Jonathan had a knack for spotting, amidst social engagements, precisely the moment when a romantic encounter seemed sensible.
Jennifer recognised that moment by the look in his eyes.
He stood beside her in the foyer, a glass in his hand which he drained in one go, a flawless smile on his face, his shoulders relaxed enough to make every benefactor, councillor and sports official feel he had the full attention of a very successful man. Only Jennifer could see that, with half an ear, he was already no longer part of the conversation.
The philanthropist was up front talking to Dr Amara El-Amin about foundation guarantees. Eleanor Price was directing waiters, cadets and photographers like a hydra. The five team captains were invited onto the ice rink. From somewhere came trumpets, the clinking of glasses and the faint rumble of a loudspeaker that had probably seen its best days during the 1947 renovation.
Jonathan leaned towards Jennifer.
“How long do you think it’ll be before they start missing us again?”
Jennifer didn’t look at him. “As donors? Three minutes.”
“As people?”
“That depends on how many more pieces the cadet orchestra can play.”
“Then we’ve got ten minutes at least.”
Now she looked at him.
“Jonathan Hart.”
“Jennifer Hart.”
“You want to escape from an international charity gala?”
“Just for a moment.”
“While a Soviet youth team, Austrian cadets, a United Nations representative, a billionaire philanthropist and what feels like three hundred other people are running around?”
“Precisely because of that.”
His smile was no longer for public consumption. It was warm, boyish and dangerously focused on her. Jennifer felt a laugh stirring inside her despite everything. It was unreasonable. It was inappropriate, but given the shabbily decorated hall, it was also a welcome distraction.
So very Hart.
“You’re awful. Just nowhere where my dress might get dirty,” she said.
“I’ve been working on finding places like that ever since our wedding.”
She took his glass, placed it on the nearest bar table alongside her own, and rested a hand on his sleeve.
“Ten minutes,” she said mischievously.
They didn’t walk hurriedly. Haste was for people who might get caught. Jennifer and Jonathan moved through the crowd with that casual elegance that made everyone believe they were on their way to something official. A nod here, a smile there, a friendly sidestep past a city councillor who’d just found his name badge again and apparently felt the need to make small talk.
At the side door behind the podium, Jonathan pulled Jennifer towards him.
“Here?” she asked.
“This is where the escape route begins.”
She kissed him before he could become any prouder of himself.
The kiss began with laughter and immediately grew more serious than either had expected. The gala fell away behind them like a poorly fitting coat. Music still seeped through the half-closed door, but muffled, distant, almost indecently solemn compared to Jonathan’s hand on Jennifer’s waist and her mouth on his.
They almost stumbled into the corridor.
The rear corridor greeted them with the smell of old cables. Jennifer pulled away from Jonathan for a breath and looked around.
“Romantic?” she asked.
“I’ve seen worse hotel rooms.”
“Never with me?”
“Fortunately, never for long.”
He kissed her again. More passionately this time. Jennifer laughed softly against his mouth, pushed him backwards past a metal door and reached for his tie.
“Jonathan, if anyone finds us in here—”
“Let’s say we’re checking the fire escape routes.”
“With your tie loosened?”
“Fire safety is exhausting.”
She opened the next door with her elbow, without breaking the kiss entirely. The room behind it was small, warm and lit by a yellowish glow. A utility room, half office, half storage cupboard. Against one wall stood snow shovels, old traffic cones, a battered toolbox and a shelf with file folders. A narrow table, two chairs, a coffee machine with a brown ring on the heating base, a packet containing a single leftover fried wonton.
“Perfect,” said Jonathan.
Jennifer placed both hands on his lapels and pulled him towards her. He kissed her against the wall next to the shelf, and for a moment nothing else mattered at all, not even the question of why a storeroom should have been locked and wasn’t.
Then Jennifer bumped her hip against the small filing shelf.
It tipped over.
Jonathan reached for it, Jennifer reached for Jonathan, and together they still couldn’t stop it from falling. The shelf banged against the table, three files slid out, a stack of folders slid onto the floor, and a box of paperclips scattered with the triumphant sound of very small disasters.
They both froze.
There was no shout from the corridor, just a distant crackle from a loudspeaker and polite applause.
Jennifer looked at the scattered files.
Jonathan looked at Jennifer.
“We could pretend we didn’t see anything,” he said.
“You could.”
“I said ‘we’ because I’m optimistic.”
Jennifer was already bending down, gathering up the paperclips, whilst Jonathan straightened the shelf and put two of the files back on it.
“Darling.”
“Just a quick look.”
She picked up the last folder. The cover was plain, grey, with a white label: Scholarship Fund – Collateral / Preliminary Review. Beneath it, a small stamp: not for display.
Jennifer opened the folder. Her expression changed immediately. 
Jonathan stepped up beside her. “What is it?”
She handed him the first page.
He read it.
Then he turned the pages.
“That can’t be right,” he said.
“Oh, come on!” said Jennifer. “That’s exactly what people say when it is right.”
The paper contained no grand foundation sums, no secure investments, no scholarship packages with generous interest rates. It contained notes, bridging finance, overdue repayments, private guarantees and a list of assets that were encumbered multiple times. The International Scholarship Fund existed in all its glory on the posters. In the documents, it looked like a stage set from behind: wooden slats, nails, painted canvas.
Jonathan took the second folder from the shelf. Franklin Private – Consolidation / Confidential.
He opened it, read two pages and exhaled slowly.
“Dr Franklin is in debt.”
“But he’s so generous, isn’t he?”
“No,” said Jonathan. “Not debts like a man who owns too many houses, too many horses or too much pride. Debts like a man who can’t breathe anymore.”
Jennifer found a construction cost table. “Here.”
Jonathan took it.
The hall. Demolition. Disposal. Preparation for new build. Beneath that, a second column in red ink: Special disposal as per findings.
Jennifer read on silently, then said, “Asbestos.”
Jonathan looked at the figure at the bottom of the page.
“That doubles the demolition costs.”
“At least.”
“And the findings haven’t even been published yet.”
Jennifer clutched the folder tighter. “So tonight he’s raising money for scholarships, whilst the money is probably going down a hole beneath this hall.”
“Or into several holes.”
“Jonathan.”
He looked up.
She looked at him, and the cocky gleam from a moment ago had completely vanished. “We have to publish this.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Jennifer, there are young people from five countries up front. A United Nations representative is overseeing the fund. The press is here. If we throw this into the hall now, we won’t just blow Franklin. We’ll blow the game, the foundation, possibly the only chance anyone has of properly vetting the truth.”
“Properly?” She held up a folder. “This isn’t proper. It’s a donation grave with nibbles.”
“They’re preliminary checks.”
“They’re figures.”
“Old figures, perhaps.”
“Oh, please.” Jennifer laughed briefly, but without joy. “The man is afraid of invoices in the foyer, Jonathan. Now we know why.”
Jonathan placed the first folder on the table and arranged the pages with the habit of a man who didn’t run companies through outrage, but through evidence, hope and the occasional very expensive lawyer.
“We’ll confront him after the celebration.”
“After the celebration?”
“After the match has started. After the trophy presentation, before funds are actually reallocated. I want Amara El-Amin there. And if possible, someone who can tell us whether these documents are up to date.”
“Do you think there might be new donation figures somewhere?”
“I believe I shouldn’t disrupt a gala with a half-read folder in a equipment room. You’re forgetting that we’re doubling today’s donations.”
Jennifer looked at him. “Even that isn’t enough to cover the debts. You can be very annoying at times.”
“One of us has to be.”
“I thought we had Max for that.”
“Max isn’t here.”
“A serious organisational blunder.”
Jonathan stepped closer and gently took the folder from her hand, not to snatch it away, but rather to loosen her grip before she crumpled the paper.
“I promise you,” he said quietly, “Franklin won’t leave this hall without speaking to us.”
Jennifer met his gaze with the folder. “And if he lies?”
“Then you can put on your friendliest smile.”
“That’s not a fair fight.”
“No. Not for him, but with that, you’ll checkmate any man.”
For a brief moment, the warmth between them returned. Not quite the exuberance of a moment ago, not the quick spark that had brought them into this room. More like something familiar: the quiet certainty that they understood each other even when they didn’t agree.
Jennifer looked at the straightened-up shelf, the files put back in their places, the collected paperclips.
“The mood is ruined,” she said.
Jonathan looked at the half-open door. “For a romantic tryst?”
“For a quick shag in a equipment room, whilst a philanthropist might have invented an international scholarship fund? Yes, Jonathan. I’ve become a bit of a snob.”
She paused at the door.
Music drifted in from the front again. Then a name over the loudspeakers. The audience applauded. The gala carried on, festive, oblivious, well-lit.
Jennifer smoothed her dress.
Jonathan adjusted his tie.
They looked at each other.
“How do I look?” he asked.
“Like a man who’s just been checking the fire safety.”
“And you?”
“Like the danger he overlooked in the process.”
Jonathan offered her his arm.
“Then we should go back before anyone mistakes our absence for less honourable things.”
Jennifer took his arm. “Too late.”
They stepped out into the grey corridor. Behind them, the equipment room remained warm and silent, the filing cabinet upright again, the door not quite closed.
Ahead of them lay light, music, ice, air, straw and a man who apparently promised money that might not even exist.