The Prisoner(38)

His mouth dropped open. “A million! You’re joking, aren’t you?”

I forced a laugh. “Yes, actually, I am. Even if we separate, I don’t want any of your money.”

Another frown. “You need to accept something.”

I’d been expecting him to say that. If it came down to it, he needed to be able to prove that I’d agreed to marry him for money, that he hadn’t coerced me into it.

“Why?” I asked innocently.

“Because we need to have a written agreement. In Las Vegas, we agreed that I would draw up a document for you to sign when we got back, mentioning a settlement in case of separation.”

I looked him square in the eye. “I don’t remember it being fifty thousand, though.”

“That is what we agreed,” he said, daring me to contradict him.

I allowed him to hold my gaze for a moment longer, then dropped my eyes in defeat.

“Alright, then. If I must accept something, I only want a pound.”

He stared at me. “A pound?”

“Yes. A pound doubled for every day that we are married, before we separate.”

“Doubled? I don’t follow.”

“It’s simple,” I explained. “A pound on day one. On day two, my pound is doubled to two pounds, on day three, my two pounds becomes four pounds, on day four, eight pounds, day five, sixteen pounds, day six—today—thirty-two pounds—”

“I can count,” Ned said. He looked at me in amusement. “Is that really what you want?”

“Yes.”

Beside me, Paul Carr frowned. “But if you remain married for some time, it could add up to quite a—”

“A month,” I said quickly. “I would only want it for the first month of our marriage.”

Ned gave a small nod of understanding. A month was the length of time we’d agreed to stay married before separating. Paul Carr, however, raised an eyebrow.

“A month? We stop the clock, so to speak, at thirty days. Is that what you mean?”

I thought of my father, my inspiration for this. I didn’t know what the doubling thing would come to but I remembered how he’d laughed and told me I was clever when I’d asked for an extra day. Maybe that was the key.

“Thirty-one days,” I said. I looked pointedly at Ned. “After all, some months have thirty-one days.”

He gave me another nod of understanding. August had thirty-one days, and we had married on the first.

“Done,” Ned said. “If that’s really what you want.”

“It is.”

Paul Carr shifted on his chair. “I think it might be prudent if I make a few calculations—”

“I haven’t got time,” Ned said impatiently. “Just draw it up.”

“I really—”

“Now,” Ned barked.

Five minutes later, two copies of the amended document whirred out of the printer by Ned’s desk. He ran his eye over one of the copies, then signed both and passed them to me. I read carefully, checking the wording.

“In the event of a separation between Ned Jethro Hawthorpe and Amelie Maude Lamont, Amelie Maude Lamont will receive the total amount after the following calculation has been made: a pound for day one of their marriage, doubled to two pounds on day two, the resulting totals to be doubled thereafter for each consecutive day of their marriage, for a duration of thirty-one days.”



I read it through again. How did they know my middle name was Maude? Then I saw my passport, which I’d last used at the airport, lying on the desk in front of the attorney. I signed the two copies, Paul Carr verified our signatures, added his own signature, and handed one of the copies to Ned.

I reached across the table and took my passport, my eyes fixed on Ned. But maybe because his attorney was there, he didn’t stop me.

“You can go now,” Ned said.

I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked out of the study.





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE


PRESENT

I pace the room, counting, doubling. I need to know how much Jethro Hawthorpe will have to pay the kidnappers if he pays the ransom tomorrow, day twenty-four of our kidnap.

The first days are easy: one—two—four—eight—sixteen—thirty-two—sixty-four—one hundred and twenty-eight—two hundred and fifty-six—five hundred and twelve—one thousand and twenty-four—two thousand and forty-eight—four thousand and ninety-six—eight thousand, one hundred and ninety-two—sixteen thousand, three hundred and eighty-four—thirty-two thousand, seven hundred and sixty-eight.

I’ve been counting the days off on my fingers, and already at day sixteen, over halfway through the month, I’m not sure I’ll get to a million pounds by day thirty-one. But I owe it to my father to work it out.

I carry on. Sixty-five thousand, five hundred and thirty-six on day seventeen; one hundred and thirty-one thousand and seventy-two on day eighteen; two hundred and sixty-two thousand—without warning, the rest of the total slips from my grasp. Without a pen and paper, it’s going to be difficult to hang on to the figures.

I might not have a pen, but I have a nail. In the bathroom, I start doubling again from the beginning. When I get to day eighteen, I hang on to the number—one hundred and thirty-one thousand and seventy-two—while I scratch 19 on the back of the door. Then, in my mind, I double the number I’ve been holding on to and scratch the number 262,144 next to the 19.