Page 32 of Break My Rules
I grab the file, and stick my head out of the office, to where my father’s trusty secretary, Tricia, is working at the desk in front. “I don’t suppose you’d know who could give me some more information about these numbers, do you?” I ask.
“Accounting should be able to help,” she replies. “Try Harold. He knows everything.”
I pause, and Tricia looks amused. “Fourth floor,” she explains.
“Much obliged.”
I take the elevator down and go in search of the all-knowing Harold. I find him in a windowless cubicle, a middle-aged man with balding hair hunched over a limp supermarket sandwich.
“Harold?” I ask. He looks up, and chokes on his egg salad at the sight of me.
“I… Umm… Mr. Saint Clair,” he blurts, trying to blot mustard from his shirt. “Shoot. I mean, wow. Hello. Umm, are you lost?” he asks, puzzled.
I smile. “Call me Saint,” I tell him. “I was hoping you could help me with something…”
I look around. Christ, this place is depressing, just cubicles as far as the eye can see. Clearly, they spent the interior decorating budget upstairs.
And the catering budget, too.
“What do you need?” Harold asks, setting his lunch aside and putting his reading spectacles on.
“It’s these budget line items,” I explain, pulling up a chair and showing him the spreadsheet. “I must be reading them wrong. The new incidentals seem awfully high to me.”
“Hmm…” Harold flips through, quickly assessing the figures. “No, see, it says here, they started breaking out the laboratory equipment budget, in more detail, starting at the beginning of the year,” he explains, looking up again. “The incidentals used to be lumped in with the main budget. That’s why they suddenly seem to have increased.”
“But wouldn’t those payments go to vendors?” I ask, still stuck on my instinct that something’s not right.
“Yes, they would. See, here, the supplementary breakdown.” Harold shows me another row of figures—matching the 50,000 every month, all legit and above board. “Your father signed off on it personally, so you shouldn’t worry,” he reassures me. “It all adds up.”
Except it doesn’t.
But instead of pointing out those footnotes, with the direct payments to Dr Valerie DeJonge’s personal account, I close the folder. “Thanks, Harold,” I say instead, getting to my feet. “You’ve been very helpful.”
He coughs. “Well, thank you, Mr.—I mean, Saint. I’m always around if you need answers.”
I nod and say goodbye, but as I head back up to the office, it’s clear there’s only one person who can give me the answers I need. The man who knows exactly why Dr. DeJonge is getting such a large personal bonus, straight from the company accounts.
My father.
When I checkhis calendar with Tricia, I find he’s scheduled for a follow-up appointment at St. Guy’s hospital this afternoon. I’m glad. I’d rather keep this conversation as far away from my mother as possible. But when I head over to the hospital, and up to his suite in the VIP wing, I’m surprised to find he’s not alone.
A now-familiar French voice is audible inside with him. The door is ajar, so I pause outside, listening to the discussion going on inside.
“I can’t keep going like this,” Valerie is insisting. She sounds emotional, and I can tell from my father’s harsh, frustrated tone that he isn’t happy, either.
“You knew what you were getting into. Nobody forced you.”
“Is that so? I’m your employee, after all. Perhaps people will see it differently, if I tell.”
“Is that a threat?” My father’s voice rises, shaken.
“Take it how you like. You can’t hide this, Alexander,” she adds. “And I can’t hide it for you much longer.”
“Don’t you dare—”
I hear the anger in his voice, and smoothly push the door open. “Hello, father,” I say loudly.
They freeze, caught together across the room. My father’s face is set with anger, and he’s gripping Valerie’s arm tightly. Up close, I realize I’ve seen her at various parties and Ashford events. Except then, she always had an expression of brisk impatience, as if she had better places to be.