Page 80 of The Reluctant Billionaire

‘I don’t remember,’ I say, throwing my chopsticks down. Why does everyone remember that evening apart from me? ‘He told me about it, but I have no recollection.’ I keep thinking maybe I remember, but I know I’m just making the scene up in my head based on what Aide’s told me.

‘I’m sure the conversation got pretty technical that night,’ Dad says. ‘You probably zoned out. But you two are getting on well?’

There is no reality in which my dad needs to know quite how well I’m ‘getting on’ with his former protégé. Since the first night I spent at his place, however, it feels like something has shifted.

Before, we were hooking up based purely on chemistry. It was physical.

Now, it feels a lot more than that, and not solely because we haven’t spent a night apart since. This is our first evening apart, in fact.

‘How did you meet him?’ I ask my dad, because it seems my thirst for information about Aide grows every day. I’ve heard Aide’s side of the story, including his very sweet memories of the allure of my sixteen-year-old self, but I want to hear it from as many sources as possible.

Dad pauses, leaning back in his chair to allow Sabrina to place a large bowl of salad on the table as well as the platter of miso black cod, which looks and smells spectacular. Mum and I both make hungry noises of appreciation, while Dad turns his face to Sabrina.

‘Thanks, Sabrina. Don’t suppose there’s any rice?’

‘I apologise, Paul,’ she says. ‘Not today.’ She looks at my mum for assistance, but Mamma shakes her head sharply.

‘No carbs,caro.’

‘There’s salad, though,’ Sabrina says. ‘It’s a Thai salad. With cashews.’

‘I’m sure it will be delicious, thank you, Sabrina,’ Mum says with a gentle incline of her head and the air of one breaking up a playground fight. ‘Paul, do not make her feel bad for doing her job.’

‘I would never,’ Dad says. He visibly slumps in his chair. ‘Thank you,’ he says to Sabrina in the tone of a defeated child.

‘Where was I?’ he asks when she’s left us. ‘Ah, yes. Aide. It was through UCL, I suppose. They were one of the feeder universities for our incubator—still are—and he must’ve applied through his professor. However it happened, I recall that his application was standout. Quite extraordinary.’

He lays his hands flat on the table and stares off into space, and I know in this moment that Dad’s terrifying brain has transported him to a world of zeroes and ones, as it so often does.

Shaking his head, he continues. ‘But when I met him—that’s when I knew he was special. He was, you know, a bit rough around the edges. He didn’t have that obnoxious polish some of the others we saw did. He was shy. Yes, shy. But articulate. Quietly confident, you know? Very much unshakeable in his vision, but it wasn’t born out of arrogance. More intelligence and the moral certitude of what he wanted to do.’

I blink. That might possibly be the longest speech I’ve ever heard my dad utter when he’s not standing on a podium with a proverbial gun to his head.

‘Wow. What was his vision?’

I mean, I know Totum is a medical data company. But, to be honest, I pretty much had brain freeze as soon as I read the wordsmedicalanddata.I haven’t read much about Totum, because I kind of assumed I wouldn’t understand much of it. I may be smart, but I donothave my father’s type of brain.

My parents exchange a glance.

‘You remember?’ Dad asks Mamma softly.

‘I do.’ She pretends to wipe a tear from her eye. ‘It was a very good pitch.’

‘It was,’ Dad says. ‘That’s the thing about Aide—he’s always been equally compelling on the quantitative and qualitative fronts.’ He spoons a mound of Thai salad onto his plate with a deeply sceptical look.

‘He had a friend,’ Mamma prompts.

‘That’s right. A friend, or a boy from school, maybe? Or from his community. I can’t recall. Anyway. This young person died at the hands of his father. Beaten to death.’

Oh myGod. I clap my hand over my mouth.

‘It turned out, in the aftermath, that there had been a pattern of abuse,’ Dad continues quietly. ‘Broken legs. Arms. I don’t recall the details. But here’s the thing.’ He leans in and grimaces. ‘The injuries were each treated at different hospitals,indifferent London trusts.’

I frown, trying to put the pieces together. ‘So…’

‘So the trusts didn’t share data. It transpires that the father had taken the child to a different hospital each time to avoid any healthcare professional spotting the pattern of abuse. Therefore, each time, they treated it as an isolated incident. The abuse was never spotted. Social services were never brought in, and the child went unprotected.’

Dad sits back, spreading his arms wide. He doesn’t need to say any more.

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