Chapter 41
Ethan
Christmas arrives, and, with it, my biggest parenting test to date.
Worse, Soph has gone to Athens for a few days to spend well-earned time with her folks.
I can’t resent her time away, but I miss her.
The house feels particularly soulless at this time of year, and I must admit that Soph’s mausoleum descriptor feels apt, even after the company I’ve hired to decorate the place for the holidays has done their work.
I sent Soph off with a bold token of my appreciation—a Spinelli Kilcollin ring stack in white and yellow gold, dotted with diamonds and emeralds.
It reminded me of her when I saw it in Harrods: exceptional craftsmanship in playful packaging.
It’s serious jewellery, but I could imagine her wearing it as soon as I saw it.
She’d probably say it was another of my ‘tests’, and maybe she was right. A stack of rings is an intimate, serious gift. Would she freak out when I gave it to her?
The answer to that was an unequivocal no. She seemed thrilled with my gift to the level of being besotted, and I have to say it looks pretty sexy on her long, slim fingers.
It looked even sexier when said fingers were wrapped around my dick on her last day in the office.
She in turn gave me a very fine Brunello Cucinelli sweater and—shocker—a stack of self-help books for my bedside table. I’m sure I’ll get around to reading them at some point. There are two on the Enneagram, whatever the fuck that is.
I spend as much of Christmas Day alone as I can, popping over to my parents’ place in South Ken to make a brief appearance at their champagne reception before making my excuses.
I’ve told them that Jamie is coming over to assemble his computer today, and I may have falsified the start time to engineer my escape from the godawful conversation with Dad and his self-satisfied golf buddies.
I take a bracing walk around Holland Park, muttering Merry Christmas to the parents of all the rosy-cheeked kids who are inevitably road-testing new bikes and scooters.
I eat alone—a lovely slice of the Beef Wellington that my chef, Davide, insisted on cooking for me yesterday before I sent him home.
What was it that irritating shit, Theo Montague, called me a couple of weekends ago? Ebenezer. I’d like to think I’ve never been miserly—not in the slightest—but I can’t help but feel like Scrooge as I sit alone at the semi-festive dining table that Susan set for me yesterday: place mat for one.
It’s fine, though. I’d rather be alone than enduring my parents’ grotesque insincerity and their friends’ congratulations over the Montague deal.
Besides, I’m a bundle of nerves over my afternoon with Jamie.
All the components for his PC are wrapped separately in jaunty red-and-white candy-cane paper, thanks to Topher, who procured the cheeriest paper he could find.
I need to get this right, dammit. Building this thing is the perfect chance for us to find common ground, to enjoy some proper quality time together, as long as I don’t sabotage myself.
I’ve spent several sessions now with Philip, unravelling the strands of my dysfunctional relationship with my only son.
Somehow, my time away in Mustique with Soph gave me the perspective I needed to crack on.
Jamie is the reason I agreed to put myself through this, after all.
And I’ve known for longer than I’d like to admit that my relationship with Jamie won’t fix itself.
I need to step the fuck up.
He turns up with Elena around five, looking more animated than I’ve seen in some time.
‘Merry Christmas, Dad! Did everything arrive?’
His lip service to basic festive etiquette has me chuckling. I’m not sure I’ve felt enthusiasm levels like his in a long while—except for when I’ve had Soph laid out before me, that is.
‘Get in here, you little scamp. Merry Christmas.’ I pull him into a hug and plant a smacker on his temple. He’s too tall for me to kiss the top of his head. ‘Yeah, everything’s here, hopefully. I’m sure you’ll tell me in about thirty seconds flat when you’ve ripped all the paper off like a savage.’
I release him and go to kiss Elena on both cheeks.
As usual, she looks stunning and immaculately turned out.
This is bittersweet. It’s only the second Christmas since we separated, and the wounds were very new last year.
We’re far better apart; I know that much.
I was never able to give my wife what she needed, but my burgeoning relationship with Soph tells me that Elena, through no fault of her own, was hopelessly ill-equipped to deal with my particular brand of lingering trauma. Most people would be, to be fair.
That is to say, we’re better off apart. But it seems that the ache of being part of a splintered family feels all the more acute at Christmas.
My wife left me.
My parents disgust me.
And my son is so remote it sometimes feels as though we’re speaking different languages.
I hold out a hand, gesturing for Elena to head through to the drawing room. ‘What time did he wake up this morning?’
‘This morning? Try lunchtime.’
I laugh out loud, and she grins at me. ‘Silver linings.’
‘Agreed.’ God, there were Christmases when Jamie woke us in the dead of night, such was his level of hysteria over Father Christmas having been.
Today, he’s a world-weary fourteen-year-old with no reason to get out of bed.
It’s convenient, and helpful for Elena’s sleep quota, but there’s something sad about it, too.
‘The main event was here,’ she says. ‘He’s been asking me all day if it’s time to come over yet.’
The flush of pleasure is instant, even if I’m only too aware that the attraction is not me.
‘In that case, let’s not keep the man waiting.’
I pour Elena a small glass of red and grab a can of Jamie’s favourite brand of lemonade from the fridge.
Elena and I perch on the sofa next to the tree while Jamie collapses on the rug.
It seems odd that my ex-wife and I aren’t exchanging gifts.
All those years of lavishing her with expensive presents in desperate attempts to make her feel seen and valued and even cherished—all the things that my issues caused her to doubt.
Not sure I’ll ever forgive myself for the myriad ways in which I’ve hurt the people I love.
I thought about getting her something, of course, but ultimately decided against it. It would only have embarrassed her, or worse, upset her.
I clear my throat. ‘Alright, mister. Show us what all these mysterious components are, then.’
I have to say, I’ve been impressed with the way Jamie pitched this entire project to us.
Elena and I have always been very strict on gift budgets.
We don’t ever want our son to have a false perspective on the value of money.
So when he presented me with an gift list of components that ran to four figures, my first reaction was hell, no.
But Jamie surprised me with his ability to argue the concept: he’d need an extremely powerful computer for his Computer Science and Design Technology studies.
This way, he argued, we’d take the pain of a hefty initial outlay but could replace the individual parts at will at a fraction of the cost. The environmental benefits weren’t lost on me, either. And here we are.
He makes rapid work of tearing the paper off parcels ranging from the huge glass case that will house the entire machine to a tiny package containing the thermal paste and brushes.
I hope he knows how to use all this stuff, because I haven’t a bloody clue.
His genuine oohs of happiness are all I need to hear, though.
‘I’ll be off, then,’ Elena says, getting to her feet after he’s laid out his unwrapped gifts in a reverent array. ‘It looks terrifying!’
I see her to the door once she’s done hugging Jamie. She’s heading to Paris first thing tomorrow to see her parents. ‘We’ll see you in a few days.’
‘Have fun.’ She kisses me on the cheek. ‘Rather you than me.’
I laugh drily. ‘You’re not wrong.’
‘Seriously. I think it’ll be good for you two.’ And with a brisk little nod, she’s gone.
We turn the kitchen island into PC Build HQ, unpacking every single component from its layers of protective packaging. For the next three hours, I find myself astonished as my fourteen-year-old son proceeds to put together a powerful computer with calm proficiency. It’s truly staggering.
‘I don’t get how you know how to do this,’ I tell him as I watch him apply thermal paste painstakingly.
‘I watched a lot of videos.’ His gaze remains steadfastly fixed on the job at hand. His attention to detail is really something.
‘What’s that for?’
‘You need it as a layer between the CPU and the CPU cooler. But if I don’t do it right it could overheat, so this was the bit I was most nervous about.’
‘Well, you’re doing a great job. Seriously, mate, I’m so impressed. This is incredible to see. You’ve obviously done your research.’
He halts his painting and glances up at me, a pleased grin on his lovely little face, and I feel as though my heart could burst through my chest with the amount of love I feel for my kid.
Who knew that he would grow into this particular human being, with this personality and these interests?
All I know is that my most important job as a parent is to encourage this, to give him the support and the agency he needs to pursue the dreams that make him him.
When the machine has been fully assembled inside its glass box, aside from the front panel, Jamie looks over at me, his face alight. ‘It’s ready.’
I give him a huge grin. ‘Time for the moment of truth?’
‘Yeah.’ He grimaces and nervously plugs the computer into the socket on the island. ‘I’m really scared.’
‘I know. But it’s not the end of the world if it doesn’t work first time. We can tinker until it does, okay?’
‘Okay.’