“Joking aside, Jack, are you absolutely certain about leaving me? We could talk about increasing your pay.”
“You already gave me a raise.”
Cash isn’t my problem. It’s a person.
Rex makes another offer. “Then how about a change in job title?”
“To what? I only have an admin certificate.” I give him another reason as our cab heads for Hackney, which isn’t a usual destination for a private banker, but is a good example of what else prompted me to give Rex my notice. “I’m moving on because you are too, aren’t you?”
He nods, if slowly.
I nod back much faster.
“You’ve been scaling back your banking workload all year, ready to make your final big move back to Cornwall, and not only because you miss the dogs, right?” I don’t wait for his answer. We both know what really caused his switch in direction: The shipwrecking seas around his family’s island have become a shortcut for traffickers. Rex and his grandfather set up a foundation to stop children from being swallowed by thosewicked waters, and that foundation has grown beyond a part-time operation needing one lifeboat, a single helicopter, and helpers on a piecemeal rota.
Here’s what really made me extend some urgent new-job feelers.
“You’re about to restructure the foundation.”
He nods again, silent and watchful, but not sorry.
“I drew up the organisational chart, Rex. And I proofread the restructuring papers. That means I know if I stay on as your PA, I will end up with two bosses instead of one at some point next year.AndI’d have to leave London anyway. Because we’ve trialled me trying to organise you remotely, and what was the result?”
He huffs before muttering, “A shit show.”
“What kind of shit show, Rex?”
He huffs even harder. “An unmitigated one.”
“That’s right. And why was that?”
He’s so similar to his grandfather that it could be Arthur Heligan who rumbles, “Because I can’t be trusted to read my emails.”
That’s only the tip of a Rex-shaped admin-nightmare iceberg. The moment he’s in pilot mode, swooping to the rescue in his helicopter or steering his lifeboat to save small souls from sinking, the world of finance stops existing for him. We both know it. I hit him with another truth bomb while we’re being honest because, setting aside my ownno-more-piningreasons for moving on, he needs to hear this.
“Rex, leaving London wasyourdecision. You chose this, not me.”
“Because I thought you’d come with me.” He dips his head, the bell on his Santa hat somehow tinkling sadly. “I shouldn’t have assumed that for you, I know that, but I do have to gohome, Jack.” He fixes me with a raw look. “Pops needs me on Kara-Enys.”
I don’t blame him for wanting to be closer to his grandfather. I would have spent more time with my own if I’d known a clock was ticking faster than expected. And I don’t blame Rex for wanting to go home to an island that always looks like a jewel in jade-green waters. It’s where he comes alive. Where he thrives. And last, but definitely not least, it’s where his husband is waiting for him.
Of course he’d rather be with his family instead of in this city that only sparkles like a jewel at Christmas.
I give him another partial explanation. “Rex, I’d either need to be based on the island with you or at the foundation’s rehab centre.” That’s where my potential second boss helps children through their trauma with play therapy. “And what use would I be there?”
I lean forward to close a different gap that has surely and steadily widened since Rex made his career-change decision. “You won’t need a finance-focussed PA like me.” I pull out the lint roller that usually smartens his suits. Today he’s missing his jacket, and I tidy a sweatshirt I was surprised Rex chose to wear to a banking meeting with someone as stuffy as Timothy Smallbone. Now Irun my lint roller over the logo of his foundation.
Safe Harbour.
That’s what Heligans provide, and I guess Rex wore it to prompt Smallbone to hurry up and hand over a promised donation from the bank he works for these days. Safe Harbour is also why Rex is here in Hackney to check on the progress of some of his shipwreck survivors, which is why I straighten his Santa hat until its bell lets out a happier tinkle. “You need people on your new charitable wavelength.”
“But youareon my wavelength.” He comes up with examples. “You thought to arrange this visit for me, didn’t you? Carved out the time so I could catch up with some of our kids.” His voice drops. “I didn’t think I’d have the scope to fit in seeing them, but you made it happen.You, Jack. It’s always you who knows what to prioritise for me.”
“I don’t know where you think flattery will get you.”
I keep my gaze fixed out the window. Usually, nothing makes me happier than solving his problems before he knows he has them. Today, everything is topsy-turvy, like him plucking the twin of his own Santa hat from another pocket. He leans forward to pop it onto my head and murmurs, “I’d hate to lose you.” Then he pulls out the big guns. “And I’m pretty sure Pops would miss you even more.”
I freeze at this mention of his grandfather. Arthur is the very last person I want to hear my news from anyone else. “You haven’t told him my plans, have you?” Telling Patrick and Sebastian was hard enough this morning. Even now, I can still see Patrick’s chalk snapping midway through a new affirmation, and Sebastian’s cheeks bulging beforewhat-the-fuckinga spray of toast crumbs across our breakfast table.