Page 110 of Vivacity
God knows how shite his punctuation will be after missing three whole months of school, but I have no intention of giving him a hard time. Instead, I send a laughing emoji as I chuckle to myself. Cheeky little fucker.
I’ve employed a high-end tour operator to put together the ultimate adventure package for us, factoring in plenty of opportunities for rest, healing, and relationship building in unforgettable surroundings. No doubt our two-week camping trip to K’gari will be a highlight, but I’m anticipating many other highlights, too.
The tour operator is aware that Jamie is leading the idea generation. He and I had a FaceTime last night that was enthusiastic, bordering on manic. He’s so excited. I want to show him that this is for him, that this is my chance to spend time getting to know every aspect of my son in all his messy, perfect glory. So I’m not calling the shots here.
He is, every step of the way.
Now that I’ve committed to this, I can’t fucking wait. If it wasn’t for the need to stick around for the board meeting to get Miles formally voted in and for the acute nausea I feel at leaving Soph, we’d be hightailing it out of here tomorrow.
I’ve arrived at a double epiphany concerning my father. The first part is that, as Miles pointed out yesterday, the love you chase for so long, for which you bleed yourself dry, doesn’tactually exist. That people like Dad and Miles’ ex-wife will never love you as much as they love themselves. That realisation is brutal and liberating in equal measure.
The second part is just plain liberating.
Because if the love doesn’t exist, then there’s no point in chasing after an illusion. No point at all. Which leaves me free to move forward with my life and focus on real, lasting love, like the love I feel for Jamie and Soph.
I arrive at my childhood home, always a bittersweet experience, and am shown through to the formal drawing room by our long-standing—and long-suffering—butler, Andrew. My dad is big on pomp and ceremony. He believes that every advantage should be maximised, that the facade he shows the world is all that matters.
He never seems to understand that everybody sees right through it, but then self-awareness has never struck Richard as a sound use of his time.
My parents redecorate the house from top to toe once a decade. It’s ‘the done thing’, after all. These days, the drawing room is trendy neutrals and linen-covered walls. Long gone is the rose-coloured damask upholstery of my childhood.
‘I’ve got some news,’ I announce once Andrew has set down the tea tray between us. I remain standing on the pretext of warming my arse by the fire, but really, I feel more at an advantage like this. Best just to come out with it. ‘Jamie’s been having some problems with his mental health, which are mainly my fault, so I’ve taken the decision to pull him out of school for a term. He and I are off to Australia for three months.’
I’m aware that this hat trick of bombshells is the most inflammatory Molotov cocktail I could have thrown at my folks. Mental health is not a thing as far as they’re concerned (go figure). Neither is foregoing one’s elite education for any reason. And, while I haven’t spat out my decision to leave Kingsleyjust yet, it’s clear that I’m planning to abandon work for a considerable period.
Let the fun begin.
‘What’s wrong with Jamie?’ Mum asks, right as Dad bellows, ‘You can’t take the boy out of school! He’s weak, just like his mother. You’re enabling him, making him soft. He'll never amount to anything if you coddle him like this. Mark my words—you'll ruin him completely.’
‘He’s fine, Mum. I’d rather not get into it.’ I mean, what’s the point?I’ve fucked him up because you fucked me up?That’s a non-starter. ‘And yes, I can take him out of school, as a matter of fact.’ This to my father. ‘And I’d “ruin” him if I ignored his needs. Seeing someone and advocating for them has never ruined anyone.’
He ignores that, obviously. ‘He should be focusing on his GCSEs! He’s barely started the syllabus. Why did I go to all the trouble of getting him moved up to the top set for Science if you’re going to go and mess up his studies by gallivanting around for a whole term? Besides, you can’t possibly get away from work right now. The transaction should be your number one priority. It’s unthinkable, that’s what it is.’
Here goes. My palms prick with sweat as I force myself to say the words. ‘I’m leaving the company. I’m walking away. It’s not good for me and it’s not good for Jamie. I’m reassessing my priorities. Make no mistake—Jamieis my number one priority.’
I brace myself for their reaction. Mum gasps theatrically, but Dad just rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Ethan. What utter nonsense.’
My internet rabbit-holing around narcissism informed me that narcissists often refuse outright to accept information that threatens their worldview. If Richard Kingsley’s worldview is that he and his empire are untouchable, then this tracks.
But it means I need to say the damn words twice.
Before me stands my ageing father, but all I can see is the bully from my childhood. Logic tells me I’m a grown man, but my body is responding with childlike terror.
I clear my throat. ‘Listen to me, Dad. I’m done with Kingsley Hotels. I’m out—for good.’
Dad’s face twists from dismissively condescending to downright thunderous. He gets to his feet with an agility I didn’t know he still had, fixated solely on me. ‘That is unacceptable! Have you lost your mind, boy? What a disgrace you are to the family name!’
Instantly, I’m nine years old again and sitting in the dining room at the golf club with my painstakingly written list of stock market losses. Richard Kingsley is a bully. He was then, and he is now. Now, I know that his reactions have nothing to do with me, or anyone else. They have only to do with him, and his demons, and his narcissism. But the little boy I feel myself to be doesn’t know that.
I suck in a panicked breath as Dad stalks towards me, and grasp onto one of Philip’s excellent pieces of advice from our last call.
Tell that little boy that he never has to go up against his father again,he said.He never has to be scared of him, because you’ll be there. He hasyouin his corner. You’re a grown man. He can hide behind you. He doesn’t even need to see him. You’ve got this, and you’ve got him.
I force myself to imagine my younger self hiding behind me. Gripping the back of my trousers in dread. Blocking out the view of his furious father. Feeling the reassuring height, the solidity, of my adult self. I sense him squeezing his eyes shut, and I mentally applaud his bravery as I face up to my dad.
This time, I don’t cry.
I don’t cower.
