Page 8 of An American in London

It’s seven thirty-seven and I’m at my desk outside Mr. Jenkins’s office, ready for when the man himself arrives. If I ever get to the point in my career when I employ a project manager, I will definitely want them to arrive before me.

The offices here are very different from New York.

Long, dark, narrow corridors and poky rooms, compared to the spacious, bright, floor-to-ceiling-windowed space of our Wall Street offices.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Daniel De Luca filmed Big Money on this exact floor of the building.

It has the same brown leather chairs opposite the elevators and the same mahogany paneling on every wall.

If only Daniel De Luca was about to arrive to boss me around.

I’ve seen Mr. Jenkins on Zoom and can guarantee he’s not going to get mistaken for my teenage crush anytime soon.

Then again, I’m definitely not going to get mistaken for America’s sweetheart, Julia Alice.

My thighs are way too wide, and my hair is not nearly as shiny.

I can’t help but think I drew the short straw ending up here.

The CFO is based in New York, and one of my counterparts is doing his stint as project manager there and has his own office.

The director of compliance is based there too.

Why I got shuffled halfway around the world remains to be seen.

I’m sure some people would think working so closely with the CEO is a better gig, but it feels like the stakes are too high for comfort.

“How’s the hotel?” Gail asks from where she sits opposite me.

I’ve only known Gail, executive assistant to Mr. Jenkins, for a day, but I like her already.

She’s in her mid-forties, and both today and yesterday wore a headband color-coordinated to her outfit.

You gotta respect someone who matches their headband to their shoes.

“Good,” I reply. “They upgraded my room, so that’s nice.”

“So nice.” She pauses, but I get the impression she’s got more to say. Frankly, I’m here for it. Anything to take my mind off my meeting with the boss at eight. “Am I right in thinking there’s a convention on there at the moment?”

I laugh. “Daniel De Luca. Yeah. Can’t miss it. There are life-sized cardboard cutouts of him everywhere.”

Her eyes grow wide like she wishes she had a life-sized cardboard cutout of him next to her right now. “Are you a fan?” she asks. “I do hope so. I read about the conference, and when it came to booking you in somewhere close by, it seemed like a good idea. Less so if you hate him.”

Honestly, if I’d known about the convention before I arrived, I would have probably tried to get the booking transferred to another hotel.

There are so many memories of my mom wrapped up with him and his movies.

To stay on track, moving forward, I’ve spent years avoiding things I thought would bring me pain.

But now? I’m pleased I’m there. Remembering my mom so vividly and often isn’t as painful as I expected.

“Yeah, I’m a fan. I’ve got a lot of happy memories of watching his movies,” I reply. “I was totally in love with him when I was a teen.”

Gail gives me a goofy grin. I’d put money on that she’d be squealing right about now if we weren’t at work. “Me too. Except I still think he’s wonderful.”

I smile at Gail, getting giddy.

“You know, we have a very important client who looks a little like Daniel De Luca.” She looks wistfully into the middle distance, like she’s traveled back to a time where women swooned.

Maybe it’s an English thing, and she has a ready supply of smelling salts stashed in her drawer for when she actually faints.

“He actually owns the building and has offices on the top floor. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of him crossing the lobby, and every now and again he pops in to see Mr. Jenkins.”

Is she talking about Ben, or is there more than one Daniel De Luca doppelg?nger in this city? Before I can ask her more about the object of her swooning, the elevator doors ping. In a Pavlovian response, Gail pulls her shoulders back and straightens in her seat.

“Gail,” a man yells as he rounds the corner, waving a folded-up newspaper.

“James,” Gail responds, leaping to her feet as he reaches her desk.

Mr. Jenkins, I presume.

“Bloody traffic is a nightmare on Piccadilly. I’ve had to walk and it’s just starting to rain.” He sweeps a hand across his balding head as Gail rounds her desk and helps him out of his coat.

“We’ve got Tuesday with us today,” Gail says.

I stand and feel suddenly awkward and very American. How do Brits greet each other in the office?

He turns to me, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Gail obviously catches his bewilderment and adds, “The new project manager from the New York office, Tuesday Reynolds.”

I hold out my hand and he shakes it firmly. “I’m very pleased to be here and excited about being able to be of assistance.”

“Very good, and what do I call you?” he asks.

I smile. “I answer to most things, but Tuesday is what most people settle on.”

“Like Wednesday?” he asks. “Just a day earlier?”

“Exactly.” I press my lips together to stop myself from smiling. I don’t want to offend anyone on my second day, but Mr. Jenkins is funny and I’m not sure if it’s intentional.

He narrows his eyes like he’s not sure whether he’s entirely convinced.

“Righty-oh. We have a meeting.” He thrusts out his arm, revealing his watch, sharply bends it at the elbow and takes in the time.

“Gail, please get us some coffee. We’ll start early.

We have a lot to get through. Follow me, Tuesday. ”

In my experience, the more senior to you the person you’re meeting with is, the longer you’re kept waiting. But things with Mr. Jenkins don’t seem to work like that. Maybe it’s a British thing. Maybe this is why he’s the CEO. I scramble for a pen and my notebook and follow him into his office.

“Take a seat, Tuesday. I’m afraid I don’t do well at chitchat, so let’s get straight down to it, shall we?

” There’s an old-fashioned mahogany coat stand to the side of the office, and he slots his umbrella into the bottom and turns to me.

“I’m responsible to the shareholders of the bank for the running of the business.

Yet as you might expect, as CEO, I’m not all that involved with the day-to-day operations. ”

I furiously write notes as if I’m going to take a test at the end of the day.

“The private-client side of our business is small, but that’s where I started, and I still act as accounts manager for one or two ultra-high-net-worth individuals.

Clearly, I’m just the figurehead. I can’t take any credit for the actual work managing the portfolios of those clients.

The Private Client Team does that, but I still have the necessary face-to-face contact with those clients.

” He takes a seat at his desk and flips open his laptop in front of him.

“I understand,” I say.

“One of those clients uses us for some of his UK-based investments—shares and bonds. Most of his wealth is managed for him in-house. He really only still uses us for legacy reasons—I’m close with his father.

But his name attached to our business is only a good thing, and I do everything I can to retain his investments.

It’s a fact that, as a client, he gives our bank a gold stamp of approval many other private clients take very seriously, as well as the boards of various pension funds that invest heavily with us. ”

Mr. Jenkins obviously wants to be very clear about the importance of this wealthy client, but why? Nerves start to swirl in my stomach as I suspect the answer involves me, this prestigious client, and my entire professional future.

“As you must know from the New York office, we give all our clients an annual health check, which goes beyond the day-to-day portfolio management. When we do this for ultra-high-net-worth individuals, we like to look at their wealth more holistically to make sure we’re best serving their needs.

” He sounds like he’s reading from the bank’s website, but I nod like what he’s saying is riveting.

“But these annual reviews have a secondary purpose. One that benefits the bank.”

He looks me in the eye as if he’s about to draw back the curtain on a secret known to only five people on earth. I do my best to look riveted.

“It allows the bank to demonstrate value. It’s a platform from which we can show the client why we are the perfect, most trusted partner for them.”

I try not to let my shoulders drop with disappointment at his lackluster revelation.

“It’s also an opportunity to see if we can be managing more of their wealth,” Mr. Jenkins continues.

“Client retention. Client growth,” I paraphrase.

“Exactly,” he says. “In relation to the Kelley account, client retention is paramount. Client growth is ... almost impossible, but we try, nonetheless.” Before I can ask why it’s impossible, he leans toward me and drops his voice.

“Last year we had a hiccup with the account. Some of the numbers were wrong, and Mr. Kelley was able to identify the mistakes during the meeting.”

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

“It was embarrassing. For the bank. For me. I don’t want it to happen again. I want everything scoured for mistakes a thousand times.”

His eyes bulge and he fists his hands, almost as if he’s reliving the embarrassment in the moment.

“I understand,” I say. Although I’m not exactly sure what my role is in all this.

“Good!” He bangs his fists on the desk, his voice returning to full volume.

“I want you to be my eyes and ears on all this. Obviously, the Private Client Team is all over it, but you’re going to be the final pair of eyes on everything.

I don’t want to see a graph, report, or table you haven’t personally signed off on. ”

I grip my pen a little tighter. That seems like a lot of responsibility. “I’ll make sure it’s all exactly how it should be.”

“Good. The meeting is in four weeks. Don’t leave anything to the last minute.

Kelley has a habit of moving up our meetings.

I think he’d like to catch us off-balance again this year if he can.

The man is too smart by half.” He switches his attention to the laptop in front of him.

“That’s all, Tuesday. Don’t let me down. ”

I scoop up my pad and stand. There’s no chance I’m going to let him down. I’ll work day and night if I have to. If it’s within my power, Mr. Kelley—whoever he is—will be skipping out of his meeting with Mr. Jenkins, he’ll be so impressed with his health check.

“Just one more thing,” Mr. Jenkins says. “Kelley likes to drop into the office now and then. Usually only when Chelsea’s lost. He’s a bloody Arsenal supporter, just like his father. Make sure there’s nothing lying about that may catch his eye. I don’t want to start a conversation I can’t finish.”

I nod and head to the door. As I grab the handle, it moves, and before I know it, I end up pushed behind the door as it opens.

“I just wanted to come and pay my respects,” a familiar voice announces.

Gently, I push the door closed so I’m no longer squashed behind it, and I almost choke at the sight of Mr. Jenkins’s visitor. Is that who I think it is? I can only see the back of his head, but isn’t it—

“And to give you this.” He holds up a blue-and-white key ring. “It was on sale.”

“Ha, ha,” Mr. Jenkins says, clearly not amused. “You’re no funnier than your father.”

I take a couple of steps around the door, unable to tear my gaze away from the office interloper, when the door creaks and both Mr. Jenkins and my oldest friend in London turn to stare at me.

I pull my mouth into an apple-pie grin. “Hi,” I say.

Ben frowns but doesn’t say anything.

“This is our new project manager,” Mr. Jenkins says. “She’s going to be helping me prepare for your health check, among other things.”

Someone’s hooked a cannonball onto my insides as realization dawns. Ben, the Daniel De Luca doppelg?nger, the guy I flat-out refused to help last night, is my boss’s most important client.