Page 72 of Vivacity
Oh, fuck.
‘Yeah.’
Silence. He’s waiting for more.
‘I’m… a teenager, I think? I’m still at school. Sixth form, maybe. I’m so sick of my dad being a twat. He won’t fund a gap year unless I promise to take over the family business.’ Fuck, we went up against each other at that age. He still had the power to freeze me out, to withhold love and money and attention, and fuck knows what else, but I was so bloody sick and tired of being his fucked-up emotional toy that I started fighting back.
Anything was better than being helpless.
‘And that made you angry.’
‘Yeah.Yes.He was so fucking egotistical, and he still had all his old tricks, but I was as tall as him by then so I just felt… more equal, I suppose. Less scared, anyway. But I was so angry all the time that he behaved like such a giant bell end.’
Bell end.I haven’t used that term for years. It’s a good one.
‘It sounds like this part has a lot to be angry about, and, of course, he’s determined to halt the pattern of abuse his younger self suffered. Do you think he’s willing to take a seat for a moment, and then he can share anything he wants to get off his chest?’
I nod, eyes still closed, and focus on imagining my adolescent self sauntering around the table and flopping down in a chair. I had swagger by then. The sheer amount of female attention my looks and fortune and sporting prowess afforded me saw to that. I had an identity beyond Richard Kingsley. And, while he fucking loved it when I came home with medals and achievements, he didn’t like that I was becoming my own man.
Not one bit.
And when he didn’t like something, he sure as fuck tightened the screws.
‘Okay,’ Philip says when I’ve been silent for a few moments. ‘In your own time, see if you can go inward and notice if anyone has something they want to say. Does your angry teenager want to keep sharing?’
Angry teenaged me is currently slumped in his chair, kicking the table leg. I frown in concentration. ‘Um, he’s saying he was pissed off with Soph for pulling the rug out from under me, but that’s about it. I’m not getting much else from him.’
‘Mmm-hmm. That’s fine. We can try showing him whoyouare, if you like, unless there’s someone else you need to hear from first?’
My brows knit together again. When I cast my mind’s eye over the motley crew sitting across from me, most of the energy is coming from two of them—the little boy with the reddened eyes and the ice king.
‘The little one,’ I say, almost on instinct. He has to be my priority. After several days of holding him close, I feel responsible for him.
‘Good. See if he’s prepared to share anything, and perhaps remind him first that he knows you. That you’re him all grown up, and he survived, and he’s thriving. That he’s safe now.’
Thrivingis hardly the word I’d use to describe my current status in life, but I take his point. After a few moments of tryingto telepathically communicate with him, I ask him what he’d like to tell me. I’m surprised by the clarity with which his voice hits me. I have no idea what I sounded like when I was a kid, but he sounds like he might be an even younger version of the nine-or-ten-year-old I met last time. He’s eight, maybe? Seven?
‘He says grown-ups always make promises and never keep them, and they always go away.’
‘That’s right, that’s right.’ He says it soothingly, as if he’s reassuring the younger version of me. ‘Any idea what he’s referring to? Can he tell you more?’
With a jolt of realisation that sickens me, I plant my elbows on the armrests so I can drop my face into my hands. Yes, I have an idea.
Grown-ups always go away.
So. Many. Times.
I clear my throat, battling for my composure. ‘He’s looking at me. He’s absolutely heartbroken. Yeah, I know what he’s talking about. I mean, he’s not exactly short of examples.’
As I breathe deeply, trying to pull myself together, Philip speaks. ‘If you feel in your heart that you’d like to comfort him, feel free. Give him a hug, or have him come and sit on your lap. Whatever feels right for you and for him.’
Head still in my hands, I nod. I’d like that. He looks so bereft. I can’t leave him there on that office chair. In my mind, I hold out my hand, and he slides off the chair and comes willingly. I gather him up and settle his skinny little body on my lap. He melts into me, his head lolling against my chest.
Now I can breathe more easily. I raise my head, keeping my eyes closed so I don’t lose the line of connection to him. One memory in particular stands out in lurid, agonising Technicolor.
‘Once, we had a special morning at school the week before Father’s Day where the dads could come in and see our work, and our teacher said we could all introduce our dads to the restof the class. We spent so much time in the run-up making them special cards. Mum printed out lots of photos of Dad and me for my card. They said we could swap ties for the day, and Dad said I could wear his favourite one and he would wear my school tie.’
Fuck, there’s a stinging in my sinuses. I screw up my nose. ‘Oh, it was my first year at Westminster. I must have been seven, then. Dad said he’d come. He knew I wanted to tell the class about his hotels business, and also, he was an OW—an Old Westminster—and he loved coming back to the school. He was super proud of me for getting in, because the entrance exam was really hard.
