Page 39 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

‘ T here was an article about us in the Post today,’ Lotta says. ‘Did you see it?’

‘Nope.’ I put my finger in my cold war thriller and close the book over, twisting onto my side so I can give her my full attention.

We’re sprawled next to each other on the huge sofa on my terrace, our stomachs full of Maggie’s excellent barbecued chicken and salad.

I’ve been lying on my back, a few scatter cushions stuffed behind my head.

Lotts is on her front in a t-shirt and those obligatory cutoffs, bare feet up and waving in the air as she devours some mafia romance with a terrifying-looking guy on the cover.

She told me the plot. It sounds fucking awful, except for the bit where she mentioned I’d make a brilliant mafia boss and that maybe we could do some role-play where I kidnap her and fuck her brains out.

I’m not sure what fucked-up part of me really likes the sound of that, but it does, and I’m game if she is. Shouldn’t be much of a hardship.

It’s a low-key Wednesday evening. We’ve had a quiet week socially so far, but we fly to Toulon on Friday for this bloody wedding, so I’ll take my quiet, intimate evenings while I can.

Lotta is more excited than I’ve ever seen her about the wedding, and that’s saying something for a woman as naturally effusive as her.

Between the couture dress she’s had made for the ceremony, and the uni friends she’s looking forward to seeing, and the A-list celebrities who may or may not show up, she hasn’t stopped talking about it.

While I love seeing her like this, I certainly can’t muster up much excitement about a celebrity wedding.

It’s bound to be a total fucking circus.

I just hope babysitting my sorry arse won’t be too much of a shag for Lotts.

I am, however, very much looking forward to escaping the circus on Sunday and absconding to an idyllic boutique hotel near St Maxime with my stunning girlfriend for twenty-four hours of, hopefully, nudity.

‘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 it Aidan 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 the Post , 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. ‘Except for 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.

The girl part’s true, though. The odious journos at the Post are 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. For life. Her energy is infectious.

She’s good 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 fucking meals they 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.

The bottom line is that they need me and Lotta doesn’t. Sure, she wants me there; she’s excited to introduce me to her mates. She’s excited for our first trip abroad together. But she doesn’t need me. She’ll know tonnes of people there and she won’t have to worry about babysitting me.

She’ll get over it.

The kids won’t get over it if their party goes south.

Fuck.

Got it. I’ll be there.

I drag my hand over my face before hovering my finger over Lotta’s number.

LOTTA

‘Hi, honey,’ I coo. ‘Guess what? The dresses just arrived. They’re amazing .

’ Not amazing enough to remotely risk upstaging the bride, who’s going to look so beautiful I can’t even imagine it, but amazing enough to feel very good about being on my boyfriend’s arm this weekend.

The rehearsal dinner one is a slinky, silk jersey coral number by Astrid Carmichael, while the gown for Saturday’s ceremony is Chanel.

It’s pale aquamarine tulle, and sparkly, and to die for.

The smile on his gorgeous face is weak and tired. ‘I bet you’ll look gorgeous in them.’

I swivel away from my desk in my chair. ‘What’s up?’

‘Lotts.’ He closes his eyes and frowns. ‘I’m so sorry. I can’t make it this weekend.’

‘You can’t— what? ’ I stare at him in horror, waiting for him to grant me eye contact and explain himself, because it sounds like he’s standing me up.

He opens his eyes slowly and squints at his screen like he’s afraid of what he’ll see on my face.

Damn right.

‘There’s been an emergency,’ he begins. ‘Sylvie’s daughter, Shayla, is in labour. She’s five weeks early.’

‘Oh no!’ I clap my hand over my mouth. Sylvie’s been so excited about this baby. It’ll be her first grandchild. But even I know five weeks premature is far from ideal. ‘Is she okay? Is the baby okay?’

‘I don’t have many details—I just got a call from Judy. But it’s the summer party at the centre this weekend and Judy can’t make it. They need someone in there running the kitchen so it doesn’t all go to shit, so I’ve agreed to do it.’

‘But you’re not a chef,’ I say, ‘and they’ve got other volunteers who can help in the kitchen, don’t they? Can’t they get someone else to do it?’

He sighs and rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes. ‘They’ve got some volunteers, yeah, but Sylv and Judy run that place. Judy can’t do it by herself, baby. She’s too old. She needs someone there who knows the place like the back of their hand. I can take care of it all for her.’

And there we have it.

I can take care of it all for her.

Fucking Aide and his fucking saviour complex.

‘I’m so sorry about Sylvie’s daughter,’ I say, making a concerted effort to keep my temper. ‘It’s absolutely awful. But the community centre isn’t your problem this weekend, because you already made a commitment. To me. Remember? You can’t pull out of a wedding just like that.’

‘I hate doing this to you,’ he tells me, finally raising those big, blue eyes to me. I know he believes he’s telling the truth. ‘But I have no choice. I can’t let those kids down, sweetheart. They need me a lot more than you do.’

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

‘They’ll always need help a lot more than me,’ I tell him, and yeah, I raise my voice, because I’m now seriously fucked off.

‘But they don’t need you. They need a support system, and adults who are there for them, but that doesn’t fall on you, okay?

And don’t tell me they need you more than I do because they’ll always win that argument if you let them. ’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asks. ‘I can’t let this go south for them. If I don’t help, Judy might have to cancel the party—there’s no way I’m letting that happen.’

‘Honey,’ I say. ‘It’s not incumbent on you to make sure that place looks after itself.

I know it means a lot to you, but you’ve pumped so much time and money into it already.

You gave up two weeks of your time for it last month—that’s a lot .

If you’re so worried about it not being able to run itself then throw some more money at it and hire a fucking full-time manager who’ll be available for all these emergencies. It’s not your problem .’

‘It’s just a one-off,’ he pleads. ‘I’ll make it up to you. We can go away next weekend. Or—I know—I’ll fly out late Saturday or first thing Sunday and we can still do our quiet time together. But I told Judy I’ll be there tomorrow and Saturday, so there’s nothing I can do about that.’

‘Wrong,’ I bark. ‘You should’ve told her you’d be away tomorrow and Saturday and that there was nothing you could do except maybe offer to hire someone.

Don’t go breaking your word to me like it means nothing and then make me feel like I’m being a selfish bitch for calling you out on it.

You and I had a trip planned. You don’t get to go all unilateral and cancel it without checking with me first. It’s just so fucking rude . ’

‘I get that you’re upset,’ he says, pacing back and forth in his office. ‘But it’s an emergency. I’m sure you’ve had work emergencies you’ve had to cancel stuff for in the past.’

‘Yeah, because it’s my business,’ I say.

‘And if it was a crisis at Totum, I’d get it, because your duty is to your investors.

But you’re not these kids’ parent. You need boundaries, Aide.

There’s always going to be something with these kids.

You can’t just toss aside your plans and your personal life and my feelings anytime there’s a hiccup. Jesus .

‘It’s like you can’t bear to allow yourself a weekend of indulgence when other people are out there suffering.

I get it! But at the level of wealth you’ve got to, there will always be that conflict, and you’ve got to find a way of squaring it off without thinking you have to sacrifice all your own pleasure in this desperate attempt to keep everyone else afloat. ’

I pause, because I’m out of breath, and I’m so angry I’m shaking, and I’m also so angry that I can’t actually keep my train of thought straight in my head.

I am fucking furious that he’s bailed on me without a backwards glance, and I’m equally furious that in his head he’s some sort of martyr whose focus on the greater good is so unwavering that it makes people like me, who just want to have a good time, look like they have their priorities wrong.

If it was a real crisis I’d be understanding. Of course I would. I’d be gutted, but I’d give him my blessing. But I know, I just know , he’s doing this out of some fucked-up lack of boundaries rather than because there is no practical solution.

Aide’s a fucking tech genius. If anyone can find a practical solution that doesn’t involve him missing the wedding weekend, it’s him.

I recall a phrase I read once. If you can afford to solve a problem, you don’t have a problem.

Of course he could throw some money at this situation and get it sorted. But he just can’t help himself.

‘I wish I could get out of this, but I can’t,’ he says in this martyred, patient tone that makes my palm twitch, because fuck is it self-righteous and irritating.

‘If I thought there were options, I’d have called you up first. But I’m doing this, and I’m just really fucking sorry I’ll be missing out on our trip.

I know you’ll have a blast. Think of me when you’re partying away, yeah?

I’ll probably be clearing squashed sausage rolls off the floor. ’

‘Don’t you dare play the hard-done-by card with me,’ I tell him through gritted teeth.

‘It’s very clear that you’re doing exactly what you want in this scenario, and that’s wading in to play St Aidan again instead of treating the commitment you made to me this weekend as anything remotely sacred.

And don’t even think about trying to fly out on Sunday. I’ll speak to you when I’m back.’

And with that, I end the FaceTime and immediately put my phone on Do Not Disturb mode. It’s childish, and churlish, but I can’t take another second of the smug self-righteousness on that gorgeous face of his.