Chapter 32
Thirty two
Christian
The night Stella died, I left the hospital and walked to the south bank and stared deep into the dark depths of the Thames, wondering what it would feel like to drown.
The idea of it filled me with a strange mix of relief and calm, because just the thought of the years of loneliness and grief that stretched out before me was unfathomable.
I wasn’t sure I could survive that. To wake up each morning in a world without her in it, to live every single day from now on without her smile or her laugh or the warmth of her body. I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.
The river that night looked welcoming, city lights shimmering on the surface like fireflies, and a warmth below the inky depths that I was certain I’d never again find above it.
It would be so easy. Over quickly. Quickly enough, at least. Quicker than it had been for Stella.
She didn’t even like skiing. I’d been the one to insist we went each bloody year.
I’d gripped the metal balustrade in a determined white fist, imagining the cold, which would likely knock me unconscious before any real damage was done, imagining the silence, imagining the peace, a few moments, and it would all be over.
Then my phone rang.
“Sweet Child O’ Mine” bursting into the murky night air.
Leo.
I’d been living with the guilt of those thoughts for years.
I’d come so close to leaving him behind, alone at barely eighteen—a year out from losing his future and his friends and almost his life.
He’d just lost his mother, and I was going to take his father away from him, too.
I was a selfish, cowardly man, and six years on, I had barely changed.
I’d let the guilt and the shame and the grief set up a home inside me and then carried on as though I lived alone.
As I stare into the Potomac now, it’s not to those same kinds of thoughts; I want to live.
I want to love—I want to love Asher—and I want to do it without being afraid every second of my bloody life.
I suspect that I already love Asher, that it happened slowly and then all at once, and I only understood it for what it was when he’d uttered the words himself.
When he’d been as brave and bold as ever and spoken them aloud, against his better judgement.
As soon as he said them, I recognised their shape and tone and voice, the way I might recognise an old friend.
I hadn’t lied to Asher when I told him I was terrified—I was.
I was terrified of myself, what I might do were I to lose someone else I loved as deeply as I loved Stella.
And Christ, Leo. I’d failed him every day since she died because I’d been determined to ignore the pain and the loss; I was afraid to look at it.
Afraid that if I looked at it too hard, I might find myself back there by the south bank.
In the years since that night, I’ve used work, Felix, and then Asher to stop me from having to look at the great and terrible monster that is grief. It isn’t fair to them. It is time to look at it. It is time.
When I get back to the residence, the cleaning crew have finished, the place once again polished and displayed like a museum.
Gael, Micah, and Sara are having some kind of impromptu meeting in the library, which stops as soon as I enter.
I rarely see all three of them together in a room, and they look easy in each other’s company.
I wonder vaguely if they’re friends, if they meet up on a Friday evening in a local pub to talk about how soul-destroying it is to work for me.
“Sir,” Gael says, standing. Micah and Sara do the same. “Are you alright?” asks Sara, concern flashing over her eyes as she takes me in. I look as awful as I feel, then.
“I’ve been better, Miss Foster. Why are you all here? I thought I told you to take the day off. Last night was work, so you’re in breach of your contract being here.” I resist the urge to shoo them off. “Is my son in the building?”
Sara and Micah excuse themselves from the room, leaving me with Gael. He’s dressed casually today, at least, no work suit or polished loafers in sight.
“I believe he is, sir, yes,” replies Gael. “Would you like me to get him for you?”
“No, that’s alright. I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t flown off somewhere again. What about Felix and Nico, are they here?”
“Mr Taylor-Brooke and Mr Savini left with Troy around an hour ago. I think they were going shopping.”
“Good. Okay, I want you to leave this house as well, please. Don’t worry, I’m not going to burn it down, I just want you to take a day off, Gael.
The clean-up is finished, I don’t need anything except some peace and quiet, so why don’t you give Amata de Santos a call and invite her out to dinner?
” Gael blushes furiously. “I thought you two looked like you were getting on last night?”
“Oh, we were. She’s great. A little… intimidating.”
I smile at this. “I always find those are the greatest sorts of women. The ones that scare you a little.”
“Really?”
“Stella terrified me when we first met. She was so quick-witted and competent, so thoroughly brilliant at everything, was exciting to be around.” Being around Asher was exciting too, but in an entirely different way.
His aura was a bright baby blue, where Stella’s had been a sort of sparkling silver, but they both moved with a similar sort of purpose through the world, leaving everyone staring after them, stunned that such a wondrous and vibrant person existed.
My heart aches from the loss of both of them, though it’s quickly followed by the same resolve I’d felt in his kitchen. It is time.
Gael nods decisively. “I think I’ll call her,” he says. “If you’re sure you don’t need anything, sir?”
“I don’t. Go.”
When Gael leaves, I place three phone calls.
One to Lewis, the foreign secretary, tendering my resignation from the ambassador post, a second to my assistant in London, and a third to my parents to tell them I’m coming home.
Then I go looking for my son. We hadn’t talked this morning but had promised to continue our chat from my office last night, today, because I’d a residence full of important guests I couldn’t ignore.
He’s not in his room, but I pass Marianne, the new housemaid, as I come back down the stairs—she’s stopped curtseying in my presence, but backs herself against a wall and stands to attention, eyes lowered.
I thought that with Grace on holiday, she might have come out of her shell a little. She has not.
I give her a warm smile. “Hello, Marianne, the place looks wonderful, thank you. I’m looking for my son. About yay high with pink hair?” I bring my hand above my head to indicate Leo’s height.
“I saw him in the kitchen, sir.”
“Thank you.” I stop myself from saying at ease before she unpins herself from the wall and scutters upstairs.
Leo isn’t in the kitchen, but the back door is open, and I can hear him outside talking on his phone, and I stop a moment just inside, listening to see if it’s something I should be present for.
His voice is low and emotive, though the words are mainly inaudible, but then he moves closer to the door, allowing me to overhear some of the conversation.
“…us. And? You think I’m not? This is my life, too.
Oh, fuck you, Cal. Yeah… whatever. Good luck tomorrow…
” The words are said angrily, which negates the meaning, and then he’s quiet.
I push open the door and round out onto the deck to find him with his back to me, staring out over manicured gardens at the side of the property to the tennis courts there.
His shoulders rise and fall quickly as he grips his phone in a tight fist by his side.
“There you are,” I announce breezily. He whips around, pain and anger on his face. I frown. “Are you alright?”
His lips flatten against his teeth as he nods. “Yeah, great.”
“Right, well.” Would he ever learn to talk to me again? I wanted to be someone he could confide in, someone he could trust. I have so much to make up for. “I wondered if you wanted to finish that talk now?”
“Not really, Dad. Can we leave it today.” He goes to stride past me, and my heart sinks a little more. I thought we had made some headway into this last night. I wasn’t expecting the shutters to have been rolled down again so completely.
“No, we can’t.” He stops and stares at me.
“I phrased it like a question, but it wasn’t one.
Please sit down, Leo.” He debates arguing, looks behind me at the house, then rolls his eyes and strolls back over to fling himself down on one of the patio sofas.
I take a seat on one of the armchairs opposite.
It’s a pleasant day in DC, crisp blue skies scattered with soft wisping clouds, the pleasant chirp of birds around us.
It’s not been a terrible place to spend the last year, but I won’t be too sad to leave it, either.
Leo stares at me expectantly, impatiently, and I get a small moment of stage fright under the weight of that stare.
I always wanted him to be proud of me, to never feel ashamed or embarrassed by me, and a life in politics for my party makes that a challenge.
But I understood something last night, and that was: my son would never be proud of a coward.
“You asked me last night if I was gay,” I begin. “I think the correct term would be bisexual.” He blinks, a little surprised, but otherwise there’s no great shift in his demeanour.