Page 19 of An American in London

For days, I’ve been poring over the spreadsheets and graphs that relate to Ben’s investments at the bank.

It’s not the first time I’ve done work like this, but it’s the first time I’ve done the work for someone whose house I’ve visited, and definitely the first time I’ve worked on an account for someone I’m going to spend the weekend with while pretending to be his fiancée.

It probably shouldn’t, but it makes a difference to know the person who will be on the receiving end of all the data.

I’ve seen Ben barefoot in his kitchen, and apparently, that impacts how I look at a spreadsheet.

I really want to do a good job for a thousand reasons.

Obviously I want Mr. Jenkins to be happy with the job I’m doing, as he holds my career in his hands.

I also want Ben to keep his investments at the bank because we’re good at what we do—not merely because he’s got history with “James.” And not only because it’s part of the deal he’s made with me.

So far, I’ve spotted a few minor errors in the data, which probably would have been picked up at some point anyway. But Mr. Jenkins wants me there as a safety net, coordinating departments and making sure everything runs smoothly. And he’s the boss, so he gets to decide how I spend my time.

As part of Ben’s annual health check, Mr. Jenkins wants to pitch him a real estate investment in South America the bank is handling.

Apparently an entire city is being developed, including homes and retail units, leisure facilities, schools, and businesses.

It’s tipped to have tremendous upside for those investing in the early stages, and the only way UK investors can get in on the investment is if they go through the bank.

Mr. Jenkins wants me to put together a proposal that’s personalized to Ben.

It would be a huge coup if Ben extended his investments beyond UK assets. It would be the cherry on the cake if he chose to invest more because he thought the bank was the right place to put his money, and not because I’d agreed to pretend to be his fiancée.

“I just want to pop to the loo,” Gail says from where she sits opposite me. “But James usually comes out right around now, wanting a coffee. Can you tell him I’ll bring one in for him?”

“Of course,” I say. I can do even better than that.

I’ll make his coffee myself right now, anticipating his needs.

I know Mr. Jenkins likes his coffee black and hot, because I’ve been paying attention to how Gail has been making his drink from day one.

I’ll make one now, and if he comes out of his office while Gail is in the restroom, I can give it to him right away.

If he doesn’t, I can drink it—albeit after adding in a gallon of milk.

I round my desk and head to the small kitchen at the end of the corridor.

I work quickly to put the coffee machine on, then take a step back and lean out of the kitchen so I can keep an eye on Mr. Jenkins’s office door.

The machine grunts and complains but finally spits out some coffee into the white cup and saucer I’ve noticed Gail always uses for his coffee.

Some bosses are laid-back about everything that doesn’t matter—Mr. Jenkins is not one of those bosses.

He seems to care about everything. He likes his trash can emptied twice a day.

He doesn’t take any calls directly, and he likes everyone who works for him in the office before he is.

He’s a boss who would have thrived in the fifties.

In fact, I’m surprised he doesn’t slap Gail on the ass every morning when he passes her desk while smoking a cigarette.

I set the cup on the saucer with a satisfying clink and head back down the corridor to my desk. I’m just a few yards away when Mr. Jenkins opens his door, his eyes wide and blinking like he’s experiencing daylight for the first time. He scans Gail’s desk and, seeing it empty, his eyes narrow.

“I’ve made you a coffee, Mr. Jenkins,” I say, holding out the cup like I’m presenting him with a prize.

“You have? Don’t be telling HR.”

“Of course not,” I reply. I turn at the ping of the elevator, expecting to see Gail. Instead, Ben strides down the corridor. My heart lifts in my chest, and I’m not quite sure if it’s because it will put Mr. Jenkins in a good mood, or if it’s for my own, more selfish reasons.

I push my lips together, trying to dissuade the grin threatening to unfurl. He just looks so different in his suit from the last time I saw him padding around his Ken Dream House, but my, he wears his suit even better than he wears his sweats.

He sees me, and we lock eyes as he walks toward the two of us.

My heart rate picks up speed, and I shift my balance from one foot to another.

I should look away. I don’t want Mr. Jenkins to pick up on the fact Ben and I are spending time together outside the office.

But somehow, I can’t, and he doesn’t seem to be able to either.

It’s like we’re magnets; however hard we try to look away, basic physics means it’s impossible.

As he approaches, I back away slightly, as if I’m expecting him to grab me and kiss me right there in front of my boss. But when he’s a few feet away, Ben manages to shift his focus to Mr. Jenkins. I slip back to safety behind my desk.

“Thought it was only fair to come and congratulate you,” Ben says.

A bubble of anxiety or guilt or something fizzes in my stomach as I wonder what Mr. Jenkins needs congratulating over, when I realize they must be talking about soccer. I make a mental note to do an internet search about when Mr. Jenkins’s team plays. I flick back a page on my notepad: Chelsea.

“Very gracious of you, I must say,” Mr. Jenkins says.

“It was a good win,” Ben replies. “There’s no doubt about it.”

“Agreed. And Arsenal only lost by a fraction. Bad decision by the ref if you ask me.”

Ben nods. “Maybe.” He glances at me, and I try my best not to meet his gaze ... and fail as my eyes slide to meet his. His pupils flare, and he clears his throat before returning his focus to Mr. Jenkins. “But we have to take bad luck on the chin and focus on playing well.”

“Very good,” Mr. Jenkins says. “Very good.” He pauses and turns his attention to me. I keep my focus on the computer screen and pretend I’m not listening. “You’ve met our new project manager, haven’t you?” He narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to remember.

“Last time I was here.”

I look up at them both.

“She’s looking over some very exciting opportunities for investment in South America. I thought I might take you through them during our annual review.”

Ben nods carefully. “I’m happy to review that investment.

” The way the words come out are uncomfortable.

It’s as if he’s being asked a question in court and needs to be careful with every syllable.

I pull out a pen and scribble a note in my notepad.

There’s something about his expression I need to understand further.

Just below my scribble from the first day of how Mr. Jenkins likes his coffee, I write: Ben. South America. Investments.

Ben and Mr. Jenkins trade a few more remarks about soccer, then Ben leaves without another glance at me. I’m half relieved and half disappointed.

“Was that Ben I just saw again?” Gail says as she arrives back at her desk.

“Came to congratulate me on the Chelsea game,” Mr. Jenkins says, sipping his coffee. “He’s a good man, that one.”

“We don’t normally see him so often,” she says. “Are you sure he’s not measuring the place up, getting ready to sell?”

Mr. Jenkins laughs and then stops himself. “Don’t say things like that. He gives us a good rent. We don’t want anything changing.”

Gail takes in Mr. Jenkins’s coffee cup and frowns. “Did you make your own coffee?”

“Tuesday did. Very nice too.”

I know it’s just coffee, but getting it right for him feels good. Maybe it’s not a guaranteed place on the fast track, but it can’t hurt.

Mr. Jenkins goes back to his office, and Gail returns to her desk.

“Thank you for making James’s coffee,” Gail says.

I beam at her. “It was my pleasure.”

She returns my smile, but it’s a little forced. “How are you finding London?” she asks.

“Interesting. It’s my first time abroad, so everything is so different.”

Gail nods, but I can tell it’s half-hearted. I just don’t know why. “Can I give you some advice?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say.

“If you were a male in your position, over from the New York office, trying to prove himself worthy of a place on this newly consolidated fast track ...” She pauses, as if she’s trying to figure out how to word the end of the sentence. “Well, he wouldn’t be making James’s coffee.”

Was she mad? “I’m sorry, I never meant to overstep—”

She holds up a hand. “That’s not what I meant.

I don’t mind if you make the coffee. Saves me a job.

I’m saying, as a woman, you have to be careful how you’re perceived.

And as someone trying to get ahead, don’t present yourself as someone who makes the coffee.

It’s okay for me. I’m not looking to get ahead. I have the job I want.”

“I suppose I just want to be helpful.”

“I know,” she says. “But protect yourself. Like most banks, senior management here is dominated by men. I want that to change. You want that to change. Leave the coffee to me, focus on Brazil, and get your place on the fast track. That’s what you’re here for.

” She sends me a smile that says, I know it’s tough love, but you need to listen to me . And she’s right.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

I type into my browser bar, “South America, Ben Kelley.” I scroll through the results.

Nothing much comes up. Then I decide to do a search on Ben more widely.

What are his businesses and how exactly has he made his fortune from nothing?

I remember I have that file listing all the companies he’s associated with, and I dig it out from my bag.

Over the next couple of hours, I piece together Ben’s extraordinary rise to billionaire business mogul.

What almost every article mentions is how private he is.

Some call it unassuming. Others secretive.

Some publications clearly feel he should be courting them more than he does.

No one mentions Ben’s desire to own the Castles and Palaces Hotel Group he so desperately wants.

I then start a deep dive on his businesses, which is when I finally make the connection between one of Ben’s subsidiary companies and South America. It’s the operating company that manages the development of the new city in Paraguay Mr. Jenkins wants to pitch to Ben.

Mr. Jenkins wants to try to sell Ben his own investment.

Luckily, Mr. Jenkins didn’t tell Ben exactly which South American investment he wanted to pitch. I’ll just have to find something else we can mention in the meeting so Mr. Jenkins will be spared any embarrassment.

Mr. Jenkins emerges from his office and rumbles over to my desk.

“Have you finished the Paraguay presentation for Kelley? I want to make sure it’s properly tailored to his portfolio of assets, to the extent we know what they are.”

“Actually, I’ve uncovered some pertinent information about that.” I slide the article I printed off earlier.

“What’s this?” Mr. Jenkins asks, picking up the paper.

I don’t say anything and just let him read.

He looks up from the paper. “You’re sure about this?”

“Completely sure.” I didn’t just rely on that article. “There’s corroboration on the website, if you look closely.”

“Show me,” he says.

I pull up the website devoted to the development and investment into Paraguay. There, buried in fine print at the bottom of the site map, is the name of the company that owns the city. “The shareholder in that company is Ben’s main holding company.”

Mr. Jenkins nods. “Good work, Tuesday.”

A warm glow fills my chest, and I smile at his back as he returns to his office.

I glance over at Gail, who’s grinning at me.

“That’s what he’ll remember when he makes his decision about you. That you saved him from having egg all over his face. That you’re detail oriented and see things others don’t. We all want our boss to think we’re doing a good job. But that’s how you do it. Not with coffee.”

Gail’s right. I just want people around me to be happy; I’ll do everything it takes.

Too much, sometimes. Ben’s noticed my tendency to put the feelings of others first too.

In his particular, subtle, Ben way, he tries to help—ordering the starters when I didn’t like the cod.

Saying no to the dress in Ralph Lauren. When it comes to my work in the bank, I need to be more strategic with where I put my energy.

When it comes to everyday life ... that’s another story.