Brilliant (3 page)

F  O  U  R

So there I was in London, England, as far from Oklahoma as I could get, wanting to escape. To disappear and start over. And so what did I do? I ditched the college tour group who’d gone to see Shakespeare’s stupid girlfriend’s house on some stupid river, and spent all my money on this stupid dress. Dumb.

“Oooo, you look a regular cream puff,” the shopgirl with her platinum hair, black-rimmed eyes, and white lips (possibly the most glamorous person I’d ever seen in my life) had cooed in her wonderful accent, which had me seduced.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of short?” My eyes watered from the incense sticks that smoldered around the shop. I squinted at my rear view in the large mirror. “Aren’t my panties showing?”

“Well, you aren’t going to be wanting to bend over, are you?” Ha. Ha. Ha. “Do you want to try the boots? We’ve been showing them with this frock.”

Frock!
Frock!
Do you have any idea how many “frocks” we had in Oklahoma? Zero. We had housecoats, suits, dresses, blue jeans, and even cocktail dresses, but frocks? You must be kidding. So naturally, I had to have the boots, the hot pink, shiny vinyl, high-heeled boots.

What in the hell did I know about fashion? Or anything, for that matter, I cried as the rain soaked me. Even after all I’d been through, this was unquestionably the lowest point of my life. I wasn’t Doris Day. I was eighteen years old, and I was still nobody. Obviously too stupid to have an umbrella, at least that’s what the other people on the street were thinking. Look at that stupid fat girl from Oklahoma, she’s too stupid to come in out of the rain. The dress stuck to me like a bathing suit.

That’s when the pearl gray Rolls Royce Silver Cloud pulled over and a man’s voice called to me from the backseat. He looked and sounded like Cary Grant in
That Touch of Mink
trying to cajole an insulted Doris into his car. “Get in here, miss,” he said authoritatively. He leaned over and opened the door. “Get out of the rain.”

I stepped through the looking glass.

The Rolls Royce smelled like spice and had little glass vases with real roses.

“Miserable weather,” the man said, and draped his raincoat around me. He did it gallantly without groping me or making any cracks about my almost naked appearance. His driver took us to Claridge’s, which I thought was his house, the way they all greeted him by name. He guided me gently, and directly, to the waiting elevator.

Forty-eight hours later, Sir Cramner and I were still in the suite at Claridge’s, rosy and pink with love, champagne, laughter, happiness, and nonstop room service. I’d never seen nor eaten such beautiful food in my life. Nor been in such a beautiful suite of rooms. I had no idea such places even existed. My bathroom at Claridge’s (our suite had two!) was bigger than my whole apartment in Tulsa.

“Always insist on your own bathroom,” Sir Cramner said. “That way, the romance stays alive.”

This was the man for me.

My prayers had been answered. I think it was the pink vinyl boots, which I wore for two days. I finally had to cut them off with my fingernail scissors.

He offered me a job as the mail room girl for the executive suite of Ballantine & Company, bought me a proper wardrobe, and set me up in a spacious three-room flat in Belgravia in quiet, leafy, Eaton Square, home to embassies and people who lived private, sedate, lives behind picture-perfect Edwardian façades.

I had no idea that people could be so nice.

I consider those days at Claridge’s as when my real life began. I might have been slightly street savvy—well, as street savvy as some- one from Oklahoma can be—but when it came to social or cultural awareness or refinement? I was a virgin, a blank canvas. I was as green as a person can get. I was also smart enough to know it and wanted to learn. I became a giant sponge that absorbed every drop of information it came into contact with. I studied the women who worked in the auction house as well as the women who attended the auctions—how they dressed and carried themselves. How they modulated their voices. I noticed that none of them—at least the ones with style, class, and power, not the mistresses or tarts—wore colored eye shadow or white lipstick or flashy clothes. I devoured books on manners and etiquette, learned the value of discretion and the virtue of keeping my mouth shut and the essential nature of confidentiality and trustworthiness.

When it came to the material things—paintings, furniture, jewelry, porcelains, textiles—I was lucky enough to be working in the greatest school in the world. Whatever came through the doors of Ballantine & Company—whether they were the real thing or fakes—was fuel for my insatiable desire for knowledge. And because my interest and enthusiasm were genuine, the firm’s experts were generous with their knowledge and expertise. Over the years, my eye has become as good as, if not in some cases better than, theirs.

Because I enjoyed my circumstances so much, and the security Sir Cramner provided me, I was able to become secure with myself as well, and accept myself, all of me. My size didn’t mean I was less of a girl. I began to see my shapeliness as an asset, and why shouldn’t I? All the men around me seemed to see it that way. I drew them like flies.

I stopped buying cotton underpants and Cross-Your-Heart Extra-Support Bras that, in spite of their promises and best efforts, turned my bustline into something resembling a low-slung watermelon, and started buying lingerie—silk and satin panties and slips and lacy low-cut French bras. I bought well-cut and well-made suits and dresses that fit me properly.

Jewelry continued to be my passion and occasionally I’d mention certain pieces that were coming up for auction to Sir Cramner and he’d buy them for me, and I’d wear them in the evenings in one of my custom-made peignoirs. After a particularly successful series of sales, he surprised me with the
Pasha of St. Petersburg
, a twenty-five carat, brilliant-cut diamond pendant. From the moment he draped the thin platinum chain around my neck, I’ve never taken it off. Sir Cramner and I loved nothing more than a good scotch and a quiet evening in my flat watching the news—with me in my negligée, loaded up with bijoux, the quarter-sized
Pasha
winking from my décolletage. We’d have Indian or Chinese food delivered from around the corner, or I’d fix his favorite dinner of a cheese soufflé and tomato bisque with a dollop or two of sherry. It was a comfortable and cozy existence.

Did I mind that he was married and had a family and a family life? That he only came to call an evening or two a week? Or that he would never marry me? Well, I’d be lying if I said that I never occasionally longed for a life in the full light of polite society. At first, I couldn’t help but be resentful of my geishalike existence but after a while, I took up a hobby: learning to make fine jewelry, and it filled my evenings. From time to time, I’d meet a man and think, This is the kind of man I want. I could settle down with him. But the fact is, they were all just like Sir Cramner. Kind, good-natured, funny. Married. As the years passed, I made a conscious decision to get over my desire for a traditional marriage and family and settled into the comfort and pleasure of who I was and what I had.

Sir Cramner and Ballantine & Company Auctioneers became my life. I loved him, the company, and the business. I loved the person I’d become. I was elegant. I was refined. I was a lady.

My life of crime continued, but on a much more elegant scale. In the beginning, my financial security was most definitely a factor, but not the only one. As I got older, I saw more and more completely unnecessary injustices inflicted on total innocents by those who had so much and still felt the need to take advantage of others. I’d been able to leave my childhood neglect behind me long ago, gotten over it, landed on my feet and flourished through my own sheer will, determination, and opportunities presented by Sir Cramner. But not everyone’s got the same grit, and legitimate victims do exist, and when I see a person of wealth and means inflict cruelty or abuse on a defenseless creature, two- or four-legged, if it is within my abilities, I will not let it pass unpunished. People who have money should be grateful for what they’ve got because the fact is, money can solve most of one’s problems and there is absolutely no excuse for a rich person to cause pain and suffering for a poor one. So, in my own little way, I do what I can. I steal what I hope they love.

I’m not trying to make myself sound saintly or like Robin Hood or a do-gooder, because I’m not. I do give away at least 10 percent of everything to charity but I keep the rest for myself. Tax-free.

I know if anyone knew my secrets, they would be surprised. Who am I kidding? They would be beyond surprised. They would be thunderstruck. But, there’s nothing I can do about it—it’s just who I am and what I do. What I’ve always done, and as I set out to be all those years ago: I’m one of the best in the world.

Just to add a touch of class to my residential burglaries, a little bouquet of shamrocks tied with an ivory satin ribbon replaces the goods. A signal to the target that the bad news is they’ve been robbed, but the good news is they can take pride in knowing they were robbed by London’s best: the Shamrock Burglar.

F  I  V  E

And now tonight, just like that, with Sir Benjamin’s single shot to his muddled head, my world had changed again. My debt to Sir Cramner and Ballantine & Company was discharged, paid-in-full.

I rolled out of bed, slid into my robe and mules, padded into my pink, mirrored dressing room, and looked in the dressing table mirror. I was as pale as a ghost. I frowned at myself. I didn’t know what to think. It was as though I were looking at someone else.

The clock said four-thirty—too early to go to work, too late to go back to sleep. I went into the kitchen and switched on the lights in my ivy-walled garden. Icy rain struck the windows, and for a while, I sat in the dark at the kitchen table with a steaming mug of coffee and watched it cascade off the lattices and splash on the bricks. The garden lights illuminated the trunks of the potted fruit trees, making them shine like black patent. My mind spun. I thought about everything and nothing. My stomach growled.

What I needed was an omelette.

With a flip of the light switch the rain receded into the distance and my old-fashioned, professional chef’s kitchen blazed into view. The heavy white enamel appliances, chrome knobs and handles, and glazed tile surfaces glittered and gleamed like an ad in a cooking magazine. I took kitchen scissors and clipped shoots of chervil, parsley, chives, and tarragon from my indoor herb garden along the kitchen windows. The outdoor freshness of their fragrance calmed me. The omelette pan came off its hook, and fresh eggs, a chunk of aged Gruyere, and butter came from the refrigerator.

I grated a handful of cheese and then, as I cracked the eggs into a glass bowl, I began, seriously, to examine my options.

All right, then. What should I do first? Quit? I could. I had plenty of money, and I still had my looks. I was good-sized. Not obese or anything, I just have never really denied myself much in the way of food or drink. I’d say I look
healthy
, toothsome, fine-figured. Sir Cramner once described me as a sort of full-bodied Catherine Deneuve, and it’s a pleasing, and I think fairly accurate, comparison. A little work’s been done to tighten up my jawline and take the bags out from under my eyes. People have given up trying to figure out how old I am, and I don’t tell.

I turned a burner onto HIGH, and whipped the eggs with a fork until they were just blended. A nice hunk of butter went into the cold pan, which I placed on the hot flame and rolled until the pan was coated and the butter melted completely and released its creamy bouquet. The eggs slid from the bowl and burbled in the sizzling heat. I gave them a couple of seconds to begin to form and then grasped the handle of the omelette pan, tilted it up and began to jerk it toward me roughly. Julia Child says, “You must have the courage to be rough with the eggs or they won’t loosen themselves from the bottom of the pan.” Mine loosened nicely and the eggs began to curl over on themselves a little more with each pull. I sprinkled in the herbs and cheese.

“What do you think, old boy?” I said aloud to Sir Cramner’s spirit.

“It’s time,” he answered.

“I miss you.”

“Move forward. It’s time,” he said again. “But whatever you do, don’t liquidate the Trust.”

Those had been among his dying words. The KDK Trust. My secret weapon.

“What’s your whole name, Kick?” Sir Cramner asked one day. By then he’d promoted me to being his executive secretary and assistant.

“Kathleen,” I answered.

“No, I mean your whole given name.”

“Oh, given name,” I said knowledgeably. Given my mother’s condition, I think I was pretty lucky to have any name at all, but I knew what he meant. Whole three name, name. “Kathleen Day Keswick.” I had picked “Day” ages ago, of course, because of Doris.

That’s how the KDK Trust, LLC, came into existence.

“I’m not going to live forever,” Sir Cramner said. “And I don’t ever want you to worry about your independence. No one can find out who is behind the KDK Trust, the bank will manage it. Don’t ever tell anyone what I’ve done.”

And then, with a stroke of his pen, he gave me 15 percent of Ballantine & Company.

To this day, no one knows who’s behind the KDK Trust, not even our new owner, Mr. Owen Brace, with all his megamillions and high- powered lawyers. The trust and my control of it were shielded by England’s strict banking laws regarding confidentiality. It had frustrated and infuriated him when my bank continued to reject his offers to buy my shares, especially when the offers had been so lucrative. The entire Ballantine family finally relented and surrendered all their holdings, leaving me as the only outstanding shareholder. Fifteen percent is enough to make a difference. Brace knew it, and I knew it, and it drove him nuts. Too bad.

My omelette slid onto a warm plate, and I skimmed the top of it with a film of butter and a sprinkling of more cheese. I carried the plate to the table, sat down, and picked up my fork and knife. The first bite was as delicious as I knew it would be and filled me with a sense of well-being. Warm, almost hot. Creamy and tangy. Rich and satisfying. I took a deep breath and inhaled all the fragrances. I think it was the best omelette I’d ever made.

Then I got out the calendar. November 1—a good day for my new life to begin. I would give my notice on December 1, and leave at the end of the year.

At six o’clock, I got into the shower and by seven, my hair was dried and pulled into a knot, my makeup applied. I stepped into a black Chanel suit, sheer stockings, low-heeled pumps, and a triple string of pearls. I looked simple and elegant. And respectful. After all, I was about to find out, officially, that I had a funeral to arrange.