Page 79 of The Reluctant Billionaire

‘You know he won’t.’

‘He still giving you grief?’

She cocks her head, and her long, sleek ponytail swings. She’s a gorgeous Californian blonde who exudes good health and outdoor living every time I see her. She’s definitely a great advertisement for her own services. ‘More like puppy eyes?’ she says. ‘He looks super sad whenever I put his food down in front of him. Like he’s askingreally? That’s the best you can do?’

I snort. ‘Oh God. The guilt trip. That’s tough—I’m so sorry.’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘It’s brutal. He’s started counting down the days till they go to Mustique.In front of me.’

‘Well that’s just rude,’ I say. ‘Will you not go with them?’

‘Nah. Your mom said they have someone out there who looks after their place and does all the cooking, so they don’t really need me.’

‘That’s true. When do they go?’

‘Mid October.’ She takes a tiny pair of tongs and painstakingly places a ring of jalapeño on each piece of sashimi. My mouth waters.

‘What will you do?’

‘I dunno. I wanna go to Israel for a while—maybe Lebanon, too. Israel for sure, though, so I can do an Ottolenghi pilgrimage.’

‘That sounds amazing,’ I say. I’d much rather be a food pilgrim than a religious one.

‘I’d love to go home for the holidays, but it makes more sense to stay here. London’s such a great base for travelling. So if you hear of anyone looking for someone in my field, please let me know.’

‘I definitely will,’ I say, ‘though I’m not sure how many takers you’ll get for a wellness consultant over Christmas. New Year’s more likely.’

She laughs. ‘Right? Can you imagine how pissed your dad would be if I was hanging around at Christmas?’

I pretend to shudder. ‘I dread to think howrudehe’d be.’

* * *

Mamma and Dadmaterialise a few minutes later. While Dad plods, Mamma wafts. She’s in a full-length Pucci kaftan with a low-cut V neck that looks amazing on her and gives seriousElizabeth Taylor receiving guests at homevibes.

Mamma instilled in me from a young age a preference for Italian designers. Cavalli. Pucci. Gucci. Dolce and Gabbana. Versace.They understand women’s bodies, she explained.They celebrate them.That’s always stuck with me. I love how unapologetic Italian labels are. How colourful. How they do indeed celebrate our curves. Showcase them.

Not that Chiara Montefiore-Charlton needs much help showcasing anything. People tend to notice when she enters a room, Pucci or no Pucci. It’s not just the noise factor, which is not inconsiderable. Mamma is effusive with a capital E. She’s also an old-school Italian siren with bucket loads of flirtatious charm. My quiet father, on the other hand, has always been happy to have her absorb the limelight so he can better avoid it.

It’s probably not a million miles from my and Aide’s dynamic, to be honest.

Once we’ve installed ourselves at the table and Dad has poured some champagne, I raise the subject I’ve come here to discuss. Our family’s not known for its subtlety, so I dive right in with the same gusto that I’m diving into this insane yellowtail.

‘Talk to me about Aidan Duffy,’ I demand, my sashimi poised between chopsticks next to my mouth. As usual, a frisson runs over my skin when I allow myself to say that delicious man’s name out loud.

‘Aide?’ Dad asks, perking up notably. A moment ago, he was picking at an edamame bean with anI wish you were a sausage rolllook. ‘They don’t come better than him.’

I’ve swiftly reached that conclusion by myself, but it feels great to hear Dad’s knee-jerk reaction.

‘Aide is a very sweet boy,’ Mamma coos. ‘Very sweet indeed! And so clever.’ She tuts, pursing her glossy, cherry-red lips, and lays her bejewelled hand fondly over Dad’s. ‘Even more clever than your Papa, I think.’

‘That is a fact,’ Dad says. ‘How do you know him?’

‘I’ve been doing a charitable project through Venus that we finished up last week,’ I say. ‘A community centre in Avondale Park. Anyway, Aide’s been leading it from his side—he and Gabe cooked the whole thing up together. And… we’re kind of dating.’

Dad raises his eyebrows, which is as much of a reaction as anyone usually gets from him, but Mum clasps her hands together, hugging them against her chest, and gasps theatrically.

‘This is marvellous!’ she cries. ‘He is a good boy,tesoro.’ She smiles indulgently. ‘Remember that very first time he came for dinner? He was so shy, sohandsome. Even then. You were quite taken.’

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