A Loving Light
Copyright© 2026 by Marc Nobbs
Chapter 11: Atlanta Bound
The week that followed felt reassuringly ‘normal.’ Well, as normal as my life seemed to get ever since I embarked on this wild journey of ‘millionaire businessman and philanthropist with a mission.’
Even thinking about it seems crazy. But that’s what I was, and I couldn’t escape it.
But for a few days at least, I enjoyed a sense of normalcy that was reassuring and familiar. I attended lectures and seminars. I had my weekly tutorial. I ate lunch with my closest friends and spent my evenings studying, followed by a quick pint with them at the Cap and Gown in the Student Village.
It was all very ... Normal.
That’s three times I’ve said that.
It’s almost like I was trying to convince myself.
What wasn’t normal was Marie waiting for me at my house after I returned from badminton club on Wednesday evening and presenting me with a very detailed itinerary for my—sorry, our—trip to Atlanta. Every meeting was scheduled, every second accounted for. I knew who would attend each meeting, its purpose, and the objective. She’d even supplied me with copies of the menus for the flight and the various restaurants where we would be dining. None of which were cheap.
“This is ... It’s incredible. No, I mean it, this is brilliant, Marie. You did all this? Arranged all this?”
She blushed. “Well, I had some help.”
“Help?”
“I spoke to Madeleine’s assistant, Angela, on the phone on Monday, and she invited me to her office yesterday. A paralegal from Ben’s firm was there as well, and we split the jobs between us. Angela managed everything in the States—the hotels, the dinner reservations, that sort of thing. I organised the travel to and from the airport and booked the flights, while Gemma, the paralegal, prepared all the paperwork you’ll need. Well, the paperwork we’ll need. She’ll meet us at the airport tomorrow with Ben and hand over a final dossier.”
I nodded. “Excellent.”
“Angela is brilliant. She does this kind of thing all the time—organising these sorts of trips, I mean. Sometimes, for clients travelling abroad, all over the world. And sometimes for clients coming here from abroad. I swear, Paul, she’s got a contact book the size of one of those old-fashioned dictionaries. She knows people who can organise anything, anywhere. And if she doesn’t know the right person, she knows someone who does. I learned so much just working with her for the day.”
I grinned. “Good. I’m glad you got something out of all this running around after me.”
“I get a trip to Atlanta out of it, don’t I?”
“True. But you’ll be working.”
She smirked. “No, you’ll be working. I won’t, well, can’t be at your first two meetings on Friday, and neither can Lana, so I’ve scheduled some shopping time for us.”
“Is there any shopping time for me?”
“Saturday afternoon, before we check out of the hotel for the return flight. That’s the only free time you’ve got all weekend. Sorry.”
“No, no, it’s fine. It’s a flying visit and a working trip. It’s fine.” I nodded. “It’s fine,” I added quietly.
“Don’t worry, Paul. You’re not alone in this. I’ll be there for anything you need, anytime at all. Apart from when I’m shopping.” She grinned. “Lana’s going to be there for moral support, and Ben and Maddie will look after you professionally. It’s going to be more than fine.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She smiled. “Lana and I will meet you here tomorrow between half two and three. The car will be here at ten to three, and we’ll leave no later than three. That gives us two hours to get to Heathrow.”
“Two hours? It won’t take that long, surely? It’s only just over an hour away.”
“I know, but we need to allow some leeway for traffic. We must be at the airport three hours before the flight—”
“Why?”
“Because that’s the rule, and we can’t get around it just because we’re flying business class. But we will have access to the business lounge for those three hours, so it’s not all bad.” She grinned.
“Cocktails all around,” I said.
She shrugged. “Mocktails for me. But anyway, bring something to read. It’s a long flight—nine and a half hours. You’ll want to get some sleep, too. We won’t be settled into the hotel until two in the morning, local time. So, you’re only going to get a few hours of sleep there. Your first meeting is with the bank at ten on Friday morning, but it’s just a short walk from the hotel, so you don’t need to be ready to leave until half-nine.”
“You really have got all this planned out, haven’t you? Everything.”
She nodded. “That’s what you pay me for, Paul.”
The car was due to pick us up from my house at three. Well, I say ‘car,’ it was actually a luxury ‘executive van.’ Or so it said on Marie’s itinerary. She’d arranged new luggage for all three of us—the correct size for carry-on—and even prepared a detailed list of what I should pack, along with suggestions on what I should wear for the journey.
Ben and Maddie were meeting us at the airport.
That meant Lana and I could both still attend most of our lectures on Thursday. I had one at two o’clock that I would have to miss, but I’d spoken to my personal tutor and explained what was going on, and he cleared my absence.
“On one condition,” he said.
“Anything.”
“Bring me back a bottle of bourbon. The good stuff.”
I laughed and promised to bring him two, one for him and one to share with the rest of the department.
But I felt uneasy about the whole thing as I sat through Lexi’s economics lecture on market failures on Thursday morning. Not just the impending trip—everything related to ‘Business Paul.’ I found it impossible to concentrate. Atlanta was only hours away. And I didn’t feel ready for it at all.
So, I did something I didn’t expect I’d ever do.
I approached her after the lecture.
“Paul,” she said with a bright smile. “What can I do for you? Do you have a question about today’s lecture?”
“Er ... no, actually. I ... er ... could you spare me a few minutes? There’s something ... business-related ... that I’d like to discuss.”
Her smile widened. “Of course. I’d be happy to. In my room?”
“Is there somewhere a little more ... neutral we could go?”
“Of course. How about the coffee shop in the Union building?”
“Perfect.”
“Well, I need to take my things up to my office first, so I’ll meet you there in, say, fifteen minutes?”
I nodded. “I’ll get you a coffee for when you arrive. What would you like?”
“Oh, I’d love a hazelnut cappuccino, please. That would be perfect.”
“Muffins too? You are spoiling me,” Lexi said as she sat down.
“Blueberry. Lemon. Double Chocolate,” I said, pointing to each one in turn. “Take your pick.”
“Well, that looks like a choice,” she said, reaching for the double chocolate. “But it’s really no choice at all.” She put the muffin on the table next to her coffee. “So, what’s troubling you?”
“I never said anything was troubling me.”
“You didn’t need to. Every time we’ve spoken in the past, I’ve come to you.”
I nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“So...”
I took a deep breath. “So...”
She looked at me. Not stared. Looked. And she waited.
But when I didn’t say anything, she said, “You’re feeling overwhelmed. You have a big weekend coming up, and you don’t know whether you’re up to it, or even if you should be doing it anyway. You don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. That about right?”
I arched an eyebrow.
“Madeleine Kerr,” she said. “She’s ... not a friend, exactly. An acquaintance. She approached me after I gave a speech at a conference last year, and we’ve stayed in touch ever since. She’s brilliant, quite frankly. Such a shame she’s working at that awful place. I understand why she is, but at a regular retail bank she’d be pushing for a spot on the board by now—she’s that good.” She shrugged. “She knows about our ... I want to say ‘relationship,’ but that doesn’t seem like the right word. But anyway, she knows what you are trying to do ... Well, she knows where The Mission comes from. And she’s on board.”
“So, she told you what’s going on?”
She shook her head. “No, that would be unprofessional. But she did call to ask me about you. Which tells me she’s working with you. She wouldn’t have asked out of sheer curiosity. And I see from the faculty notices that you have been granted leave for the rest of today and tomorrow. As has Miss Carrington. Which leads me to believe you’re taking a business trip. Something urgent.”
I sighed. “Atlanta. I’m going to Atlanta to open a bank account.”
“Ah...”
For the next ten minutes, I told her everything. I laid out every project I was involved with and why. I told her about the revenue donations from Alabama Sweetheart, and about the tour—its funding, theme, and our plan to ‘do something good’ in every city.
And she listened. She asked a few questions to clarify something, but mostly, she listened.
It felt surprisingly good to get it all out.
And when I’d finished, I looked her in the eye and said, “I guess ... I guess I’m wondering if I’m doing the right thing.”
“And you want me to tell you whether you are or not?”
I shrugged.
She picked up her nearly empty coffee cup and drained the last of the brown liquid inside.
“Here’s the thing, Paul. Your mission statement. It’s brilliant. It really is. Annoyingly so, because you’ve taken all my ideas, a philosophy that’s taken me three or four years to articulate properly, and you’ve summed it up in three simple words.”
I nodded. “Do Something Good.”
“Exactly. I’m kind of pissed off that I didn’t come up with it myself. Its brilliance is its simplicity. You don’t need to talk about altruism, or philanthropy, or this plan, or the other. Just ... Do something good. If every business, every person, lived their lives by that simple rule, the world would be a better place, for sure. And, deep down, you already agree with that. That’s why you made it into your mission.”
She smiled.
“So, you’re not asking me if you’re doing the right thing, you’re asking me if what you’re doing is something good.”
I thought for a second. “I guess I am, yes.”
She smiled. “Do you know how you really tell if you’re doing something good?”
I shook my head.
“By other people’s reaction.”
I frowned. “That makes no sense.”
“Yes, it does. You instinctively know the good people from the bad, don’t you?”
I shrugged.
“Yes, you do,” she said. “We all do, really. Even the ‘bad people’ know, deep down, they are bad people. They just ... have different priorities. That’s what makes them so dangerous.”
“Different priorities? Such as?”
“All sorts, but usually selfish ones—self-advancement, self-enrichment, self-aggrandisement. And they quite often give the impression that they don’t care what people think of them. Until you hold up a mirror to them.”
“You mean until you show them that what they are doing is bad?”
“Conclusively show them. Leave any room for ambiguity, and they will simply dismiss the criticism. That’s something you’re seeing more and more on social media—bad-faith deflection, performative outrage. Refusal to engage with evidence. Do your own research.” She paused. “That last one really annoys me.”
“Because you think people should rely on research done by people like you?” I said.
“Well, frankly, yes,” she said, a touch louder than was necessary. She quickly glanced around the room. When she continued, it was in her usual, calm and measured tone. “Proper academic research is done by experts, tested, challenged, and peer-reviewed. What frustrates me is how often people reject that in favour of badly assembled nonsense that flatters their prejudices. The theories collapse under scrutiny, so they reject the scrutiny instead. It’s infuriating.” She paused. “Sorry. You didn’t ask me here to listen to me rant about idiots on Twitter.”
“Well, that’s why I prefer Instagram,” I said. “You get far fewer people arguing politics over pictures of fields, flowers and puppy dogs.”
Lexi smiled. “Sensible choice. I’ve always preferred Twitter, though it does bring out the worst in people.” She paused. “Including me.”
“The block button is your friend, Lexi,” I said with a smile.
She huffed. “If only. But, anyway ... You just need to look around you, Paul. Look for the people you know, in your heart, are good people—people like Miss Carrington, for example—and see what their reaction to what you’re doing is. In general, if it’s a positive reaction, you’re doing something good.”
“That can’t always be true, surely?”
“There will always be exceptions to every rule.”
“So, what if there are no good people around?”
“Then look to see if the bad people are reacting negatively.”
I huffed. “You make it sound easy.”
“Because it is. It is incredibly easy to tell whether you’re doing something good. Ultimately, ask yourself this: are your plans hurting anyone to enrich yourself? Or are they helping people, even at your own expense. That’s a pretty good rule of thumb. Paul, you already know that all your plans are worthwhile. Trust your instincts. They are good. I can tell.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because you’re questioning them. People with good instincts always question themselves. People with bad instincts don’t; they plough on regardless, full of confidence in their own flawed judgment.”
I looked down at the table. Then nodded and looked up at Lexi. “Thank you. This has been helpful. It really has.”
“You’re welcome.” She nodded towards the door. “Now, go. Do something good. Go make a difference. I’m going to have another cappuccino. And maybe another muffin.”
“There are still two here.”
She smiled sweetly. “But neither of them is chocolate, Paul.”
The doorbell rang at precisely ten minutes to three. Marie got up from the kitchen table to answer the door, leaving the document wallet containing our passports and all the other paperwork we needed on the table.
I marvelled again at how swiftly she’d pulled this trip together. She’d told me she’d ‘had some help,’ but I learned from a phone call with Maddie about the meeting with the Atlanta bankers that Marie was in charge of the team of three organising the trip, not the naïve newcomer riding on the coattails of the older, more experienced Angela. Marie had chosen the hotel based on Angela’s recommendations, and she’d been the one to decide which airline to use. She’d dictated every aspect of the trip, while the other two simply helped her make it happen.
I was lucky to have her.
She was gone for several minutes, and when she returned, she declared, “Bags are all loaded. We’re ready to go when you are.”
She picked up her leather messenger bag from the back of the chair and the document wallet from the table.
I nodded at Marie, then looked at Lana. “Ready?”
She smiled. “As I’ll ever be. I still can’t believe this is happening.”
“Oh, believe it,” Marie said. “Just think, in about twenty-four hours’ time, while Paul is in some stuffy office with boring bankers, you and I will be at Phipps Plaza, browsing all the designer shops. Dior. Gucci. Jimmy Choo. And I’ll have Paul’s credit card in my handbag.” She grinned.
Lana looked at me. “Seriously?”
I shrugged. “I’d give you a limit, but you both might see it as a target, rather than a limit, so just ... don’t go mad.”
She shook her head. “I...”
“I what?”
“Nothing. I ... nothing. Just shocked, that’s all. It’s too generous, Paul, on top of everything else. Business class flights, a five-star hotel, fancy restaurants.” Lana had been given a copy of Marie’s itinerary, too, so she knew as much about the trip as I did. “I just...”
I smiled. “Come on,” I said, nodding towards the door. “The brutal taskmaster over there says we have to leave at three on the dot. We can’t be messing up her timetable.”
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