Page 93 of The Reluctant Billionaire

‘What was the article about?’ I ask now. I slide my hand onto the small of her back, tugging up the hem of her t-shirt, and splay my fingers over her bare skin.

Everything is better when I’m touching Lotta.

‘Well, it was about you, really. I’m just in it as the glamorous love interest.’ She smiles like she knows she’s a lot more than that but like it’s kind of tickled, her too. ‘They called itAidan Duffy’s Charmed Life.’

‘What the actual fuck? That’s a fucking joke. Did they erase the first twenty years, or something?’

‘That’s just it. They said your story is like some Jeffrey Archer rags-to-riches novel, like you’re the plucky hero who’s full of ambition but has never lost sight of his roots, you know?’ She tosses her hair jokingly. ‘And meeting the beautiful heiress is the icing on the cake. You’ll be glad to know you’ve officially arrived, according to thePost, at least.’

‘What a bunch of horseshit,’ I say. I hold her more tightly and flip her onto her side, pulling her in flush against me. ‘Exceptfor the bit about the beautiful heiress,’ I murmur as I lower my mouth to capture hers.

The article is, as I suspected, total fucking horseshit. It also has a tone I don’t appreciate, like I’m supposed to be in this smug, self-congratulatory bubble of knowing I’ve got the money, the trappings, and the girl.

None of it sits quite right with me.

None of it feels accurate. I suppose it’s easy for them to judge, easy for them to see some clear story arc, a hero’s journey of such linear upward momentum that it looks like a fucking hockey stick, when really, the wealth is uncomfortable, and the trappings are as limited as I’ve been able to keep them.

Thegirlpart’s true, though. The odious journos at thePostare right—she’s the ultimate prize. But not because she’s some gorgeous, lithe, impeccably stylish trophy like they’ve insinuated.

No fucking way.

Because women don’t come much more impressive than Carlotta Montefiore-Charlton. It’s occurred to me gradually over the past few weeks that historically I’ve had a type: the shy, wholesome girl next door who tends to lean on me. I don’t need Freud to tell me I feel validated when I’m needed.

Lotta definitely doesn’t need me, and it’s refreshing. It’s good for me. She’s a professional powerhouse with a seemingly endless appetite for work. For fun. Forlife.Her energy is infectious.She’sgood for me. And while she seems to appreciate me and my company, she’s not needy. We’re not co-dependent.For all our differences, this closeness, this intimacy that we’re building, is born out of each of us finding our equal in the other.

And I really, really love it.

I still feel an element of unease, though, at this seemingly relentless upwards journey. At how well everything’s going, both with Totum and with my personal life. So when I get a text from Judy, I actually laugh in horror, because it’s as if my inner self-saboteur has conjured this shit-show up.

With one simple text, my obligations to my past and my fragile hopes for my future are strung up against each other like contestants in an amphitheatre.

Shayla’s in labour. Five weeks early. Can u help this weekend?

Fuck fuck fuck. Shayla is Sylvie’s daughter. Five weeks early does not sound good—this is a shit show. And of course Sylv will want to be by her side the whole time.

This is a fucking disaster.

Fuck.

I text back tentatively.

Oh no. I’m sorry. What kind of timings?

She comes straight back.

Setup tomorrow. Party 11-4 sat

I grimace and suck air in through my teeth as noisily as if someone’s just punched me in the gut, because that’s what it feels like. Could this timing be any worse?

I’m supposed to be somewhere. Is there anyone else who can help? Gaz?

I stare anxiously at the three little dots.

G couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. Anyway he’s on a long-haul to Europe.

Will get more volunteers but need someone who can lead this or it’ll be a total shitshow

There is no easy solution here; I know that much. But fuck, most of the state schools break up for the summer holidays tomorrow and our kids and their parents are staring down the barrel of seven weeks off school with none of the structures or entertainment or childcare or fuckingmealsthey have in place during term-time, and this party is a big deal for them. It’s our way of reminding them that the summer can be fun, that they’ve nailed another whole school year, and, most importantly, that we’re here for them.