Page 75 of Vivacity
In my opinion, Richard Kingsley could do worse than to take a few leaves of out Charles Montague’s book.
In any case, here we are. And while I may suspect, deep in my gut, that I’m batting for the wrong side overall, I know I’m batting for the right man. And I’m glad I’ll be here for him tonight.
He’s walking towards me, cutting intently through the throngs gathered at the bar as if he has tunnel vision, his posture perfect. The financial press these past few weeks has declared the deal financially sound but ethically dubious. Going full hostile on one of your oldest and closest rivals is deemed a little unseemly for the Brits’ liking. So turning up here tonight, to a roomful of press and peers who all have an opinion, can’t be easy for him, even if he’s currently on the winning side where the deal is concerned.
Fuck, the man is fine. This is the first time I’ve seen him in black tie, and he wears it well. He’s devastatingly urbane in the bespoke Givenchy tuxedo I saw hanging on the back of his office door earlier. His hand-tied bowtie is perfect, the tiny black-and-silver studs punctuating the crisp whiteness of his shirt. His body shape is made to wear black tie—the beautifully broad shoulders and trim hips have the tailoring hanging perfectly. Hislight brown hair is swept off his face. If he swapped out that champagne flute for a martini glass, he’d be the perfect Bond.
Most arresting of all, though, is the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m the only person in the room. I’m probably doing much the same.
He stops in front of me.
Let me say at this point that, while Ethan met his parents for a drink (on friendly territory) straight from work, I hurried to my local hairdressers in South Ken where one of their geniuses wrangled my hair into an elegant updo before racing home to slide into an incredible red satin number by Suzanne Neville, whose Fulham Road boutique is far too close to my home to be safe.
The corsetry in this thing is a work of art. My waist is tiny, satin drapes beautifully over my hips, my boobs are on a platter, and a chiffon sash makes its way diagonally across one shoulder before billowing out behind me when I walk. It’s stately, it’s grownup, and it’s also sexy as fuck. Thad’s diamonds glitter in my ears and around my wrist—he was generous like that. And, judging by the look Ethan’s giving me, I’ve hit the mark like a sniper.
‘Evening,’ he says, his casual tone studied amid all these people.
‘Good evening.’ I turn my head so he can kiss me first on one cheek, then the other, his free hand brushing my upper arm.
Before he pulls away, he whispers, ‘You’re always beautiful, but this is something else.’
I smile, and I preen internally, because we may be at some awkward industry awards, and I may be his secret hooker, but every girl loves standing in a beautiful dress as the most handsome man in the room whispers adoring words while eye-fucking you to perfection. It’s a Cinderella-meets-PrettyWomanmashup, I suppose. Even if I fall decidedly closer to the latter.
‘Thank you.’ My gaze drops to his mouth as he pulls away. ‘You look very debonair.’
‘I try.’ His smile is wry. ‘But you’re the first and last person in this entire godforsaken place who makes me glad to be here.’
I meet his eyes. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ It’s an echo of what I told him in that bed after his first session with Philip, but it’s also particularly relevant tonight. ‘I’m not leaving your side.’
He nods a little stiffly, as if he’s pleased but doesn’t want to show it. ‘Glad to hear it.’
‘All you have to do is play nicely for one evening. You’re a classy guy. I know you’ll behave perfectly. Smile sweetly for the cameras. And don’t punch anyone whose name is Montague.’
‘It’s a sad state of affairs when I’m unsure if I’d rather be sitting with that lot or with my parents.’
‘It’s not a great choice, I’ll give you that. But it’ll be nice to meet your mum.’
It won’t beniceat all to meet Ethan’s mum, but it will certainly be fascinating. I console myself with the knowledge that I can psychoanalyse her to my heart’s content when we’re at dinner. Any woman who can stay married to Richard Kingsley for half a century, who can raise a man as impressive and yet as emotionally dysregulated as Ethan, had better have a damn good reason for it.
Damn it,I wish there were Enneagram sweepstakes. I wish I could call it, could estimate someone’s number and then put a few hundred quid on my bet at Ladbrokes before hauling them off for a quiz to see if I’ve got it right.
Alas, betting on people’s personalities is still considered both uncommercial and, I suppose, unethical, so I have only my dopamine hits to reward me.
We’re sitting at a large table towards the back of the room. The Austen ballroom is a stunning feature of this old hotel. It was built in the late Victorian era, sinking into disrepair for decades and becoming more and more of a budget hotel before the Montagues bought it, poured astonishing amounts of money into it, and brought it back to life in the most wonderful way. Now it’s the jewel in their crown.
No wonder Ethan and Richard can’t wait to get their hands on it.
The ballroom is high-ceilinged, with creamy, intricate Rococo mouldings on the ceiling and walls and antiqued glass mirrors reflecting a million sparkles from the chandeliers and candles. In keeping with the traditional decor, the snowy white circular tables are decorated lavishly with crystal, candelabras, and huge silver urns filled to overflowing with tumbling pink and white roses and anemones and ranunculus.
Green-and-white ivy trails from the bowls and onto the tables, echoing the muted greens and whites and silvers of the Christmas trees and plump garlands dotted around the periphery. It’s the first week in December, and the entire hotel is decorated to the nines.
I love it. I love London at Christmas, and I didn’t realise how much I missed it until the shops started decorating properly last month. I’ve been deliriously happy these past few weeks, strolling down Bond Street and enjoying the benefits of the dick-swinging competition Dior and Chanel and Louis Vuitton and Ralph Lauren hold every year as they seek to outdo each other on the festivities front. I’ve been Christmas shopping for Mum and my sister Ria in Fortnum’s. And I’ve bought up most of Harrods’ Christmas shop so I can decorate my home.
As I gaze around the beautiful room, I have a sudden stab of pride in the Montagues. Good for them for not rolling over. They may be fighting for the future of their company, and possibly their jobs. After all, the combined entity won’t need two CEOs or two chairmen. Still, they’re hosting this evening on their turf with every bit of the aplomb for which they’re renowned, and I say good on them.
Even ballsier is their decision to stick the Kingsley table near the back of the room. It’s kind of hilarious, if you think about it, and I’m sure it has chins wagging at every table. If tonight is the only time they get to call the shots, it seems like they’re damn well going to enjoy it.
Richard, however, isnothappy.
