Leaning back, I gaze at the entry.
Every name on the list means something to me now. They’re real people. They live, they breathe, they have hopes and dreams, they love their families, and they hurt when I go after them. I remember how emotionlessly I had compiled the list. How proud I used to be of the impressive responsibility I had, to make a decision on whether to challenge a declared tax return, and at what level that challenge should be made. How powerful it used to make me feel.
I was a different person then.
My mobile pings. I pick it up and look at it.
Want to celebrate with me?
I type back:
Obviously.
The answering ping is immediate.
Pick you up at 6. Wear a bikini under your clothes. Or don’t.
Still smiling, I click out of the form and pull up the ICE Feedback Form. I complete it and click ‘Send Form’. There. Case closed.
I sit for a while with my hands in my lap and then I open a fresh Word document and begin to type into it.
We drive out to his country house, which takes us about two hours. We turn off a main road and drive for another couple of minutes on a much narrower country lane before we come upon a rather nondescript steel gate, which he opens with the touch of a button on his key fob.
We then travel through about a mile of woods, which Dom tells me he has turned into a bee, bird and deer sanctuary. And as we drive slowly through, I start to see colorful birds everywhere.
‘Oh my God,’ I cry with delight, when Dom points out two sweet little deer hidden among the trees They do not scamper away, even at the monstrous sound of the V8 engine, but they gaze back at us, their large, moist eyes totally unafraid.
‘Are they tame enough to be petted?’ I ask, turning my head to stare at them.
‘They come up to the house looking for food in the mornings. You can hand feed them then.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really,’ he says and there is an indulgent look in his eyes. He obviously cares very much for his deer.
The sun is setting, but the air is still deliciously warm, and I’m almost struck dumb by the unspoilt beauty of the woods, and the thought that one man owns all this while people like me cannot even afford to buy a matchbox apartment. But I don’t think these thoughts with the resentment I would have felt in the past. Instead, it is with a confused sadness. Is the world really just an unfair place where people have been arbitrarily made poor or rich by the accident of their birth? And does that mean that there is nothing I can do to make it a better place?
As we drive up to the house, I have to gasp. It is so beautiful. With two stately stone pillars and a frontage utterly covered in ivy, it is like an enchanted mansion straight out of a fairy tale.
Dom turns to me. ‘Like it?’
‘Like it? Dom, it’s absolutely fabulous,’ I enthuse. I turn to him. ‘Does it remain empty while you are in London?’
‘No, I have a housekeeper, and her husband doubles as the gardener. They stay the nights in the house when I’m not around, but when I’m here they live in that lodge there.’ He points to a small cottage covered in wisteria and climbing roses. Nothing could be more English than that pretty little country home.
‘Right,’ I say, my eyes going back to the dreamy main house.
Dom parks the car and we cross the gravel and go up the stone steps. He pushes open the beautiful old doors.
‘Don’t you lock your doors?’ I ask, surprised.
‘Only in London.’
Inside are powder blue walls with white trims, gleaming oak floors, palladium windows with beautiful window seats, and a charming mixture of antique furniture and pastel furnishings. It is airy and elegant. There’s a wingback chair next to a bay window and a book on a little round table next to it. I can almost see myself sitting in that chair reading and leaving the book there on the table.
I turn away from the sight. Disturbed. Why, I care not to think about.
He takes me through to a dining room with gold damask wallpaper and black and white curtains. It leads on to a large, shabby-chic style French kitchen with sandstone tiles. There’s a cute breakfast table in a sunny corner.
‘Want a drink?’ he asks.
‘I’ll have some tea.’
He fills a kettle and sticks it on.
I sit on one of the chairs by the counter. ‘Dom, I need to ask you a question. It’s rather important to me, so please answer it as honestly as you can.’
He leans his hip against the island and glances at me warily. ‘OK.’
‘You think you shouldn’t pay tax because the very richest are not paying theirs. But what would happen if everybody did that?’
He looks at me seriously. ‘I wish everybody wouldn’t pay. That would make this entire corrupt merry-go-round grind to a sudden halt. They can’t imprison everybody and we’d then have to come up with something different. Not this corrupt system that has slowly concentrated half the world’s wealth into the hands of one percent of the population and allowed eighty-five fucking people to amass as much as three and a half billion people combined!’
He pauses to let his words sink into my psyche.
Is he serious? My mind boggles. ‘Eighty-five individuals own half the world’s wealth! How is that even possible?’
‘Not only is it possible, but the study concluded that soon the wealthiest one percent will own more than the rest of the world’s population put together!’
I nibble the pad of my right thumb and reflect on his claim. It doesn’t sound right. Too unbelievable. ‘Where are you getting your figures from?’
He crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. ‘It’s public information, Ella. You can find it on the websites of the BBC, or Forbes, or the New York Times, or anywhere really.’
I scowl. How can this information be public knowledge and there still be programs on TV like Benefit Street where the poorest, neediest people are put to shame because they receive pitifully meager handouts from the government?
At that moment it occurs to me that not only have I watched these programs myself, but that I, too, have been hoodwinked into despising those poor people while the real culprits remained invisible to my rage and condemnation. What a clever sleight of hand by the one percent indeed!
The kettle boils and he pushes himself away from the counter, drops a tea bag into a mug and fills it with hot water. He looks at me. ‘Milk? Sugar? Lemon?’
‘Black, two sugars,’ I say automatically.
He drops the cubes into the drink and brings the mug to me.
I smile up at him. ‘You made me tea.’
He frowns and seems surprised. ‘Actually, it’s my first time, too. I don’t believe I’ve ever made tea for anyone before.’
I put the mug down and reach into the purse slung across my body. ‘I want to show you something,’ I say. Unzipping it, I take out a folded piece of paper and give it to him. He takes it from me and unfolds it. I watch his eyes scan down my letter.
Then he looks up and smiles at me. It is a rich smile. ‘You know, when we’re at school, we’re really only taught one thing that the system considers important. Every school in the world has different curricula and different subjects, but all schools have this one agenda in common.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask curiously.
‘Schools tame children and teach them obedience.’
‘Obedience?’ I say slowly, tasting the word.
‘Obedience to the bell, the teacher, the rules, the grading system, the uniform, the time-keeping. It’s how the few control the many.’ He re-folds my letter. ‘This letter of resignation is your first act of disobedience. And for that I congratulate you.’