Page 7 of The Rules of Their Red-Hot Reunion

Eight hours after running into his ex-wife, he parked his McLaren Artura—a gift from himself to himself—between a vintage Beetle and a classic Rolls, and rested his forehead on his steering wheel, fighting the urge to reverse and head back home. Or to go back to St Urban, find Aisha, and kiss her senseless. And then take her to bed.

He had to stop thinking about her; if he didn’t, he might go completely off his rocker. He didn’t want to be here, and neither was he in the mood to talk to his friends.

He most certainly didn’t want to smile and be the charming, successful billionaire restaurateur with a bunch of Michelin stars under his belt, the chef with the reputation for innovative food and the pursuit of perfection.

People looked at his life and thought it was wonderful, and it was, but, damn, they didn’t know what he’d sacrificed to be this successful, to attain his wealth...

They didn’t know he sometimes wondered—mostly in the early hours of the morning when he couldn’t sleep—whether it was all worth it.

A couple of years ago, Luka, his first mentor, passed away and Pasco flew home to attend his funeral service. He remembered his daughter’s eulogy, surprised to hear that Luka had questioned whether his long hours spent at the restaurant were worth it, whether he’d make the same sacrifices again to pursue his ambitions. His words hit home and Pasco started to think something was amiss in his own life. When he returned to Manhattan, the feeling grew stronger. He was no longer happy in the fast-paced city, his creativity was stunted, and he was going through the motions, stuck personally and professionally.

He thought that maybe it was time to pare back, slow down, try something else. Believing he might be burned out—so many years of working his ass off in the industry would do that to one—and sick of New York City, he’d sold his extremely successful and famous restaurant in Manhattan, expecting to feel better.

He hadn’t.

After taking a month off, bored as hell—deeply concerned he was living off his capital and wasn’t earning money—he started to regret selling Pasco’s, Manhattan. When Digby Tempest-Vane suggested he establish a fine-dining restaurant at The Vane, he jumped at the opportunity. Not content, he then launched a kitchen accessory line. Thinking he wanted to travel, he agreed to a six-part series to explore cooking cultures of the world and he’d thought visiting new places like Mongolia, Morocco and Réunion would make him feel whole.

It hadn’t. He had everything he wanted, but he still felt as though something was missing; something hovered just out of his reach.

Maybe he was the type of guy who would never be fulfilled, who constantly needed a new challenge to keep moving forward. Having a goal and working towards it was what he’d been doing since he was a kid, desperate to be the exact opposite of his completely useless father.

They looked exactly alike, and Pasco was often referred to as his dad’s mini-me. He was an almost carbon copy of him and Pasco hated it.

His father was why he was so driven, so desperate to prove himself, utterly determined to ensure he never placed the people he loved in a situation even remotely similar to the one Gerald had put them in.

With their doctor mother, and stay-at-home dad, they were seen to be a stable, solidly middle-to-upper-class family, but few people saw past the facade his dad showed to the world.

At some point in his childhood, Gerald decided to re-enter the workforce. But it wasn’t in his father to take a job, and to stick and to stay. No, he wanted immediate and quick success, a shedload of money in the bank as fast as he could get it.

And because he was impatient and impulsive, he reached for every shiny object that passed him by, latched on to anyone who could provide him with the opportunity to make a quick buck. If there was a get-rich-quick scheme out there, Gerald tried it, always using his wife’s salary to fund it. He also opened up numerous credit cards in her name, maxed them out, and then remortgaged their house. They lurched from crisis to crisis and Pasco remembered living with low-grade anxiety as a kid, constantly worried the sky would fall in.

As Pasco hit puberty, Gerald became increasingly desperate and massively irrational... And then everything fell apart.

Pasco pushed the memories away and rubbed his face, the back of his neck. His father had been good for one thing, he reminded himself. Every time he looked in the mirror he was reminded of what he didn’t want to be.

He’d vowed he’d never be poor, that he’d create a life of complete stability for everyone he loved. That he’d work hard for every cent he earned and he’d stay out of debt. His houses were all paid for, so were his cars, he had no credit-card debt. He had business debt, but it was manageable, under control.

Control was of paramount importance to him, and he did not trust anyone else to make decisions about his life or business.

He’d learned from his own and his father’s mistakes, and he’d never, ever repeat them. Failure was not an option.

Marriage? Tried that and failed. He’d fallen in love with Aisha and after her parents freaked out about their marriage—she was too young, it was too soon, she needed to finish her studies first!—he’d vowed to protect her. Everything he did, every decision he made, was to ensure she had a stable life, that she was financially secure, and would have a husband she could be proud of.

But, after hearing about his fantastic promotion, she’d thrown all his hard work into his face and killed their marriage with a three-line note.

He’d thought they’d be together for ever, but his instincts and judgement were flawed. Trust someone again, trust his instincts when it came to love? Not a chance in hell. As for working with Aisha? Well, when hell froze over. Muzi and Ro had pots of money, and, as Aisha had suggested, they could hire a new chef consultant, it didn’t need to be him. He and Aisha had had no contact for ten years so it would be easy to avoid each other for the next six months.

Pasco jumped at the thump on his car window and whipped his head around to see Muzi’s face staring at him through the glass. Sighing, he hit the button for the electric window and waited for it to descend. ‘What?’ he demanded, scowling at his oldest friend.

Muzi placed both his hands on the sill of the car and stared down at Pasco. ‘How did it go with Aisha? Everything sorted?’

That would be a hard no. ‘Not yet,’ Pasco replied.

‘Hell of a thing, running into your ex-wife...the wife you kept from your closest friends and, I presume, from your family.’

Pasco heard the bitterness in Muzi’s voice and winced. He pushed his hand through his hair, knowing he owed Muzi and the rest of his friends an apology. ‘Her parents reacted badly to our news, so we decided to keep it to ourselves for a while. We knew we’d catch flak for being impulsive, for marrying so young, be questioned about whether we’d done the right thing. It wasn’t something I wanted to disclose over the phone and that year was hectic for all of us, and we never made it back to the Cape. By Christmas we were divorced, I was living in London and I just wanted to put it behind me.’

‘And did you?’ Muzi asked.

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