Chapter 15
Nora
Iwhisk eggs for breakfast in a perspex bowl while peering at the spreadsheet that houses the budget for Miles and Saoirse’s wedding.
I want to refresh my memory on every line item of that budget, so I know what we can reallocate if they come up with any additional requests when we’re touring Sorrel Farm today.
I’ve seen this happen time and time again. The provisional budget goes out the window when couples get on site and their imaginations go wild. Not that I can see that being a problem here: I suspect Miles will sign off on anything Saoirse wants. Lucky girl.
I’m not envious that she’s marrying someone with money. I’d just like to know how it feels to have someone stare at you like you’re the axis around which their entire world revolves. The answer to all their prayers.
Like the way I’m sure Theo stares at himself in the mirror.
Speak of the devil.
He strides into the kitchen. Dressed, thankfully, and staring down at his phone.
His hair’s still damp and combed carefully off his face.
He’s in a perfectly pressed, sky blue linen shirt and cream chinos.
He should be in some 1950s movie, driving around Lake Como on a Vespa.
This guy could definitely model if it all went wrong for him in…
whatever the hell industries he operates in.
‘Fucking Wordle,’ he mutters.
I snigger. ‘How many lines have you done?’
‘Three down. And I’ve only got a green and two yellows.’
I stay diplomatically silent.
‘Do you do it?’ he asks.
‘Every morning, as soon as I wake up. I’m obsessed.’
‘How’d you get on today?’ He drags the question out reluctantly.
I press my lips together apologetically before answering him.
‘Got it in three. Sorry.’ Not sorry.
‘Fuck’s sake. Nice work, though.’ He locks his phone and chucks it down on the counter. ‘It’s frying my brain. I’ll come back to it later.’
I throw him a bone. ‘It was a tough one today.’
I stiffen as he walks around the island and comes up behind me, too close for comfort.
‘Whatya doin’?’
‘I’m making scrambled eggs.’ I turn on the hob and heat the pan I found in the drawer below.
‘Nice. But what’s this?’
He peers at the spreadsheet.
‘Theo! That’s confidential. It’s Miles and Saoirse’s wedding budget.’
He ignores me and hits the track pad, scrolling down the spreadsheet and emitting a low whistle.
‘Hoooly fuck. Is that how much it costs to get married?’
‘Stop it.’ I reach over and slam the laptop shut. ‘No. It’s a proposed budget, working within their initial perimeters. And yes, it’s larger than the average wedding budget—by a factor of around twenty—but a lot of the items on there are discretionary. And your brother doesn’t want to stint.’
‘Not where his darling Saoirse’s concerned, that’s for sure.’ He shakes his head.
‘Come on.’ I pour the whisked eggs into the pan. ‘I hope you’re not going to be nasty today. I don’t get why you’re even coming, anyway.’
‘Ostensibly because I’m best man, and I should pretend to give a shit.
But really because I want to check this place out.
I may be the black sheep of the family, but I’m a Montague, and if I get a chance to check out a hotel that’s winning awards left, right and centre, I’m damn well going to do it. ’
‘That makes sense.’ I stir the eggs slowly, watching as the solids form ribbons. ‘So, do you actually have any formal role at The Montague Group right now?’
‘Nope.’ He takes a seat at the island and coaxes tea bags around two mugs I’ve filled with boiling water and left to brew.
‘And I hate to admit it, but it’s my fault.
Miles went in straight from his MBA without even considering another option.
I mean, he did his MBA on the understanding that he’d join the family firm afterwards.
And Stephen was the opposite—adamant he wouldn’t get involved.
He always wanted to go into complementary medicine.
And I was kind of… stuck in the middle. I didn’t want to follow in anyone’s footsteps just because it was expected, or because it was on the table.
I wanted to exhaust my other options. This strong enough for you? ’
I nod and ladle the eggs onto two plates.
I’ve already buttered some sourdough and sauteed the last of the season’s asparagus.
This is the main problem with living off High Street Ken: the proximity to the massive Whole Foods is lethal.
I push the plates across the island and go around it, hoisting myself up on a bar stool next to my not-ugly breakfast companion.
He really is beautiful. Not my type, of course—I favour the quintessential British gent—but incredibly easy on the eye and, it turns out, not a total nightmare to shack up with, platonically speaking.
‘Keep going.’ I hand him a fork. ‘I want to hear it.’
‘Okay. So I did. I tried various things. Some worked out, some didn’t. The wine gig is proving more successful than I imagined.’
‘What are you doing, exactly? Importing?’
‘Yeah. I have a buddy who’s a private wealth manager in Bermuda. He got wind of the fact that there was excess inventory of first growths piling up there. Bordeaux exports a good chunk of its production to tax havens, or anywhere the super wealthy congregates.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘But for some reason, the take up isn’t as high as the supply, whereas in Europe, demand is still outstripping supply, so we import the excess back over here where the market is scorching.’
I pop a forkful of eggs in my mouth. ‘Sounds environmentally friendly.’
He shrugs. ‘Touché. We’re working on that part. And look, maybe this opportunity is a short-term thing. Maybe the supply over there will let up, but right now there’s a little arbitrage to be done, so we’ll take it.’
I watch his face as he speaks.
‘And the art stuff? Do you have a background in art?’
He scoffs. ‘No way. The only things I care about are appetite, trends and valuation. I’ve picked that up over years of going to galleries and watching the market very carefully. I don’t give a shit how “important” a piece is.’
‘Or how beautiful?’
‘Look. I love art as much as the next person.’ He gestures around his gorgeous flat, where some truly beautiful pieces hang. They’re eclectic, and yet the mix of colours and textures and techniques works brilliantly.
‘I can see that. Don’t tell me you don’t have a good eye.’
‘I know what I like. This stuff is for me. But the pieces I take a chance on for the gallery—I view them strictly as investments.’
‘That’s a bit depressing.’
He forks some eggs onto his sourdough. ‘This is hitting the spot, by the way. It’s really good.
Depressing it may be, but at the top end of the art market, it’s all about investment.
A huge proportion of privately owned art is stored in wooden crates in climate-controlled warehouses in offshore havens.
That’s just the reality of it. Now that’s depressing.
And elitist. With NFTs, far more people get a chance to own part of a decent piece of art, and they stand to benefit when that asset hopefully appreciates. I think it’s fucking genius.’
I smirk. ‘You really need to work on your self confidence, Theo.’
‘Not me, smart arse. The whole concept of using blockchain technology for art. Sadly, I can’t take credit for coming up with it. Wish I could.’
I mop up a dollop of egg with my bread. ‘So, that all sounds like it keeps you busy. Why d’you want in on the hotel business?’
He cocks his head, considering. ‘I earned the reputation for being the work-shy Montague. Fairly. Mum and Dad have spent forty years working themselves to the bone. Miles is a psycho. And Stephen’s always been driven by this starry-eyed certainty that his purpose in life is to help others.
Whereas I’ll admit I liked the lifestyle.
The trust fund. After uni, I took a gap year that turned into two.
I wasn’t hungry. And I didn’t want to turn into my parents or Miles.
I didn’t want to be a cliché, going into the family business, though it turns out being the useless middle kid who rips through his trust fund is even more of a cliché.
‘But I started dabbling in some ventures. Made some mistakes. Made some money. Then more. And I realised I was developing an appetite for it. For ideas, stories, for the rush that comes with taking a risk on something you believe in, and putting in the work, and having it pay off. I like building things. Turns out, I’m more like my parents than I care to admit. ’
‘You’re naturally entrepreneurial,’ I tell him. ‘You’re like them in that respect. And you’re not afraid to go it alone. So I still don’t get why you want in on the hotel business. It sounds so different from the stuff you said floats your boat—the stuff you’re involved with now.’
‘That’s how I always saw it.’
He hugs his mug of tea, not meeting my eye. The eyelashes that brush his cheeks are plain indecent: mascara-model-level indecent. I refocus on what he’s saying.
‘Boring sector, but cyclical—the worst of both worlds. Massive assets that are as hard to turn around as the Titanic. It just struck me as staid. But there are some cool people out there doing interesting things, making those assets work harder, and I can’t help but think I could bring something to the table precisely because I’ve had more distance from the sector than the rest of them have.
I dabble in other industries. I like to think I keep my finger on the pulse of what’s happening with society—more than Miles does, at any rate—so I think that perspective could be valuable. ’
‘It’s a challenge.’ I shrug. ‘I get it. Who doesn’t like a challenge? But do they not see this value? Do they not see how stupid it’d be not to listen to your opinion?’
He gives me a tight smile. ‘I’m not sure they see value when they think of me.
And the message I’ve had from them all, loud and clear, is that I haven’t earned the right to speak up because I haven’t put in the years with the firm.
So I need to worm my way in enough that they’ll listen to my ideas, even if they won’t give me a seat at the table just yet. There has to be another way.’
We’ve both finished our breakfast. I go to take his plate and stack it with mine, but he stops me. ‘Let me.’
‘Thanks. And Manhattan’s the area you’ve identified as having the most potential?’
‘Yeah.’ He rounds the island and proceeds to stack the dishwasher.
‘Well, that, and the fact that it’s far enough from my family that I could actually enjoy some autonomy.
And I have lots of mates out there, in a variety of fields.
Bankers, entrepreneurs, artists, socialites: I’d have a better shot than anyone else in the family of being able to make some bold decisions for the hotels and have a fighting chance of them succeeding. ’
‘What about your other businesses?’
‘It’s all about how I use my time, angel.
I have no intention of being chained to my desk twenty four-seven like my brother is—or like he was before he met Saoirse and found a far more enjoyable way to spend his time.
I like a portfolio career approach. I get bored otherwise.
But I’m a big believer in hiring people who can do shit that’s not a good use of my time.
So I can stay involved in the wine stuff and the gallery from wherever I am, because I delegate.
Something it looks like you might benefit from, from the amount of time I’ve seen you spend buried in those spreadsheets. ’
He’s right. I’m so terrified of ceding control, because it’s my name on my company and every wedding is my baby.
I’m also terrified of putting more full-time staff on my payroll.
At the moment, my business doesn’t need much capital beyond man hours.
And the more I can do myself, the more stable the business is and the higher my profit margin is.
Unless I run myself into the ground first.
‘You could be right,’ I say drily.
‘I want to hear all about your business on the way down. I want to understand more about how it works.’
I slide off my bar stool. ‘It’s not rocket science, but okay.’
‘Don’t sell yourself short. I bet it’s the stuff logistical nightmares are made of, and it’s like herding cats on top of that. If you can deal with brides, you deserve all the luck in the world.’
‘Again, you’re not wrong.’
He grins at me teasingly, and our eyes lock. ‘You ready to go in five? Ready to spend the day holding hands and looking loved up?’
In response, I point two fingers at my temple and mime pulling the trigger.
‘Such a sweetheart. Not sure how I got so lucky. You know, Josh told me the other day that when he and Elle started out doing sex scenes, they had to hold eye contact in silence for a minute beforehand to develop trust and intimacy. Obviously, now everyone knows they’re banging each other’s brains out, they’ve ditched that little ice breaker.
’ He waggles his shapely eyebrows at me. ‘But maybe we should try it.’
‘Romeo. One. We’re not shooting any sex scenes any time soon. Two. Our “intimacy” will be limited to hand-holding where absolutely necessary to keep this charade up in front of your brother. And three. It would take far more than a minute of eye contact for me to trust you.’
Four. If I have to look into those dark, decadent pools of immorality and have the filth that’s in your mind reflected back at me, I may swoon so hard I’ll need a strong pair of arms and some smelling salts.