completely unbuttoned now, her hands pressing down on his chest. While
the rhythm was familiar, the sensations were new because he was
motionless. The pace slowed as she rose up from him, and almost broke
contact. When she descended even more slowly, the intensity of the
pleasure was almost unbearable, and he wondered if it was the same for her.
He saw that her eyes were unfocussed, staring into the distance,
concentrating on the slow tempo.
He closed his eyes, and lost himself in the slow tempo, focusing all his
attention on his pleasure. She abruptly, and unexpectedly, descended
forcefully and he involuntarily jackknifed upwards. The combination of
surprise and intensity almost pushed him over the edge.
She increased the pace, her hands still pressed against his chest. She
bent over and he felt her tongue in his ear. He sensed, more than heard, a
few whispered words, because by then he was beyond hearing. He gritted
his teeth, held his breath, clenched every muscle in his body – all in an effort
to prolong the sensations and delay the inevitable. And then it was over,
her body slowly melting against his. A luxurious few moments when he felt
her entire body pressed flush against his, and then she rolled alongside him
on the bed.

My Dearest Love,
The wonder of our love making last night has left me in a dreamy state all day. I
still have the vivid memory of your lovely face and the look of love and intensity in your
beautiful eyes as we lay together in the semi-darkness of the bedroom just before I made
love to you.
You and I made love with our hearts, minds and bodies so completely that it
transcended everything. Time literally stood still. Words simply cannot express the magic
between us, and the peace. I love you Samuel with all my heart and I will forever.
Your Alison
 Chapter 20

“Fancy a trip to Scotland?”

Samuel’s raised eyebrows were a signal for Alison to continue. He was
enjoying the Caesar salad that accompanied this weekday dinner of pasta with
pesto.
“The Open is being played at St. Andrews, and a friend can get us two
clubhouse passes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Why do you sound so surprised?”
“Because clubhouse passes are next to impossible to get for a major
tournament, and even more difficult when it’s being played at golf’s ancestral
home. Who in the world is your friend?”
“Oh, just someone I know from Glasgow. I called about tickets and that’s
what he offered. Did I mention that he’s a past president of The Royal and
Ancient?”
Samuel made no effort to suppress a laugh. The Royal and Ancient was
not only golf’s governing body, but one of the most exclusive clubs in the
world. Other than its members, no one knew anything about how to become
a member.
“That’s amazing, Alison. Of course we should go. That’s as close to a
once-in-a-lifetime experience as we’re going to get for a while.”
She feigned a look of surprise. “You mean last night wasn’t?”
His laugh became raucous. “What can I say? You’ve spoiled me.”

It was a nine-hour car journey to St. Andrews. They departed early and
arrived mid-afternoon on the day before the start of the tournament. Samuel
was driving along the main road adjacent to the course when she said, “Please
keep going to the end of the road. I want to show you something.”
After he parked the car, she guided him along a footpath to a promontory
in back of an ancient stone church. They walked through a small cemetery
with chipped and weather headstones, all partially covered with moss. On the
other side of a low, stone wall, they were now looking down a drop of a
hundred feet to a shoreline.
“That’s the North Sea, where I went swimming as a child. Our family
vacationed here in St. Andrews for a week each summer. The water was
freezing. We would come out of the water shivering so violently that there
was always an adult ready to shove a bit of wood between our teeth so we
wouldn’t bite our tongues.”
She stared out at the horizon. They were so high up from the water that
the sound of the surf was muted.
“There was no television. In the evening, we sang songs around a piano
and played charades. I know it sounds primitive, but I loved those vacations.”

Samuel drove to a small farmhouse on the outskirts of town. This was the
only housing he could find after learning that all the area’s hotel rooms had
been reserved months earlier. Inside, they found a chipped and stained
linoleum floor along with an ancient refrigerator in the kitchen. The bedroom
was bare but for a bed, and threadbare upholstery covered the couch in the
sitting room.
“I’m really sorry,” he apologized. “When they said it was rustic, I pictured
the rustic that appears in the Ralph Lauren ads. This place is just old and
dirty.”
“It’s not that bad, darling,” she said. “We’ll be fine.”
“The good news” he said, “is that we only have to sleep here. Let’s drink
a lot of wine with dinner tonight. Perhaps it won’t look quite so bad in the
dark.”
“Now you’re being silly.” And she began to unpack.

Dinner was at the Peat Inn, touted as one of Scotland’s best restaurants.
It was located in a small village six miles from St. Andrews. It appeared that
the restaurant and a few adjacent buildings comprised the entire village. The
food was excellent, and the meal leisurely, the table theirs for the evening.
When the owner dropped by to ask if everything was satisfactory, they learned
that there were eight guest rooms attached to the restaurant. One was vacant
because of a last-minute cancellation and would be available the following
day. Samuel immediately booked it.

At the meal’s conclusion, Alison suggested that they return to St.

Andrews to visit the course. Although it was close to ten o’clock, it was only
twilight, Scotland being so far north that darkness would not descend for
another half hour, and sunrise would follow only six hours later.
Occasionally, the wind at St. Andrews could blow golf balls off the greens.
This evening, a gentle breeze carried the briny smell of the North Sea.
They joined a handful of people walking along the wide swath of grass
that comprised the adjacent fairways of the first and eighteenth holes. Alison
pointed to an old, two-story stone building behind the first tee.
“That’s the Royal and Ancient Clubhouse. It’s the only private building
on the course. Imagine a little girl with her nosed pressed up against the glass
of that big picture window, wondering what’s inside. That was me, a long
time ago. Tomorrow, thanks to those clubhouse passes, I’ll finally get to see
what it’s like inside.”
The setting sun bathed everything in a pinkish glow. The moment
seemed magical, and it reminded Samuel of a story he’d read about Bobby
Jones, the amateur golfer who was the best golfer in the world (professionals
included) in the late 1920’s. In 1930, he became the only man to win all four
major golf tournaments in the same year, a feat that has yet to be equaled. He
then retired from competitive golf and spent the rest of his life practicing law,
and creating the Augusta National Golf Club, and the tournament held there
each year, The Masters.
What few people realized was that he rarely practiced and played only a
handful of tournaments each year. In fact, during the years he dominated the
game he averaged only 50 to 60 rounds of golf each year, barely a round a
week. Yet, he had the remarkable gift of being able to summon his best golf
during the pressure-filled major tournaments. When he retired, he lost this
gift. He would play friendly rounds thereafter, but he would never again either
score or dominate the way he once had.
Except for one time.
 On the journey to the 1932 Olympics, his traveling party stopped in
England, and, because they were so close, Bobby spontaneously decided to
play a round at St. Andrews the following day. He had a special affection for
the course, once saying, “I could take out of my life everything except my
experiences at St. Andrews, and I would still have a rich, full life.”
When he arrived with his friends, a crowd of several thousand people
surrounded the first tee. He had only called the day before, but word spread
and Bobby Jones was a favorite, an icon, really, among the locals because of
his natural grace and humility, the opposite of the brash American stereotype.
His playing companions withdrew so Bobby could play what would now
be an exhibition round with St. Andrews’ honorary professional, Willie
Auchterlonie. As he stood on the first tee, Bobby felt something shift inside
of him. After he parred the first hole, even though two years had passed since
he’d retired, he knew his gift had returned. He birdied five of the next six
holes. As he stood on the eighth tee, he had two pars and five birdies. But he
was looking at a 178-yard par-3 with the pin placed just beyond the bunker
that guarded the left front of the green.
It was a near impossible shot. A little short, and you were in the bunker.
A little long and you would roll past the pin and off the green. Bobby stepped
to the tee, and as he always did, hit the ball so soon after his initial address
that you could miss the swing if you weren’t paying attention. The shot was
perfect, with just enough fade to clear the bunker, yet high enough to land
and roll gently to within a few feet of the pin, another easy birdie.
As Willie stepped forward to hit his shot, Bobby slipped his club back
into his bag, folded his arms across his chest and stared shyly at the ground.
This was the moment when his young caddie spoke for the first time since
they had walked off the first tee together. As the gallery cheered loudly, the
caddie whispered to Bobby, “Aye, you’re a wonder, sir. A wonder.”
Years later, Bobby Jones would say that those few words, spoken at that
moment, moved him more than any of the millions of words that had been
written about him.
Such was the magic that this ancient golf course could inspire. Such was
the magic Samuel felt as he watched Alison chatting with the uniformed
Scottish Bobbie standing just off the eighteenth green to make certain no
wayward walkers traipsed across it that evening.
To the left, tents and grandstands, all empty, lined the far side of the first
fairway. In a movie, the scene would dissolve, and the following day would
slowly come into focus, with throngs of people milling about in the bright
sunshine. Which was exactly what they found the following morning.
First stop was the clubhouse, their special passes casually affixed to their
jackets. Samuel’s affected nonchalance ended when the guard informed him
that a coat and tie were required to enter.
As they walked away to join the other spectators, he muttered, “Who
wears a coat and tie to a golf tournament?”
In short order, they realized how different it was to watch in person
instead of on television. In person, you would see each member of a group
hit his ball. Whether you stayed in place and waited for the next group, or
followed the existing group, there would be a long delay before you saw
another ball being struck. In that same time period on television, you would
see more than a dozen shots by different players from all over the course.
An hour later, they decided to spend the rest of the day playing golf
instead of watching it. Alison suggested the public course at nearby Elie, a
small village where she and Theo once vacationed with friends.
As at St. Andrews, Elie’s golf course was within walking distance of the
town center. As if to reinforce this fact, they saw two schoolboys approaching
the course on foot, carrying their golf bags, still wearing their school uniform
of a coat and tie.
The fifth hole was a short par 4, about 250 yards. It was slightly uphill,
with a gentle curve to the left, and the combination meant that only the top
of the flag was visible from the tee. As they were making their final putts, a
golf ball came rolling on to the green.
Alison was bewildered, but Samuel said, “Wow, I didn’t think one of
those kids could hit the ball that far.”
“What kids?” she asked.
“Those two schoolboys we passed when we drove up, they’re playing
behind us. That’s the tee shot one of them just hit.”
He then quickly picked up the ball, dropped it in the hole, replaced the
flag, and grasped her arm.
 She resisted. “Samuel, you can’t do that.”
“I just did. C’mon on, we need to get off the green.”
“But you just dropped his ball in the hole.”
“I know,” he said, “and because of that, I promise you, he will remember
that shot for the rest of his life.”
Her reticence was overwhelmed by his insistence, and he hustled her
towards the next hole. They teed off so quickly that they were halfway down
the fairway before they heard the whoops of childish glee emanating from the
previous green.
Alison initially thought that she might tell the boys when they finished
the round, but that was forgotten when they were on the ninth green, and she
looked up at the sky.
“Did you bring the umbrellas?” she asked.
“No, it’s sunny and warm, has been since we arrived.”
“Do you remember what I once told you about the weather in Scotland?”
“If you don’t like it, just wait five minutes.”
“You were listening.” She motioned with her head for him to look up.
There were a handful of dark clouds moving towards them, and then, as
if on cue, fat raindrops started falling. There was barely time to register what
was happening before buckets of water were being dumped from the sky.
Five minutes later the sun was shining again, but by then they were drenched.
Neither could stop laughing as they trudged back to the car, feet squishing
loudly from the water that had accumulated in their shoes.
They arrived back at The Peat Inn just in time for the afternoon tea that
was delivered to their room, along with a plate of homemade cookies. The
following morning, the room was filled with the smell of the freshly baked
croissants and scones from the restaurant. The room was more Holiday Inn
functional than country house extravagant, but it was luxurious compared to
the farmhouse.

They arrived the second day of the tournament with their clubhouse
passes once again flapping casually in the breeze, only this time Alison
received the polite rebuff. The clubhouse pass for women was good only after
6:00 PM on the last day of the tournament. The sole exception before the last
day was for the players’ wives, and they were confined to one room near the
entrance.
“Why didn’t they tell us that yesterday?” Samuel was frustrated.
“Go ahead on your own.”
“No, I’m not going to leave you alone out here.”
“I’ll be fine. I can wait until Sunday. Besides, remember Theo asked for
Greg Norman’s autograph? I expect it will be a bit of a mad house on Sunday
evening. If he’s there, you could get it today.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, go ahead now.” She gave him a gentle push in the direction of the
door.
Twenty minutes later, he exited the building, one arm extended. “I was
lucky. Norman was in the locker room. Here’s a signed scorecard.”
“Thank you. Theo will really appreciate this.”
She carefully placed the scorecard in her purse and then asked, “Well,
what was it like?”
“All very low key. Sort of like the few of the exclusive clubs I’ve visited.
Shabby gentility. Old money that doesn’t feel any need to be ostentatious.”
“And the window, the one that looks out on the first tee and the
eighteenth green, what was that room like?”
“Just as you’d expect, that window is the dominant feature. Great view.
Wood paneled walls, old leather chairs, lots of memorabilia, not only in that
room, but everywhere. I saw Gary Player and Payne Stewart, and I guess
you’re the only person I can tell that I had a conversation with Payne Stewart
that started when we were standing at adjacent urinals.”
“Actually, you didn’t have to tell me.” She shook her head, as if the
motion could erase this unwanted image.

Late on Sunday afternoon, Alison was finally able to see the inside of the
Royal and Ancient clubhouse. And managed to be standing at the picture
window when Costantino Rocca sank a 65-foot putt on the eighteenth hole
to force a playoff with John Daly. The playoff that Daly won was anticlimactic
after that putt, but Alison now had a better story than the one about her
younger self with her nose pressed up against the glass of that same window.
 My Dearest Love,
Tonight I have spent quite a lot of time thinking about our time in Scotland. Having
you with me in St. Andrews was incredibly special. It is a place where I have some of my
happiest memories. As an innocent child who responded to and appreciated (without quite
realizing why) the sense of history and occasion. To have shown you this and shared it with
you was one of the best and most magical moments I have ever had. It married the intense
feelings of the child and woman. Like a celebration and somehow you understood this and
honored it for me. It served me in the understanding and wonder of the unique relationship
we share. For me, it reinforced and highlighted what we share and how I feel about you. So
many new, precious memories which easily and comfortably merge with those of my childhood
and earlier experiences. Walking the course on the night of Wednesday and feeling your
pleasure and appreciation of a shared, special moment.
I had such secret, special hopes as a child/early teenager in St. Andrews that my life
would in some way be touched and very special – maybe dreams, but not in the least
diminished by being dreams. If at any point I seemed distant it was only the dreamlike state
that one has at that age and the wonder and excitement of the unknown. Here I was umpty-
tumpty years later able to experience with you these childlike feelings but now within the
framework and body of a happy, contented, much loved woman. And the reason for my
happiness and contentment stems from you and the way our love makes me feel – joyous
and fulfilled. The promise of the exciting uncertainty of life and the realization of self-
fulfillment and the certainty of our unexpected yet expected, inevitable future.
The visit for me was so special. I (thanks to you) found a peace that I had not fully
acknowledged. I will never forget – nor want to – how loving you were, and understanding,
when I revisited where I had scattered Alan’s ashes after his death. I was more moved than
I expected, more joyful, more weepy, and I now realize I have finally said ‘goodbye’ and
turned my face joyfully to the future. It is a feeling of total liberation and a feeling of great
inner peace. I also realized quite starkly that wherever we are is ‘home.’ It is not conditioning
or accepted behavior which gives security – it is quite simply ‘Home is where the heart is’
and my heart is with you. Gladly and without a second thought because I have complete
faith in you and our life together. You are that extraordinary, exceptional man I have
always known existed. To have found each other now is the most precious and breath-taking
gift. To be wondered at, celebrated and kept safe and honored and cherished. To have your
love and commitment is the most precious gift on earth. We are blessed above all. I love you
with my heart, mind and body completely.
Alison
 Chapter 21

Now that the marriage was over, Janie turned her attention to maximizing
her share of their joint assets. While Keith Stoll had been an utter failure as a
marriage counselor, his recommendation of a solicitor proved a resounding
success. She learned that Jeremy Levison was universally regarded as one of
the country’s top divorce solicitors. Although never to his face, he was
frequently referred to as solicitor to the stars because of his work in celebrity
divorces like that of Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall. Solicitor was a new word for
Janie. Like a lawyer or attorney in America, except the English system
required another individual, a barrister, whenever a matter was contested in
court.
After the build-up, Levison’s appearance was disappointing. He was only
her height, maybe a bit taller. Slight of build, yet his face (especially that
squishy nose) had the doughy features she associated with a much larger and
heavier man. Both his hairline and his chin were receding. Still, he seemed to
know divorce law.
He explained that divorce in England was a two-step process. First, the
Court granted a decree nisi. This was effectively an announcement that the
divorce was about to occur. The Court granted it to the spouse who filed the
petition. Then, six weeks later, the Court issued a decree absolute. This was the
formal notice that the divorce was now final. The six-week period between
the decree nisi and the decree absolute could easily be extended by either party –
claiming objections or stating that complications had arisen. Thus did the
procedure allow ample time for both parties to reconsider before finally
severing all ties.
Levison said that division of the financial assets would occur in a separate
proceeding, which commenced when one party filed an application for
ancillary relief. Unlike California, where all assets were divided equally,
English law allowed the judge to make a discretionary division of the assets.
This was the reason some extremely wealthy men chose England as the
venue for their divorces. The judge would give the wives enough money to
live comfortably, but never half the fortune they would have received, for
example, in California.
Although Levison danced around the issue, Janie asked enough questions
to determine that English divorce law remained more retrograde than
California’s. The husband was always regarded as the primary breadwinner,
and accordingly the courts expected for him to pay more and receive less,
especially when the husband was gainfully employed, or capable of being
gainfully employed.
“How long does this ancillary relief process take?” she asked.
“Depends on how complicated the financial assets are. Could take as little
as six weeks, or a long as a year or two.”
“Does it go directly to court?”
“No. There are always preliminary negotiations and discussions. It can
sometimes take a while just to agree on exactly what the assets are. And then
negotiations begin about who gets what. The courts prefer that the parties
work out an agreement between themselves. Basically, going to court is a last
resort, and 98% of the cases are settled before that occurs.”
“Well, I’d like to stretch out the process as long as possible.”
“Any particular reason why?” Levison asked.
“Because I don’t think Samuel has much in the way of liquid assets. The
longer he has to wait, the more desperate he’ll become, and the better the deal
we’ll be able to strike.”
“But I thought he was employed by Arthur Andersen. Didn’t you tell me
he was quite well paid?”
Janie was silent for a moment, and then said, “We’ll see. Just
accommodate me, OK?”

She had started keeping a journal (that sounded so much better than diary)
shortly after the last session with Keith Stoll. She recorded her thoughts now
that her marriage to Samuel was over.

I know that I am lonely and want a companion. I miss the hugs and kisses and the
sweet embrace of making love. Of having someone to share my important moments with. Of
looking forward to being with someone because I care about them, and it makes me feel good
to be around them.

She did not record all her thoughts, though. There were some thoughts,
some plans, she was not comfortable leaving a written record of. There was
the fear, probably more imaginary than real, that someone else might read
this journal.
She listened to motivational tapes by Deepak Chopra and Wayne Dyer,
and found herself mimicking their styles, if not their exact words.

I know that I need to find another subject to focus upon. One that will drain my energy
as this one does, but in a more productive and positive way.
Work will always be there and of course I will do what is necessary, but I am not going
to permit it to be the sole usurper of my energy. Now is the time to concentrate on me and
in order to do that I need to be clear what I want, my purpose, why my higher self is here
and what I am all about. It requires a degree of introspection that I have not been accustomed
to and perhaps because I am afraid of what I will uncover in the pursuit of me.

She decided she would do whatever it took to establish parental control

over Hannah. She was entitled. She was the mother. She’d endured the
pregnancy and the birth. Hannah should be with her, no question about it.
She expressed this emphatically to Jeremy Levison.

I do not think that I should have to give up time with Hannah to share with Samuel.
He will have time, but around my schedule.
He basically wants to have 50/50 participation with decision making regarding
Hannah and I am willing to have him give input, but I know that we will disagree on
many things, and I want the final responsibility.

To cement her new relationship with Hannah, Janie left Almondbury, the
house in the rural village of Church Brampton on the outskirts of
Northampton. This was not the environment a 13-year-old craved during her
breaks from boarding school. She moved to a five-story home in St. John’s
Wood, a fashionable area in north London. It was the largest house she’d ever
inhabited, exceeding the company’s rent allowance, but she was happy to pay
the difference.
Hannah had her own room, actually her own floor. The Abbey Road
studios, where the Beatles recorded their last albums, were just a few blocks
away. As was the park where she ran almost every day. She was going to get
herself back in shape. She quickly found a personal trainer who made house
calls. Sure, it was expensive, but she was a busy executive. Maybe she would
schedule a few sessions for Hannah, help her get rid of some of those extra
pounds.
The drive to work could be a little long, but it was never taxing; most of
the traffic was going in the opposite direction. All the attractions of London
were now close at hand.
Janie wrote only briefly of her plans for revenge.

He will be sorry that he left.

He will regret it.
It will be too late for him to do anything when that happens.

No details, just a reminder. Sort of like a company’s mission statement.

Right there on the first page of the journal. A daily reminder.
The first goal was to get Samuel out of the country. It would make dealing
with Hannah ever so much easier. His right to reside in England was based
on his status as the spouse of a work permit holder. He was no longer that
spouse. The day the decree nisi was signed, she informed the appropriate
authorities. But Samuel solved that problem by getting his own work permit.
“What am I going to do now?” she lamented. “I want him out of here.”
Phil Cunningham was on the other end of the phone, the man in Human
Resources who helped her get this position. End of her day in England,
beginning of his day in San Francisco.
“You’re serious?” Phil asked. “You really want him out of England, and
it’s only the work permit with Arthur Andersen that allows him to stay?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Phil said. “We could get him fired.”
 “What do you mean, we? Who could get him fired?”
“Levi Strauss could get him fired.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Janie said. “How would that even work?”
“Levi Strauss is Arthur Andersen’s largest client. Do you really think they
want to employ an individual who’s causing undue stress to one of that
client’s key executives? An individual who’s been with them, what, less than
a year?”
“We’re Arthur Andersen’s largest client? How do you know that?”
“I don’t, at least not for certain. But they audit every operation we’ve got
around the world. And prepare all of the related financial statements. And
they’ve got over 200 consultants working here at headquarters, plus I don’t
know how many in the field, all devoted to the vision of creating a new Levi
Strauss. I can’t imagine another one of their clients employing so many warm
bodies.
“Look, all it would take is a word from Tom Kasten to the executive here
who handles the Arthur Andersen relationship. That person speaks to his
counterpart at Andersen, who speaks to the head of the London office, who
speaks to Samuel’s boss. Nothing in writing, just a few private conversations.
I don’t care how good a job he’s doing; he’ll be gone within two weeks. I
guarantee it.”
Janie was skeptical but told Phil to go ahead and talk to Tom Kasten. That
had been a week before she instructed Jeremy Levison to delay as long as
possible the financial settlement negotiations with Samuel.
As Phil predicted, less than two weeks later, Samuel was fired from his
job at Arthur Andersen. A month after that, he married the bitch. How many
months had he even known her? Six, seven? And he marries her? She couldn’t
believe it. But Samuel now had the right to remain in England.
She was depressed… until she was elated. Samuel had married before
filing his petition for ancillary relief. He was now barred from making a claim
against her for any of their assets that were in her name, which just happened
to be pretty much all of their assets. Sure, they had separate checking
accounts, but that was it. Everything else was in her name, including all those
savings and deferred compensation accounts at Levi Strauss. The accounts
she’d stuffed with virtually all of her earnings while Samuel paid all of their
living expenses for the past dozen years. The accounts that were supposed to
fund their retirement. But he wasn’t going to be retiring with her, so screw
him.
Samuel was entitled to nothing. Not one penny from her accounts. Not
one penny from the two houses, both of which Samuel had put in her name,
at her request, to shield them from any liability related to his real estate
ventures.
The news was so delicious that she happily copied and pasted the same
two paragraphs when she wrote to update her friends.

My lawyer made an appointment with a barrister, and we got fantastic news. Samuel
no longer has any claim on my capital because he did not file his application prior to
getting married again! Poetic justice and ‘what goes around comes around.’ Basically, this
means that I do not have to offer to give him anything. So, I’m just going to sit tight, the
lawyer will file to have his case struck out and Samuel will have to sweat.
What a mess. It would have been so easy for him to be reasonable and speak to me
and try to work out the division of assets. I’m still flabbergasted that the man I lived with
for 24 years has no compunction about suing me. Bottom line, however, is that now I am
fed up with his actions and I’m finished being the nice guy. When he finds out from my
lawyer this week that he has no case he is going to be livid. Given his situation he must
be a mental mess. Sad that he chose to ruin his life.

Of course she knew that this rendering wasn’t quite accurate. She knew that
most of what she described as her capital had been accumulated because Samuel
had paid virtually all of their living expenses for the past dozen years. She knew
that Samuel’s solicitor attempted to start a negotiation that she instructed her
solicitor to stonewall. She knew that Samuel hadn’t sued her, but rather filed an
application for ancillary relief, which was how these affairs were normally handled
in England. But she believed the essential truth of what she was saying. Samuel
chose to betray her. And there was no question that this choice would ruin his life.
 Chapter 22

Samuel was mystified when he learned that Janie had rented a house in
London. If she’d done this when they first arrived, he never would have
experienced the loneliness that resulted in his meeting and falling in love
with Alison. Rather, he would have come home every evening, as he had in
San Francisco, to a life without passion, but a life with comfortable
familiarity.
He didn’t have time to dwell on Janie’s new home, however, because
he and Alison had to find one for themselves. His flat on Bryanston Square
was too small, and her cottage near Haslemere was… well, the problem was
that he just couldn’t envision himself as a suburban commuter. When he
spent the night at the cottage, Alison would take him to the train station,
and he would see the same people standing in the same spot on the
platform, and then taking the same seat on the train. He couldn’t see himself
doing that on a regular basis, much less for the next twenty years. He asked
Alison to find a place in the city. This was when he learned about lower
ground floors.
“London property prices are ridiculous,” she said. “But I think I’ve
finally found something suitable in our price range. It’s in Bramham
Gardens, on the lower ground floor.”
“Lower ground floor? Doesn’t that mean it’s the basement?”
“It’s not really a basement apartment.”
“But it’s below ground level, isn’t it? That is why they call it lower
ground floor, right?”
“Why don’t you come and look at it with me? It’ll be a lot easier to
understand after you’ve seen it.”
The nearest tube stop was Earl’s Court, just within Zone 1 of the
London Underground. They emerged on a street that was dirty and
congested with cars. The shops were shabby, the general air of tackiness
only slightly offset by an Oddbins wine shop and a Waterstones bookstore.
The tellers in a storefront branch of Barclays Bank were protected by
Plexiglas thick enough to be bulletproof. It was depressing.
But according to Alison, this was the nature of London real estate.
“There are few neighborhoods that cover large areas,” she said. “This
means that houses must be evaluated on a block-by-block basis. A block of
elegant homes might be adjacent to a block of ordinary homes, or even, like
this, a tacky commercial area. It will get better, I promise.”
Three blocks later, it did. They turned left, and within thirty yards the
traffic, and its concomitant noise, vanished. In front of them was a key
garden twice the size of the one at Bryanston Square. It was longer and
wider than a football field. There were trees framing different areas, some
filled with small children playing, others set aside for adults. The standard
wrought iron fence lined three sides, and a row of residential buildings
backed onto the fourth.
The flat was in one of the buildings across the street from the long side
of the key garden. It was the same Georgian red brick as its neighbors, six
stories tall, set back six feet from the sidewalk. The area of the setback had
been scooped out the entire length of the building to create a long and
narrow sunken patio. A brick retaining wall descended seven feet from the
level of the sidewalk to the tiled floor of this sunken patio. The steps to the
front door were a bridge across this open space. To keep pedestrians from
falling into the sunken patio, there was a wrought iron fence along the
sidewalk, softened by a hedge.
They entered the building, descended a flight of stairs, and turned right
at the bottom, where there was only one door, the entrance to the flat.
Inside was a foyer, eight feet by twelve feet, with a working fireplace. The
floor was tiled in an attractive mosaic design. The ceiling height was ten feet
high.
“I’m starting to see what you mean,” Samuel said. “This doesn’t feel
remotely like a basement.”
There were two doorways along the right wall. The first led to the
master bedroom, the second to the living room. In both rooms, the ceiling
height remained ten feet and the far wall was lined with a row of full height
windows that looked out onto the sunken front patio. When they stood
near the windows, they could see the feet of people walking by on the
sidewalk, the view partially obscured by the hedge and the wrought iron
fence.
There was more privacy down here than on the floor above. Up there,
people walking by on the sidewalk could see everything, and drawing the
curtains was the only way to ensure privacy. Down here, there was complete
privacy, even when the windows were uncovered and the natural light
streamed in. The angle from the street was such that none of the passing
pedestrians could see anything inside the flat.
“The flat’s been overlooked,” Alison said, “because the same family has
lived here for the past fifteen years – a mother and three daughters, and
they haven’t done a thing to the place. That’s why it looks tired and run
down. Most of the work would be cosmetic. The kitchen just needs a
facelift. The living room is lovely. The built-in bookcases just need a fresh
coat of paint. And don’t you love the fireplace in the bedroom?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but what about that tiny room just around the
corner from the entrance foyer?”
“I asked and learned that one of the daughters used it as a tiny bedroom
with a loft-like bed. I’ll convert the space into a small, second bathroom.
The lack of that second bathroom is the other reason the flat’s been
overlooked.”
This was a simple case of sweat equity, not unlike what Samuel had done
with the house in San Francisco, acting as the general contractor,
supervising the subcontractors, and creating a finished product for a lot less
money than it would have cost to buy that already-finished product. This
time, however, Alison was willing to oversee the work.
For reasons Samuel never understood, it was a lot cheaper to buy than
to rent in London. The mortgage payment for this much larger flat would
be about half the amount he was paying in rent. His job at Arthur Andersen
meant obtaining a mortgage was a doddle. The down payment and the
remodeling costs would eat up most of his cash, but he estimated his half
of the marital assets was close to $2 million, and that would be forthcoming
within the next year.
 The first inkling that these best laid plans would go awry came when he
was fired from his job at Arthur Andersen. No explanation, just a terse
comment from his boss that it hadn’t worked out as he hoped. No mention of
the sterling performance review Samuel had received after his first six
months. Fortunately, he’d already obtained the mortgage.
The second inkling came after he married Alison and learned that he
wasn’t going to receive any of the marital assets. The reason was simple: he
remarried before filing an application for ancillary relief. This meant the
application he’d filed would be tossed out, which meant he would never
receive any of the marital assets, not one penny.
How had this happened? He reviewed the sequence of events. The first
six months after the decree nisi were a blur. Work was busy. There was the
bliss of guilt-free time with Alison. He was looking at flats Alison found,
and then arranging for a mortgage. He was visiting Hannah at Cheltenham
alternate weekends.
Everything was thrown into a cocked hat when he was fired. First the
shock. It was only the second time this had happened. Not only had there
been all sorts of warning signs the previous time, he’d actually felt a sense
of relief because he’d never quite bought into the template his boss
embraced for development, and since he’d been very successful doing it his
way, he’d never felt he had to. But this time was different. Outstanding
performance reviews. No inkling that anything was even slightly amiss,
much less sufficient to warrant termination.
In the midst of all this he’d been working with a solicitor to follow the
legal procedures to get his share of the marital assets. He wanted to file the
application for ancillary relief immediately after the decree nisi was issued and
the marriage formally dissolved. But his solicitor told him the court frowned
upon applications unless there had already been good faith efforts to reach
a mutually satisfactory resolution.
“The courts want their involvement to be the last resort,” his solicitor
said. “If you haven’t made an effort before filing, there’s every likelihood
the judge will order you to do so before allowing anything to proceed.”
Samuel was concerned that Janie would delay the proceedings, and why
not? She controlled everything, and there was no incentive for her to speed-
up a process that would force her to part with anything. But it seemed he
had no choice, and he reluctantly agreed to follow the first step of their
respective solicitors exchanging information. Except the exchange was a
one-way street. Samuel had none of the marital assets. Janie had all of them,
and Janie’s solicitor waited two months before providing what Samuel knew
was only a partial accounting. Slightly more information was forthcoming
after another month, but Samuel knew it was still incomplete. Frustrated,
Samuel instructed his solicitor to file the application for ancillary relief.
By this time, he’d been fired from his position at Arthur Andersen. It
was the work permit at AA that allowed him to remain in the country.
Marrying Alison was the only other alternative that would allow him to
stay… hardly a hardship, as he was planning to marry her anyway. Now, it
simply happened sooner rather than later.
Samuel was certain he’d told his solicitor he planned to marry Alison,
but the solicitor had no such recollection and therefore had not informed
Samuel about the requirement that the ancillary relief application be filed
before the marriage ceremony.
Now, there was nothing to be done except find a way to support his
newly expanded family.
Alison found a new approach to the remodeling of the flat. She called
it champagne on a beer budget.
No walls were moved; in fact, the biggest structural change was the
transformation of a small triangular room that was barely a large closet. It
was converted into a half bath and a laundry room, the washer and dryer
placed under the countertop, concealed by louvered doors. The illusion of
more space resulted from using the same crisp pattern of small blue and
white tiles on the floor, the countertop and the shower walls. The kitchen
also appeared larger as a result of new, light-colored floor tiles and white-
washed cabinet doors.
An inexpensive, neutral tile for the floor and walls of the master
bathroom appeared more luxurious because of a contrasting border of
those same square tiles set on their points to present a diamond shape. A
granite slab for the vanity countertop added a touch of opulence. These
modifications added less than 10% to the cost of what otherwise would
have been a plain bathroom. The result was an elegant room where a
champagne bottle in an ice bucket would have looked at home alongside
the bathtub.
Alison’s success was validated by the note Samuel received from Don
Cook, a college classmate who visited with his wife two weeks after the
work was completed.

We enjoyed our wonderful evening together at your new flat in London. You once
told me how much you liked to see people ‘at home’ because that’s the way you get a
glimpse of what their lives are really like. That evening we felt we were seeing what it was
actually like to be city dwellers in the middle of London – and we liked what we saw.
Patty, especially, was quite taken by the flat’s simple elegance.

It was shortly after this visit that Samuel received notice that Janie had
filed an application for ancillary relief against him. In one of those small-
world coincidences, he learned that a former Levi Strauss executive lived in
his building, and this must have been now Janie learned of the purchase.
Apparently keeping everything they’d accumulated during their marriage
wasn’t enough. She now wanted a share of his only asset, the flat he’d just
purchased and remodeled.
Samuel no longer had any confidence in his solicitor, so he decided to
handle this matter himself. Janie had never provided a full accounting of
the assets she controlled. He decided to use his response to obtain this
accounting. Pursuant to the rules, he prepared a six-page, single-spaced list
of questions and sent the document Jeremy Levison, Janie’s solicitor.
Levison didn’t laugh out loud, but that was the essence of his dismissive
response that Janie wasn’t required to provide anything, that only his assets
would be examined when the court heard Janie’s application.
By now, Samuel was aware of Levison’s reputation as one of the
country’s top divorce lawyers. Still he believed that Levison was wrong, so
he requested a formal hearing before a judge. It was held in the judge’s
chambers.
Levison addressed the judge, “My Lord, the gentleman remarried before
filing his application for ancillary relief. Accordingly, he is not entitled to make
a claim against any of my client’s assets, and thus cannot demand information
about these assets.”
Before Samuel could say anything, the judge replied, “Yes, I understand
that Mr. Levison, but this request is being made in defense of the claim your
client has made for ancillary relief. As you know, when considering what to
grant to your client, the Court must take into consideration your client’s
assets.”
The judge paused to put on his reading glasses and then perused some
papers on his desk.
“Actually, Mr. Levison, this is one of the most thorough requests for
information that I have ever seen. I suggest that you respond by next week
and then we can forego issuing a formal order requiring you to do so.”
Levison subsequently informed Samuel that to answer some of his
questions, Janie would have an associate retrieve her bank statements and
checkbook registers from storage in California. And then send everything
via Federal Express to Levison’s office in London.
On the agreed-upon day, Samuel arrived at Levison’s offices carrying a
briefcase and a larger carry bag. He was ushered into a small conference
room. Levison entered, accompanied by a female assistant. They sat.
Samuel remained standing.
“The package arrived yesterday,” Levison said, gesturing to the FedEx
box his assistant had placed on the conference table. “You can see that it
has not been opened. We’ll just send the whole package out to be copied
and then…”
Samuel interrupted.
“I want the copies made now.”
Levison looked puzzled.
“Well, I’m sorry, but we don’t have the personnel available today to
make the copies. That’s why I want to send everything out.”
Samuel insisted, “I want to see the package opened and the copies
made.”
Levison now looked baffled.
“You mean you don’t trust me?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
 Levison appeared too stunned to speak. His assistant stared down at
the conference table, suppressing a smile.
“I’ve never… I’m going to report this…” Levison stammered.
“Report whatever you want.” Samuel resisted the urge to reach over
and pat Levison consolingly on the head. “I expect to leave here with the
copies.”
Levison’s voice hardened. “Our copy machines are not available this
afternoon for this type of extended copying project.”
Samuel had expected this.
“That’s fine, I brought my own.”
Levison’s eyes widened as Samuel reached into the larger carry bag and
brought out a portable copier.
“I assume you won’t object to letting me use your electricity, or this
conference room.”
“Fine,” Levison said curtly, “What about paper?”
“I brought that too.”
The task was more tedious than Samuel anticipated. The small machine
was slow and each page had to be loaded by hand. It took almost six hours.
Then another thirty hours of study and detective work, Samuel’s first foray
into forensic accounting. But he did discover something.
There was a discrepancy between the checks paid to American Express
for Janie’s travel and entertainment expenses and the reimbursements
received from Levi Strauss.
During the first two years of her employment, it was easy to track a
check payable to American Express in one month and then, a month or
two later, a direct deposit from Levi Strauss to reimburse her. Exactly what
he expected. Janie once told him that she used her Amex card exclusively
for business expenses. It was a timesaving habit she learned when working
at McKinsey.
Starting in the third year, however, that correlation disappeared. There
were checks paid to American Express, but no reimbursements from the
company.
He knew Janie had to be receiving reimbursement for her expenses. If
not as direct deposits, then how? And where was that money?
 This made him curious about the stock buy-back the year before they
separated. Janie’s shares had been purchased, along with those of every
other employee. He could not remember the exact amount she received,
but believed it was around $125,000. There was no record of that, or any
similar amount, during the time period in question.
He now knew she had hidden some money. But why? How much? And
where was it?
During a recent conversation with a college classmate who now lived in
Berkeley and was a lawyer, Samuel had been lamenting the fact that he’d lost
his share of the assets accumulated during his marriage to Janie.
“Maybe not,” was the response.
“What do you mean?” Samuel asked.
“Well, you told me that a judge never actually ruled on a division of the
assets, that you suffered what we call a summary judgement.”
“So?”
“Look, I’m not a family lawyer, but I recall a conversation with one,
something about omitted assets. Can’t remember any details, but I think it’s
worth looking into. You might be able to file a claim here in California.”
As if I’m ever going to be in California again, Samuel thought ruefully. Still, he’d
filed the information away.
 Chapter 23

After Samuel was fired from Arthur Andersen, Janie couldn’t imagine
how he was managing to stay in England. How could he be supporting
himself, much less a new wife? She heard from Jim Smith that he was
attempting to put together a real estate development project. In England?
Where he knew nobody, and next to nothing about the country? There was no way that
was going to go well. And how was he paying for it? She knew from his experience
in California that until all the approvals were in place, and a financial partner
had signed on, cash flowed only one way – out… to pay the consultants
and the processing fees. So, how was he managing to fund these expenses when he
had no money? His bank account had to be barren because she’d gotten to
keep pretty much everything when Samuel remarried before filing his
application for ancillary relief. Yet he still paid half of Hannah’s school fees,
as well as half of Hannah’s other expenses.
She speculated that he must have adopted the same strategy he’d used
in California: convincing the consultants to work on a spec basis. No
payments for services rendered unless and until a financial partner signed
on. No money at all if that never happened. But payment in full if it did,
and then a share of the profits when the project was developed.
Samuel made it work in California because he had a track record there.
He had no similar track record in England. Were consultants that gullible
over here? Was Samuel that good a salesman?
Janie decided she neither knew nor cared… because Bob Haas wanted
her back in San Francisco. To be part of the team that would open the first
Levi Strauss flagship store… in Union Square, where just a few months
earlier Nike had successfully opened Nike Town. The buzz that opening
created was more than anyone anticipated, and Bob Haas wanted in. But he
wanted it done right. After all, San Francisco was their hometown. It had
to be perfect… and he wanted her to be part of the team that would make
it perfect. She might have been overseas for barely three years, but she’d
accomplished her objective of moving up the corporate food chain. A seat
at the senior management table was now within striking distance.
Janie wanted to take Hannah with her. Her new image as the yes-you-
can-have-it-all single working mother would suffer if Hannah remained in
England. She decided on an oblique approach.
She mentioned the issue to Hannah during a discussion about what
might happen when she eventually transferred back to company
headquarters. Just a hypothetical, just thinking out loud was how she
framed the conversation.
She then described what she believed Hannah would regard as a most
attractive package.
“You can have the entire front half of the upstairs of the house. That
large room your father used for his office. We can furnish it however you
like. Make it a place where you and your friends can hang out. Redo the
bathroom that connects it to the guest bedroom, which would become your
new bedroom. You’d have space and privacy. And, of course, your own car,
whatever you want. Just like you could attend whatever school you wanted
for your last three years of high school.”
Janie expected exclamations of amazement. She was offering
independence, mobility and money. What else could a teenage girl want?
Hannah’s initial reaction, however, was a muted shrug of her shoulders.
While she didn’t actually say, whatever, in that irritating way of teenagers, the
result was the same. She was indifferent. The next day she started asking
why she couldn’t stay in England.
“I really like my friends at school, and I could see you on breaks and
during the summer,” she said.
Janie replied that she was just thinking out loud, “and we don’t have to
finalize anything right now.”
To say that she was disappointed was an understatement. She thought
of everything she’d done for Hannah since the divorce.
A three-week African safari, along with a new, top-of-the-line Canon
camera to memorialize the trip. Box seats at Wimbledon. Two weeks on
the beaches in Spain. A credit card, a cell phone, a generous allowance.
 And this was her reward? Hannah would visit on school breaks and
during the summer. Not exactly what she envisioned in her role as the
heroic single, working mom.
Besides, what was so great about staying in England with Samuel? He
didn’t want her to have a credit card, or a cell phone. His idea of an
allowance was a joke. And what had Samuel offered Hannah last summer?
A second-hand bike so she could ride six miles to a shabby tennis club on
the outskirts of Windsor where she could hang-out all day. Sounded totally
boring to Janie.
Janie was certain Hannah would find life in San Francisco much more
exciting. So she started formulating a Plan B, the key part of which was
presenting the move as a fait accompli.
As usual, they would return to San Francisco for a visit at the end of
Hannah’s school term. Once there, Janie would tell Hannah that she
couldn’t return to England because she no longer had a legal right to be
there, that it went away with the expiration of Janie’s work permit when she
was transferred back to company headquarters. It wouldn’t be strictly true,
but what did a fifteen-year-old know about English law? Besides, they
would be back in San Francisco and Hannah was hardly going to return to
England on her own.
Except Plan B hit a speed bump that sent her back to her solicitor’s
office.
She explained to Levison that Hannah must have said something to
Samuel, because he was threatening to apply for a Residence Order if she
didn’t agree to let Hannah make up her own mind. And, by the way, what
exactly was a Residence Order?
Levison explained, “It’s like a Custody Order in America. Normally,
once the child of a divorced family attains the age of fourteen, the Court is
reluctant to insert itself into the quotidian aspects of the child’s life that are
normally decided by the parents. However, if the parents cannot agree, or
if one parent feels the other is not acting in the child’s best interest, then an
application can be made for a Residence Order. If granted, that one parent
becomes the primary decision maker in any matter related to the child.”
“You mean Samuel could force her to stay in England?”
 Even as Levison was responding affirmatively, Janie knew Samuel
would never force Hannah to remain in England. He had been specific, if
not particularly polite, when he called her.
“Either you tell Hannah she can make her own decision about whether
or not to return with you to San Francisco, or I’m going to apply for a
Residence Order. And when I get it, I’ll let her decide where she wants to
live and attend school.”
Janie was about to ask Levison his opinion regarding what the Court
might decide if Samuel made good on his threat. But before she could
speak, he said, “There is one action we could undertake. We could apply
for an injunction. The Court would never grant a Residence Order to a
parent against whom an injunction has been issued.”
“An injunction?”
He reached into a desk drawer and handed her a form. She stopped
reading after the first words, that the Respondent be forbidden whether by himself
or by instructing or encouraging any other person: (a) to use violence against the Petitioner.
She looked up. “This talks about violence, and Samuel’s never been
violent.”
“Don’t worry about that, it’s just the standard language. You won’t have
to testify or provide any proof. Our barrister will make the argument to the
judge. You’ll just sit there and look timid. The Court almost always grants
these injunctions. Better safe than sorry and all that.”
“And this injunction would guarantee that Samuel’s application for a
Residence Order would be denied by the Court.”
“I can’t promise that would be the result,” Levison said, “but it’s the
outcome I believe most likely.”
“And if his application is denied, then I could apply for a Residence
Order, and the Court would grant it?” she asked.
“I can’t see why not,” Levison said.
“And then I’ll become the primary decision-maker for everything
relating to Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“And I could compel her to return to San Francisco with me? Gently,
of course.”
 “That certainly seems the reasonable conclusion,” Levison said. He was
smiling, and Janie couldn’t recall ever having seen him smile before. He was
always so serious.
Now Janie smiled as well. “Great. Let’s do it.”
Levison told her that husbands often did not fight injunctions like this,
preferring not to have an extended discussion become part of the public
record. Not Samuel. He submitted a dozen letters from their mutual friends,
all stating that they’d never seen even a hint of violent behavior.
Janie was not surprised. She was pleased when she saw that Mike
Walsdorf had submitted a letter, but his wife, Ellen, hadn’t signed it. Nor
had she submitted a letter of her own. A little sisterhood solidarity, Janie
surmised. Nor was there a letter from Jim Smith. Again, no surprise, as he
was hardly going to do anything she might not approve of.
The only surprise was the letter she received from Hannah.

Dear Mom,
I am so upset with what you are doing that I can’t think of anything to hurt you as
much as you are hurting me right now. What kind of mother are you? You are a block
of ice, you have done everything possible in your power to make this divorce a new kind
of hell, but this injunction is just plain disgusting.
My father would do nothing to hurt anyone unless in self-defense, and you saying
that he will makes him out to be some kind of monster which is so preposterous that my
first reaction was to laugh. “What a stupid thing to say, couldn’t have been my mother!?”
But it is you, the true monster in this, the block of ice. You seem not to care about me,
or really about anyone else but yourself and your rep.
I am feeling such hatred towards you now that I don’t want to see you, to speak to
you, to have you come remotely near me, until I am ready which obviously won’t be until
you clean up the mess you made. And maybe even then I won’t want to see you because
you’ve crossed a moral line which cannot be crossed back without any problems. You’ve
made a mark in my mind which will cause me now for the rest of my life to look at you
through different eyes.
Hannah

Janie was angry, but she realized she had no alternative but to withdraw
the application for the injunction and resign herself to returning to San
Francisco without Hannah. Before departing, she called Annmarie in Italy.
There was one thing she could do to alleviate her anger.
After the usual pleasantries, Janie asked, “Remember that $50,000
Samuel loaned you to purchase that new Mercedes you wanted when you
first moved to Italy?”
“Of course,” Annmarie responded.
“How much do you still owe?”
“I’d have to check to be sure, but I think it’s around $30,000.”
“There’s no paperwork, right? Samuel just gave you the money, and you
promised to repay it.”
“Yes.”
“Do me a favor,” Janie said. “Stop making the payments. He just
prevented Hannah from returning to San Francisco with me.”
“Seriously?” Annmarie said. “How’d he do that?”
“It’s too complicated to explain,” Janie said, “but I’m so mad about it
that I can’t see straight, so just do this for me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Annmarie agreed.
 Chapter 24

After Janie returned to San Francisco, Samuel had a my-house, my-rules

conversation with Hannah. But now my house was different because Alison
and he had moved from the flat on Bramham Gardens.
When Samuel was working for Arthur Andersen, living in London made
sense. When he was working on a project located 140 miles west of London,
and all the consultants were located outside London… well, London lost a
measure of its allure. Upon reflection, the city’s allure consisted primarily of
access to exceptional food and live theatre.
When he first arrived, Samuel was skeptical of London’s reputation as
the place for live theatre. After all, even in the theatrical backwater of San
Francisco, he saw world premieres of Sam Shepard’s work. He visited the
real mecca of New York several times each year, attending evening
performance almost every day he visited and adding matinees on Saturdays
and Sundays.
He was so impressed with the Broadway productions of A Few Good
Men and Amadeus that he could never bring himself to watch the movie
versions, believing they would only disappoint by comparison. Same with
the Lincoln Center productions of Streamers and Six Degrees of Separation.
And it was the same with the Off-Broadway productions of David Mamet’s
American Buffalo and Craig Lucas’ Prelude to a Kiss. There was no movie
version of The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, but then the Broadway
production was an all-day affair – four hours in the afternoon, a break for
dinner, and then another four hours that evening. Bottom line, he couldn’t
envision anything better.
Until he attended a performance of Tom Stoppard’s Arcadia at the
Theatre Royal Haymarket and was blown away. The combination of the
brilliant writing and the majesty of the venue made it one of his most
memorable theatrical experiences. Lincoln Center became a poor cousin
when compared to the National Theatre. And no venue in New York could
match The Savoy, with the restaurant only steps from the stage, providing
the opportunity for first class dining before the show, and then dessert after
the final curtain. Places like the Donmar Warehouse offered more and
better plays than he saw Off Broadway. And there was nothing in New
York comparable to the variety of tiny stages in the backs of pubs with off-
beat offerings like Chicks with Flicks, a one-woman revue of pop singers with
hair cut to fall over their foreheads, known in America as bangs, and in
England as fringes. The production was as enjoyable as its title was silly.
Considering all this, Samuel realized that no matter where Alison and
he moved outside of London, they would always be closer to first-class live
theatre than he’d been when living in San Francisco.
That left exceptional food as London’s primary allure, but that was
offset by the filth. Not that the streets were littered with garbage. Rather it
was the air. It was thick with… well, Samuel didn’t know what it was, but
when he returned from a five-mile run across the Thames and through
Battersea Park, he was always covered with a thin layer of soot he thought
more appropriate to a dawn-of-the-industrial-age London than to a city
approaching the second millennium. Even after a short walk to the local
Sainsbury’s, or a simple journey via the tube, a tissue rubbed across his
forehead would show dark streaks of dirt.
Alison undertook the initial scouting. With no steady income, a
mortgage was not in the cards. They would have to rent, and this fact made
her initial forays depressing. The choices were markedly less appealing than
when she’d been looking to purchase their flat in London. Either most
tenants were pigs, or the landlords never performed any maintenance.
After a week, she found a handful of possibilities in the Maidenhead-
Windsor-Ascot area – a triangulation of towns located about 30 miles west
of London. Seeing these houses meant a lot of driving along unfamiliar
roads, which meant getting lost a lot, which wasn’t as bad as Samuel
occasionally forgetting to stay on the left side of the road. Thankfully, only
a sharp intake of breath on Alison’s part was required to induce the
necessary correction when he started down the path of a head-on collision.
Finding specific houses was difficult because many had names, not
street numbers. And many were like Sheepcote House, where the name was
written on a small plaque in script so small that Samuel had to exit the car
to read it. But even if the writing had been larger, he would have been
required to exit the car anyway… to open the wooden gate at the entrance
to the driveway. No modern convenience like an electric gate here in rural
England.
“Okay, what’s the story with this house?” Samuel muttered when he
returned to the car, making no effort to hide his irritation. So, if you live here,
every time you come home, you have to stop, get out of the car, open the gate, get back in the
car, drive in, and then manually close the gate behind you. Seriously?
“The agent told me a sale fell through,” Alison said, “and the owners
decided to rent it instead of putting it back on the market. She’s meeting us
inside.”
The wooden gate was a break in the low stone wall that separated the
property from the road. That frontage was about fifty yards in length, and the
house was set back about the same distance from the road. Structure was
probably a better descriptive term than house, and they soon learned the reason
for the hodge-podge nature of the architecture.
The original house looked like a picture-postcard, ivy-covered, brick
cottage. Center doorway, windows on either side, two stories with a steeply
sloped, thatched roof. Built in the 1400’s… before Columbus discovered
America. Leaded glass windows with all the minor imperfections that existed
before the mass production techniques that followed the Industrial
Revolution of the 1800’s. Interior window ledges that made obvious the one-
foot thickness of the exterior walls.
The ceiling height reflected the average height of people in the 1400’s…
short, as in really short. Samuel was tall – 6 feet 3 inches – but no giant. Yet
he could place his palms flat against the ceiling. And he had to duck his head
to get through the interior doorways.
Appended to the original house was a single-story addition, and then a
breezeway, and then a two-story structure that appeared to be a renovated
barn. The visual impression was a little jarring, but functionally it all worked.
The single-story addition was mostly open space that included a modern
kitchen, a small dining area and enough room for a couch, two chairs and a
TV. The two-story barn had been converted into a squash court and a large
open space that could be used for just about anything, but the owners
described as a games room for their grandchildren. The breezeway led to glass
solarium that offered unimpeded views of a professionally landscaped acre of
land… and a small stream that formed the rear property line, with an untamed
forest on the other side.
With no other structures in view, it felt like living in the country. In fact,
they were in a greenbelt area that was remarkably convenient. An entrance
to the major freeway west from London, the M4, was only two miles away.
The Maidenhead train station was four miles distant, and an express train
would deposit you in London less than 30 minutes after you boarded it.
Heathrow Airport was a 20-minute drive.
The decision to rent Sheepcote House was almost a no-brainer. Besides
the favorable location, the place sparkled with owner-occupied pride rather
than renter neglect. And there was so much more space – 5,000 square feet
compared to the 2,000 square feet of the flat in London, which was sold
easily, so appealing was Alison’s remodeling work. Samuel eventually
learned to duck his head as he passed through the interior doorways.
 Chapter 25

The my rules part of the conversation with Hannah meant an end to the
conflicts with Janie. These conflicts had started immediately after the divorce,
when Janie wanted to give Hannah a cell phone. At the time, cell phones were
still a relative novelty in England, rarely used by business executives and
typically regarded as a status accessory for the wealthy. Hannah was 13 years
old and had just moved into the boarding-school environment at
Cheltenham.
Samuel told Janie, “This is nuts. Hannah doesn’t need a cell phone. She
can use the phone in her residential house, just like all the other girls do. No
other girl in the house has a cell phone. You want her to fit in, not be regarded
as that rich American girl.”
Janie’s retorted, “But I want the convenience of calling her directly, rather
than going through the house phone. And when she takes the train to
London, I want her to have a cell phone for safety reasons.”
But Hannah never took the two-hour train ride to London alone. One
parent or the other always accompanied her, or alternatively, the journey was
made by car. But Janie was adamant, and resolution was reached only when
Hannah’s Housemistress intervened and said she would keep the phone, and
then give it to Hannah whenever she took the train to London.
When Hannah returned from a three-week African safari, she proudly
displayed her photos, reminding Samuel of similar ones he took during family
vacations. When Hannah showed off the new camera Janie gave her, Samuel
immediately recognized it as Canon’s top-of-the-line 35mm single-lens reflex
model. This was Hannah’s first camera, as she’d never before evinced any
interest in photography. Samuel was quietly aghast. If the very first camera you
give a child is the best one on offer, what do they have to look forward to? And why would
you do that before you know if the child is really interested in photography? And
apparently Hannah wasn’t, as she never again used the camera.
 More important was the conversation about Hannah’s behavior. Samuel
was blunt.
“You’ve been acting like a princess, Hannah, expecting everyone to cater
to your whims and desires. Maybe the servants on that safari treated you that
way, and it has stayed with you. I’ve certainly not seen you act this way
before.”
Except he had… but that was years ago, and he’d forgotten about the
incident until now. Hannah was five years old, and their au pair, Thelma, was
in the fourth of the six years she would fill that position. Samuel couldn’t
remember the specifics, but Hannah had asked for something and Thelma
practically jumped to fulfill the request. He was uneasy at the response and
told Thelma, “You’re in charge, not Hannah. You can get her what she wants,
but only when you think the request is legitimate, and Hannah can’t get it
herself. You’re not her servant.”
All these years later, Samuel was not willing to countenance similar
behavior.
“You’re going to have to clean-up your act, Hannah. We’re all here to
help each other. No one’s here to serve anyone else.”
It seemed to work, as her attitude improved overnight.
The most difficult task would be dealing with Janie’s penchant for
throwing money at Hannah. And refusing to listen when Samuel expressed
concern that the result might be a spoiled brat. The example that most
concerned him was Hannah’s credit card. He decided one of the new rules
would be no credit card.
Samuel started to explain the concept of personal fiscal responsibility,
and how it could never be developed if Hannah had a credit card where her
mother simply paid the outstanding balance each month. He stopped when
he saw Hannah’s eyes start to glaze over. So, he just told Hannah what her
new allowance would be, and that she could no longer use the credit card.
No requirement that she give up the actual card itself. That’s why he was
pleasantly surprised when she sent it to him from school, along with a brief
note.

Dear Daddy,
 Enclosed is Mom’s credit card so you know I won’t spend anything on it. I hope you’re
prepared to be AMAZED!
Say hi to Theo and give Alison a hug from me!
Love you lots and see you soon.
Hannah

Hannah was in the 10th grade at Cheltenham Ladies’ College, a posh, but
highly respected, school located in the Cotswolds, about two hours west of
London. While England was one of the most densely populated countries in
the Western world, the concentrations were highly uneven. Congested cities
like London were offset by sparsely populated areas like the Costwolds,
regarded as one of the most picturesque areas in the country. Rolling hills,
farmlands, and fairy-tale villages.
The school looked more like a small, American liberal arts college than a
secondary school. Perfect, except that after three years in an all-girls
environment, Hannah wanted to be where the boys were... specifically a co-
ed environment.
Samuel was sympathetic. He couldn’t imagine Hannah and her friends
talking about boys more than they already did. If anything, being around boys
every day might result in less preoccupation with them.
It turned out that such a transfer for the final two years of high school
was relatively common. Samuel regarded it in terms of King Arthur and
England’s medieval past.
The 11th and 12th years of high school were like a castle surrounded by
a moat. The only way across the moat was to pass a series of comprehensive
exams given at the end of 10th grade. Those who failed were destined to
remain outside the castle, either attending a vocational school or going
directly to work. Those who passed were allowed to cross the moat and enter
the castle, where they would matriculate before attending university.
The comprehensive exams covered all nine subjects studied during 7th
thru 10th grades. However, for 11th and 12th grades, only two or three
subjects would be studied. This dramatic change in the curriculum was the
reason changing schools for the last two years was not unusual.
Janie wanted Hannah to remain at Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Having
returned to California, however, she was not able to prevent alternatives being
explored.
Thus, it came to pass that several autumn Saturdays were given over to
Open Days, basically each school’s version of a realtor’s open house – an
opportunity to kick the proverbial tires.
These were all-day affairs. Alison and Samuel would drive to Cheltenham
to pick-up Hannah, then drive to the school du jour, spend most of the day
there, and then return Hannah to Cheltenham. The schools all had the same
format – a tour, lunch with students, and finally a presentation by the
Headmaster.
Cranleigh was only fifteen miles from Alison’s old Haslemere cottage.
There were about a hundred parents and children in a small, theatre-like
setting after lunch. The Headmaster, Guy Waller, and several of his staff were
seated at a table in the front.
Waller looked more like the rugby and cricket player he’d been at Oxford
than an academic. A full head of sandy brown hair, regular features on a
handsome face, a disarming smile and an athlete’s physique – he could have
been a middle-aged model for Ralph Lauren or Tommy Bahama sportswear.
Waller was answering a question when the fire alarm in the room started
clanging. It was an old fashioned, circular red bell and the clapper pounded
in a loud and frenzied manner that demanded attention. The noise made it
impossible for Waller to continue. Even conversation between two people
seated next to each other was difficult. Waller shouted above the din to assure
everyone that there was no danger, that the problem was just with the bell,
and that there was no fire.
Samuel remembered what he once heard about the tendency of the
English to follow the rules. What’s the first thing an Englishman does when he arrives
at a deserted bus stop? He forms an orderly queue.
That afternoon at Cranleigh, everyone sat quietly, waiting for the ringing
to stop.
Samuel looked around. These people were going to sit quietly until that grating
noise stopped? John McEnroe’s famous comment at Wimbledon came to mind.
You cannot be serious.
He stood, ignored the questioning look on Alison’s face, and walked over
to the alarm. He reached up and wrapped his left hand around the bell.
The ringing stopped.
He stood there, afraid if he removed his hand, the ringing would start
again. Waller walked over to relieve him. When Samuel lifted his hand to
affect the transfer, there was only silence. He grinned at Waller, shrugged his
shoulders and they both returned to their seats.
The session resumed, accompanied for the next half hour by the distant
sound of that same alarm bell ringing elsewhere on the school grounds.
Absent his impetuous intervention, Samuel wondered if everyone would have
sat quietly for that half hour.
He thought little of either the school or the incident until several months
later, when Hannah announced her decision to attend Rugby. She’d taken the
entrance exams at four of the six schools visited, and all four had offered her
a place.
When questioned, Hannah gave no reason for her choice, just said that
she liked the school. The lack of a reason bothered Samuel. He started to
wonder if Janie’s hidden hand was behind this decision, if her passive-
aggressive approach of getting her way had effectively steam-rolled Hannah.
Janie was always caught up in image and reputation. The first time they went
through this process (and eventually chose Cheltenham Ladies’ College) Janie
had wanted Hannah to attend Wycombe Abbey after learning it had the best
academic reputation, and before they had visited any other schools. Janie only
gave up on this choice when Hannah failed to clear the minimum score on
the school’s entrance exam.
This time, there was no question that Rugby had the best reputation of
the four schools, but would that really make a difference when Hannah
applied to colleges in the US?
Samuel called Bill Fitzsimmons, the Dean of Admissions at Harvard,
whom he knew from his years as an alumni interviewer. Bill said that the
boarding school experience would differentiate Hannah. Other than perhaps
Eton, all English boarding schools would be regarded as pretty much the
same by any admissions committee.
If not reputation, Samuel asked himself, what might be the appropriate
criteria when choosing one school over another? He replayed the open days
in his mind. The buildings and grounds of the schools were all similar, and
the mix of students during the lunches uniformly impressive. The only
difference was among the Headmasters, and that was because only one, Guy
Waller, stood out, head and shoulders, above the others.
During his presentation, Guy’s energy had been contagious. Although
only in his first year at Cranleigh, he’d enthusiastically described his plans to
improve the school. He had presence and gave off the air of someone who
got things done.
In comparison, the Headmaster at Rugby was unimpressive, a nice
enough man, but one who projected neither drive nor determination. Rather,
he reminded Samuel of the new Headmistress at Cheltenham.
Alison and Samuel had recently attended the pre-Christmas gala at
Cheltenham – displays of students’ artwork, hand-crafted gift items from
local artisans for sale, Christmas carols sung by the school choir. It was their
first exposure to Vicky Tuck, the new Headmistress, who gave a brief speech.
Neither had paid much attention when Vicky Tuck’s appointment was
announced at the start of the school year. Hannah was leaving, and there was
little, if any, direct contact with the Headmistress. Still, the woman’s brief
speech was a revelation. She had none of the gravitas, much less the presence,
of her predecessor. She came across as a timid, not overly articulate, junior
member of the faculty. Her first priority as Headmistress, she said, would be
to redesign the school uniform.
“Well, she certainly has her priorities, doesn’t she?” Samuel remarked to
Alison when they compared impressions on the drive home. “If I had any
lingering doubts about Hannah leaving Cheltenham, Vicky Tuck definitely
dispelled them this evening.”
This was important to Samuel because he believed that the individual at
the top could make a huge difference in any organization. In his experience,
that difference resulted from the individual’s persona – the combination of
presence, charisma and vision that inspired everyone in the organization.
Gaylord Freeman, who ran The First National Bank of Chicago during
Samuel’s brief tenure there, had that magical combination, and the bank grew
15% a year under his leadership. His successor, Robert Abboud, didn’t, and
under his leadership, the bank suffered a decline so precipitous that it no
longer existed, its name disappearing when it was acquired by another bank.
From the ninth largest bank in the country to a footnote in the history of
some other bank.
Neither Cheltenham nor Rugby was going to disappear under mediocre
leadership, but it appeared that Cranleigh, under Guy Waller’s leadership,
would be a much more exciting, a much more inspiring place to be.
Based on his experience, Samuel also believed that Hannah would have
more opportunity to shine at a school like Cranleigh, on its way to the top,
than at a school like Rugby, already in that top position.
He called, and then wrote to Waller about the possibility of Hannah
changing her decision. The response was positive.
Samuel was now in a quandary. Having made her decision, Hannah was
focused on the upcoming comprehensive exams. Her acceptance at every
school was contingent on her passing these exams, and he did not want to
upset her preparations, either with further discussion, or by announcing a
unilateral decision on his part to change schools.
Such a unilateral decision was not out of the question. The rationale had
been provided the Headmistress at Sherborne School for Girls. Or at least
the woman who’d been Headmistress a few years earlier when he and Janie
went through the process that ended in Cheltenham. The woman had
expressed, quite strongly, her belief that the school choice should be made by
the parents, not the child. “They just don’t know enough to make that
decision. And, if they make the wrong decision, they’re unlikely to admit it.”
Perhaps not directly applicable because Hannah was older now, but the
basic reasoning remained relevant. The more he thought about it, the more
Samuel became convinced that Cranleigh would be a much better fit for
Hannah than Rugby. Yet there was no obvious path forward for discussing
the subject with Janie. They had not agreed on anything related to Hannah
since their divorce.
Samuel decided to accept Guy Waller’s offer and enroll Hannah at
Cranleigh. However, he kept this decision from everyone else – Hannah, Janie
and Rugby – until after Hannah completed her comprehensive exams.
When Samuel told Hannah that she would be attending Cranleigh instead
of Rugby, he expected lots of questions and had prepared himself
accordingly. Instead, Hannah responded with, Okay, and changed the subject.
This confirmed his belief that her only concern was leaving Cheltenham for
a co-ed school, and thus it had been easy for Janie to direct her choice to
Rugby. And Hannah probably would have done fine at Rugby. But she would
not have achieved the results she enjoyed at Cranleigh… results that were
best summarized by Guy Waller when he spoke at Hannah’s graduation two
years later.

Speech Day is a time of mixed emotions for those approaching their last days at the
school. There are, in fact, three leavers from Common Room this year but, before I speak
about them, I want to mention another special person, Hannah Cohen. Hannah is the
second female Senior Prefect in Cranleigh’s history, and she has held office in a year which
sees the passing of four of the Houses and the emergence of a fifth new House. She has not
only shown herself adept at balancing the many conflicting forces within the school, but she
has also succeeded in providing the stability which is so crucial to the well-being of a boarding
community. I’ve frequently admired her calmness, her control and her sense of perspective
and wish that I could acquire some of them for myself! Cranleigh has been very fortunate to
have had such an outstanding Senior Prefect at so vital a stage in the school’s development.
Hannah, thank you.

There was no position comparable to Senior Prefect at an American high

school. Senior Prefect was sort of a combination of Student Council
President (usually a hard-working and diligent individual) and Class President
(usually the most popular individual), but it was choice made by key faculty
members and the principal. Within the context of daily activities at the school,
it was far and away the most prestigious position a student could attain.
In subsequent correspondence with Guy Waller, Samuel learned that his
unilateral decision to send Hannah to Cranleigh had impacted Guy as well.

Dear Samuel,
The famous alarm-bell day, your remarkable phone call and your unilateral decision
to send Hannah to Cranleigh provided the single most important vote of confidence I had
at a time of considerable turbulence for me personally.
 I never aspired to be a headmaster. I was the head of a house at a similar school and
quite happy with my position and my prospects. A classmate from Oxford recruited me for
this position. He said the school had some problems and that he thought I could solve them.
That personal appeal and the challenge were the reasons I accepted. By the spring of that
first year, however, I had discovered the problems were far more daunting than originally
described. I was at a particularly low point when your letter arrived, wondering if I had
made the right decision, wondering if I would be able to succeed. Your decision really helped
me keep going.
Sincerely,
Guy

But that was more than two years in the future. It was now the summer
of 1998, and Samuel was back in California. This was the culmination of a
series of events that no one could have predicted, least of all Samuel.
 Chapter 26

Several months after he was fired from Arthur Andersen, Samuel began
working on 400 acres of vacant land located 140 miles due west of London.
It was a left-over World War II airfield with a history of failed development
proposals, the most recent being a Euro-Disney-type theme park. Samuel
envisioned a mixed-use development with several office buildings, a
factory-outlet shopping center and a golf course.
The golf course would offer one innovation. Instead of two 9-hole
loops, there would be three 6-hole loops. Since one loop could be
completed in an hour, nearby office users could play during their lunch
hour, and husbands could play while their wives shopped at the factory
outlet stores.
The land was on the outskirts of Weston-super-Mare, a small town
primarily known as a working-class seaside resort. Samuel hoped the local
merchants would not object because the factory outlet stores would not
offer competing goods. In fact, he believed the shuttle bus he proposed
would bring new patrons to the local shops and restaurants, a point
emphasized in the English equivalent of the Environmental Impact Report
that he submitted.
The local merchants, however, were having none of it, and convinced
the local council to reject Samuel’s proposal. Normally, that would have
been the end of the story, but in England, there was an appeal mechanism.
The country was so densely populated, an appellate process had been
created that allowed a national inspector to examine a proposed
development’s impact on the entire area affected, not just the local council
responsible for the planning approval. In this case, the entire area included
Bristol, less than 20 miles away, which was the largest city in all of western
England.
Once an appeal was filed, the national inspector would hold hearings,
basically a re-hash of the previous approval process. If the national
inspector determined that the project benefitted the entire area, he could
overrule the local council and approve the project.
In fact, a few years earlier a nearby shopping center had been approved
in almost identical circumstances. The local council rejected the application
because the local merchants objected. On appeal, the national inspector
reversed that decision and approved the project, noting that the regional
benefits were far greater than the potential losses local merchants might
suffer. Samuel filed an appeal and was confident of a similar outcome.
The local council responded by changing the zoning for the property,
adding housing to the approved uses on the property. This was a 180º
reversal of the council’s previously repeated statements that housing was
not an appropriate use for the property. However, it did have the desired
effect of cancelling the hearing scheduled by the national inspector. With a
new use approved for the land, all previous applications were now null and
void.
Samuel’s development plan would have to change, but this time, he
would have competition… a lot of competition. To date, no other
developer had the appetite for a large and complex project like the one
Samuel proposed. With housing now allowed, there would be a plethora of
interested developers. New housing was always in demand, and sites this
large were rare in the extreme. There were a least a dozen well-capitalized
housing firms literally salivating at the opportunity this site represented.
Samuel needed a financial partner.
This was early 1998, and real estate investment trusts, REITs, were the
new darlings of Wall Street. As such, they were awash with cash. Which
meant there was probably at least one REIT large enough to be interested
in Samuel’s project. But could an American REIT invest in foreign real
estate?
Samuel called Bat Batinovich, a business acquaintance on the San
Francisco Peninsula who had recently converted his real estate business into
a REIT, Glenborough Realty Trust. It was this telephone call, made at this
moment in time, that changed the trajectory of Samuel’s life.
 When his call made it past the main receptionist, and then a personal
secretary, Robert Batinovich’s voice was pleasantly informal, one of the
reasons everyone called him Bat.
“Hello, Samuel, how are you? Not selling any dinner tickets today, are
you?”
Samuel was surprised that Bat remembered. The dinner had been almost
a decade earlier, when Samuel was president of the local Boy Scout Council
and selling tickets to a fund-raising dinner… for $250 each when the going
rate for such functions never exceeded $100. Bat’s company was among the
25 firms that Samuel politely strong-armed into buying a table of ten.
“No, today I’ve got a special on a 400-acre, mixed-use project in
England.”
“Is that why I haven’t seen you for a while? You’re in England?”
“Yes, for a couple of years now. I’m a little stretched on this project and
I wanted to find out if an American REIT could invest in foreign real estate.
I thought you might know.”
“Tell me about the project.”
Samuel hadn’t intended to pitch the project to Bat, whose REIT was
almost certainly too small; he just wanted an answer to the question, but he
complied. When he finished, Bat said, “That all sounds very interesting, but
why don’t you forget about that project, come back to California and run our
development operations.”
This was totally unexpected. “I didn’t realize you were in the development
business.”
“We sort of backed into it. We acquired properties from several different
developers across the country. Some have vacant land that we’ll develop in
joint ventures. We need someone to make certain we don’t get screwed by
our developer partners.”
Samuel recalled the definition of a joint venture. When it starts, the developer
has the experience, and the institution has the money. When it ends, the developer has the
money, and the institution has the experience.
Bat continued, “The salary is $200,000, there’s a guaranteed bonus of
$50,000, plus there’ll be stock options.”
Samuel was now paying close attention. The amount was more than he
earned doing the consulting work for Arthur Andersen. And two years had
passed since he’d received one of those paychecks. There was more money
on the table with the development project, but even with a financial partner,
that situation was tenuous by comparison. And he could do the work Bat was
describing with one hand tied behind his back. He was definitely interested.
Bat said, “Come back for an interview. We’ll pay your expenses.”
“Okay, but I’d like to bring my wife.”
The words came out automatically. When married to Janie, he never
considered consulting her about anything related to his work because she
never evinced any interest. With Alison, he couldn’t imagine making a
decision like this without her input. She was interested in his work, and when
it came to people, he trusted her judgment more than his own.
“That’s fine. My secretary, Alice, will make the arrangements. Hold on,
I’ll have her pick up.”
A week later, Samuel and Alison were in California. Samuel spent a day
with a corporate shrink, taking tests and being interviewed, and then another
day in interviews and meetings with all of the firm’s key executives. Alison
spent the time being shown around the area by a local real estate agent,
learning about neighborhoods, and viewing homes for rent and for sale. The
first evening Samuel and Alison shared dinner with Bat, Glenborough’s
Chairman and Chief Executive Officer, and Andy, his son, who was President
and Chief Operating Officer.
Glenborough might have been a public company, but it was still a family
operation run by this father/son combination. Samuel’s age was halfway
between those of the father and the son. Normally in such situations the
father would be the conservative, risk-averse personality, and the son would
be the hard-charging risk-taker. Here it was the opposite. The son acted as a
check on the father’s free-wheeling, risk-taking tendencies. Bat would seal a
deal on a handshake. Andy had forms to keep track of the forms.
Bat possessed a natural charisma, with a touch of bluff and bluster. He
was a self-made man. His father was a fisherman and Bat dropped-out of high
school to become one as well. However, Bat’s ambition, coupled with a sharp
mind that could process numbers quickly, allowed him to leave fishing behind
and achieve a degree of financial success that would be the envy of most
Harvard MBA’s.
Andy, on the other hand, suffered from what Alison described as a
charisma bypass. Samuel decided that this was probably okay, given that
REITs were supposed to protect the income streams from their various
properties.
Glenborough’s portfolio stretched across the country, but the
headquarters were in downtown San Mateo, one of the larger cities on the
Peninsula between San Francisco (20 miles to the north) and San Jose (30
miles to the south). Most of the projects Samuel had developed were located
within a 15-mile radius, so he knew the area well.
The job offer was forthcoming a few weeks later, and they wanted him to
start immediately. Internet applications like PDF files were still in the early
stages of development, so faxes were used to rent a townhouse Alison had
seen on her tour, and purchase a car, which Samuel picked-up when his plane
arrived at San Francisco International Airport a few days later.
Optimistically anticipating such an outcome, Samuel had used the
previous weeks to set up everything for the purchase of Sheepcote House.
He was not certain the job would work out, and they needed a base in
England where both children were attending boarding schools.
Two months earlier, he’d been discussing the lease renewal with the
owner, David Llewellyn. After the terms of the renewal were agreed, Samuel
mentioned that if David and his wife ever decided to put the house back on
the market, he and Alison would be interested in purchasing it. When
Llewellyn didn’t say anything, Samuel filled the silence by observing that he
and Alison would be the ideal purchasers. With no existing house to sell, they
would not be part of a chain. So their purchase would not be contingent on
selling an existing house, the sale of which might be contingent on that buyer
selling their house, and so on. And since they had lived in the house for a
year, they wouldn’t require any due diligence. In fact, a mortgage would be all
they needed.
When Llewellyn remained silent, Samuel got carried away. He mentioned
the amount of the mortgage he thought they could afford. Llewellyn
murmured something noncommittal like, That’s interesting, and Samuel forgot
about the conversation.
A week later, Llewellyn called back and said they would be interested in
selling the house for the price Samuel had mentioned. Except Samuel hadn’t
mentioned a purchase price; he’d mentioned the amount of the mortgage he
thought they could afford. Samuel started to correct him, and then bit his
tongue. If Llewellyn misunderstood him, and if he was willing to sell for that
amount, Samuel would be an idiot to say anything. Perhaps this was an
illustration of Winston’s Churchill’s observation that England and America
were two countries separated by a common language.
Sensing this might represent a bargain purchase price, Samuel
commissioned an appraisal. It came in about 20% higher than the price David
Llewellyn was willing to accept. Now Samuel approached the financial broker
who found the lender for their mortgage loan on the flat at Bramham
Gardens. The broker found two interested lenders. This was where things
stood before the telephone call to Bat Batinovich.
When the job offer arrived, Samuel could now prove a regular source of
income. He signed a purchase contract with the seller, and the broker
arranged a mortgage loan equal to 80% of the appraised value, which was the
price in the purchase contract. When the lender paid the purchase price into
escrow, it wasn’t quite a perfect match. After everyone one was paid – the
seller, the mortgage broker, the title company and the escrow fees – there was
a small amount left over… which was sent to Samuel.
And the monthly mortgage payment would be less than the previous
rental payment.
Thus was Samuel in California when Hannah arrived in June 1998, fresh
from her exams and ready to divide her summer between Samuel’s
townhouse on the Peninsula and Janie’s house in San Francisco.
 Chapter 27

Two weeks after Hannah’s arrival, a process server came to Samuel’s

office to deliver the formal notice of a court hearing in San Francisco. Janie
was seeking full custody of Hannah. This was her response to Samuel’s
unilateral decision to enroll Hannah at Cranleigh rather than Rugby. Samuel’s
response was to call Hannah.
“Hannah, I was served with papers this morning. Your mother is
demanding full custody of you, and a court hearing is set for next month. Do
you remember I told you a year ago that I was all through fighting legal battles
with your mother over you?”
Samuel paused, waiting for her acknowledgment.
“Yes,” came back over the telephone, in that guarded tone Hannah used
whenever she wasn’t certain where the conversation was going.
“I wasn’t overly concerned in England because the courts there take the
view that once a child is 14 years old, the child can make these decisions
without the court’s interference. But here in California, the courts are
different. They like to get involved, and when they do, the father always loses.
Unless the mother is a drug addict, the court always grants custody to the
mother when she requests it. Fathers are second class citizens. The courts
simply do not believe we can care for children as well as mothers.
“What this means is that I’ll be signing the papers this afternoon, and
your mother will have full custody over you. I’ll bring your belongings by the
house this evening. You know I love you, but there’s nothing else to be done
in the face of your mother’s actions.”
When Samuel arrived at the house in San Francisco, Hannah walked out
the door to meet him before he could even climb the steps to ring the front
doorbell.
“I’m going home with you, Dad,” she announced.
“What are you talking about? I just signed some papers giving your
mother sole custody. I’ll be breaking the law if I take you home.”
“Just let her try and object,” Hannah said. “I’m not staying here, so could
we please just go home?”
So Samuel drove her back to the townhouse on the Peninsula, and he
never heard another word from either Janie or her attorney.
The following week Samuel asked Hannah if she wanted to visit her
mother.
“No.”
“Don’t you want to call her?”
“No.”
Samuel asked again a week later, and received the same response, so he
stopped asking, and Hannah neither saw nor spoke to Janie during the entire
summer.
If Hannah wanted to spend the summer with him, that was fine with
Samuel, as he’d made plans for her… starting with work.
The first job resulted after he called Ken Ottoboni, the owner of 231
Ellsworth, a restaurant named for its street address. Back in the 1980’s, Ken
was the first to bring San Francisco-quality dining to San Mateo. By now, 231
Ellsworth was regarded as the best restaurant in San Mateo, and one of the
best on the Peninsula. Samuel asked Ken if he could find a spot for Hannah
working in the kitchen.
“What did you have in mind?” Ken asked.
“Something that’s hard work, and that’s useful to you. She’s just finished
the tenth grade, and this will be her first real job. Because she’s so young, I’d
be happy to pay you whatever you pay her, just in case what she does is only
marginally helpful. I want her to learn about work. I’d be okay if you had her
clean the kitchen floor each day with a toothbrush.”
Ken laughed. “Have her come by. I’m pretty certain I can find something
for her to do. And I’ll pay her for her work.”
Ken had her work as an assistant sous chef, and general helper in the
kitchen, but it was only part-time. So, Samuel called another friend who ran
a small real estate brokerage office, and convinced him to hire Hannah to do
filing and other, similar office work, again part-time.
Having turned sixteen in February, Hannah had her driver’s license, so
Samuel rented a car for her to get to and from the two jobs… and to visit her
girlfriends in San Francisco, the ones she’d gone to school with at Hamlin.
Besides being home at a reasonable hour each night, the only requirement
he imposed was that she run with him several mornings each week. Just a
couple of miles in preparation for an end-of-summer, three-mile run he
expected her to complete within 30 minutes. Oh, and a brief discussion of
two books (her choices) she had to read over the summer.
Self-sufficiency, work, freedom of movement, a little exercise, and a little
mental stimulation – Samuel thought he’d nailed it. A perfect summer.
 Chapter 28

Janie Ligon was royally pissed off.

The son-of-a-bitch preached the importance of letting Hannah make her own decisions,
and then secretly, in the most underhanded manner conceivable, overrode Hannah’s school
choice in favor of his own. Everyone knew Cranleigh was a second-tier school compared to
Rugby. This was not going to help Hannah gain admission to her first choice for college.
Rugby was just 20 miles from the Levi Strauss headquarters, while that damn Cranleigh
was 100 miles away. And the decision was irreversible because he’d waited until the last
minute to tell the schools, and even longer to tell Hannah. Didn’t even have the common
decency to tell me at all. And then Hannah gets mad at me for seeking the custody order
without first consulting her. That custody order was for her own good. To prevent her father
from controlling her life. It’s OK for him to make unilateral decisions, but not me?
Hannah wasn’t returning her calls. She’d have to figure out some way to
talk to her in person. But not right away. Let her cool down. Let the dust
settle. Janie wasn’t worried. Hannah was a child. Janie could bend adults to
her will at work. A child would be easy by comparison.
In the meantime, she had to focus on the lawsuit she just learned that
Samuel had filed against her.
Her new attorney, Timothy Halloran, explained the situation.
“He’s seeking half of your assets under the omitted assets section of
California’s family law code. It’s simple: if a divorced spouse finds an asset
that was not adjudicated in the divorce proceedings, he or she can sue to get
their half of that asset. Maybe the asset was hidden, maybe the spouse
unintentionally omitted it. Doesn’t matter how it happened. The other party
can sue to recover their half. And they’ll usually get it.
“The most famous defendant is a woman who won $1.3 million in the
lottery, and then promptly divorced her husband... and conveniently omitted
mentioning this money when they divided their assets. Two years later, he
found out, and sued. The court awarded him not just 50% of the lottery
proceeds, but 100% because the wife had concealed the information.”
Janie knew there was no emotion when marital assets were divided in a
California court. The judge used a big axe, and simply divided everything in
half. That would be bad enough, but what would happen to the investment
account Samuel knew nothing about? If he found out, would she forfeit all
of it to him? But she was getting way ahead of herself.
Halloran continued his explanation. “Our first response will be that there
are no omitted assets, that everything was adjudicated in England, and for
this reason the court should summarily dismiss the claim. Of course, they will
oppose this motion for summary judgment, and whichever side loses will
appeal the decision.”
Janie said, “But everything was finalized in England. Doesn’t that
guarantee our success?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. Yes, everything was finalized. No, because the
assets were never actually put in front of a judge and divided. Because your
ex-husband remarried before filing his claim, he was barred from even making
the claim. And that’s the essence of his lawsuit, that the assets were never
actually adjudicated in England, so they should be adjudicated here in
California.”
“What are his chances of success?”
“That’s a good question. I’ve checked, and there’s never before been a
case like this in California. It’s one of those situations where the decision
could go either way. We’ll obviously argue that even though an English judge
never saw the assets, the assets were fully adjudicated according to English
law, which should be determinative, since that’s where the divorce occurred.
“His attorneys will argue that the court should look through the
adjudication to see what really happened. That look through doctrine is usually
applied to tax avoidance schemes. The IRS looks through the transaction to
determine if it was a real economic transaction, or merely one with that façade
and the real reason was to avoid paying taxes. They will argue that if the court
looks through the bare-bones facts, they will see that no English judge even
considered a division of the marital assets, much less rendered a decision. If
the court buys that argument, we’re going to lose.”
“What can we do to maximize our chances of winning?” Janie asked.
 “Okay, this is where we go off the record. And I mean completely off the
record. If you repeat even a word of what I’m about to say, I’ll flatly deny it.
Are you willing to keep this completely to yourself? And I mean completely.
To not tell anyone, ever. Agreed?”
Janie didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Okay, this case will get to the first appellate level. That’s a certainty.
Whatever that first court decides will be the final result. If we lose, you’ll have
to provide the court with a detailed accounting of the marital assets, and
eventually half will go to your ex-husband. However, if we win, it’s all over.
You won’t have to provide any accounting, and your ex-husband won’t get
anything from you.
“But won’t they appeal the decision if we win?”
“Probably, but it won’t make any difference. The next appellate level is
the California Supreme Court, and they’re like the US Supreme Court. They
don’t have to hear every case that’s appealed. They get to choose the appeals
they want to hear, and they’ll never choose this case.”
“Why?” Janie asked.
“Because it doesn’t meet their two criteria. The Supreme Court likes to
reserve itself for cases that will set some important precedent, or that will
impact more people than those involved in the litigation. This case will never
meet either of those tests. So, whatever the appellate court decides will be the
final decision.
“The appellate court that will hear this case is a three-judge panel. I can
get to one of those judges. I’ve done it in the past, but only a handful of times,
and only with cases like this, where the verdict can legitimately go either way.
The problem is that even getting to one judge doesn’t guarantee success. He
has to convince at least one other judge to see the case the same way he does.
If my judge takes the lead, that shouldn’t be difficult, but the lead is
determined by chance assignment.”
Janie asked, “When you say you can get to a judge, I assume you mean you
get money to the judge. How do you do that, and not get caught?”
“The money goes to a non-profit foundation run by the judge’s wife. How
the money is used, or where it goes after that, I don’t know. And I don’t want
to know.”
 “So, I’d make a contribution to this non-profit, whatever it is?”
“No, you’d give the money to me, and I’d run it through the same
accounts I’ve used in the past. The same accounts that make annual
contributions to the non-profit.”
The conversation was now almost surreal, but Janie wanted to see where
it ended. “How much?” she asks.
“$200,000.”
Janie’s gasp was involuntary… and loud.
Halloran continued. “I’ll keep $50,000 for my part and pass on the
remaining $150,000.”
“But there’s no guarantee, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
“That’s right, there’s no guarantee. My judge has to convince one other
judge. Easy if my judge has the lead. More difficult if he doesn’t.”
“And you’ve done this in the past?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“Enough. I’m not going to elaborate.”
“And it’s always worked?”
“Yes, but there’s always a first time…” Halloran let the implication linger.
“Can I think about it?” Janie asked.
“Of course. If you want to do it, just let me know. If you don’t, I’ll never
mention it again, and you’ll still get my best efforts, and we might even win.
Either way, this is going to drag out for a year or two, or maybe more. That
adage about the wheels of justice grinding slowly is true.”
Over the next few weeks, Janie thought about it… a lot… because
$200,000 was a lot of money. But if she lost, she could end up parting with
ten times that amount. Actually more, if Samuel found out about the
investment account Jim Smith set up for her. Once Samuel remarried and lost
his ability to claim anything from her, she’d stopped laundering her expense
money into that account. What she’d previously accrued just sat there. Still, it
was a tidy sum that she had no wish to share.
Then again, she might win without paying the $200,000. Or she might
lose even after paying the $200,000. It wasn’t until the end of the summer
that she delivered the check to Halloran and told him to go ahead.
 Chapter 29

When Samuel put together Hannah’s perfect summer, he assumed… or

rather, he hoped that her bad behavior and acting out days were over. There
had certainly been enough of them over the past year. They’d started the
previous December, when she visited Cambridge to spend several days with
a girl she met while taking the entrance exam for Rugby. Alison gave the
necessary seal of approval after speaking with the girl’s mother. Somehow,
Hannah managed to sneak away for a few hours, and was found by the girl’s
mother in the apartment of a 24-year-old man. Samuel asked the mother to
send Hannah home immediately, where she was lectured, and then grounded.
Barely a month after the grounding ended, Hannah was involved in an
incident with three Cheltenham classmates, two of whom lived in London,
and one, Nicky, who lived just a few miles from Sheepcote House. All four
were to spend the weekend in London. At the last minute on Friday evening,
they told the first mother that they would instead spend the night at the
second mother’s house. They said nothing to the second mother, who
assumed they were still at the first mother’s house.
At 1:00 AM Saturday morning Alison received a call from Nicky’s father.
He had called both mothers’ houses and discovered that the girls were at
neither. No one knew where they were or what they might be doing.
Nicky’s father drove to London to scour the streets looking for the girls.
Everyone else just worried. Nicky’s father finally discovered the girls around
5:30 AM, not too far from the second mother’s house.
Nicky’s father was seething when Samuel arrived at his house to pick-up
Hannah. He said the whole affair was Hannah’s idea, and he held Samuel
personally responsible for this terrible, American influence on his daughter.
His anger made Samuel brace for a physical assault that, thankfully, did not
materialize. On the way home, Hannah claimed Nicky was the ringleader.
This gave Samuel pause. Hannah had described the girl in Cambridge as
leading a wild, double life that included pub visits her mother knew nothing
about. In fact, it was at one of these secret pub visits where Hannah had met
the man she was discovered with. Samuel wondered what the truth might be,
and quickly realized that there was no way to find out.
Wandering the streets of London in the early hours of the morning – even
with three other girls – was a situation fraught with peril. Samuel was torn
between anger that Hannah could have done something so potentially
dangerous, and relief that nothing awful had happened. When Samuel did
something similar at that age, it was not the punishment he dreaded, rather it
was the explanation his father demanded.
To replicate that dynamic, Samuel made Hannah write an explanatory
essay and then discuss it with him. She acknowledged all the potentially awful
things that could have happened. She professed to understand the anxiety
endured by all the parents. She claimed she understood how any trust in her
was now undermined. She said she understood how important that trust was
to a good relationship, not just between a parent and a child, but between any
two people who cared about each other. For punishment, she was grounded
for the next two months – no weekends away from school, no discos at
school.
Several months later, after Hannah was in California, Samuel learned that
the perfect summer he’d arranged for her wasn’t so perfect after all.
The first inkling occurred when her car broke down and he had to drive
her to work. During the ride, Hannah asked about dating a 23-year-old man
she worked with at the restaurant.
A 16-year-old girl with a 23-year-old man? Samuel’s stomach did a somersault.
Not again, he thought, forcing himself to remain calm.
“Hannah, let’s consider the possible outcomes if you date this guy. What’s
his name anyway?”
“Mike.”
“OK, what happens if you have a good time with Mike? How will it
change your working relationship the next day?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you’ll certainly be more friendly, right?”
“Yes.”
 “And maybe there’ll be a little wink, wink, nudge, nudge while you’re
working, right?”
“Well, maybe.”
“And maybe that’ll impact how you work with everyone else in the
kitchen?”
“OK.”
“All right, let’s consider what happens if things don’t work out, if it’s not
a good date, or if you and Mike have an argument. How’s that likely to impact
how you work together?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think it might be a little awkward?”
“Yeah, that’s possible.”
“Might make working there together uncomfortable, not only for you,
but for everyone else as well?”
“OK.”
“Look, Hannah, I don’t want to tell you what to do (well, actually he did)
but it seems that any way you look at it, there’s going to be problems if you
date someone at work.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Samuel refrained from repeating the crude adage – you don’t eat where
you shit. Still, he felt he’d made the point in a way she understood. Except
she hadn’t.
A few weeks later, Samuel returned home to find Hannah upstairs in her
bedroom with a young man, this one a few years older than Hannah. Samuel’s
obvious disapproval made the young man uncomfortable enough to leave
without being asked to. After he left, Samuel told Hannah that she was not
allowed to be alone in the house with any male.
Barely two weeks later, a neighbor told Alison that she saw Hannah and
a man spend the afternoon alone in the townhouse.
When confronted, Hannah admitted that it was Mike from the restaurant.
Before Samuel could determine the best way to deal with this, there was
another incident. Alison’s son, Theo, had a visitor – Robbie, a friend from
Scotland – staying in with them for a week.
At dinner the second night, Robbie asked, “Has anyone seen my Stone
Roses CD? I can’t find it.”
Samuel didn’t have a clue who the Stone Roses were, so he just shrugged
his shoulders and looked around the table. Everyone had the same, I-don’t-
know expression.
The following evening, Alison said, “I was cleaning in Hannah’s room
today and I saw the CD on a shelf in her closet.”
Having forgotten the previous night’s discussion, Samuel asked, “What
CD?”
“The one Robbie said was missing, that he couldn’t find.”
“Oh, you don’t think Hannah could have taken it, do you?”
“I don’t know. I just saw it this afternoon. What would you like to do?”
Samuel paused to consider the alternatives. Hannah’s recent behavior had
created a degree of suspicion he hated himself for feeling.
“I’ll mention it this evening at dinner and let’s see what happens.”
Which Samuel did by asking if the CD had turned up. When Robbie said,
No, Samuel suggested that everyone have a good look around this evening. The place
isn’t that big, so it’s bound to turn up.
Except it hadn’t by the following night. Samuel asked each of the children
in turn, “Did you check thoroughly in your bedroom and closet, and under
the bed?”
He did not dwell on Hannah but made a point of looking her directly in
the eye. She did not waver. So much for his ability to read her face.
After dinner the next evening, Alison said, “There’s some money missing
from the drawer in our bathroom.”
“Since when have you been keeping money in the bathroom?” And then
he realized that this was beside the point. “Please show me.”
Alison walked him to the entrance to the dressing area just before the
bathroom. Immediately inside the door, there were built-in drawers along the
wall. She opened the top drawer and lifted a small notebook almost the same
width as the drawer.
“I keep some money under here, usually four or five twenties. There’s
only two here now, and I know there were at least four the last time I looked.”
“When was that?”
“Sometime last week. I only keep the money here in case I run out of
cash and going to the bank isn’t convenient, so I don’t really check that
often.”
“It looks like I’m going to have a conversation with Hannah.”
Samuel walked directly to her room and shut the door behind him. She
was sitting in bed, reading a book, and looked up in surprise. He sat on the
edge of the bed.
“You checked and couldn’t find Robbie’s CD, right?”
The tone of his voice made Hannah visibly nervous.
“No.”
“No, you didn’t check, or no, you couldn’t find the CD?”
Samuel knew he sounded like a police interrogator on some dismal
television show, but he had her attention. She looked down, and then up, and
said, “No, I couldn’t find it.”
“Then maybe you can tell me why Alison saw it on a shelf in your closet
when she was cleaning the other day.”
Hannah now had a deer-in-the-headlights expression. Before she could
invent some lame excuse, Samuel continued, “Forget it, don’t even try. Just
give it to me.”
She leaned over to the night table, opened the drawer and handed him
the CD.
Samuel snatched it from her outstretched hand and his voice hardened,
“Now you can give me the money you took from the drawer in our dressing
room.”
When he saw her start to speak, Samuel cut her off, “Just give me the
money, Hannah.”
She rose and got her purse from the bureau. She opened it and handed
him two $20 bills.
Samuel took them and said, “Okay, what else have you taken?”
She was clearly afraid now. Trembling slightly, she sat on the opposite
side of the bed facing away from him, her head bowed, her voice barely above
a whisper.
“A couple of times, I’ve taken some money from your wallet.”
This was not what he expected. Actually, he didn’t know what to expect,
but he’d decided if ever a time existed when she might be cowed into
admitting something, it was now.
Samuel always left his wallet on the desk in the small study downstairs
where he had a computer. He normally returned home from work later than
Hannah and left before she did in the morning. She must have come down
in the middle of the night to take the money.
Hannah hardly needed the money. She had her own bank account, flush
with cash gifts she received from relatives. She’d earned over $2,000 thus far
from her summer jobs.
Samuel didn’t know where to begin with this one.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he said, and then left, not trusting himself to
say another word. Later would have to wait for the Christmas break because
Alison was now scheduled to return to England with Hannah and Theo for
the start of their respective boarding school terms.
 Chapter 30

Janie decided enough dust had settled since her sole custody attempt, and
she planned a trip to England to meet with Hannah at Cranleigh. Convenient
email was still a few years off, so immediate communication was handled with
faxes. Janie sent an innocuous one to Hannah, and then spoke with the
Headmaster of Hannah’s residential house. A day later she received a
response fax Hannah.

Dear Mom,
Thanx for the fax, mail is always something nice at boarding school. Things here are
wonderful, everything’s much better than expected and my Housemaster is the best one I
think! Made loads of friends and the blokes are all pretty nice.
But straight to the point. There’s been talk by Mr. Wilson of you coming to visit me
in the near future. Please don’t. Although it would be great to see you, I’m still not
comfortable with the way you acted during the summer and the attitude you’ve taken after
the incident. I need proof, a promise from you that nothing like what happened will ever
happen AGAIN. This is for my sake a personal promise, in writing, to me so that I can
put my mind at ease.
We need to talk about what happened and sort things out, but before I feel comfortable
to do that I need the promise.
I love u and know that you’ll do the RIGHT thing.
Love,
Hannah

Janie was not about to grovel before a teenager. Her solution was to arrive
at Cranleigh unannounced and lean on the school administrators. Janie
believed they were hardly going to deny a mother an audience with her own
daughter. And they weren’t.
 Janie and Hannah spent an afternoon together, talking as they walked
around the campus, and then to the nearby village. Janie hadn’t practiced in
front of a mirror, but she’d rehearsed everything she wanted to say on the
long flight from San Francisco to Heathrow.
As she expected, Hannah was initially stand-offish, so Janie played the
sympathy card.
“I know I’ve done some things you didn’t like, and maybe I shouldn’t
have, but you’ve got to remember… you’re the only family I have, and I want
to do everything I can to make your life perfect.
“My younger brother, Roger, died before you were born, and you know
that my other brother, Vaughn, died of cancer a few years ago. You’re all I
have left.”
She asked about Hannah’s friends, her classes, her teachers, Mr. Wilson,
and the school’s Headmaster, Guy Waller. Once she got Hannah going, it was
like a dam being unleashed. Hannah couldn’t stop talking, and Janie listened,
attentively and actively, asking questions, offering comments, laughing at all
the appropriate moments.
Janie had done this before, just never with Hannah. It was how she
became “one of the boys” at Levi Strauss. The two keys were:
(1) Evince sincere interest. Just like the maxim about the key to becoming
a good actor – sincerity, and once you can fake that, you’ve got it made.
(2) Flatter, but don’t be obsequious. Flattery was to social interactions
what butter was to cooking. Everybody wanted more of it, but nobody was
willing to admit it. Too much, though, induced sickness.
By the time they returned to Hannah’s residential house, Janie was
comfortable that the relationship had been reestablished. So she added the
icing to the cake.
“There’s two things I want you to have.” She reached into her handbag,
withdrew a new cell phone and handed it to Hannah. “It’s already set up with
an international calling plan. I want to be able to reach you, and I want you
to be able to reach me, at any time, day or night. You’re that important to
me.”
When Hannah took the cell phone, Janie reached into her handbag again
and brought out a credit card. “And I want you to have this credit card. If I
lived nearby, I’d know I could always get you money quickly in an emergency.
But I’m over 5,000 miles away. It’s a ten-hour flight to Heathrow. If
something happens and you need emergency funds, I’ll never be able to
respond immediately. But with this credit card – and it’s set-up for cash
advances – you’ll have immediate access to emergency funds, and I’ll sleep
easier knowing that you have it. So, do it for me. Please. I’ll feel so much
better.”
When Hannah agreed and slipped both the cell phone and the credit card
into her pocket, Janie knew the trip had been a success.
 Chapter 31

When Hannah returned for the Christmas break after her first term at
Cranleigh, she was sick with the flu for the first week. Once recovered, there
was frustration in her voice when Samuel sought some closure about her
thefts during the summer.
“You don’t have a clue. I bet you were perfect when you were my age.”
“You’re right, I was. How did you know?” His feeble attempt to induce
a smile failed, and her head was bent in dejection.
“See, I knew it,” she said.
Samuel reached out and gently placed his index finger under her chin,
applying a slight upward pressure.
“Hey, look at me. I was just kidding. I wasn’t perfect.”
“You weren’t?”
“No, I wasn’t. Every kid goes through a stage where they take things.
When I was nine or ten, I shoplifted some things from a couple of stores.
Little things, what my mother called dust catchers, that I then sold to other
kids for less than the sales price. I remember my parents asking me about it,
expressing disbelief that I would buy something for 39¢ and then sell it for
35¢. That was probably why I stopped. I didn’t want the stuff, and I knew
there was nothing I could say to justify selling something for less than I’d
supposedly paid for it. I didn’t do it for long, and I was lucky that I never got
caught.”
“Why did you do it?”
“You know, no one ever asked me. I never even asked myself. The answer
is that I don’t know, or at least I can’t remember now. I did get caught stealing
once, though.”
Samuel saw a shift in Hannah’s attention, like a rabbit whose ears have
just pricked up at an unfamiliar noise.
“Well, it wasn’t quite as bad as it sounds, but I was caught taking
something I shouldn’t have. My mother never kept candy in the house, except
for her secret cache of Jordan almonds. By the time I was eleven I’d grown
tall enough to reach into the kitchen cabinet where it was hidden. I thought I
was so clever, taking only a few each day, confident that she’d never notice.
She probably wouldn’t have either, if she’d been eating some every day, like
me. But she indulged infrequently, and the change was noticeable. It probably
took her all of ten seconds to figure out that I was the culprit. None of my
siblings could reach that high. I was so embarrassed when she confronted me.
“I’m not going to hammer you again about what happened last summer.
It has to stop, though. You know that.
“When you get caught at home, it’s embarrassing. Believe me, though, it’s
nothing compared to the way you’ll feel if you get caught out there.”
He tilted his head towards the door of the bedroom and raised his
eyebrows.
“However difficult you think it is explaining to me what you’ve done, you
can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like…”
Samuel let his voice trail off. There had to be a better way to explain this.
“There must have been a girl at Cheltenham who had a reputation for not
telling the truth. Let’s be blunt, who everyone knew was a liar, someone you
couldn’t trust.”
She looked at him but said nothing.
“I’m not interested in names. There must have been someone. There
always is.”
“Okay, there was.”
“Remember what you and your friends thought of her? If you saw her
today and she said she’d totally changed, would you believe her?”
Hannah slowly shook her head back and forth once.
“That’s the point I’m trying to make. Once people start to think of you a
certain way, it takes a long time to change their minds, and maybe they never
do. I don’t want that to happen to you, and I don’t think you want it to either.”
Sensing he’d reached her limit, Samuel said, “Okay, that’s probably
enough for today.”
He bent over to kiss her forehead before leaving the room.
For all his attempts at boundary setting, he was still a pushover much of
the time. The television he was leaving her to watch was the most recent
example. It was the first one in the house.
Both Hannah and Theo had bemoaned the lack of one over the summer.
Alison and Samuel hadn’t budged, telling them to read books or listen to
music. When Hannah’s flu made it obvious that she would be in bed far
longer than anyone would want to read, Samuel immediately purchased this
one, with a built in DVD player, and placed it in her bedroom.

Two months later, Hannah was back for a week-long break. Samuel
picked her up at the airport was driving her when he asked a question.
Afterwards, he couldn’t even remember the question; it was that innocuous.
What made an indelible impression, however, was Hannah’s lie when she
answered. Samuel was baffled that she would even bother to lie about
something so unimportant. When he quietly said that he knew Hannah’s
answer was not true, she shrugged her shoulders and continued the
conversation as if nothing had happened.
Recalling the discussion they’d had over the Christmas break, Samuel
wondered, Will this never end?
“Hannah,” he said, “this isn’t working, and that lie was just a minor
example. For the past two years, you’ve been misbehaving regularly. We’ve
talked about it. You’ve agreed you were wrong. You’ve written essays
describing the dangers of the bad behavior. But you haven’t stopped. It’s
driving me crazy, and I don’t know what to do about it. Actually, it’s ripping
me apart, and I can’t stand it anymore. So, if you misbehave again, if you do
something we’ve agreed you’re not supposed to do, the way I’m going to deal
with it is that you’ll have to live with your mother for some period of time.
You won’t be able to live with Alison and me for a while.”
Hannah’s aversion to seeing Janie at all during the previous summer made
Samuel think that this was possibly the worst punishment he could inflict.
Plus, a recent visitor had described how just such a punishment had resulted
in her brother experiencing major behavior modification.
He continued, “I don’t like it, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s just
too painful for me to deal with. Do you understand?”
The only sounds were the wind and the distant hum of the tires as Samuel
glanced over at Hannah. Finally, she nodded her assent, and the word, Yes,
was barely audible.

Samuel knew everyone lied, but he was at a loss to understand what might
have caused Hannah’s seemingly pathological manifestation of this behavior.
Was it a function of watching him and Janie effectively lie to her by enacting
the charade of a happy marriage?
The year before their departure to England, the Head of School at Hamlin
requested a meeting with Janie and Samuel. She expressed concern about
Hannah’s relations with some of her classmates. Several altercations, nothing
physical, but more nasty words exchanged than was regarded as normal. Might
they consider having Hannah visit a child psychologist?
Janie endorsed the suggestion, but Samuel resisted… until he
remembered that there had been a similar incident, including a physical
encounter, several years earlier between Hannah and a Montessori School
classmate. He relented.
Samuel took Hannah to the appointments after school and adhered to the
psychologist’s requirement that he not ask Hannah about what was discussed.
The psychologist did, however, provide periodic reports.
Hannah seems to intuit some family secrets in relationship to her parents in whom she
senses far more emotional separation than is openly expressed. In one story she made up as
part of the Thematic Apperception Test, she perceived a married couple “faking liking each
other and she (the heroine) is the only one who knows they have problems, but everyone
wants them to stay together, but they divorce in the end.”
Was it possible that living with such deception made Hannah prone to
deception herself? Or, was it possible that compulsive lying was a genetic trait
Hannah inherited? This was one possibility where Samuel considered himself
blameless. Janie, not so much. He recalled the years she swore she stopped
smoking but hadn’t. He assumed she finally stopped when she became
pregnant with Hannah, but maybe she hadn’t after all. Maybe that was the
explanation for Hannah being markedly shorter than Janie. Surely his 6’3”
height when combined with Janie’s 5’6” should have yielded a daughter taller
than 5’4” especially considering that every other member of Janie’s family
(and his, for that matter) was taller than 5’6”.
 Then there was the Japan trip, or rather the Japan trip that wasn’t. Janie
told Samuel that during college she’d accompanied her roommate, Dell
Stephens, on an extended trip to Japan. She subsequently admitted that she
fabricated the story, but offered no explanation, and he’d shrugged it off at
the time. In retrospect, he realized that the admission had come immediately
before a planned dinner with Dell and her new husband, Dixon. Janie must
have feared Samuel mentioning it at dinner, and the subsequent
embarrassment that might result.
Further speculation seemed pointless. And then the unexpected occurred.
The day after Hannah departed for Janie’s house, Samuel found a credit
card receipt signed by Hannah on the kitchen counter. Unexpected because
Hannah wasn’t supposed to have a credit card. Not only had she agreed to
this restriction a year earlier, but she’d also sent Samuel the card Janie gave
her. This receipt meant Janie must have given her another one.
Perhaps if Samuel had defied his parents as a teenager, he would have
been more understanding. But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t. He knew that if a
parent didn’t follow through with consequences, the child’s behavior would
worsen, not improve.
He called and told Hannah he’d just found the credit card receipt. “I
suppose your mother gave you a new credit card, since I still have the old
one.”
Silence.
“Hannah, answer me. Did your mother give you a new credit card?”
“Yes.” Her voice was quiet, almost meek.
“And is it like the old one, no spending limits, and she just pays the bills?”
“Well, sort of. But I don’t really use it that much.”
“Then why do you have it?”
More silence.
“Do you remember the conversation we had about this back in England?”
“Yes.”
“Where you promised to give up the credit card, and use only your
allowance?”
“Yes.”
“And do you remember what I told you on the drive home from the
airport? What would happen if you broke your word?”
Nothing.
“Hannah, do you remember?”
“Yes,” softly.
He realized this was going nowhere.
“I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”
For the rest of that evening and the following day, Samuel kept hoping
Hannah would call and voluntarily give-up the credit card. No such luck. Still,
when Samuel arrived at Janie’s house, he knew that if Hannah agreed to give-
up the credit card, all would be forgiven.
Hannah opened the door and Samuel stepped into the entrance foyer.
It was a mutually awkward situation, so Samuel skipped the pleasantries.
“Hannah, there’s always been a simple mantra I’ve used in these situations.
If you make a mistake, admit it, fix it, and learn from it. You’ll be back shortly
for spring term break and then for six weeks during the summer. When
you’re ready to rectify this situation, just call. Alison and I want you back
spending part of your time with us.”
As he was saying these words, Samuel saw something in Hannah’s eyes.
She was tuned out. She was somewhere else. The angst of the moment was
his alone. He was genuinely upset; she was going through the motions.
Samuel saw it, but he didn’t know what it meant.
He didn’t realize until years later that it meant Hannah would never make
any effort to rectify the situation, and that he would never see her again.
 Chapter 32

A year into Samuel’s new job, and everything was going well, so Alison
was back to what she’d been doing four years earlier – looking to buy a
dwelling, but this time a house in Silicon Valley instead of a flat in London.
Silicon Valley in 1999 was even more discouraging than London in 1995.
They started from the premise that $1 million could buy a dream house.
Not even close. For $1 million all you could get was 2,000 square feet of living
space that hadn’t been updated in twenty years.
Mostly this resulted from the basic law of supply and demand. For
decades people had been moving to California in larger numbers than the
building industry’s ability to supply the necessary housing. Just like the
certainty of death and taxes, prices rise when demand exceeds supply.
And when home prices increased, everyone in the chain wanted a piece
of the action. Land sellers wanted higher prices. Cities wanted higher fees.
Construction laborers wanted higher wages. Contractors wanted higher profit
margins. The line on the graph was rising at a 45-degree angle. There were
occasional dips caused by general economic conditions, but the trend was
ever upward.
In the San Francisco Bay area, and especially Silicon Valley, these
dynamics were turbocharged. The area was mature and there were no large
parcels of vacant land where new homes could be built. Even for small
parcels, government regulations constrained supply while demand continued
unabated.
Then the [Link] boom happened, and everything was magnified yet
again. It was like the Richter scale for earthquakes, where one point equals a
thirty-fold increase in magnitude.
The [Link] boom brought an unprecedented level of new wealth to the
area. Not only were there more buyers than sellers, but many of these buyers
had buckets of money, and they wanted to live close to where they worked.
Bidding contests were common. The stories circulated via an oral tradition
that was faster than the internet.
A house sold for $1 million over the asking price. Another sold for $2.8
million more than the asking price. Frustrated at having lost several previous
bidding contests, a buyer instructed his broker to offer $8 million for a house
listed at $4 million.
When an Atherton homeowner answered his door on a Sunday
afternoon, a realtor introduced himself and explained that his client, sitting in
the waiting car, wanted to purchase the house for $25 million – all-cash, no
contingencies, no inspection beyond what he could see from the car. The
homeowner politely demurred, but the broker persisted, and a price of $40
million was agreed the following week. This story seemed so outrageous that
when Samuel related it to a friend, he expected a rebuke for repeating such
nonsense. The friend responded that he knew the homeowner and could
verify the truth of the story, adding the seller’s comment, “I’m rich, but not
that rich.”
Who were these people? Where did they get the money to throw around
like that? Alison started to understand while listening to the radio one
morning. The wife of a newly minted [Link] millionaire was being
interviewed. When asked about suddenly being worth $100 million, the tone
of the interviewer’s voice conveyed that there was no way she could justify
this windfall.
“My husband worked really hard for three years,” was the wife’s defensive
response.
At first, Alison could not believe the woman said those words, as if $100
million were the normal reward for three years of hard work. It was not until
a week later that the reality sunk in. At this moment in time – 1999 – and in
this specific location – Silicon Valley – $100 million often was the reward for
three years of hard work. Often enough that paying an extra few million
dollars for a house was not a big deal.
The knowledge was small consolation. After weeks of looking with the
help of a broker, Alison had found nothing they could afford. On a whim one
Sunday, Samuel decided to look at a house because the ad caught his
attention.
 From the outside it looked like a typical suburban tract house, but the
inside had been completely redone. Architectural Digest had just finished
photographing it for an upcoming issue. Everything Samuel liked about the
remodel, especially the fact that it was an open plan, made the house
unappealing to the typical family with children looking to buy in that
neighborhood. The result was a discounted price.
Samuel was a bit smug. First try and he’d found the perfect solution. He
returned home so he could bring Alison to see it that same afternoon.
On the drive back, he decided to forego any descriptions and let the house
speak for itself. Alison listened to the broker on the guided tour. Her silence
and body language indicated that she was not as enchanted as Samuel, so he
was prepared for a slightly negative reaction when they departed.
However, it was not that Alison found a few things unappealing about
the house. After all, the unusual interior design could take a little getting used
to. But Alison did not like the inside, or the outside, or the neighborhood.
There was nothing she liked, even a little, about the house.
She explained how much she hated to disappoint him, but there was no
way she could ever live in that house. Samuel was upset. Alison was upset.
The silent interior of the car reeked of their mutual frustration.
Less than a mile from the freeway entrance, Samuel saw a sign advertising
an open house. He muttered something about looking as long as they were in
the area. Alison shrugged her shoulders noncommittally. They arrived fifteen
minutes before the open house was scheduled to end.
It was a modern house, but unlike other houses they’d seen, the front
door did not open immediately onto the living room. There was an entrance
foyer. In fact, this was the antithesis of the modern, efficient house because
there was a great deal of wasted space, primarily long hallways with nooks
and crannies. The rooms were large, and the ceilings were high. The
topography dictated the second floor would be downstairs from the entrance
floor. That’s where the huge master bedroom was, along with the largest
master bathroom either had ever seen. As they wandered through the house,
their anger and frustration dissipated, and they found themselves sharing a
silent approval.
It was not until they finished the tour that they realized it was a
townhouse, attached on one side to a similar unit. There were eighteen in all,
built ten years earlier on an 8-acre parcel. The architect positioned the units
along the perimeter of the oblong, steeply sloping site in a way that minimized
views of adjacent units and maximized both privacy and views of the
landscaped area in the center. The house was 3,400 square feet, with three
bedrooms and three bathrooms.
They both wanted it. But Samuel knew they couldn’t afford it. Every
logical bone in his body screamed, Tell her we can’t afford it! But his heart
wouldn’t let him. Alison was home much of the day, and this living
environment was so much nicer than where they were renting. He’d find a way.
Alison had far more experience in this arena, so she was dispatched to
negotiate a deal… with only one requirement from Samuel. The quick closing
that every seller expected in this market… that was out of the question.
“I need at least 30 days,” he said, feigning a lot more confidence than he
felt. Truth be told, he had no idea how he would pull this rabbit out of the hat.
There ensued the ritual back and forth with the seller’s agent. First there
were two other offers, and then one dropped out. The sellers wanted a quick
closing, and then they were willing to accept 30 days. Finally, a purchase price
was agreed.
The selling agent recommended a mortgage broker. Samuel felt like Alice
falling through the looking glass when the broker told him about declared
income mortgages. No proof of income was required; you just declared your
income on the mortgage application. Admittedly, Samuel had applied for only
a few mortgages, but each time he was required to submit copies of his W-
2’s, or some other proof of income. He shook his head in amazement when
the mortgage broker told him that her clients got declared income mortgages
all the time.
She gave him the two key numbers: the amount of the mortgage payment,
and the maximum percentage of his income this payment could represent. All
he had to do was complete the application with the right number for his
income. No proof, no verification, no questions asked. She assured him that
there would be no problems. The financing would be forthcoming as long as
his declared income was high enough.
Easy, except Samuel’s actual income was not high enough. He wanted to
get with the program but couldn’t shake the feeling that someone would
demand an explanation. Why? Because his income was public information.
The REIT’s stock was publicly traded, and the salaries of the five highest-
paid employees were included in the financial statements, and he was number
four. Surely someone would check this information, and when they did, they
would quickly and easily see that his income would not support the mortgage
he needed to close this purchase. The solution? He created a fantasy
spreadsheet. Just as fantasy football was tenuously tethered to reality, so too
was his spreadsheet.
Several years before he went overseas, one of Samuel’s projects resulted
in a big payday. He created a spreadsheet of his income from that point to
the present… took the total… divided by the number of years… and, voila,
his average income over the past seven years was the magic number. He now
had an explanation if anyone asked.
No one asked. The mortgage was funded, and the purchase closed on
schedule. The timing was propitious. A month later, the price would have
been bid up to a level beyond being solved by a fantasy spreadsheet. A year
later, the identical house next door would sell for double the price they paid.
However, he still had to contend with the monthly mortgage payment
and making it would be a stretch. How big a big stretch? Including taxes and
insurance, the total was about equal to 100% of his take-home pay. But he
would soon receive his annual bonus, and hopefully a raise. What was
important… what this was all about… well, he’d achieved that. He’d satisfied
that most important of primordial urges – providing for his mate.
The transaction could have been considered Samuel’s all-time, most-
irresponsible financial decision. Yet he would come to regard it as one of the
best he ever made. Alison might have liked the house when they first saw it,
but she came to love it when they were living there.
It was during this time that Samuel recalled the incident when he was
sitting in the church courtyard a block from his flat on Bryanston Square.
When the little girl had wordlessly, and unbidden, climbed onto his lap, and
he’d wondered if the changes he felt since meeting Alison were reflected in
his aura. It was now that Samuel realized the full extent to which he had
changed.
 With Janie, he’d pursued professional success zealously, and examined his
life on the yardstick that measured his achievements. He still worked for these
achievements, but the yardstick was different. Now, it was all about Alison,
her happiness, and their life together. The other stuff mattered, but it was
secondary. He was reminded of a note where Alison wrote that there were
not enough hours in the day for them to do nothing together. With Janie, he
wouldn’t have even understood those words. With Alison, he couldn’t
imagine living without them.
It was at the house on Manresa Lane where Alison and Samuel established
the routines that would change their lives… by transforming the quotidian
into the magical.
Whenever Samuel returned from a long business trip, they would have an
away day. They shut themselves off from the rest of the world for a day – no
visitors, no telephone calls, no e-mail, just the two of them in splendid
isolation.
Fresh flowers and chilled champagne were always prominent. For
sustenance – fresh fruit, cheeses, smoked salmon, whole-grain bread, and
butter. Chilled glasses for the champagne and platters for everything else –
usually consumed in bed, where they would talk, laugh, and make love, neither
aware of the time.
One day each month, Samuel would leave the office at mid-day, pick-up
Alison, and they would drive to Los Gatos for a late and leisurely lunch. Then
they would stroll through the small downtown, stopping perhaps at the shop
that sold particularly decadent pastries, or the one that specialized in vintage
women’s clothing, and always, the bookstore. Arriving home, they would
unplug the phone and spend the evening in bed, making love and reading. Or
they would play tennis at the nearby community college courts, stopping
when the sun set.
During the winter months Alison would light the gas fireplace in the
family/great room adjacent to the kitchen. This was where they spent most
of their time, the room both cozier and more intimate than the large living
room. Two armchairs faced a small sofa in front of the fireplace. That sofa
was where they played Scrabble, occasionally made love, and where Samuel
would sometimes find Alison napping, never ceasing to marvel at her beauty
in that peaceful repose.
A favorite photo was the one he took when they attended his 25th college reunion. They
stayed in the same room he shared with two others freshman year. He moved two mattresses
from single beds to the floor so they could sleep together. One morning he awoke first, and
her sleeping visage was angelic. No make-up, but her skin was so smooth and unblemished
she looked 20 years younger than her ago of 50. And that’s what most of his classmates
thought… that he’d married a much younger trophy wife, when she was almost three years
older than everyone else.
The evenings Samuel returned from work, they would share a glass of
champagne, sitting and talking in the armchairs. More often than not, they
would partake of a light dinner here, rather than the dining room, the plates
balanced on their laps.
A friend who resided overseas asked Samuel to recount a typical day, and
when he got to this part, the friend asked, What could you possibly talk about for
so long? You’ve been together for over five years now. And Samuel said, I don’t know.
We just talk.
Upon reflection, he realized that much of it must have been recounting
the day’s activities to each other, talking about current events, whatever. It
was the same during car journeys. They rarely listened to music; they almost
always talked.

Their conversations entered a new phase during the year Alison worked
on the interior treatment for the lobby and elevators of a new office building
that was his responsibility. The architect talked Samuel into letting him hire
Alison as a consultant for this work. The situation offered more potential
conflicts of interest than Samuel cared to carefully consider, but the architect
promised that her fees would come out of his fee, and Samuel reluctantly
agreed.
During that year, Samuel would come home to find Alison excited to talk
about her ideas, and he would offer practical perspectives. Much to his
delight, her work was exceptional.
Alison’s first change was to make the lobby area circular. This was tricky
because it meant nothing could ever hang on the walls. To solve that issue,
she sourced a lime wash paint from Italy. It was inexpensive, could be applied
by anyone, and the texture of the limestone created sufficient interest to let
the walls remain unadorned. This in turn made the relatively small area of the
lobby appear much larger than it actually was.
The outside entrance to the main lobby was two stories tall and all glass.
This let natural light highlight the floor, which was the main design element.
In contrasting light and terra cotta colors of granite there was an ornate star
pattern with the building’s simple logo in the center. The two-story ceiling
was a specially constructed dome, with lights around the perimeter and a
mirror in the center that reflected back the pattern on the floor.
The building was in the city’s historical district. Alison found some
antique photographs of the city. She had three blown-up, one each to wrap
around the interiors of the three elevator cabs. They created the impression
of stepping into the past. But instead of a traditional photographic image, she
had a local artisan create an etched brass image of each photo. Not only did
this make the images virtually indestructible, but the brass also matched the
rest of the lobby’s trim.
Finally, Alison coordinated the creation of a DVD that was a virtual tour
of the lobby. This DVD became the primary marketing tool for the building
while it was under construction.
When the DVD was complete, Samuel showed it to his boss. At this point
no one had seen anything of the lobby. Samuel thought Alison had done a
tremendous job, but he was nervous because the man’s personal taste was the
opposite of this lobby. He liked dark, rich colors and dark wood. Other than
the brass accents, this lobby was all light colors and natural, light wood. He
also liked ornate designs. Other than the floor star pattern, this design was
simplicity itself.
After watching the DVD on Samuel’s laptop, his boss said, “That’s the
best lobby design I’ve ever seen. I only have one complaint.”
“What’s that?” Samuel asked apprehensively.
“That we didn’t have this designer available when we redesigned the
lobby of this building.”

The intimacy they shared at the house on Manresa Lane was enhanced
each evening in the bedroom. After lighting the gas fire, Alison would soak
leisurely in the adjoining bathroom. The bathtub was a large oval with Jacuzzi
jets. It was a tight fit for two, but luxuriously spacious when Alison bathed
alone. Samuel would sit at the side of the tub and talk to her, trying not to be
distracted when the bubbles would blow away and reveal her breasts.
They almost always read in bed, and occasionally Samuel would read a
book out loud. The sound of his voice pleased and soothed Alison, the same
affect her Scottish lilt had on him.
When they doused the lights, they would either talk or make love, both
equally intimate in their own way. The bed faced the fireplace. The flickering
flames were hypnotic, their soft light the kindest imaginable, making both
appear years younger… an illusion, but a pleasing one. Hopes and wishes,
dreams and desires, distant memories and recent recollections, being in the
moment and being transported to a timeless place – all would merge and meld
in endless permutations. Thoughts of reincarnation would surface briefly.
Was it possible that they had met in a previous life? And would meet again
in another?
 Chapter 33

January 10, 2001

Dear Dad,
I understand there is a Uniform Gift to Minors account which you set up for me. Now
that I am over 18 years of age I would like to know where the account is and I would like
the account and its assets transferred to my name.
Please advise the required information within two weeks of receipt of this letter.
Sincerely,
Hannah Cohen

Two years since their last conversation. No contact whatsoever for two
years. And this was how Hannah chose to break the silence. With a letter
most likely written by an attorney. Finally, Samuel understood. It was all about
the money.
A month earlier, Samuel had refused Janie’s request to pay half the cost
of a new car for Hannah. She was attending the University of Southern
California, and Samuel supposed a car might be necessary, but not necessarily
a new one that cost as much as the one he was driving. It wasn’t that he didn’t
have the money. Both his salary and bonus at the REIT had increased, and
he’d refinanced the mortgage on the house. He had plenty of cash. But there
was a principle. The first car for a 19-year-old should not be a seriously
expensive, top-of-the-line model. Neither Janie nor Samuel came from a
family where there was a lot of money. Both had to work for many years
before purchasing a car like the one that Janie wanted to give to Hannah.
The account Hannah referenced was filled with money Samuel had
deposited over the years to pay for Hannah’s college education. Janie had an
identical one. Every semester, Janie sent an accounting, and Samuel sent a
check from the account for half of the total. He noted these facts in a
response to Hannah and asked for an explanation.
Dear Dad,
I’m sure you know all this since you were the Trustee for the account but just to be
clear, the California Uniform Trust to Minors account 6032-693947 vested to me effective
upon my 18th birthday. At that time the above-named account should have been placed in
my name.
My tax returns for last year will need to be amended for the interest, dividends or
capital gains earned on this account so I would appreciate having the year end statements
for the past two years so I can seek advice from a tax accountant and make the necessary
amendment to my tax returns.
I understand the intent you and Mom had in setting up the individual Trusts was to
provide funding for my education related expenses. I believe the regulations governing the
Trust do not place requirements on nor do they allow contingencies to the transfer of title
upon my turning 18. I know that I am a responsible young adult and I intend to use the
funds wisely.
Sincerely,
Hannah Cohen

No question a lawyer was drafting these letters. That bothered him less
than her signature. Her full name? That’s where their relationship had
evolved? She felt compelled to use her full name?
Hannah was correct. The money was technically hers. But it was for her
education, not to pay for a new car. No way he was going to allow this money
to be used for that purpose. Samuel wrote back that he would be pleased to
give Hannah all the money provided that she promised to use it for her college
education. He never received a response, and he continued to pay his half of
her educational costs from that account. And nothing changed.
The first few years without any contact from Hannah had been difficult,
but after this incident Samuel realized that whatever bond he thought existed
between them had been swamped by the tsunami of money from Janie. At
one level, he could hardly blame Hannah. What young woman would give up
the money and freedom Janie offered in exchange for the stricter rules and
guidelines that Samuel thought important?
 And then there was Samuel’s lawsuit to recover his half of the marital
assets. No doubt Janie told Hannah that every dollar he recovered would be
one less dollar Hannah would inherit.
When it came to Hannah, Samuel realized he would have to settle for
some pleasant memories.
 Chapter 34

In the REIT that employed Samuel, there was a natural tension between
father and son. The father, Bat, was a free-wheeling deal maker. He founded
the company and was the Chief Executive Officer. He hired his son, Andy,
as Chief Operating Officer because he wanted someone he trusted implicitly
to manage all the details inherent in purchasing and managing office buildings
and business parks. Once the company became a publicly traded REIT, there
were also analysts and investors who had to be provided with similarly
accurate performance details.
Bat and Andy were an effective team, each relying on the other to curb
their own excesses. When Bat got carried away with an overly optimistic view
of an acquisition or a market, Andy would provide the facts necessary for a
more rational analysis. When Andy got mired in the details, Bat would expand
his vision to encompass the bigger picture.
Samuel’s work often put him smack in the middle of their only area of
disagreement – new development projects. When you undertook a new
development project, you faced a myriad of risks.
Would the project be approved? Or would you spend a lot of money only
to have the project rejected by the local government?
Would you be able to find the necessary financing to build the project?
First the construction loan. And then the mortgage loan. Or would you be
stuck with vacant land because you couldn’t obtain the financing?
Would the project be built for the projected cost? Or would you suffer
cost overruns that would either reduce the profits, or completely sink the
project?
Would the finished project lease at the projected rental rates? Or would
you have to accept a discount? And suffer losses, perhaps for many years?
By contrast, when you purchased an existing building, you knew exactly
what you were getting, and you faced none of these risks.
 Button-downed Andy preferred to purchase existing buildings, and in
fact, such buildings represented the bulk of the REIT’s portfolio. Free-
wheeling Bat was not afraid of the risks inherent in development. New
development projects represented a small portion of the REIT’s portfolio.
With one exception, all of these new projects were being undertaken by
developers from whom the REIT had purchased completed buildings. The
new projects were on adjacent land, and the buildings represented a natural
expansion of what the developer had previously built, and that the REIT now
owned. Bat wanted Samuel to make certain the developers did not screw the
REIT during this development process. Because these projects were scattered
across the country, Samuel had to travel a great deal. Otherwise, the work was
not difficult because Samuel was simply watching others do what he had done
for twenty years, albeit with a careful and attentive eye.
One exception was a local project, literally within 10 miles of the REIT’s
headquarters. Bat had signed a purchase contract for the land, and then hired
a local developer to obtain the necessary approvals, and then build the project.
During Samuel’s second year, the developer’s proposed project was rejected
by the city’s planning commission, and Bat was in a bind. He had $1 million
in sunk pre-development costs. He had another $2 million in a non-
refundable deposit. If he didn’t close on the $20 million purchase in a year,
he would lose that $3 million. Bat had lost faith in the local developer, and
asked Samuel to save his ass. Well, not in those exact words, but that was the
obvious remit, and Samuel was delighted to take on the project.
Over the next year, he redesigned the project and obtained the necessary
approvals. Bat closed on the land purchase for $20 million, and shortly
thereafter received an offer of $40 million for the land.
The entire transaction represented the extraordinary profit potential Bat
liked about development projects. His total out-of-pocket investment was $4
million: a $2 million deposit plus $2 million in pre-development costs – $1
million the local developer spent, and then another $1 million Samuel spent.
Once the approvals were in place, it was easy to borrow the $18 million
to close the purchase. The $40 million offer to buy the property represented
a profit of $18 million – $40 million minus the $20 million purchase price less
the $2 million in pre-development costs.
 But that $18 million was earned on an out-of-pocket investment of $4
million. Who wouldn’t be willing to invest $4 million to realize a profit of $18
million three years later? That gain represented a return that was between 20x
and 40x greater than what the REIT might earn from purchasing an existing
office building, and then selling it a few years later.
The flip side, of course, was the risk. A fully rented office building is not
going to decline in value. Fail to obtain those approvals, and the entire $4
million would have been lost. This was the risk that Andy abhorred.
But Samuel succeeded, and that success made him confident enough to
push for another development project.
This was a site in San Mateo the REIT had optioned for a new corporate
headquarters. Bat and Andy thought the REIT ought to own the building that
housed their employees, but the landlord refused to sell the building where
they rented office space. Then the landlord changed his mind, agreed to sell
the building, and the REIT purchased it. No more need for the optioned site.
Bat and Andy planned to let the option expire and write off the $1 million in
sunk costs.
Samuel offered an alternative: no write-off plus the possibility of a profit.
“Give me six months to find a financial partner. I’ll propose a 90/10
partnership – their $9 million plus our $1 million. With this equity, I’ll get a
$15 million construction loan. Once the building’s built and leased, we’ll get
a permanent mortgage, hopefully for the entire $25 million cost. Worst case,
the $1 million will be a 10% ownership stake in a new office building that
earns a modest return. Best case, we’ll be repaid the $1 million from the
mortgage proceeds. Then, we’ll have a 10% ownership interest with no
investment, which is as good as it gets in this business.”
Bat was intrigued; Andy was opposed. There was still the risk of
construction cost overruns. And what if the building didn’t lease at rental
rates that would yield a decent return? Or what if those rental rates wouldn’t
support a mortgage large enough to repay the construction loan? And these
were just the most obvious risks. Andy wanted to take the loss and move on.
“All I want is six months,” Samuel said. “If I can’t get the deal done by
then, you can take the write-off. You really aren’t risking anything.”
Bat was persuaded. He valued Andy’s input but reserved the right to
overrule him occasionally.
Samuel’s biggest problem was the rents required to make the building
perform as he’d outlined. They had to be 25% higher than any of the local
comparables. Which meant Samuel had to sell a dream to a financial partner.
But that was a large part of what real estate developers did – they sold dreams.
When an investor buys into a dream like this and it works, they are a visionary.
When it doesn’t work, they are a fool. Most investors, especially the
institutional ones, prefer foregoing the possibility of being a visionary if it
guarantees they will never be regarded as a fool.
Samuel found a pension fund that bought into his vision. After that,
obtaining the $15 million construction loan was a doddle.
Because the building had an underground parking garage, both the
construction documents and the actual construction time were twice as long
as a building like this would typically require – 30-36 months rather than 15-
18.
Merrill Lynch had a rather ordinary, and very old, office across the street
from the construction site. It serviced wealthy accounts from neighboring
Hillsborough (very rich) and Burlingame (ordinary rich). There hadn’t been a
new office building constructed in downtown San Mateo for three decades,
and Samuel believed Merrill Lynch was unaware of the upgraded offices this
new building would offer. He sent the leasing broker to make the pitch and
learned his assessment was correct.
The result was Merrill Lynch agreeing to lease the top two floors. The
firm had its own real estate department that was responsible for leases across
the country. They would pay the market rent, but not a penny more. Samuel
had projected annual rents of $36, but by now, this transaction was occurring
in the midst of the [Link] boom, and Merrill Lynch agreed to the market
rent of $72. All of these rents were on a net basis, which meant the tenant
also had to pay its own utility and janitorial costs, as well as a pro-rata share
of the real estate taxes.
All that remained was for the lease to be signed. Samuel knew this would
be a time-consuming process.
With a firm like Merrill Lynch there were always dozens and dozens of
details to be negotiated in the lease. Samuel had done this frequently, but
always as the supplicant in the process, agreeing to almost every demand in
order to get the lease signed and the building occupied. But now the leasing
broker assured him the market was so tight, he wouldn’t have to accede to
any deviation from their standard lease form.
But Samuel cared less about these details than he did about getting the
lease signed. This one lease would cover the entire cost of a mortgage for
100% of the construction costs. It would also cover the costs of the real estate
taxes and the building’s other operating expenses for the remaining vacant
space. Even if the other four floors remained vacant forever, the building
would throw off a positive cash flow each year. Samuel wanted to lock this
in, and ignored the leasing broker’s advice. Instead, he agreed to virtually
every modification Merrill Lynch requested. Still, the process took several
weeks.
During these final lease negotiations with Merrill Lynch, Samuel was
approached by a venture capitalist, Terry Garnett. He had recently left
Venrock, a firm originally established as the venture capital arm for the
Rockefeller family money. Terry was in the process of establishing his own
venture capital firm and wanted the top two floors of the building for his new
offices.
Terry was almost as well-known as his wife, Katrina, founder of the
Burlingame-based software firm, CrossWorlds. She had appeared in a much-
discussed full-page ad for her company that featured her in a low-cut black
dress. Her striking good looks and perfectly coiffed dark hair would have been
attention-getting in any event, but were all the more so because Richard
Avedon was the photographer.
Terry and Katrina were also well-known in local real estate circles. They
purchased a house in Hillsborough, on which they planned to do extensive
remodeling. They also purchased a second house to live in while the first
house was being remodeled. However, before the remodeling started, they
found a third house they liked better than the first one, and they purchased it
as well. Rumor was that the couple had $20 million invested in those three
houses.
“I’m sorry,” Samuel said, “I’d love to lease those two floors to you, but I
have a handshake agreement with Merrill Lynch, and we’re in the middle of
negotiating the lease.”
“Have you signed the lease yet?” asked Garnett.
“No.”
“Well, I compete for lots of deals, and until the document’s signed, the
deal’s not done. I’m willing to sign your standard lease right now.
Furthermore, I’m willing to pay 25% more in rent than they are.”
“Sorry, but the answer is still no.”
Garnett went over Samuel’s head to Bat Batinovich, the REIT’s
Chairman. Bat listened to Samuel’s explanation and then called Garnett to
reaffirm the negative response. Garnett then went over Bat’s head to the joint
venture partner, simultaneously raising his offer another 15%. The annual
rent was now up to $99, an amount higher than the rent being charged by any
building in downtown San Francisco.
An individual working for the joint venture partner knew the head of real
estate at Merrill Lynch and the two discussed a possible deal. If Garnett would
pay $1 million towards Merrill Lynch’s tenant improvement costs, then
Merrill Lynch would consider moving from the top two floors to other space
in the building.
Samuel returned to Garnett and explained the situation, concluding, “But,
there is no guarantee that Merrill Lynch will actually take this deal. I think
they will, but they’re a large organization, and there are several individuals
who must approve the transaction. There are just too many moving parts, so
we have to start fixing some of them now. You can have the space, but it will
cost you the additional $1 million regardless of what happens with Merrill
Lynch. If they go ahead, then the money will go to them to help pay for their
tenant improvements. But if they walk away, if they refuse to lease a lower
floor, then we’ll keep the $1 million to compensate us for the loss of that
tenant.”
“You mean you’ll get to keep the $1 million if Merrill Lynch walks?”
Garnett asked.
“Not me, personally, no. But the building, yes, as compensation for giving
you the top two floors and losing Merrill Lynch as a tenant.”
Silence. Garnett stared at Samuel. More silence. Garnett sighed, and then
agreed, “But this is the final deal. The negotiations are over.”
 Of course, the negotiations weren’t over. Garnett’s attorney wanted a
multitude of changes to the standard lease form. Since Merrill Lynch accepted
the deal, Samuel was happy to agree to the changes both tenants wanted. The
building was about half leased at rents more than twice the projections, and
completion was still a year away.
When Bat saw these two lease rates, he asked Samuel, “What do you think
the sustainable lease rate is? You projected $36, got $72 for one lease, and $99
for the other, but we know those don’t necessarily reflect the real market.
What do you think is the rate we can rely upon in the future?”
Samuel considered the question, and replied, “$48.”
Before the building was completed, the [Link] boom went bust, and
rents plummeted. On the way down, they didn’t pause for even a day at $48,
finally settling at $0. This meant that tenants could occupy buildings and pay
only their pro-rata share of the real estate taxes and the building’s other
operating costs.
Terry Garnett’s attorney called. Garnett wanted out of the lease, to
literally walk away. If Samuel wasn’t amenable, the corporation that signed
the lease would declare bankruptcy. Samuel remembered that he hadn’t asked
for a personal guarantee of the lease. Garnett had paid $1 million to Merrill
Lynch, there was no way he’d walk away after such a payment. Besides,
Garnett had provided a copy of his personal brokerage statement, which
showed stocks worth $220 million.
Samuel had not been allowed to keep a copy of that statement, but he’d
created an Excel spreadsheet of the stocks and their values. He inserted the
current values and saw that $200 million had disappeared. Easy come, easy go.
Garnett was willing to pay the building $1 million to walk away and avoid
bankrupting the corporate entity he’d created. Samuel followed the dictum in
the title of a Woody Allen movie, Take the Money and Run.
Merrill Lynch was still a tenant, and their rent alone was sufficient to pay
the debt service on a mortgage that would cover 100% of the construction
cost. This would leave the REIT and its joint venture partner with 100%
ownership without any investment.
The rest of the building eventually leased. It was sold a dozen years later
for $72 million. A profit of over $45 million. The return on investment was
off the charts because that original investment had been repaid by the
permanent mortgage. No matter how the transaction was analyzed, it was the
most profitable one in the REIT’s history.
But that profit was in the future, and in the present, nothing could assuage
Andy’s uneasiness with the risks of development.
His secretary called Samuel and asked him to meet Andy in the main
conference room. Andy walked in, sat down, and said, “You don’t know how
difficult this is for me.”
He then proceeded to tell Samuel that the REIT was getting out of the
development business. There would be no need for Samuel’s services, and he
was terminated, effective immediately.
“Please clear out your desk and go home. You’ll receive all the paperwork
in a few days.”
Samuel sat there, stunned, as Andy rose, waddled to the elevators, and
departed the building.
 Chapter 35

Other than Samuel, the two people Alison loved most in the world were
her son, Theo Beatt, and her best friend, Anne Mackintosh. It was around
these two people that most of Alison’s efforts and energies revolved during
the time she lived in California. It was also these two individuals who were
responsible for Alison’s demise.
Because they were born in the same hospital in Motherwell, Scotland at
about the same time, Alison and Anne Mackintosh could say they’d known
each other their entire lives. In fact, they met as adults in Glasgow, and
subsequently discovered the born-at-the-same-hospital connection.
Anne was a chemist turned, of all things, a portrait painter. Her canvas of
Margaret Thatcher earned her a degree of notoriety. Her work was
representational (and flattering) with touches of Lucien Freud’s
expressionism. She was also user-friendly in that she did not require sitting
sessions. Rather, she photographed and video-taped the subject just once and
then painted from these images.
Anne made the same offer to Alison as she had to most of her friends
and acquaintances: a $1,500 fee for any referral. Alison sensed a market for
portraits in Silicon Valley, but a market she would have to pursue
professionally, as she had no personal contacts beyond a few real estate
agents.
“I know there’s a lot of money in this area,” Alison told Anne. “With
some effort I think I could really build a business for you.”
Anne was intrigued, in no small part because she and her husband liked
to visit and regarded the California sunshine as a pleasant tonic to Scotland’s
more inclement weather.
“However,” Alison continued, “$1,500 per portrait isn’t going to cut it.”
“Well, what did you have in mind?” Anne asked.
 “I’m not certain, but I’m confident that we could raise your prices. I’d
earn more than $1,500 per portrait, but you’d receive the same amount as you
do now.”
They eventually agreed on a 20% fee, and Anne’s prices were
correspondingly increased. The result would be as Alison predicted – Anne
would receive the same amount of money for her work.
One of Alison’s first marketing ideas involved the annual fund-raising
gala at the Menlo School. The highlight was the live auction, where parents
bid for donated gifts. The gift donors received a tax deduction. The successful
bidders also received a tax deduction for the amount paid in excess of the
value of the gift. The result: prices of the donated gifts were often bid up well
in excess of their value. In the Silicon Valley work ethic, such overbidding
was considered an acceptable form of conspicuous consumption. One couple
paid $10,000 for a handful of tickets to the opening day game of the San
Francisco Giants baseball team. Another couple paid $45,000 to rent a house
in France for a week.
At Alison’s behest, Anne donated a head portrait, her smallest size, and it
went for a small premium over its $15,000 value. The purchaser was Doug
Leone, a partner in the venture capital firm of Sequoia Capital. Just as Anne
and Alison hoped, he decided to upgrade from the head to a full portrait, and
eventually he had his whole family painted, including his in-laws.
Doug’s wife was convinced that once Doug’s partners saw the portrait,
they all would want one. Anne had visions of sugar plums dancing in her
head well before Christmas, but she wanted to eat them all herself. She told
Alison that she wanted to change their agreement, from a fixed commission
to a sliding scale.
Alison explained it to Samuel. “That means I won’t get paid for any
follow-on portraits that might result from the first introduction. So, if all of
Doug’s partners wanted their portraits painted, I wouldn’t receive any fees at
all.”
“But that’s ridiculous, Alison. The nature of any agency is that the agent
always gets paid. You are Anne’s exclusive agent in the US, aren’t you? Isn’t
that what the two of you agreed?”
 “Yes, but that doesn’t change how Anne feels about it. I discussed this
with a friend who owns an art gallery in Glasgow. He could not have been
more adamant. He said, If you accept a sliding scale, you will end up with no business
and no friendship. He told me there would be too many arguments about
whether a client resulted from my efforts or from a referral from someone I
previously convinced to have their portrait painted. He said he has seen it
happen time and again.”
Alison continued, “This is just so frustrating. It’s now been two years and
the first indication that there might be some substantial commissions and
Anne wants to cut me out. I just don’t understand it.”
“I do, Alison, and it’s simple. Anne is greedy.”
Alison didn’t like that… at all… and said so.
“OK, Alison, I take it back. But what are you going to do?”
“Just tell Anne the truth, I guess, about what I learned. I’ll accept
whatever percentage she thinks is fair, just as long as it’s the same percentage
and there’s no sliding scale.”
In the subsequent conversation with Anne, Alison offered to accept a
reduction from 20% to 12.5%. Anne demurred, insisting that Alison receive
15%. Several weeks elapsed from the start to the finish of that discussion,
but Alison was happy that the issue was addressed and put to rest.
“It’s not the amount of the percentage that’s important,” she explained
to Samuel. “I told Anne I’d accept whatever she thought was fair. What’s
important is that we maintain a fixed percentage. The last thing I want is to
lose our friendship over this, and that’s what would have happened with the
sliding scale Anne proposed.”
For all the time and aggravation that went into that discussion, there was
not a single commission from Doug’s partners. Over the next two years,
however, Alison was able to raise Anne’s prices two more times. Then,
Alison found a new client who generated more business than either Alison or
Anne ever imagined might be possible from one individual.
This was Danielle Steele, the famous, and famously wealthy, author living
in San Francisco. Danielle had one of her staff respond to the letter Alison
sent. Her son, Nick, had died tragically when barely twenty years old and the
inquiry was whether Anne could paint a posthumous portrait.
 A full-size portrait of Nick was agreed in short order. Because Anne had
only photographs to work with, she decided to paint a small portrait of Nick’s
head to make certain she’d captured his essence. Apparently she had, for
Danielle was delighted. Anne made a gift of that small portrait to Danielle
and then painted the life-size, full-body portrait. Danielle was so pleased that
she ordered nine more of the small head portraits, to be given as gifts.
Danielle’s other children, and related family members, were to be painted as
well. Anne’s prices ranged from $15,000 to $50,000, depending on the size of
the portrait, and this was evolving into a serious amount of work and income,
certainly in excess of $250,000. In addition, there were several of Danielle’s
friends who were expressing an interest in having their portraits painted.
This was when Anne decided to renege on her agreement with Alison.
Her words were as brutal as they were straightforward. “I have done the
calculations and I think you’ve earned quite enough in fees for Danielle’s
portraits. You should not be paid any more money.”
Alison had no recourse. The customers paid Anne directly. Once Anne
decided not to pay Alison, there was nothing Alison could do. She was hardly
going to approach these customers and tell them, “Anne agreed to pay me a
commission for your portrait, but now she’s decided to keep all the money
for herself.” Yet, she continued to search for a solution. Partly because she
couldn’t believe Anne was betraying her so blatantly, especially after agreeing
not to do so. But mostly because she refused to accept that Anne would
regard a few thousand dollars as more valuable than their friendship.
 Chapter 36

Alison’s son, Theo Beatt, could have been the poster boy for Judith Rich
Harris’s book, The Nurture Assumption. Harris was a psychologist who claimed
that peers, not parents, were the primary influences in determining a child’s
persona. Alison was well-mannered, kind, caring, conscientious and
considerate. She lived these values, and did her best to imbue them in Theo.
Despite her best efforts, however, Theo evinced none of these values. Rather,
he consistently absorbed, and lived, the vastly different values of his peers.
It couldn’t have been easy for 10-year-old Theo to watch his father die a
lingering death from lung cancer – 14 months seems like forever at that age.
Shortly thereafter, he almost lost Alison because of a botched gall bladder
removal. Her six-month recovery could not have been easy to endure. And
then he was uprooted from his friends in Scotland when Alison moved to
England. By the time Samuel came into his life, he was quiet and withdrawn,
evincing a general wariness. What new misfortune might the world be about to visit
upon him?
When choosing a new school for Theo in England, Alison relied on her
old friend, and new neighbor, Sheila Livingstone. Not only was Sheila a
psychologist with a family-oriented consulting practice, but she’d also raised
four daughters. Together, they decided on Frensham Heights.
In retrospect, it was a terrible choice. Theo’s main extra-curricular activity
was sports, primarily soccer, and the school had a weak sports program and
competed with other, comparably weak schools. No doubt this was a function
of the school’s progressive nature. It had been founded as a reaction to
traditional, single-sex boarding schools. There was neither a school uniform
nor a dress code; students wore whatever they wanted. Relations with the
faculty were so informal that students addressed teachers by their first names.
Where most schools had a strict, no-smoking policy, Frensham allowed
upperclassmen to smoke on campus.
Theo was a weekly boarder, which meant he returned home each
weekend. Alison kept looking for the carefree boy Theo had been before his
father died. She encouraged him to invite school friends over during those
weekends. Too often they were the boys Theo met in detention, where he
was sent on a regular basis as punishment for talking in class.
Alison regarded the small classes at a private school like Frensham to be
essential for Theo. His intelligence was only slightly above average, and she
believed the extra attention afforded by the smaller classes would facilitate
Theo graduating and being accepted at university. Although Alison had
succeeded in business without a university degree, she believed the world had
changed and Theo could not achieve similar success unless he possessed one.
However, these small classes made it virtually impossible for Theo’s side
comments to pass unnoticed. Alison supposed this was one way for Theo to
make new friends, but she was not enamored with the few she met.
Everything came to a head midway through his second year when Theo went
missing.
Theo was a no-show for an 11:45 orthodontic appointment in London.
His absence was unnerving because he’d undertaken this journey before –
from school to an appointment in London, and then back to school the same
day.
Alison called the office every ten minutes for an hour, stopping only
because of the irritation she started to hear in the receptionist’s voice.
She called the school, but they only knew that he’d departed that morning
for the appointment.
Faced with the unknown, she concocted one nightmare scenario after
another, but could think of nothing to do immediately.
The school finally called at 4:30 to tell her that Theo had just returned.
She asked to speak with him. In a matter-of-fact voice, he explained that he’d
gotten lost and missed the appointment. He decided to have a hamburger and
return to school. “No big deal, Mum,” he said.
Except it was a big deal to her. She couldn’t understand the part about
getting lost. She’d faxed a sheet of written directions to his Housemaster.
She’d called that morning to confirm that Theo received the fax. When
confronted with this information, Theo said that he must have lost it. But
when? Hadn’t he left in a taxi for the train station immediately after breakfast?
No, there was an hour delay between breakfast and the taxi’s arrival. Not
enough time to attend a class. What was he doing during this hour? Theo said
he wasn’t doing anything, but a subsequent call to the Housemaster revealed
that Theo probably went for a walk in the woods for an unauthorized
smoking break.
Theo had been smoking? Yes, the Housemaster confirmed. And she hadn’t been
told? Yes, he said. Just as he was not about to babysit Theo for the free hour
that morning, neither was he going to inform her of every one of his
infractions, especially the smoking, as he had no direct proof. But he knew.
Theo’s father, a regular smoker, died from lung cancer. Theo claimed to
abhor the habit and regularly assured Alison that he would never smoke.
There was a $3,000 savings account that would become his, provided he got
to his eighteenth birthday without having indulged in the habit.
The school now became the focus of Alison’s anger and frustration. He
was smoking only because of their lax supervision. His constant talking in
class was now the fault of teachers who failed to create an atmosphere of
respect for authority. The problem was the school, not Theo, and the solution
was to find a new school.
Alison already knew the bad news. The middle of the school year was not
the time when boarding schools typically interviewed prospective students
for immediate admission.
She soon learned the good news. Most schools had a strict no-drugs
policy, and immediate expulsion was the penalty for violations. As a result,
there were lots of openings at lots of schools. After visiting several
alternatives, she settled on Bradfield College, which appeared to be as
structured as Frensham Heights was unstructured.
There was a school uniform of a blazer with different ties to identify
different class years. When attending class, each boy was required to wear an
academic gown over his coat and tie. These flowing, full-length black gowns
were like graduation robes, and conveyed a feeling of gravitas. In the
residential houses, study hours were strictly enforced each evening.
 There was a tradition of daily chapel services, reasonably common fare
for such boarding schools. Not on many menus, however, was Bradfield’s
biennial tradition of performing an ancient Greek play, in Greek, in an open-
air amphitheater.
And then there was the campus itself – with the requisite ivy-covered
walls, but also brand-new athletic facilities, including a nine-hole golf course
set among acres of tree-covered, gently sloping hills. If Hollywood ever
needed a movie location for an English boarding school, surely Bradfield
would make the short list.
Within the first month, Theo was suspended for smoking. A second
offense would result in expulsion. Alison was mortified. In her interview with
the Headmaster, she’d promised that Theo was through smoking. She had a
serious conversation with Theo and the remaining two months of the school
year passed without incident. Then there was a repeat of what happened at
Frensham Heights. The first year went fine, but disaster struck mid-way
through the second. Only this time, it wasn’t Alison pulling Theo from the
school, rather it was the school expelling Theo… for being caught with drugs,
albeit just marijuana. This was an unmitigated disaster, except Alison now had
to figure out some way to mitigate it.
 Chapter 37

Most people don’t change until they get to total breakdown… to the place
where what they’ve been doing no longer works… to the place where they
can’t fall any lower… can’t fail any more spectacularly. Change, meaningful
change, only occurs at this nadir.
Theo was at his nadir: moved from one school for bad behavior, and now
expelled from a second school at a time (midway through 11th grade) when
everyone would know he’d been caught using drugs. He had three choices.
He could drop out of school and get a job. He could go to a vocational school.
He could find a replacement for Bradfield but would have to repeat the 11th
grade.
This was time for a serious reappraisal of his conduct, of how he was
living his life. Of course, this was a lot to expect from a teenager, even one as
old as Theo, who was six months past his 17th birthday. Adult
encouragement in some form or fashion would have helped. In those crucial
first hours, Theo got exactly the opposite from adults. Instead, he was
encouraged (by adults) to continue his life without alteration… to continue
his behavior, without change.

Alison was in California, and Theo had to leave school within eighteen
hours. This was one rule where the school made no exceptions.
Sheila and Sandy Livingstone agreed to collect Theo. He could stay with
them until airline arrangements were made. They had willingly embraced their
roles as occasional surrogate parents ever since Alison and Theo moved
nearby in the spring of 1995. Alison regularly consulted Sheila, a licensed
family counselor, for advice about Theo. Sandy was Theo’s guardian. The
quasi-parental bonds were further cemented by Theo’s joining the entire
Livingstone family for several summer holidays in Cornwall.
Sheila always told Alison that the most important parental role was to
offer support and acceptance. No matter what Theo did, no matter how great
her despair, Sheila’s message was always the same. “Don’t worry about it,
Alison, Theo will grow out of it.”
When Theo arrived, Sheila’s message was unconditional love and
acceptance.
“This will all work out fine, Theo. Don’t worry about it. You’re a fine
young man and there are a lot of people who love you and care about you.”

Sandy offered sanctuary. Theo could always return to stay with them if
Samuel proved too difficult to deal with, or if Samuel was too hard on him.
“Remember that, Theo. We’ll always be here for you.”
Conveniently overlooked by Sandy was the fact that Alison always called
the shots with Theo, and Samuel only supported her decisions. Conveniently
forgotten by both Sandy and Sheila was anything that did not fit the picture
of the poor little boy who lost his father seven years earlier.
When Alison later learned of these conversations, she realized they must
have been responsible for Theo’s attitude when he stepped off the plane in
San Francisco. There was not a hint of remorse or regret. He never admitted
that he’d done anything wrong. He was just unlucky to have been caught.
“Marijuana’s not a drug. Everyone uses it.” Theo’s voice was defiant.
“But you promised me that you wouldn’t use it.” Anger long since
dissipated, there remained only exasperation in Alison’s voice.
He said nothing, just shrugged his shoulders.
This was originally presented as Theo having been caught with a small
quantity of marijuana he accidentally left in a jacket pocket. Under further
questioning, he admitted he was not only a regular user, but that he was part
of the dealer network as well. He would accompany the main dealer at school
when he went to make buys from the connection in nearby Maidenhead.
Theo would then make deliveries to the younger boys in the ninth and tenth
grades.
He shared the names of everyone involved in his dealer’s network, but
only after Alison promised not to tell anyone. The school was desperate to
know more about this dealer network, but Theo refused their entreaties, and
Alison wouldn’t break her promise.
 Alison appealed to his loyalty to her, but his loyalty was to his mates.
Alison appealed to the value system she lived as an example, but he wasn’t
buying it. He wasn’t even window shopping. No matter what happened, he
could always go back to Sandy and Sheila in England. He had a safety net, a
sense of security that allowed him to ignore everything Alison said to him
about marijuana, not to mention smoking. He had no incentive to change his
increasingly sullen behavior and attitude.
Alison decided all three of them should visit a drug counselor. They
listened to the statistics about drug use and its consequences – how smoking
was a gateway drug to marijuana, how marijuana was a gateway drug to heroin
and cocaine. The statistics rolled off Theo like water off a duck’s back. Samuel
challenged his assertion that drug usage was widespread at the school.
“For Christ’s sake, you don’t know anything,” Theo responded angrily.
“James Wilson is the main dealer in his house.”
Alison’s head snapped back in shock. James was the eldest son of Fiona
Wilson, an old friend. He was a model student, the head of his house and on
track to attend either Oxford or Cambridge.
The school let Theo withdraw. Without any proof to the contrary, they
were forced to accept his story that the marijuana was a one-time occurrence.
There would be no formal black mark on his record, but everyone in England
would know something was amiss. The last two years of high school were a
seamless program of study. No student would voluntarily leave in April of
the first year unless something went horribly wrong. Even if another school
accepted him, he would have to start anew, effectively losing one year, and he
was already one of the oldest boys in his class.
Theo identified his classmates who were regular users. Alison knew some
of the parents. She felt obligated to inform one mother, Helen Matthews,
because she liked Helen’s son, Nick. He seemed too sweet a boy to suffer
Theo’s fate. Alison broached the subject in the gentlest way possible, stating
that her only desire was to warn Helen, not to accuse her son. Helen’s
indignant reaction was like a slap in the face. How could Alison even suggest that
her perfect little boy might be tempted? He had already assured her that he never, ever
considered using marijuana, that he had not experimented with it even once. The woman
was so offended that the relationship was irreparably broken.
 Theo never openly defied Alison. He simply refused to admit or accept
anything. His days consisted of playing on his Gameboy and reading
magazines devoted to cars or pornography. One of the few rules Alison
previously enforced forbade Theo from bringing pornographic magazines
into the house, but now she was too preoccupied with solving Theo’s
problem to notice.
The more she learned, the more she experienced Theo’s indifference, the
more despondent Alison became. Samuel would come home from work and
find Alison sitting in the chair in the bedroom, sometimes staring blankly into
space, other times crying quietly. He would pull her from the chair, wrap his
arms around her and hold her tightly until the tears subsided.
Finally, Alison concocted a solution. She would pretend nothing
untoward had occurred, that Theo had finished the school year in England
normally. She would now enroll him in a local private school in California
for his last year of high school. The past year at Bradfield would not be lost.
Theo would remain on track to enter college as originally planned.
For this to work, she had to fabricate a believable story, pick a few
schools, and then sell them the story. And sell Theo to the schools as well.
What Alison never fully appreciated was the extent to which she influenced
this process. Bradfield would never have accepted Theo without first being
so impressed with Alison. It was this transference from Alison to Theo in the
eyes of others that helped Theo his whole life. Theo was unaware of it, and
so was Alison.
Alison did the preliminary research and visited the schools. She decided
to focus her efforts on the Menlo School. Samuel wrote the letter, and Alison
signed it.

Thank you for returning my call the other day and taking the time to speak with me.
I do understand that this is a particularly busy time in the school year, especially for you. I
hope it will be helpful to give you a brief background as to our late request for a place at
your school.
Theo was born in Scotland and attended primary school at The High School of
Glasgow. After his father died, Theo and I moved to England. Then I met Samuel Cohen,
an American working in London and we were married a year later. We initially lived in
London and then moved to a small village near Windsor. Theo was by then a weekly
boarder at Bradfield College, located in Berkshire not too far from where we lived.
When my husband’s career unexpectedly brought him to the Bay area we all decided
that Theo should become a full-time boarder and that I would make frequent trips to
England. We managed this for a time with Theo attempting to adjust to the emotional
separation and great distance. However, within the past week we learned that my husband’s
work will keep him here for the next several years rather than the twelve-month period we
originally thought might be the case. With this knowledge came the realization that none of
us is coping adequately with the separation and the distance. Accordingly, we recently decided
that we could not function as a family unless we were reunited for the coming school year.
Regrettably, this decision was made rather precipitously without a full understanding
of the situation here. Perhaps you can accept that a mother’s instinct can sometimes transcend
more logical planning. Fortunately, Theo’s Housemaster at Bradfield, as well as the school’s
Headmaster were very understanding and supportive of this decision.
So here we are with this fait accompli barely a week old and I am desperately trying to
find a school for Theo that is comparable to the one he attended in England. Bradfield
offered Theo a caring, structured, co-educational environment which placed primary emphasis
on academic studies but also encouraged participation in a wide variety of sporting and
community service activities. There was also an emphasis at the school on sound moral values
and spiritual guidance. From what I have learned, this is exactly the environment you have
created at your school and this is the reason I am so keen to have Theo attend next year.
An acquaintance spoke to me of your school in the most glowing terms. I was
particularly entranced with the fact that her daughter, Victoria, will attend St. Andrews
University after she graduates next month. Theo hopes to undertake a similar course of
study.
I believe Theo could make a unique contribution to your school. He is an accomplished
soccer player who captained his house team. He was a member of the swimming and water
polo teams and was a gold medalist in aquatic lifesaving. He was a member of the school’s
army corps program, which taught both leadership and outdoor survival skills. He took a
special public speaking course offered by the school. Following-up on his interest in
journalism, Theo spent part of his recent spring break working as an intern at London’s
Evening Standard newspaper.
 He was well liked by both his teachers and fellow students at Bradfield. His
Housemaster particularly appreciated the help and guidance Theo provided to the younger
boys at the house. He also participated in the school’s Community Service Program.
Academically, Theo completed his GCSE courses in English, History, French,
Mathematics, Geography and Combined Sciences. The specialized studies he was
undertaking this year were Classical Civilizations, History of Art and English Literature.
In October, he completed a special History of Art project that included a tutored visit to
Florence and Venice.
I now realize that not only is this application late but that you have a hectic schedule
of commitments and activities for the balance of the academic school year. I can only ask
that you consider our family situation, and the potentially unique contribution Theo could
make to your school. When apprised of the situation a family friend very kindly offered to
write a letter on our behalf, which I trust you will receive shortly.
We would be most grateful if you could take a half hour of your time to meet with us.
We will, of course, make ourselves available at your convenience.
I thank you for your consideration and look forward to hearing from you.

So many lies and deceptions. Yet, it worked. Alison was able to pull off
the con in a manner befitting a character in one of David Mamet’s plays.
Theo was accepted at the Menlo School.
 Chapter 38

Theo was now attending a new school, in a new country where he knew
no one, and because he spoke with an English accent, didn’t sound like
anyone else. If he’d made more of an effort to assimilate, if he’d been more
gregarious, he could have turned all of these potential disadvantages into
advantages. He could have been the cool, new kid from a foreign country
who still spoke English as his first language. But he wasn’t interested. This
was a year to be endured, not enjoyed.
He was attending one of the most prestigious private high schools in the
country. The student/teacher ratio was 10:1 and graduates attended some of
the best universities in the country. Not only was the school’s campus a small,
suburban nirvana, the facilities rivaled those at many colleges.
The school was a 10-mile drive from the house on Manresa Lane, and
there was no public transportation, so he got his own car. It was only a used
Volkswagen in a parking lot filled with new BMWs, but Alison found a sporty
version of a Jetta, and then paid for many accessories, including a miniature
steering wheel.
Theo had the privacy of his own bedroom and bathroom at one end of
the house. He had a brand-new iMac, printer and internet connection on his
desk.
He had Susie, his girlfriend from the previous summer. She went to a
different school, but she hadn’t found a new boyfriend, and they could see
each other again.
None of it made any difference. He didn’t want to see Susie. He barely
cared about his own computer, other than to access porn on the internet. He
certainly didn’t give a damn about his wonderful new school. He wanted to
be back in England.
There was only one reason he was in California: Samuel Cohen. Samuel
had forced his mother to move to California. It was bad enough that she was
married to him. Why did they have to move to California? There was nothing
he could do about it, and more than anything else, that enraged him. But rage
requires energy, and Theo had none. So he adopted a morose disposition that
effectively camouflaged his rage, allowing only occasional manifestations in
the form of passive-aggressive behavior.
In the immediate aftermath of Theo’s arrival in California, all of Alison’s
attention was devoted to understanding first, what happened, and second,
how to fix it. When she finally had time to consider the appropriate
punishment for Theo’s bad behavior in England, she regarded his morose
disposition as a form of depression, essentially how Theo chose to punish
himself. Further sanctions from her would succeed only in making his life
more miserable. Worse, they would hinder her goal of getting Theo to
graduate high school so he could go on to earn a university degree.
Alison ignored his attitude and concentrated all her energy on ensuring
Theo’s high school graduation. She attended every school function,
encouraged his efforts at soccer, and befriended other mothers to facilitate
Theo becoming friends with their children. She reviewed his homework every
night, did much of his reading so she could discuss it with him, and forced
him to discuss drafts of all his papers with her.
It worked. He graduated and was accepted at university in England. But
first, before he went, he had to wreck Alison’s car. As in, totally destroy it.
The car was the first version of the small, two-seater Mercedes with a
retractable hard top. It was one of the hottest cars on the market when Samuel
purchased it for Alison in 1998, most buyers having signed up a year in
advance. He lucked out when his inquiry was on the same day one of those
orders was cancelled. In Alison’s marriage to Theo’s father, he got the sexy
sports car, and Alison got the sensible sedan. Samuel relished the opportunity
for Alison to finally have the sexy sports car.
In the spring of 2000, the car was two years old, and there was not a
scratch or blemish on the outside. Inside, it still had that new car smell, so
fastidious had been Alison’s care… in part because the car was a gift from
Samuel; and in part because it was the nicest car she’d ever owned. Theo was
well-aware of all this when he asked to borrow it a week before his scheduled
departure for university in England. He said he wanted to buy a sweater at
the Stanford Shopping Center. He couldn’t take his car because he’d damaged
it, and it was undrivable.
Except he didn’t go to the Stanford Shopping Center. Instead, he went
to a spot in Los Altos Hills that he regularly visited to smoke marijuana. Either
that batch was particularly potent, or he smoked too much of it because on
the way home he was so high, he lost control of the car, flew off the road and
went careening down an impressively steep decline before a tree stopped the
car’s descent. It was a good news/bad news crash. The good news... it was a
head-on crash, and the engine block absorbed the impact, and that probably
saved Theo’s life. The bad news… the front end was so caved in, the car was
a total loss. An expert who examined the wreckage with Samuel told him that
the car had to have been traveling at least 50 mph when impact occurred.
Alison knew Theo was still smoking cigarettes and marijuana – both were
in his car on a regular basis – but was willing to tolerate just about anything
to get him graduated from high school and moved on to university. Of
course, getting into university was only half of the battle. Victory required
graduating with a degree. Only when that occurred would Alison feel she had
fulfilled her parental responsibilities. Theo responded by once again repeating
his pattern – a satisfactory first year, followed by disaster in the second. This
time the reason was simple. He stopped going to class, he stopped doing the
work… and flunked out.
Theo’s proposed solution? He returned to California to convince Alison
to pay for a year of travel around the world while he figured out what he
wanted to do with his life. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Alison was
wrestling with possible solutions while doing her Pilates movements. Not just
solutions for Theo’s situation, but solutions for Anne Mackintosh’s decision
to unilaterally cut Alison out of the income stream that Alison had generated
for Anne. As Alison considered and discarded one possible solution after
another, she felt as if her head was about to explode. And then it did.
 Chapter 39

Samuel’s routine now consisted of spending time at Alison’s bedside,

going home to sleep for a few hours and then returning to Alison’s bedside.
There were discussions with the nurses and the attending doctors, and with a
friend and neurologist, Bruce Adornato. Most of all, there were discussions
with Alison.
As Alison lay there with closed eyes, Samuel had no idea if she could hear
anything, but he still talked to her. He told her how much he loved her. He
told her how much he missed her during the weeks they had been apart.
He tried not to cry. He frequently failed, leaving her bedside because he
feared his sorrow might somehow impede her recovery. Sometimes he
walked in to her curtained-off area in the intensive care unit, kissed her, and
sat silently, holding her hand, carrying on the conversation in his head.
Sometimes he just sat and looked at her, marveling at how lovely and beautiful
she still appeared.
When hunger made him weak, he would mindlessly consume some of the
food neighbors brought to the house. He got to know the nurses well enough
that they were not strict about enforcing the formal visitor’s hours, letting
him return whenever he awoke from his fitful sleeping.
One night a nurse called and said that Alison had opened her eyes. But
when Samuel arrived at the hospital ten minutes later, there was no change in
Alison’s condition. Neither was there a notation in her records of having
opened her eyes. The next day he described the call to Bruce, who explained
that in his experience there was always one person who saw something no
one else ever saw. The clear implication was that it never happened.
The following day Samuel was playing one of Alison’s favorite songs on
the small stereo a nurse had encouraged him to bring in. He kissed her on
arrival, and again when he started playing the song. He spoke to her briefly,
and then stood at her bedside, looking down at his two hands holding one of
hers. When he looked up, Alison’s eyes were open, even though there had
been no physical stimulus. He leaned over to place his face close to hers.
There was no movement to her eyes, so there was no way to know if she was
conscious.
“Alison, I love you so much and I am so, so sorry.”
A single tear formed at the corner of her right eye.
Tears streamed down Samuel’s face as he continued to look into her eyes
and repeatedly tell her how much he loved her.
It was the only time there was even the slightest sign of consciousness,
and Samuel became convinced it was Alison’s way of saying goodbye.
After another week without any improvement, Samuel discussed Alison’s
condition with the two neurologists: Bruce, and the woman assigned by the
hospital, who coincidentally had been one of Bruce’s students when she
attended Stanford’s medical school. They met in a small room the hospital
had created near the intensive care facility. With a small fountain and a
Japanese-style rock garden, the room was designed for quiet contemplation.
Earlier in the week the woman had told Samuel the story of a patient who
suffered a ruptured brain aneurysm and coma similar to Alison’s, yet still
recovered almost completely. The difference was that he had experienced
gradually increasing levels of brain activity, whereas Alison had shown no sign
of brain activity since the operation. Both doctors did not believe there was
any realistic possibility of Alison ever returning to anything resembling of a
normal, conscious life. In accordance with the terms of Alison’s living will,
all three agreed to remove Alison from the ventilator that was helping her
breathe.
The following morning, the nurses moved Alison from intensive care to
a comfort room on the top floor. This was a room designed specifically for
patients who were about to die. It was private, with a pleasing view of the
distant hills.
Samuel accompanied Alison to the room and spent several hours with
her. He left and then returned that afternoon. He just sat there, holding her
hand, listening to her music. He wanted to crawl into the bed and hold her,
but feared causing a disruption that would upset the nurses.
He had only been home a few hours when they called just after midnight
to tell him that Alison had passed. When he arrived a few minutes later, he
was struck by how quickly her body had become cold. It was also the first
and only time that she did not look beautiful. It was not ugly, for the nurses
had arranged her as best they could, but there was something less than
attractive about her repose in death. Samuel was glad to be the only one who
saw her that way.
 Chapter 40

Samuel never knew whether to describe it as a eulogy or an elegy, but he

sent it to everyone who had known Alison.

The unexpected recent deaths of two close friends had caused Alison to comment
occasionally about the fragility of life. Whenever she did so, I reminded her that we were
living each day as fully as possible, especially in our appreciation of each other and the love
we shared.
Until I met and almost immediately fell in love with Alison I had not even the slightest
clue about the wonder and the glory of being truly, madly and deeply in love with another
person. Her love and commitment were all encompassing and unconditional. They radiated
from the core of her being, a core that was more pure in kindness and understanding than
anyone I have ever met. She was the best person, in every sense, I have ever known. It all
combined to help make her look far younger than her age.
Words cannot convey how blessed I felt because she fell in love with me. The process of
getting to know someone involves peeling back the layers as you reveal more and more about
yourself. Most of us always hold back something, fearing that revealing it will elicit a negative
reaction. I showed her everything, told her everything, occasionally with no small degree of
trepidation that she might find the core to be less attractive than the veneer. When everything
was exposed, she accepted it, embraced it, and I became a different person. She made me a
better person.
I reciprocated as best I could. Because I inhabited a more material world than she, I
gave her things her Scottish heritage would never let her acquire for herself, repeating her
words that we never knew how much time we had left together, and that I wanted her
enjoyment to occur in the here and now, not in some undefined future. Truth be told, I
always felt my pleasure in the giving was equal to hers in the receiving.
During those all-too-brief eight years, we lived together in five different houses. Each
time she created a home environment that was welcoming, warm and comfortable. She had
the most amazing ability to combine disparate elements, most of them inexpensive, to great
effect. For one of my office projects, she designed the most attractive lobby I have ever built,
and at a fraction of the cost originally budgeted.
As I have matured, I have come to the conclusion that the best we can hope for in this
life is to make a positive difference in the lives of other people. For me, that has happened
on a handful of occasions. For Alison, it happened with astonishing frequency. I would
marvel at how, in the most casual of encounters, people would confide in her about themselves
and their problems. She would listen and then, more often than not, do something to help.
I often despaired that she felt their problems too acutely, more concerned with their welfare
than ours. But I belatedly came to realize that this was part of the package of who she was.
I often told her that if it all ended tomorrow, I would not have traded anything for the
time we spent together. But the context was always something happening to me, not her.
Even in the midst of the tears that come far more frequently than I ever imagined possible,
some small part of me realizes that my life will go on. But it will be different; it will never
be the same. Still, the time we spent together qualifies me as one of the luckiest people in the
world.

Two friends responded with almost identical sentiments. It’s almost as if

God, knowing Alison had just eight years to live, decided to make you his gift to her for the
remainder of her time.

One response came from the pianist, Peter Cincotti, whom Alison and
Samuel had met after his first professional appearance. It was at the Oak
Room of the Hotel Algonquin. Peter was a freshman at Columbia at the time,
and was introduced... from the cradle to the Algonquin.

Dear Samuel,
I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear about Alison. I was so shocked when
I received your eulogy. Despite the little time I spent with Alison, I immediately
recognized that she was a very special person. And I can honestly tell you that my
interview with her at the Harvard Club is one that I clearly remember. It was very
much different from all the others, and you might like to know that out of all the
interviews I’ve had, which have been many, Alison was the only interviewer to have
asked me if I was in love.
The story of how you both came to see me perform at the Algonquin is really
 quite fascinating, and I am glad to know that in some small way I contributed to
your romantic and very special visit to New York. You should know that your
writings touched me in a way that I cannot describe, and I send my deepest
condolences to you. I will remember Alison always.
Peter

A friend wrote:

Upon reading your letter, I had to close the door to my private office as the tears were
flowing unabashedly. The intense sorrow of losing such a human treasure along with
the memory of all the joy that only such a love can bring is a dizzying mix. I am so
sorry for your loss, and at the same time I covet the eight wonderful years you had with
Alison. I’m going home and give my wife a hug and tell her how much I love her.

Another friend, who left the corporate world in his mid-thirties to

become a Catholic priest wrote:

I realize that Alison's death leaves a void in your life that no one else will ever be
able to fill. From the Christian perspective of death, I hope that you will find both
hope and some consolation in the knowledge that Alison's earthly journey has now
come to an end, and that she is now at home and at peace in the kingdom of heaven
- that new and eternal Jerusalem, where there will be no more pain nor suffering,
no more tears nor sorrow, but only the peace and joy that come to those who have
lived their lives trying to follow God's will as best they can.

Samuel was particularly touched by a note from a friend who had known
Alison for over 30 years.

You write of the immense love, care and support which you gained from Alison;
but the reverse is also true. She gained hugely, equally, from you. She always seemed
her happiest in the years you were together.
 Chapter 41

Samuel was in Russia when Alison was first taken to the hospital, two
months into a new job with a private investment company. He was expecting
her to join him within a few weeks. Now, he was utterly alone in the world
and could think of nothing to do but return to the job in Moscow. Perhaps it
would distract him.
It did, but only occasionally. He’d never cried before. Now he cried all
the time. The tears would start flowing for no obvious reason, and would stop
a few minutes later, again for no obvious reason. After the first week, he gave
up his attempts to understand these sporadic outburst of sorrow, and just
accepted them, closing the door to his office when it happened at work,
continuing whatever he was doing when it happened in the apartment.
He led a monk-like existence. The company had three drivers. One
would collect him in the morning, another drive him home at the end of the
workday. The apartment had both a StairMaster and a small sauna, so he
exercised diligently, and let the sweat pour freely afterwards. With so much
time alone, he became an observer, and six months later shared his some of
his observations with several stateside friends.

November 7th is the Russian holiday that celebrates of the storming of the Winter
Palace in St. Petersburg and the start of the Revolution. By 10:00 AM the sun had come
out after being absent for most of the time since the first snowfall two weeks earlier. Almost
miraculously, to honor the celebration it seemed, the sun continued to shine for the entire
day. There is a parade that starts near the Kremlin and ends in the large square on the
street (blocked off to traffic on this day) in front of the Lubyanka. I wandered down around
mid-day and walked the entire length of the parade route, in the opposite direction, facing
the oncoming masses. The one enduring image I retain has in the foreground a 65-year-old
woman carrying on a stick a large poster of Stalin while clearly visible in the background
is the Moscow showroom and dealership for Bentley Motor Cars.
 Moscow’s streets are organized around a series of concentric circles. The Boulevard Ring
encircles a very small area in the center, where the Kremlin and Red Square are located.
The Garden Ring (sort of a mini freeway with traffic lights) is next, and most of the prime
office and apartment buildings are located within it. The Third Ring is under construction,
so only parts of it can be used. My apartment is located midway between the Boulevard
Ring and the Garden Ring. I can walk to the Kremlin in less than thirty minutes. The
Lubyanka is a ten-minute walk. This is the place where the KGB took the captured spies
in all of those novels I read years ago. I had always envisioned a prison-like, concrete
structure, perhaps surrounded by barbed wire. I still have difficulty accepting the fact that it
looks like an office building, a very attractive, nine-story office building at that. It covers an
entire block, but since blocks come in different sizes in different cities I decided to pace it off.
This particular block covers four acres, which makes the floor plate of the building about
175,000 square feet. The spies were always taken to the basement to be shot, so that
means there must be more than 1.5 million square feet of space behind those walls.
Next to the Lubyanka is the grocery store where I do most of my food shopping. Just
like in the US, upscale neighborhoods get upscale food shopping. The croissants are as good
as in San Francisco or Paris. There is a wide selection of prepared food. Since I cannot read
anything, I do a lot of pointing and praying.
There are virtually no official taxis in Moscow. The response is both obvious and
ingenious; every car can be a taxi. You simply stand at the side of the road and extend your
arm. Within a few minutes a car will stop. You tell the driver where you want to go. He
decides if he wants to go in that direction. If he does, a price is quickly negotiated. You can
get anywhere within the Garden Ring for between $3 and $5, and anywhere in the city for
less than $10. Of course, it is all predicated on your ability to speak Russian, so my
experience has always been with someone who does.
There are also no parking meters. The good news is that you can park almost anywhere
for free. The bad news is that people park almost anywhere. I have seen a car parked in an
intersection. I have seen quadruple parking outside a main shopping center during the middle
of rush hour. There are not the same emission control requirements here as in California
for new cars, and forget about the older Ladas and Volgas. Whatever you might imagine
about this air quality, I can assure you it is worse. The daily commute between my apartment
and the office can take ten minutes or it can take an hour, and there is no discernable
pattern to the delays. On the other hand, the subway system is pretty spectacular, markedly
better in my experience the ones in London, Paris, New York, Chicago or San Francisco.
I have never waited more than two minutes for a train and have never experienced a
breakdown or a delay.
Heat and hot water are provided by the city, a remnant of central planning. However,
the hot water system requires annual repairs that last a month. This means no hot water
for one month during the summer each year. You have two choices: install your own
supplemental hot water heater or do without hot water for that month. The heat is also
centrally controlled, and sometimes there is a delay between when the cold weather actually
arrives and when the appropriate government official decides to turn on the heat. During the
fall, everyone had to wear a sweater in the office for about three weeks because of such a
delay. Modern apartments (and renovated older ones) have independently controlled radiant
heat in the bathroom and kitchen floors to supplement the central heating.
Nobody trusts the mail service. Within Moscow we either use e-mail, fax or courier
for anything that would otherwise be sent by mail in the US. I was incredulous, so I asked
a young woman in the office about this and she told me she has never, in her entire life, ever
used the Russian postal system.
The focus in business is on cash today, or perhaps sometime in the immediate future.
In part, this is because there has never been any certainty about the long-term future. This
results from over seven hundred years of totalitarian rule, starting with the Mongols and
then continuing through the tsars and the Communists. People quickly learned that
everything could be taken away on a moment’s notice, and perhaps on a whim. They also
learned how to say the words that would appease those in power, so they could then do
whatever was necessary to survive and prosper. The result is an unusually resourceful and
resilient people who possess little regard for the truth. As in, everyone lies… all the time…
about everything.
Perhaps Samuel could have successfully navigated this late career move
with Alison by his side. She would have been a refuge from the daily barrage
of duplicity. Then again, maybe no refuge would have sufficed.
He was amazed at the fraud perpetrated by the companies in the private
investment company’s portfolio. Occasionally, the fraud was so blatant as to
defy belief. Samuel was asked to review a file after the company went
bankrupt. They borrowed several million dollars to purchase some warehouse
buildings in a town some distance from Moscow. The buildings were to serve
as a distribution hub for the local area. There was an appraisal to support the
purchase price.
 When Samuel reviewed the appraisal, the form was perfect, but the facts
were a joke. From the photographs alone, it was obvious that the buildings
were worth less than a tenth of the purchase price. The justification offered
was that the country’s infrastructure was still being constructed, and such
buildings were worth so much because they were in such short supply. It was
total bullshit. The borrowers had clearly taken the several million dollars, used
a fraction of it to purchase the buildings, put the rest in their pockets, and
simply walked away.
There was no way Samuel could survive, much less prosper, in such an
environment. After his one-year contract expired, he returned to California.
 Chapter 42

Eighteen months after Alison’s death, Janie Ligon received word that the
appellate court had ruled in her favor. She would get to keep everything. She
would not have to share anything with Samuel. Mission accomplished. Total
success for her long-range plan. Not everything had worked as anticipated,
but she’d always adapted, always persevered, always kept in mind the words
she wrote on the front page of her journal.

He will be sorry that he left.

He will regret it.
It will be too late for him to do anything when that happens.

Without any fear of further legal action by Samuel, she now had the house
in San Francisco, the townhouse in Yountville, and all the money – not only
the deferred compensation accounts at Levi Strauss, but the special account
Jim Smith established for her. Hannah was hers too. Well, Hannah wasn’t
really anybody’s, but she never saw Samuel anymore. And that bitch who
broke-up the family, well she was long gone now. Samuel had nothing to
show for his decision to divorce her, literally nothing – no money and no
family.
Of course, she had no way of knowing if Samuel was sorry that he left,
if Samuel regretted it. But she did know that it was now too late, way too late,
for him to do anything about it.
Not that she wanted to gloat, but he seemed to have disappeared. No
one knew anything about where he might be.

Samuel reviewed the trajectory of his business career.

In the early years, job offers had come, almost unbidden. Larry Butler
unexpectedly offering him a job in Chicago after he’d been turned down for
a position in Atlanta. The private investment firm in California offering him
a job after being impressed by his underwriting of their loan application, even
though the bank declined to make the loan. Lincoln Property Company
offering him a job after observing how he oversaw their management of some
industrial properties owned by the private investment firm.
Even when he’d been fired, Samuel had successfully re-invented himself.
First as his own boss developing projects after Lincoln Property Company
terminated him. Second, as a consultant in England after the stagnant
economy effectively fired him from his work in the San Francisco Bay area.
Third, as a manager of other developers after he was given his walking papers
from the consulting job in England. The senior position with a private
investment company in Russia had been the fourth.
But he was tired now. His effervescence had disappeared when Alison
died, and it showed no signs of returning. Still, he soldiered on.
A college classmate had a residential development opportunity in the
Sierra Foothills near Yosemite. And that might have worked had the
classmate not bled the entity dry by paying himself exorbitant fees from the
project’s budget, even though he was contributing nothing to the
development process. The project ran out of money at about the same time
Samuel did.
How could he be in this position? He’d earned a lot of money. How
could there be nothing left?
He had nothing from his 24-year marriage to Janie. He used his earnings
to pay for the two remodels to their San Francisco Victorian. To pay for the
extravagant lifestyle Janie embraced, not to mention every car they ever
owned, including her two Porsches. Relying all the while on Janie’s promise
to save her earnings for their retirement. Well, that was all gone now.
While working for the REIT, he stretched to purchase the house by
mortgaging it to the hilt, and then paid for all of Theo’s school fees, plus half
of Hannah’s. When he sold the house, it was so heavily mortgaged, he had to
pay a small amount to close the transaction. However, this was one instance
where he had no regrets. It was the nicest house Alison ever inhabited. She
loved it, and there was a treasure chest of happy memories of their time
together there.
 There was the pension Bat Batinovich arranged after Samuel’s heroic
performances for the REIT.

Dear Samuel:
The Company has approved an age 65 supplemental pension for you, with an annual
benefit equal to $150,000.
Your benefit will vest 12.5% for each year of participation starting January 1, 2001,
and will fully vest upon a Change of Control.
We are pleased to provide you with this valuable benefit in recognition of your
exceptional services to the Company.
Sincerely,
Patrick Foley
For the Compensation Committee

But Bat was retired, Andy refused to honor the partial vesting Samuel
earned prior to being fired, and Samuel had neither the appetite nor the
financial resources for a legal battle.
After the residential development ran out of money, Samuel ran out of
the energy required to reinvent himself yet again. He was too young for Social
Security, and too old for any salaried position he could think of.
He considered his life, and decided he’d had a pretty good run. A couple
of first-class developments that wouldn’t exist but for his vision and
perseverance. The marriage to Alison could have lasted longer, but he
couldn’t imagine it being more magnificent. She was beautiful, kind and
loving. An intelligent woman with a curious intellect that made her a
delightful conversationalist. In dress and manner, elegance personified. In
bed, an imaginative lover…
Actually not just in bed. He recalled a Hawaiian vacation.

They’d rented a small condominium on the Poipu Beach area of Kauai.

It was in a small development adjacent to a Hyatt Hotel.
One evening, they walked over to the hotel for dinner. Afterwards, they
wandered the landscaped grounds, lanterns lighting their way along a
deserted path. The evening weather was warm and balmy. They
encountered a pair of swings not too far from the water and swayed back
and forth, listening to the pounding of the surf.
Alison stopped swinging, and stood up. He stood as well, assuming she
wanted to continue their stroll. Instead, she stepped close and kissed him.
When she felt his immediate response, she gently caressed him while she
whispered in his ear what she wanted. She then stepped back and reached
both hands under her long, flowing skirt. She bent her legs as her hands
moved from her waist down to her feet and she lifted first one leg and then
the other.
She never took her eyes from his as she straightened and stepped close
again, kissing him as she stuffed her panties into the pocket of his sport
coat. Her hands moved to his waist. She loosened his belt and lowered his
trousers and briefs. She guided him back to sit down on the swing. Using
the ropes as support, she carefully lifted her legs to mount the swing and
position herself astride him. There was a sharp intake of breath as he
entered her, but that half-smile was still on her face, and she stared directly
into his eyes before kissing him again. The sensations were enhanced the
swing’s slow movement back and forth. Her flowing skirt covered
everything, but still, he was grateful that no one came walking by.

Darling Samuel,
San Francisco bound. You are asleep and I am surreptitiously writing to you. To
tell you how glad I am that we were crazy enough to run off to Hawaii. I loved it more
than I can say in this brief note.
I meant every word when I told you there are not enough hours in the day to do
nothing with you.
You are my dearest love, my magnificent lover, my caring coach, my faithful friend
and my adored husband.
Your Alison

In the privacy of their bedroom, her sexual abandon was contagious, and
her willingness to experiment resulted in their every sexual fantasy being
fulfilled. If this was what life had offered him, he could hardly complain.
He formulated a plan to quietly disappear.
 He left all his furniture, and everything other than his clothes, in the
apartment he was renting, along with an explanatory note to the landlord. The
note said he hoped the fully furnished apartment would lease for more money
than he was paying, and that the difference would more than compensate for
the few months left on his lease. He then drove from the Bay area to Tucson,
Arizona.

He finds a short-term rental and prepays the two months’ rent. Over the
next few weeks, he explores the nearby mountains, searching for a secluded
lake. When he finds the right one, he purchases a handgun, and maps the best
way to return to the lake.
He disposes of everything he brought with him to Arizona and leaves the
keys in the car at the base of the mountain. The hike to reach the lake takes
several hours. He removes and inflates the small raft from his backpack. He
then fills it, and his pockets, with the rocks he previously set aside. He paddles
out to the middle of the deserted lake, and confirms the optimal locations in
the raft for the two bullets that will sink it.
He then lets the memory unspool in his mind.

He is standing in front of a modern office building at the corner of

Arundel and The Strand in London. It is 1995, and this is the building where
he spent his days while doing the consulting work for Arthur Andersen. He
turns around slowly, absorbing everything.
It was not until this year, his 46th, that he experienced true love for the
first time. Perhaps this is why there is such a warm and rosy glow to so much
of what he remembers of that first year with Alison. Still, he marvels that this,
one of his most vivid memories, exists only in his imagination: Alison
delivering the note he received one afternoon while working on the seventh
floor of this building.
Alison is living in Haslemere and he in the flat on Bryanston Square. She
has come to London early for the evening they will be spending together.
From the Waterloo train station, she asks the taxi driver to take a brief detour
so she can deliver the note she has just written.
 Taxi to Strand
The sun is shining.
I adore you.
I shall see you today and for the rest of my life.
All my love,
Alison

He imagines how much more glorious that bright spring day must seem
because their love is so new and the whole world stretches before them with
endless possibilities.
He is an unseen presence as he watches Alison alight from the taxi and
ask the driver to wait for a moment. He feels the warmth of the sun and
smells the exhaust from the passing cars.
Her blonde hair blows in the breeze of that always-windy corner as she
walks the short distance from the curb to the front entrance of the building.
The sun reflects off her cheek and jaw line where there is that impossibly fine
down that makes peach fuzz seem coarse by comparison.
She is obviously pleased as she hands the envelope to the security guard
and asks that it be delivered to him. She pauses, smiling as she contemplates
the feelings that caused her to impulsively scribble and deliver this note.
She turns and retraces her steps to the taxi, thinking of their evening
together. Her greenish-blue eyes stare into the distance as, still smiling, she
rests her head against the back of the seat. The taxi pulls away from the curb
and enters the flow of traffic.

The sounds of the first two shots reverberate against the surrounding
hillsides. The raft begins to slowly deflate. The last thing Samuel hears is the
third shot.