Page 65 of The Reluctant Billionaire

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LOTTA

It’s clear from the moment Aide’s driver, Andy, steers us up his driveway that this is more than a home for him.

It’s a sanctuary.

Okay, so it may be the polar opposite of my opulent, over-decorated flat (I am my mother’s daughter, after all) and not to my usual taste, but I can see exactly why he’s gone for the aesthetic, the vibe, he has.

I’m beginning to understand that this success, and the lifestyle and demands that come with it, don’t sit well with Aide. He seems naturally introverted, so it makes sense that he’d build himself a refuge.

In fact, it makes me feel better just knowing he has this place to escape to.

The weird thing is how familiar everything about Aide’s home is before I even step foot in it. I recognise the signature of Venus’ architectural team everywhere. In the seamless bank of Crittall and glass doors to one side. In the shallow gables. The impeccable finish whose very simplicity screams quality.

I feel a stab of pride at the beauty around us. It never gets old, seeing our work. Dad may have built his company from ones and zeroes, but I likethings.I like having something concrete to show for my efforts. And what’s better than buildings that house all manner of human experiences and stand the test of time far long after we’ve passed?

Aide’s house may screamVenus, but the look and feel he’s gone for is all him. The way the structure interacts with the softly landscaped grounds in which it stands feels far more organic than most of the intimidating steel-and-glass blocks of flats we tend to build back in the city.

We usually like our creations to stand out, but this masterpiece’s success rests on it fitting into its surroundings.

Our hallmarks are even more apparent when we head inside. I take a few steps into the airy, double-height entrance hall he ushers me into, an instant and overwhelming sense of peace hitting me. It’s in the light. The tinkle of running water. The abundance of plants. The way he’s left the space alone and unfurnished to justbe.

The polished concrete floor is spectacular. The curved wooden banister of the stairs has a lustre so beautiful I want to run my palm over it.

This man may still be mostly a mystery to me. But it’s obvious that he’s exactly where he belongs. That he’s built a home whose authenticity, and serenity, and understated profundity reflect the same qualities in him.

Most notably, it’s rock solid.

Just like him.

‘Shower?’ he asks me now as we stand side by side. ‘Or swim?’ There’s a hint of shyness masquerading as offhandedness in his voice, and it strikes me that he probably doesn’t bring too many people here—especially women he doesn’t know all that well (in the non-Shakespearean sense, anyway).

I lean into him, twisting my face up to his so I can smile coquettishly. ‘I didn’t bring a bikini.’

‘You won’t need one.’ He grazes my lips with his before looping his hand around my waist and leading me through the majestic living space into the huge kitchen. He’s been like this since we left the community centre. Attentive. Affectionate. He held my hand the whole way here in the car.

‘I want a full tour, too,’ I tell him, looking around curiously. I’m itching to check out every inch of our handiwork.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘but maybe after we’ve eaten, because I know once I get you in my room I won’t let you escape easily.’

The kitchen’s gorgeous. Again, I recognise Venus’ signature touches, but this room has a more organic feel to it than most of our kitchens, which tend to be shiny and attention-grabbing and heavy on the appliance porn. I suspect a few of our clients never actually cook in their own kitchens—the spaces are often showpieces.

Aide’s version, meanwhile, has vaulted ceilings and off-black handle-less cupboards. The work surfaces are gorgeous slabs of poured concrete, and above the main island hangs a wooden shelf, suspended on chains from the vaulted ceiling and bearing a riot of greenery whose tendrils cascade over its sides. The overall effect, once again, is of bringing the outside in.

He opens a cupboard door concealing a giant fridge and grabs two bottles—a beer and a white wine.

‘Greco di Tufo okay?’ he asks, and I hide a smile. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that he has his fridge stocked with Italian wine.

‘Wonderful,’ I say airily, leaning my elbows on the island as he deftly uncorks the wine and pours me a generous glass. He cracks open his beer and clinks it against my glass before leading the way through one of the open French doors.

The trees and plants in the garden still have a way to go before reaching maturity. This must only be their second or third summer. That said, the garden is gorgeous. There’s a massive weeping willow that must’ve preceded the house by decades. The lawns aren’t overly manicured, and the flowerbeds are a jumble of heavenly purples, blues and whites. I spy hydrangeas, delphiniums, anemones. There are fruit trees galore.

It feels like a proper English country garden that’s miles and miles from London. My blood pressure is dropping just by being here.

The pool is tucked away behind a fence concealed by a laurel hedge.

‘Were you not tempted to have it nearer the house?’ I ask, thinking he’s missed a trick. It would be amazing to have it over by the kitchen terrace.

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