Page 92 of Vivacity

Bren guffaws. ‘You’re not wrong.’

‘What is it you do again?’ I ask Aide. ‘Medtech?’

‘Medical data. I run a company called Totum.’

‘Of course, that’s right.’ I know of Totum, in that it’s a member of the FTSE 100 index. As I understand it, it allows all the trusts within the NHS to share patient data, which shouldn’t be complicated and yet, thanks to the vagaries of our National Health Service, is near impossible.

‘Aide’s the real deal,’ Bren says cheerfully. ‘Not like us nepo babies.’

I grimace. ‘I can imagine. How’d you get into it, anyway?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah, you don’t want to hear that.’

‘Actually,’ I say, ‘I’d like to. Here I am, running a family legacy I don’t really give a shit about and ruining another family with a deal I’m honestly not even sure I want. So hearing from someone who’s actually leading from the heart would make a nice change.’

Where the fuck did that emotional vomit come from?

Bren and Aide both stare at me.

‘Fucking hell, Kingsley,’ Bren says. ‘Therapy’s definitely loosened your tongue.’

I shrug. ‘I think I’m just past caring. Honestly, I’d love to hear your story, mate.’

Aide sighs and embarks on his tale with the reluctance of someone whose ego is in no way tied to his—clearly extraordinary—achievements. He tells us about how there was a kid at his school who was being systematically abused by his father. Because the dad always took him to different emergency departments at different NHS trusts after he’d beaten the shit out of him, the pattern of abuse was never picked up on by the authorities.

The kid ended up dying.

JesusChrist. My blood runs cold, and I feel sick to my stomach.

‘That is so wrong on every fucking level,’ I say gruffly.

‘Yeah, it is,’ Aide agrees. So he went on, while at uni, to build a software programme that could translate and share all patient data widely while remaining highly secure. Totum—the Latin word forall.Lotta’s father, who is a well-known software billionaire, ended up seeding him his first round of capital. He dropped out of uni, and the rest is history.

I frown. ‘Hang on—so you must have known Lotta before, no?’

‘We met at her house once. She was sixteen, and I was a petrified twenty-year-old. She has no recollection of it.’ He shakes his head fondly. ‘Clearly, I wasn’t memorable enough for her back then.’

I’m mulling over the rest of the story. ‘You built a business because of a social injustice that you wouldn’t—couldn’t—let slide, and you’ve saved lives and totally overhauled the NHS.’

‘I definitely haven’t overhauled it, mate. It’s still a fucking shitshow.’

‘Agreed. But you made a real difference. You addressed a real problem.’

‘Your hotels address a problem, too,’ Bren argues. ‘You may not be saving lives, but you’re offering a service.’

‘I suppose so.’ I look down at my glass. ‘Would you ever want to take early retirement?’ I ask Aide. ‘Spend more time with your family?’

He purses his lips. ‘Nah. Not at the moment. I’ve stepped back from a lot of community responsibilities—Lotta taught me the meaning of the word boundaries when we got together. But the company itself—I really believe in it, you know? There’s still so much work to do. I’m pretty evangelical about it. So no, I’d struggle to hand over the reins.’

I stare at him. ‘Sounds more like a calling than a career to me.’

He shrugs. ‘Feels more like it, too.’

What would that be like? To get out of bed every morning with a fire in your belly? To know that you’re doing good, to be excited for the day ahead because you truly believe in your cause?

I have no fucking clue.

I run a company that I inherited.