Page 93 of Vivacity
I run it in the precise way that my father ran it, that he instructs me to run it.
He tells me to jump; I ask how high.
Since starting my sessions with Philip, I’ve begun to realise that many of the voices in my head are actually my father’s voice. Sitting here listening to Aide talk about his calling, I realise I don't even know what my own voice sounds like anymore. Every decision, every strategy, every fucking thought has been filtered throughwhat would Richard want?
And I’m finding, like with many discoveries in therapy, that once I am made to see something, I can’t unsee it.
I may be the CEO of Kingsley Hotels, but it’s very clear to me that I’m still the puppet, and Richard Kingsley is the master.
CHAPTER 41
Ethan
Christmas arrives, and, with it, my biggest parenting test to date. Worse, Soph has gone to Athens for a few days to spend well-earned time with her folks. I can’t resent her time away, but I miss her. The house feels particularly soulless at this time of year, and I must admit that Soph’s mausoleum descriptor feels apt, even after the company I’ve hired to decorate the place for the holidays has done their work.
I sent Soph off with a bold token of my appreciation—a Spinelli Kilcollin ring stack in white and yellow gold, dotted with diamonds and emeralds. It reminded me of her when I saw it in Harrods: exceptional craftsmanship in playful packaging. It’s serious jewellery, but I could imagine her wearing it as soon as I saw it.
She’d probably say it was another of my ‘tests’, and maybe she was right. A stack of rings is an intimate, serious gift. Would she freak out when I gave it to her?
The answer to that was an unequivocal no. She seemed thrilled with my gift to the level of being besotted, and I have to say it looks pretty sexy on her long, slim fingers.
It looked even sexier when said fingers were wrapped around my dick on her last day in the office.
She in turn gave me a very fine Brunello Cucinelli sweater and—shocker—a stack of self-help books for my bedside table. I’m sure I’ll get around to reading them at some point. There are two on the Enneagram, whatever the fuck that is.
I spend as much of Christmas Day alone as I can, popping over to my parents’ place in South Ken to make a brief appearance at their champagne reception before making my excuses. I’ve told them that Jamie is coming over to assemble his computer today, and I may have falsified the start time to engineer my escape from the godawful conversation with Dad and his self-satisfied golf buddies. I take a bracing walk around Holland Park, mutteringMerry Christmasto the parents of all the rosy-cheeked kids who are inevitably road-testing new bikes and scooters. I eat alone—a lovely slice of the Beef Wellington that my chef, Davide, insisted on cooking for me yesterday before I sent him home.
What was it that irritating shit, Theo Montague, called me a couple of weekends ago?Ebenezer. I’d like to think I’ve never been miserly—not in the slightest—but I can’t help but feel like Scrooge as I sit alone at the semi-festive dining table that Susan set for me yesterday: place mat for one.
It’s fine, though. I’d rather be alone than enduring my parents’ grotesque insincerity and their friends’ congratulations over the Montague deal. Besides, I’m a bundle of nerves over my afternoon with Jamie. All the components for his PC are wrapped separately in jaunty red-and-white candy-cane paper, thanks to Topher, who procured the cheeriest paper he could find. I need to get this right, dammit. Building this thing is the perfect chance for us to find common ground, to enjoy some proper quality time together, as long as I don’t sabotage myself.
I’ve spent several sessions now with Philip, unravelling the strands of my dysfunctional relationship with my only son. Somehow, my time away in Mustique with Soph gave me theperspective I needed to crack on. Jamie is the reason I agreed to put myself through this, after all. And I’ve known for longer than I’d like to admit that my relationship with Jamie won’t fix itself.
I need to step the fuck up.
He turnsup with Elena around five, looking more animated than I’ve seen in some time.
‘Merry Christmas, Dad! Did everything arrive?’
His lip service to basic festive etiquette has me chuckling. I’m not sure I’ve felt enthusiasm levels like his in a long while—except for when I’ve had Soph laid out before me, that is.
‘Get in here, you little scamp. Merry Christmas.’ I pull him into a hug and plant a smacker on his temple. He’s too tall for me to kiss the top of his head. ‘Yeah, everything’s here, hopefully. I’m sure you’ll tell me in about thirty seconds flat when you’ve ripped all the paper off like a savage.’
I release him and go to kiss Elena on both cheeks. As usual, she looks stunning and immaculately turned out. This is bittersweet. It’s only the second Christmas since we separated, and the wounds were very new last year. We’re far better apart; I know that much. I was never able to give my wife what she needed, but my burgeoning relationship with Soph tells me that Elena, through no fault of her own, was hopelessly ill-equipped to deal with my particular brand of lingering trauma. Most people would be, to be fair.
That is to say, we’re better off apart. But it seems that the ache of being part of a splintered family feels all the more acute at Christmas.
My wife left me.
My parents disgust me.
And my son is so remote it sometimes feels as though we’re speaking different languages.
I hold out a hand, gesturing for Elena to head through to the drawing room. ‘What time did he wake up this morning?’
‘Thismorning? Try lunchtime.’
I laugh out loud, and she grins at me. ‘Silver linings.’
