Page 79 of The Reluctant Billionaire

‘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 Dad materialise 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.’

‘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.’