Someone Else's Shoes(26)

“Meaning what?”

“It is going to be difficult to challenge your access to the bank accounts. You don’t seem to have enough links to the UK to employ Part Three of the Matrimonial Causes Act 1984 as I might otherwise have suggested. Transatlantic enforcement of divorce rulings is notoriously tricky. We could potentially try for a court order but it cannot be enforced, especially if he decides to fly back to the United States. We can send him a legal letter, but—”

“Carl has never paid any attention to a legal letter in his life. You don’t understand, Mr. Lowenstein. Carl does not believe rules apply to him. I have watched him at close quarters for twenty years and he does what he wants. Always. It’s like . . . a point of pride for him. He cannot ever be seen to lose.”

Saul Lowenstein lets out a heavy sigh. “Then I’m afraid this does not bode well. I see a lot of high-net-worth clients, Mrs. Cantor, and it usually goes like this: the husband—because I’m afraid it usually is the husband—divests himself of all assets into offshore holdings in the Caymans or Liechtenstein, and the wife is left trying to claim half of something that no longer officially exists, while chasing him around the globe. And there is the other problem . . .”

“What?” says Nisha, her head spinning. “What other problem?”

“Well, without any money, Mrs. Cantor, you cannot pay me.”

Nisha freezes. “I’m a very wealthy woman. You’ll get your money.”

“I can only operate on cases at this level with a sizable cash retainer.”

“But I haven’t got anything right now. He’s shut everything down. I told you.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Cantor. I really can’t do anything without a retainer. If you could sort things out at that end I’d be very happy to take on your case. Beyond that, I’m afraid there’s little I can do at this time. I’m not sure of any lawyers worth their salt who could.”

She is speechless. She thinks, for one horrific moment, that she might burst into tears. He waits a few seconds before he breaks the silence.

“It’s not an unusual modus operandi among those of your income bracket, Mrs. Cantor. He thinks, I’m going to screw her, grind her down, until she’s just glad to agree to anything. And that appears to be what’s happening here. You could, if you’re in desperate need, approach the police perhaps. Or the American Embassy.”

“I don’t want the police involved!” She drops her head into her hand. “I don’t understand,” she whispers. “I don’t understand why he’s done this.”

He sighs, then says, his voice low and confidential, “In my experience, it’s worth looking at the assistant.”

“His assistant?” she says, her skin prickling. “But—”

“Young, pretty?”

She thinks of Charlotte with her glowing skin and immaculate, sleeked-back ponytail. Her bland smile whenever Nisha walked into the office.

“The assistant knows the husband’s every need, every want, and every movement. They also know where the money goes. I am very sorry to say, Mrs. Cantor, but in the vast majority of cases that’s where you’ll find your explanation. I hope very much that you’re able to sort this out, and of course I’m always here for you.”

“If I can get a retainer,” she says.

“If you can get a retainer.”

He ends the call abruptly, as someone who charges eight hundred dollars an hour but isn’t getting paid for this particular communication is wont to do. And Nisha is left sitting on the flammable bedspread breathing heavily into the silence.





nine


Sam arrives home at 3:30 p.m., her headache resolutely refusing to lift. The dog greets her with the slightly pained and bug-eyed demeanor of a creature who desperately needs to empty his bladder. As she clips the lead to Kevin’s collar, without even removing her coat, she hears the television in the living room and feels a flash of irritation. Would it really be so hard for him just to get up and walk the dog for fifteen minutes? Would it? God knows he does nothing else to help around the house these days.

“Has Kevin been out?” she says carefully, although she knows the answer.

“Oh,” Phil says, turning to look at her like the dog’s needs are a surprise. “No.”

She waits for a moment.

“How’s Andrea?” he says.

“On the mend. Please God.”

He sighs heavily, as if Andrea’s woes merely add to his own burden, and gives her a small, unconvincing smile before turning back to the television. Sometimes this smile makes her sad. Today it makes her want to scream.

“I’ll take Kevin, shall I?” she says, when his gaze returns to the television.

“Sure,” he says, as if that were the only sensible option. “You’ve got your coat on.”

She leaves the house with a low hum of rage ringing in her ears. You shouldn’t leave him alone so much, her mother had told her the previous week. I mean, it’s hard for a man not being the main breadwinner. He’s bound to feel sorry for himself.

Men of that age are surprisingly fragile, their GP had said. I do believe women are the much tougher of the species. He had said it like he expected her to take it as a compliment.