Page 31 of Vivacity
Just wait until he discovers the gym and they’ll be queuing up to cast him in some British version ofThe Summer I Turned Pretty. I’d put money on it.
I knew Ethan had a son, but he’s mentioned him so rarely over the past week that I’d assumed he didn’t see much of him.
‘Do you live here?’ I ask Jamie.
‘It’s Dad’s weekend,’ he mutters.
‘He lives with his mum,’ Ethan clarifies.
‘Ah, I see.’
So Ethan gets Jamie, what, every other weekend? And he’s holed up in his study with me and endless spreadsheets? I realise it’s not every weekend that he’s preparing for a ten-figure hostile takeover, but that’s got to be shitty for both of them.
It’s none of my business. At least that’s what I tell myself. Still, I’ll be fascinated to see the arctic Ethan Kingsley interacting as a father. I turn to the man operating the huge industrial hob.
‘Hi! I’m Sophia. That smells amazing.’
He gives me a kind smile. He must be late fifties, with a round face and dark brown eyes. ‘Davide. Ciao. And thank you. Would you like some?’
‘I would absolutely love some, thanks.’ It looks to be a hearty minestrone—just the ticket for warming me up. Finally, something warm and comforting in this house.
Ethan has seated himself opposite Jamie at the island and is scrolling on his phone. I take a seat next to my boss.
‘So, Jamie. Got any plans this weekend?’
He shrugs. ‘Dunno. Can we go to the driving range later, Dad?’
‘Afraid not.’ Ethan doesn’t look up from his phone. ‘Far too much going on at work. Why don’t you call one of your mates?’
‘No one’s around.’
‘That’s ridiculous. There are one hundred and fifty kids in your year group. I guarantee someone is “around”.’
He misses his son’s eye roll, but I don’t. I get it. He wants some time with his dad, not dismissive, snarky rejection.
Davide sets a shallow soup bowl in front of me and Ethan. The liquid of the minestrone is thicker than the usual broth—it looks like he’s blended the tomatoes and broth into a wonderful, velvety consistency. It’s dotted with colourful diced vegetables and beans, but no pasta. Ethan doesn’t eat gluten. When I asked him about it earlier this week, he said he wasn’t allergic but avoids it given its inflammatory properties.
Seems pretty standard for Ethan, though I’m amazed no one’s filled him in on the inflammatory properties of chronic stress and holding onto life with an iron fist.
Again, not my business.
I run my spoon slowly through my soup in an attempt to cool it down and try again with Jamie, who’s clearly been here for a while. His soup is nearly finished. I’m sure a teenage boy doesn’t want to make awkward conversation with his dad’s random assistant, but Ethan’s ignoring us both, and I can’t sit here in this awful silence, especially as Davide has made himself scarce.
‘So you’re at Westminster, Jamie?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s an incredible school. What year are you in?’
‘Year ten.’
Fourteen going on fifteen sounds right, then. ‘So you’ve just started your GCSEs then? How are they going?’
He shrugs. ‘Fine.’
‘Can I ask what options you’re taking?’
If I’m pissing him off, he’s doing an admirable job of hiding it. ‘Um, Computer Science, Design Technology, Art and Geography.’
