Page 47 of Vivacity
Very fucking messy.
Sophia doesn’t seem particularly happy with my current behaviour, but the feeling is mutual. When all around me a shit show of epic proportions is waging, I’d like to think the EA I’m throwing six figures a month at could rise to the occasion and provide a bit of fucking stability, but no. I admit I made a tit of myself yesterday over her PT session, but I’m extra sensitive right now. I’d like everything to be just so, in my office at least. I’d like to know someone in my life has the ability and the desire to meet my needs, but Sophia is far too busy psychoanalysing me to offer any actual comfort. She’s just another moving part in this chaotic mess, and it’s very fucking disappointing.
We’re absorbed in breaking down the follow-ups from my meeting with Legal & General on Thursday when, to my discomfort, in walks Elena, my ex-wife.
Excellent.
I’d forgotten she was coming. I’d forgotten Jamie was here, truth be told. He stayed over last night because she had an urgent meeting in Brussels, and I haven’t actually seen him yettoday. I also didn’t hear the doorbell ring. One of the staff must have let her in. She looks tired but perfectly groomed, as always, and, as always, distinctly displeased to be back in the house where I apparently made her so unhappy.
I close the laptop with a sigh and stand to greet her.
SOPHIA
Ooooh.
So this is Ethan’s ex-wife?
Fascinating.
I sit up straight and pull my sweater cuffs down over my hands as Ethan rises to greet her, because this kitchen is like the Arctic Circle.
‘Hi,’ he says, his voice quiet but not what I would call intimate. Weary, more like. Resigned, maybe. He kisses her on both cheeks and breaks away to gesture at me.
‘This is my new EA, Sophia. Sophia—Elena, Jamie’s mother.’
Is that an odd way of putting it? I dunno. I’d expect him to call hermy ex-wife, but maybe that’s unnecessarily brutal. It’s not exactly my area of expertise.
‘Hi!’ I say as brightly as I can, hopping off my bar stool. Ethan may be the last person on earth with whom I’d want to attempt a relationship, but at the end of the day, we’re fucking, and I’m only human. I want to check this woman out and, at the very least, try my psychoanalysis party trick on the person who actually did attempt a relationship with him. I kind of wish I could give the poor woman a badge that saysAT LEAST I TRIED.
I shake her hand. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you. Jamie’s a very sweet boy.’ Although I had no idea he was here.
‘Hi, Sophia,’ she says, giving me a smile that looks frankly exhausted but is also undeniably genuine. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, too.’
‘How was Brussels?’ Ethan asks her. To me, he adds, ‘Elena is a translator for the UN.’ There’s no pride in his voice. He’s merely stating a fact. He’s not getting off on having an accomplished wife.
‘Oh, how interesting,’ I say, although I already knew this. Ethan’s father, Richard, told me as much when he was asking his son about Elena the other day in front of me. Clearly Ethan doesn’t remember. Richard definitelywasgetting off on Elena’s accomplishments. I bet he thought it helped his family’s optics. Even if she’s run for the hills.
‘It was fine, thanks.’ She rubs her forehead tiredly. ‘It went on ridiculously late, but I got the first train back this morning.’
My hot takes are as follows:
One, Ethan hasn’t done what the offspring of so many parents with DPD—dickwad personality disorders—do and repeat the pattern by seeking the mirror image of what they believe love looks like by shacking up with another dickwad. Elena looks to be genuinely undickwaddish. And she’s a translator for the UN, so she’s presumably altruistic in nature.
She’s possibly a Two or a Three Enneagram—The Helper or The Achiever—or a combination of the two. Hmm. Her obvious exhaustion suggests she spreads herself too thin, puts others’ needs first, and has issues upholding boundaries. I bet she could have used a lie-in and a later train this morning.
Two, I’m not getting any vibes of affection or pining or regret from Ethan. He’s respectful rather than tender towards her. A bit awkward, too. Whatever shit went down between these two—and I’d give a lot of money for the full scoop—he’s not in love with her anymore, nor she with him.
And three, Elena is beautiful. Like, really stunning in a genetically blessed, can’t-be-faked way. Not that I’d expect less from Ethan—whatever he lacks in the personality department, he’s objectively gorgeous and loaded. He was always going to marry and procreate with a beautiful woman. Elena is tiny and slim, almost bird-like, from what I can see through her gorgeous Max Mara camel coat, which hangs open. She’s wearing small but impeccable pearls and tan Tod’s loafers and some tailored trousers with a merino-knit polo neck. Everything is classy and understated, unlike yours truly. Her bone structure is stunning, her eyes the same clear brown colour as her son’s, and her shiny nut-brown hair is pulled into a neat chignon.
The woman is fucking gorgeous, even after an early commute from continental Europe.
‘How’s Jamie?’ she continues, looking up at Ethan quizzically. He really does tower over her.
‘Fine. I haven’t seen much of him.’
‘How did his maths assessment go?’
Ethan frowns. ‘You’ll have to ask him.’ Code forI have no fucking clue.I wonder if they spent any time together last night.
