Page 33 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

A casual supper in the Montefiore-Charlton household is never casual. Not with my mother at the helm.

When I let myself into their massive townhouse in Knightsbridge, I’m immediately hit by a gorgeous wall of music courtesy of the sound system. Someone is belting out Una Furtiva Lagrima at full force. I’d put money on it being Santi’s dad, Dominic Vale.

In the centre of the high-shine, monochrome tiled floor sits an elegant antique table bearing a complex, multi-vase arrangement of flowers that would put the Mandarin Oriental’s lobbies to shame.

One of Mamma’s many extravagances is having fresh flowers around the house at all times.

It looks and smells like paradise, so I can’t complain.

Often, Mamma and Dad’s chef cooks Mediterranean, but tonight she’s cooking Asian.

The table in the huge kitchen where they prefer to eat unless they’re entertaining formally is set with one of Mamma’s favourite Hermes dinnerware sets, their geometric Balcon du Guadalquivir design in iconic tomato and white.

Delicate bud vases bearing perfect sprigs of white flowers and greenery line the entire length of the table. Blue-striped Murano wine glasses and tumblers adorn our place-settings. Murano glassware is another of Mamma’s weaknesses. The effect is stunning, if a little OTT for a quiet family supper.

‘Hey,’ the chef, Sabrina, calls out from the far end of the kitchen where she’s plating up food on the island. She’s technically not their chef—more a wellness consultant who Mamma hired a few months ago to overhaul her and Dad’s health.

Mamma’s a lot more into the idea than Dad is.

‘Hi!’ I reply, making for her end of the kitchen. ‘Why does it smell like Nobu in here?’ I round the island and give her a hug.

She laughs. ‘Must be the miso black cod. It’s in the oven.’

‘I think it’s everything,’ I say, eyeing up the spread appreciatively. This looks incredible. Sabrina’s cooking is an excellent reason to visit my parents more often. ‘What’s that?’ I point to the sauce she’s spooning over what looks like yellowtail sashimi with infinite care.

‘Just yuzu and soy sauce.’

‘I hope my Dad appreciates this.’

‘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 asking really? 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 jalapeno 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 how rude he’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 serious Elizabeth Taylor receiving guests at home vibes.

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 an I wish you were a sausage roll look. ‘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, so handsome . 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.’

‘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 words medical and data. 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 do not have 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 my God . 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, in different 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.

Until it was too late.

I stare at him, shocked. ‘What do you mean, they didn’t share data?’ I cry. ‘That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

Dad shrugs. ‘Patient confidentiality. The NHS had to prioritise that, and it didn’t have a way to make data available between individual trusts without risking a data breach. Until a young, precociously intelligent, and very, very angry young man decided to do something about it.’

‘Aide,’ I whisper.

I am shellshocked.

I had no idea there was such an emotive story behind Aide’s success. That the software, the massive company, he’s created was born out of anything other than the wish to scratch an intellectual itch.

‘Yep,’ Dad says. ‘He found a way to build data systems that were shareable while adhering to the strictest security standards. He found a way to have NHS trusts all over the country speak to each other, instantly, which is far trickier than it sounds, given the jumble of out-of-date, non-compatible systems our healthcare service uses. The name, Totum, means all in Latin, of course.’

Of course it does. I’m a Classics graduate, and yet I haven’t thought about the meaning behind the name until now. All. Totality. Aide brought visibility, transparency, to our healthcare data, fuelled by his deep sense of injustice. Of frustration that anyone he knows should be left unprotected.

Or anyone at all, for that matter.

‘Most of its objectives are more prosaic, of course,’ Dad continues.

‘But that’s not to say they aren’t incredibly important.

If you take a cancer patient being treated across various modalities and trusts, even, Totum’s functionality means every professional, oncologist or otherwise, can see all the clinical data and treatment history at a glance, no matter what hospital treated the patient.

That may seem basic stuff, but I can assure you, in our dear, decrepit healthcare system, it’s not.

And he’s sold the data globally. Most countries around the world have adopted Totum by now. It’s indisputably the market leader.’

‘He was so—what is the word—unassuming, that evening,’ Mamma muses. ‘But still very impressive. So impressive. And so handsome.’ She smiles fondly.

I’m still reeling at how deep Aide’s altruism runs, and how powerful a force for good this guy is, when Mamma asks with a devious grin and a shoulder shimmy, ‘So, tesoro , will you invite this very good-looking young man to Elle’s wedding?’