Page 12 of The Reluctant Billionaire

I sigh and let my head fall back against the leather seat as I crack open a bottle of Pellegrino. ‘I dunno. Good, I think. We’re ahead of schedule. The woman running it from Venus’ side’s a piece of work, though.’

Understatement. I think back to our conversation just now. A conversation in which I transcended the bounds of decency so spectacularly that I’d be facing a lawsuit if we were in a formal workplace. There’s no explanation other than that she—and her tits—have driven me temporarily insane.

‘Is that Paul Whatshisname’s daughter?’ Sometimes I think Andy spends more time reading theFinancial Timesthan I do.

‘That’s the one.’ I slug some water, the bubbles hitting the back of my throat with refreshing perfection. ‘Carlotta.’

Carlotta Montefiore Charlton.What a mouthful. Even her name’s high-maintenance.

He laughs. ‘Jumped-up little princess, is she?’

‘You can say that again.’ I take another swig. ‘She was wearing six grand trainers. On a building site. Fucking stupid.’

‘These people have no idea of the value of money,’ Andy says. ‘It’s indecent, that’s what it is. But you can’t be surprised when she’s grown up that minted. It’s different for you. You earned it. She had it handed to her.’

‘Yeah,’ I agree half-heartedly, wondering why slagging Carlotta off is sitting so uncomfortably in my gut. I’m not one to sit around and bitch, but people like her are so entitled it pisses me off. They have no fucking clue. Even if what they’ve built at Venus is impressive.

Beyond impressive.

That said, I have no idea if she’s just a pretty little figurehead or if she actually works hard. God only knows.

It’s time to change the subject.

‘You see Emma today?’ I ask Andy. Emma’s his first grandchild. I think she’s around six months old. His daughter lives not far away, and he and his wife, Maggie, are hands-on grandparents. Emma’s his pride and joy.

He grins at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Yeah. She’s sitting up, all by herself. Can you believe it? She’s a right little sweetheart.’

He’s proud as punch, and it brings a smile to my face. I can’t remember when Woody sat up for the first time, but I suppose it must feel like a miracle when you witness your own kid or grandkid doing it. ‘Clever girl,’ I say.

‘She is. She’s bright, that one. You mark my words.’

We settle into a contented silence, and I begin to scroll through my emails. Andy’s been working for me for over a decade now. We met when one of my seed investors sent a car to fetch me for a pitch in Mayfair. Andy was behind the wheel. I was bricking it, and he could tell. He pulled over by Hyde Park and told me to take off my shoes and socks and go take a walk in the grass.

It did the trick. I pulled myself together, and I got the funding. I also kept Andy’s number and started to use him for one-off jobs. We spent more and more time together, and it felt only natural to ask him and Maggie to move into one of the cottages on my grounds when I had my house built.

When I had my house built byVenus, I should say.

I wonder if and when Carlotta will work that out.

Anyway, they live on-site now and they look after the place because, God knows, I’m not on the move enough during the day to warrant a full-time driver.

I already know I’ll murder whatever Maggie has cooked for me tonight.

My inbox is looking borderline manageable, thanks to my amazing Executive Assistant, Laetitia. Tish. She monitors my emails with terrifying ruthlessness. She monitors my entirelifewith terrifying ruthlessness. No one gets to me on email, or by phone, or in person, without getting past her first. She has my diary organised in fifteen-minute slots, and we catch up every morning on any requests for my time that don’t automatically get declined.

Tish knows I just want to be left alone to do my job. I’d die for my team, I tolerate my investors, and everyone else can go to hell. Phone calls kill me. Zooms are a necessary evil that, again, get kept to fifteen minutes. My time is too precious and my attention span too short for anything else.

Slowly, slowly, I’ve built up a support network of people who understand the pressures I face. Who understand how unnatural it feels for me to have this public persona. How little interest I have in cultivating that persona. And who guard my time with ferocious jealousy.

I have my family, obviously, and I love them with all my heart, but they don’t always get it, and the money’s a constant point of discomfort, if not overt contention. Mainly because I can never get them to take as much as I want to give them. But Tish and Andy and Maggie and the others who form the inner circle of my personal and professional lives have my back, and I’d be in a fucking loony bin without them.

* * *

I collapseat the massive island in the centre of my kitchen and devour Maggie’s excellent Moroccan chicken as soon as I’m in the door, washing it down with a cold beer. But I’m filthy and sweaty, and I need a shower before I go anywhere near my sofa or my bed. I stick my empty bowl in the dishwasher and amble tiredly through my home and up the cantilevered staircase that floats through the centre of my entrance hall. The staggering beauty of its simplicity never fails to hit me.

This home of mine is undoubtedly my haven. Settling outside of central London, here in Osterley, has allowed me a serious footprint inside and out. I can’t see another house, thanks to the maturing groves of trees we’ve planted around the perimeter. My own house is built on two stories, and we went overboard on the lateral space.

My brief to Venus was to create as much space and light and fluidity as possible. The rooms flow onto each other, punctuated by huge arches or double doorways. The building faces east-west, and the reception rooms straddle it front to back, enjoying the maximum amount of daylight in both the mornings and evenings. Above them, my master bedroom complex has a fucking enormous terrace where I spend as much time as possible.

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