Page 77 of Vivacity
CHAPTER 34
Ethan
The problem with doing the work, as both Philip and Soph have told me, is that once you start to understand more about what’s really going on with yourself and with others, you can’t unsee any of it.
Yesterday, I watched from outside our offices as a perfectly respectable-looking middle-aged woman assaulted a stranger in the street because he’d been going what she perceived as the wrong way down the road on his bike and had almost run her over. When he stopped, she pushed him so hard that his bike toppled over and he fell to the ground. Out of nowhere, a crowd gathered, and much screaming ensued as other strangers tried to stop the two of them from beating the crap out of each other.
Before, I would have shaken my head and mutterednuttersas I went about my business. But yesterday, I was struck by the fact that I’d likely had a front-row seat to very young parts being triggered on both sides. It made the occurrence even more disturbing, I think, because it had me musing on whether we were all leading our daily lives without our adult Selves being in the driving seat in the slightest.
I suspect the answer to that is probably affirmative. I can certainly think of many world and business leaders whosetoddler selves are behind the wheel, constantly terrified that someone else will grab their toys.
And now, as my dad casually dredges up his past cruelties to me, something that, a month ago, might have caused me an unwelcome but non-specific pang, the memory of my past distress is so very specific, so very intense, that I can’t let it slide. I’ve met my younger self. He’s real to me, and he’s still stuck in that place of pain, a place filled with bewilderment and shame and intense loneliness. Now that I’ve met him, I’m his protector, and if I know one thing, it’s that my father will never get his toxic, egotistical claws into my son the way he got them into me.
No fucking way.
Jamie doesn’t have an iota of interest in the “family business”, and I’ll be damned if I don’t spend every last ounce of my energy shielding him from Dad’s toxic brand of nepotism, which Philip recently explained to me is more like enmeshment.
According to him, my father likely enmeshed my identity, my values, with his, viewing me as basically an extension of himself and punishing any efforts I made to forge my own individuality with his tried-and-tested manipulation tactics. You know: guilt. Shame. Gaslighting.
Even the word sounds sinister.Enmeshment. Jesus.
Yeah. Richard Kingsley will enmesh my son over my dead body.
My evening continues to worsen,the only bright spot, quite literally, the dazzling beauty in scarlet who’s sitting next to me. I can’t wait to follow her home later like a pitiful puppy and bury myself so deep inside her that the desire in my veins drives out all this poison.
We’re forced to endure a delightful, humble and moving speech from Charles Montague alongside a vitriolic stream of consciousness from my father, mumbling his heckles from where he sits.
No wonder they put us at the back of the fucking room.
Charles is a true patriarch—a man who’s used his influence to create jobs and build careers and change lives. He’s a born leader. Integrity and passion seep from his every pore.
‘Tonight marks the end of this chapter for The Montague Group, as you are all aware,’ he says, removing his glasses and wiping his eyes. His voice has grown a little scratchy. ‘It’s been a long chapter, filled with adventures. Wonderful, joyous highs and devastating lows.
‘Sometimes I think it’s a good thing that none of us has a crystal ball. The memory of our hotels standing cold and empty during the pandemic is one I’ll take with me to my grave. But today, they are alive with people intent on making memories with their families, people who entrust us with the privilege of making those memories, and it’s a privilege my family will never take lightly.
‘It may not be our name on the door this time next year. The market has spoken, and I respect that. But I also know that, in the hands of our very capable new ownership, our hotels will continue to thrive. Ouremployeeswill continue to thrive. And our guests will continue to make new memories, to connect with their loved ones, and to enjoy our hospitality as they do.
‘And, at the end of the day, that’s all any of us can ask for.’ At the lectern, he raises his champagne flute. ‘To the next chapter.’
‘To the next chapter,’ the room choruses. Flutes are raised. The toast is drunk. My father is sitting, stony-faced, in my periphery. Of course he’s not happy. Charles may have publicly passed the baton, but there’s no denying that his words felt more like a victory speech than a concession speech, and quite right.He should be proud of what he and his family have built. Not only that, but he’s openly daring us to uphold their standards, not just of the hotels themselves, but of the kind of integrity and leadership that have put a man like Charles on that podium. What it must be like to have a man like that for a father, I can’t imagine.
As the great and good of the luxury hotel industry rise to their feet to honour him, so do Soph and I. We stand and applaud him until our hands are sore.
‘Sit down!’ my father hisses, and we ignore him.
He’s showing his true colours tonight.
And I can’t unsee any of those colours.
As soon asthe interminable meal has ended, I escape from Dad’s belligerence and Mum’s exhausting efforts to smooth everything over and prop myself up against the bar. I nurse a neat scotch, although it’s probably the party doing most of the nursing. Damn Soph, making me second-guess everything I do. I’m sure she’d call thisnumbing, and she’d be right. God knows, I need something to take the edge off this wretched evening.
I watch with intense unhappiness as she catches up with the Montague clan at their table at the front of the room. So far, she’s hugged Charles and his wife Laura, that awful Theo and the pretty brunette I assume is his wife, Soph’s friend, and Miles and his wife Saoirse, who I’ve met a few times in passing.
Seeing Miles in black tie reminds me with a pang of the first time Elena met him. She observed to me afterwards, with far too many giggles, that she thought he looked exactly like Theo James.Exactly likeis a long fucking shot, but clearly he’s done well for himself. Saoirse is beautiful.
He hasn’t done nearly as well for himself as I have, though. I refuse to remind myself that I’m paying for the privilege.
The truth is, I’d be lost without Soph, especially tonight. It stings to see her in her element, laughing and joking and hugging, keeping the Montagues in her thrall as she regales them with god knows what stories. She’s an impossible woman to look away from, and they’re soaking up every bit of her dazzling personality.
