Chapter 32 Ethan #2
‘Mmm-hmm. That’s fine. We can try showing him who you are, if you like, unless there’s someone else you need to hear from first?’
My brows knit together again. When I cast my mind’s eye over the motley crew sitting across from me, most of the energy is coming from two of them—the little boy with the reddened eyes and the ice king.
‘The little one,’ I say, almost on instinct. He has to be my priority. After several days of holding him close, I feel responsible for him.
‘Good. See if he’s prepared to share anything, and perhaps remind him first that he knows you. That you’re him all grown up, and he survived, and he’s thriving. That he’s safe now.’
Thriving is hardly the word I’d use to describe my current status in life, but I take his point.
After a few moments of trying to telepathically communicate with him, I ask him what he’d like to tell me.
I’m surprised by the clarity with which his voice hits me.
I have no idea what I sounded like when I was a kid, but he sounds like he might be an even younger version of the nine-or-ten-year-old I met last time. He’s eight, maybe? Seven?
‘He says grown-ups always make promises and never keep them, and they always go away.’
‘That’s right, that’s right.’ He says it soothingly, as if he’s reassuring the younger version of me. ‘Any idea what he’s referring to? Can he tell you more?’
With a jolt of realisation that sickens me, I plant my elbows on the armrests so I can drop my face into my hands. Yes, I have an idea.
Grown-ups always go away.
So. Many. Times.
I clear my throat, battling for my composure. ‘He’s looking at me. He’s absolutely heartbroken. Yeah, I know what he’s talking about. I mean, he’s not exactly short of examples.’
As I breathe deeply, trying to pull myself together, Philip speaks. ‘If you feel in your heart that you’d like to comfort him, feel free. Give him a hug, or have him come and sit on your lap. Whatever feels right for you and for him.’
Head still in my hands, I nod. I’d like that.
He looks so bereft. I can’t leave him there on that office chair.
In my mind, I hold out my hand, and he slides off the chair and comes willingly.
I gather him up and settle his skinny little body on my lap.
He melts into me, his head lolling against my chest.
Now I can breathe more easily. I raise my head, keeping my eyes closed so I don’t lose the line of connection to him. One memory in particular stands out in lurid, agonising Technicolor.
‘Once, we had a special morning at school the week before Father’s Day where the dads could come in and see our work, and our teacher said we could all introduce our dads to the rest of the class.
We spent so much time in the run-up making them special cards.
Mum printed out lots of photos of Dad and me for my card.
They said we could swap ties for the day, and Dad said I could wear his favourite one and he would wear my school tie. ’
Fuck, there’s a stinging in my sinuses. I screw up my nose.
‘Oh, it was my first year at Westminster. I must have been seven, then. Dad said he’d come.
He knew I wanted to tell the class about his hotels business, and also, he was an OW—an Old Westminster—and he loved coming back to the school.
He was super proud of me for getting in, because the entrance exam was really hard.
‘But on the day he didn’t come. I was the only boy with no one there.
My friend Alex’s dad couldn’t come, so his grandpa came instead.
So I wasn’t allowed to present, and I had to sit with Miss Davies when we had our special Father’s Day cupcakes.
I took his card home and gave it to him at dinner, but when I asked him where he’d been, he said he got stuck at work.
’ Tears are stinging my eyes now, and I screw them more tightly shut in an attempt to keep them at bay.
‘He said I didn’t understand how hard he worked for this family and that I was an ungrateful little arsehole.
And—he said that if I was at all grateful, I would stick to my job and work hard at my school subjects so I could do my family proud rather than wasting my time doing arts and crafts. ’
I can’t help it. I shudder out a huge breath and, to my utter horror, the tears come, silent but devastating, wracking my body.
In desperation, I open my eyes a fraction, squinting at the tissue box I know to be on the coffee table between us.
Without a word, Philip holds the box out to me, his face stricken.
I can feel the compassion radiating from him.
I nod my thanks and yank a couple out, holding them to my face and blowing loudly.
I’m as embarrassed by my outpouring of emotion as I am shocked by it.
I never, ever cry. But, more potent than anything else, the heartbreak of reliving that moment crowds my mind and squeezes my heart in a vice.
I can still see the card. It was blue, with several photos that I’d painstakingly glued to make a montage. Front and centre was a shot of Dad and me grinning at Stamford Bridge, during an incredible VIP trip to see Chelsea play Man United at home.
I was so proud of that photograph. Of that memory.
But the happiness it brought me had nothing on the pain of that Father’s Day celebration at school.
Of being left alone, with no father to proudly show off and no tie to swap.
Of being gaslit and belittled when I got home as Mum, in her usual style, tried to brush my pain under the carpet and prioritise keeping the peace over giving me the comfort I so desperately craved.
‘I’m so very sorry that happened to you,’ Philip says after a few moments. ‘What would your adult self like to say to him?’
I let my eyes drift closed and my head fall back, exhausted. ‘That it’s not his fault, none of it. That his dad let him down, and it was inexcusable. That’—more tears leak quietly from my eyes—‘his dad is an egotistical twat, and I’m so sorry he had to survive that shit, over and over.’
‘Good. And what’s in your heart towards him?’
‘So much compassion. And love. I’m so proud of him, but my heart bleeds for him, you know? It just bleeds.’
‘Yeah,’ he says quietly. ‘Does he know that? Can he feel your love?’
In my mind, I wrap my arms even more tightly around that little boy who was so cruelly rejected by his arsehole father. He sags against me. He seems exhausted, but calmer. ‘Yes. I think so.’
‘Please thank him for his bravery in sharing.’ He clears his throat, and I open my eyes to see him cock his head. ‘And does your ice king part have anything to say about this? Or your angry part? I’m curious to hear how they feel about your father’s mistreatment of you.’
‘The angry part’s still angry.’ I wipe my eyes with the balled-up tissue. I, too, feel calmer. ‘He’s spitting fire. But… the ice king part is saying, “See? The only thing you can do is take all the power back and hold it for yourself”.’
Philip frowns. ‘Who’s he saying that to? The little one? Or the angry guy?’
‘Both.’ Wow. ‘He’s telling them both that this is the only way to get ahead. That if you let yourself get hurt or angry, he gets all the power.’
‘He being your father?’
I nod. ‘Yeah.’
‘Interesting. So what else does he have to tell you? How does he cope?’
‘Well, um, he says that if you leave first, you have all the power, so it doesn’t matter if the other person then leaves.’
‘Ahh, I see. So is that why he withdrew when Sophia told you about her future plans, when that little boy got hurt? Can he tell you more about that—about how he felt in that moment? What does he see his job as?’
I let my eyes drift closed again. My inner ice king is still sitting at the head of the table. Fittingly, the froideur emanating from him is intense. I’m getting mixed signals—it’s as if he wants to tell me to fuck off and at the same time is keen to share what seems eye-rollingly obvious to him.
‘Well, he says that he has all the levers, and that means he has the power to control everything about the situation, and if you don’t pull those levers then you’re fucking stupid and you’re leaving yourself wide open.’ That actually sounds quite chilling—sinister, even.
‘And what levers are those?’
‘Well, you control the physical distance first. Withdraw. Get as far away as possible. Then you control the emotional temperature. When you freeze someone out, they can’t touch you.
You’re in control of the situation, not them.
Make them feel bad—you’re showing them that you won’t stand for any bullshit stunts.
Show them you’re not vulnerable to attack.
’ My spine grows straighter as I speak, as if I’m absorbing his power.
‘He sounds very strategic,’ Philip observes mildly. ‘What else does he have in his toolkit?’
I consider for a moment. ‘Well, a lot of it’s about controlling what you give to others.
If I don’t show my feelings, then you can’t use them against me.
If I keep you at arm’s length, you can’t pull the rug out from under me.
If I pay you for your time, then I don’t owe you anything.
’ A vision of Sophia fills my mind and I shake it off.
‘He’s very persuasive. Very impressive. Clearly he believes very much in what he’s saying. But that language is also very armoured language, Ethan. Can you hear that from where you’re sitting?’
I relax my spine again and exhale. ‘Yeah. It is, I suppose.’
‘He’s very certain that he’s found the winning formula, but we know that certainty isn’t in any way correlated with correctness, don’t we? How old did you say he was? Early twenties?’
‘Yeah. I think so.’ There’s an arrogance there for sure, a once bitten twice shy kind of certitude. ‘I think it was after my dad had hired me to Kingsley Hotels, so he’d kind of given me the keys to the castle. But I was still very much on probation.’
‘I see. So you realised your anger didn’t serve you and that this kind of armouring up was the way forward?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘And you had exactly this reaction when Sophia inadvertently triggered a much younger hurt part.’
‘Yeah.’ I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
He blows out a breath. ‘Well, first of all, what an incredible bodyguard you’ve created for yourself.
How spectacularly effective. He’s essentially weaponised emotional withholding to the extreme.
I wonder if you can take a moment to reflect on just what a wonderful job this protector part has done of ensuring that no one is allowed to hurt your younger parts, over all these years, and tell him how grateful you are?
I mean, in many ways he’s magnificent. If you see fit and you feel that gratitude in your heart, take the time to thank him for his service. ’
My entire life, I’ve been made to feel like my tendency to withdraw, to control, has been one gigantic character flaw.
Control freak. Ice cold. My ex-wife, who, alongside my son and my previous EAs, has borne the brunt of my emotional coldness, used to weep and rail.
You freeze people out. It’s like living with a robot.
You punish people for caring about you. And, honestly, I can’t blame her in the slightest. She was right.
I did punish people for caring about me. For daring to get too close.
But this is the first time in my life that anyone has suggested that this ice king-slash-bodyguard is in any way positive. Beneficial. Necessary.
And that may be one of the most beautiful gifts a fellow human has ever given me.
I drop my head, shoulders sagging, entire body softening, curving inwards. Thank you, I say to myself. Thank you for keeping me safe. Thank you for saving me from him.
‘The thing is,’ Philip says gently when I’ve finished my internal prayer of gratitude and met his eyes once more, ‘that we can now start to release this part from a lifetime of extreme service so he’s free to choose a role he actually wants to do.
Maybe he becomes your most brilliant, dispassionate strategist or your clearest-headed leader.
‘If we help him to understand that you’re safe now, then he can lay down his arms and stand beside you rather than in front of you. Because your adult self is whole and strong and worthy of connection, and shields don’t foster connection. They prevent it. How does that sound?’
I feel hopeful for the first time in a long time.
Hopeful that I can change.
Hopeful that I can free myself from whatever fortress I’ve erected around myself.
I nod my agreement. ‘Yeah. It sounds great, actually.’
‘I’m glad. You’ve worked through a lot today, Ethan.
And here's what I want you to sit with this week.
Your ice king learnt that emotional withholding gives you power.
But every time he does his job—every time he withdraws, punishes, controls—he's teaching someone else that love isn't safe. He's creating the very wound in others that he was designed to protect in you. So perhaps, this week, it’s he whom you keep close.’
His words don’t just land.
They detonate.
I’m sure he means to speak in generalisations, but I can only think of one thing.
Jamie.
Oh, God.
Jamie.