E4 -The Policy: White Gloves Only

A yacht, a divorce and the world’s most expensive misunderstanding

Mr. Lennox’s call didn’t so much end as it ran out of stamina. He’d made his expectations clear: Lancaster & Lowe was now in the business of miracle logistics, effective immediately.

I hung up, massaged my forehead for a moment longer than nearly necessary before I turned in my chair.

Right, I said. Anyone here moonlight as a yacht transporter?

Jones looked up.

I’m more of a kayak man myself.

Xavier wheeled himself over in his chair, coffee in one hand, mobile in the other. 'Good news, baby girl,' he said, scrolling. 'I found a company who’ll transport Mr. Lennox’s yacht to Miami.'

Oh? An eyebrow arched at him.

For the low, low price of £280,000. Plus tax.

Jones whistled. 'You know that's basically like the GDP of a small island?'

Or a medium-sized wedding in Surrey, Xavier deadpanned.

He should know. He's been to a few of his clients'. I, I drum my fingers across the desk and onto my keyboard dragging my attention back to the screens. Xavier follows my lead. We enlist the services of Google but it’s not the yacht transport rates that keep us googling. It's the repetitive hum in the gossip and financial columns that has us clicking, scrolling, clicking again.

Here was I thinking Mr Lennox wanted his yacht moved for the Miami Grand Prix. That if we helped him, we might even get an invite.

Jones looked up from his desk. I glance over at both him and Xav. My face doing the reply.

Oh, don't tell me you wouldn't have accepted. Miami, F1 and a yacht.

I inhale at Xavier's level of whimsy. Letting the moment stretch out for an additional meagre second before reality dropped us back where we belonged.

Is that not why he wants us to move it? Jones questioned.

Sadly, Mr. Lennox appears to be undergoing what Google pages call... a liquidity event.

He frowned on those two words.

The kind that starts with a mistress, a jet to Monaco and ends with a solicitor on speed dial. Divorce.

I translated from my desk, without looking over.

____________________________________________________

"Discretion is the first-class cabin of infidelity.

And our Mr. Lennox forgot his seat assignment."

The Policy: White Gloves Only

___________________________________________________

Xavier nodded. 'And now, he's having to do some business restructuring. Quiet liquidation of assets. Word is, there’s a rush to shift anything that floats, flies, or sits idle in a hangar.'

Jones stared at us. 'You got all that from a Google search?'

I shoot Jones a wink.

When you work here long enough, you know where to look. You see, the the yacht is no longer just a yacht. It’s leverage.

So is he thinking if he gets it to Miami, he can hide it from his soon-to-be ex-wife?

You've got it in one my friend. Turning back to my computer, started typing.

Want to know what else Lora and colleagues are dealing with at Lancaster & Lowe. Indulge in chapters 2 and 3 here.

E2: Do Better

E3: Personal Concierge

Memo to file:

Mr. Lennox is not requesting yacht transportation insurance. Mr. Lennox is requesting asset protection and concealment.

Another sigh escaped me. Only, louder this time.

You see, Mr. Lennox doesn’t want insurance while his yacht crosses the Atlantic. He wants Lancaster & Lowe to move the thing. Personally. Quietly. Efficiently. Preferably yesterday.

Which, as we all know—but he appears not to—isn’t how this works.

Insurance covers risk. It doesn’t move assets.

We don’t do hull transfers. We do policies. Paperwork. Pay outs if things go catastrophically wrong not maritime logistics.

'So...' Xavier said, leaning on the edge of my desk. 'We are not doubling as his yacht relocation service?'

I smiled though grim. 'Sadly, no. We aren't playing any part in this. But we’re saying it with velvet gloves, a virtual fruit basket and a handwritten note.' Keyboard spitting words across my screen.

'Always white gloves, hun,' is Xavier's favourite line.

I pick up the receiver, after drafting the diplomatic suicide note I’d need to send him. It goes to voice mail. Xavier, still perched on my desk, taps a rhythm against his coffee cup. I pick up the receiver once more, dial again but the outcome remains the same.

You'd think if you just asked someone to move your 200ft yacht across continents and oceans, the least you could do is answer the phone.

I don't look up from the email I have finished drafting. 'Peak rich people nonsense.'

The send button blinks. I press it anyway.