Chapter Thirteen
Walter and Lysander stood on a terrace in the middle of a small island in the middle of an Italian lake and watched the bride and groom having their photographs taken by what looked like an entire Vogue entourage.
White peacocks weaved among the guests who sipped Louis Roederer and a string quartet played Vivaldi.
‘Edoardo doesn’t look well.’
Walter observed his friend, the father of the bride, having his photo taken with his family.
His expression was one of pride and nerves, his skin pale, his grin stilted.
Maybe it was the pre-speech nerves. Walter remembered them well from Anastasia’s wedding thirteen years ago in Kristalldorf.
Lysander’s wedding had been less pressure, as Megan’s dad did a wonderful speech at long floral trestle tables on a beach in The Hamptons.
At best, this wedding would go in the society pages of Tatler or Hola! At worst, a small photo in the European gossip rags, and only because Dua Lipa was being flown in as the evening entertainment, rumour had it among the younger guests.
‘Probably thinking of his legacy – handing it all over to that chancer,’ Lysander said, nodding to the groom, whose teeth were too white to be natural.
‘Edo’s no fool!’ Walter said in his booming voice.
The two men stood side-by-side watching the families being directed under the red-orange foliage of larch and azalea.
Walter wore a suit made by his tailor in Zurich; Lysander wore Armani.
Both clutched their champagne flutes to their buttoned chests.
‘And nor am I …’ he added, turning to his son.
‘What’s up, Dad?’
Walter tried not to become irritated by his son’s Americanisms. He dug deep to remember that Lysander was schooled there.
He had married an American. Hell, he’d probably lived over there longer than he ever lived in Switzerland by now, so he tried to go easy.
He wanted to talk to his son about succession, without letting him know he was ill.
‘I might start slowing down a bit, I need to be thinking about my legacy. Who’s going to take over, when I die.’
‘Jesus, Dad! Weddings sure make you cheery.’
‘I’m seventy now –’
‘Seventy and a day. And I’m pretty sure you’ll be working until you’re ninety-nine, at least!’ Lysander tried to lighten the mood.
Walter gave a rueful look.
‘Your sisters aren’t taking to the Anna Maria like I thought they would.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I gifted them the hotel to see if they could pull together, but it’s only driving them further apart.’
Lysander gave his father a doubtful look.
‘Didn’t you gift them the hotel to see who would come out on top?’ He said it with fond remonstration.
Walter shook his head and tried to ignore the barb.
‘Well it’s not working.’
‘They were both working at midnight!’
‘Vivian was, Anni, I don’t think so. Vivian didn’t see her there last night anyway …’
‘Oh, I thought she –’
‘You know how she struggles to stick with any one thing, how flighty she can be,’ Walter explained.
‘Right …’
‘I suppose I always knew Vivian would make a better go of it, but I hoped Anastasia would learn from Vivian’s focus and drive. All I’ve done is pit them against each other. Even more.’
‘So why don’t you give Anastasia a different hotel to run?’
Walter shook his head.
‘Too risky,’ he said. Anastasia really didn’t stick at anything for very long. He couldn’t trust her with another major role in the business. Not on her own.
A make-up artist jumped in to powder the mother of the bride.
‘What about you, son? How would you like to take over?’
Lysander almost choked on his champagne and put a fist to his mouth while he recovered.
‘Dad!’
‘What?’ Walter looked puzzled.
‘I can take a deposition from an ex-president but I know nothing about hospitality. Even Anastasia knows more than I do!’ Lysander said it with a sardonic laugh.
‘But you’re my heir. Have you never considered coming home?’
Lysander let out an exasperated sigh.
‘Home is New York.’
He tried not to hurt his father’s feelings, although it irritated him, that for a clever and powerful man, he could be so stupid sometimes: marrying Kiki in Las Vegas after an exceptional night at the blackjack table was one of his most foolish moves.
And now this? Offering him the business when it was so stark he wasn’t the right choice.
‘I’ve always known there’s a job for me in the business if I want it, but I never have, Dad, I’m sorry but you know this. It’s why I went into law.’
Walter shook his head but stopped himself short of saying it out loud: why had his sons failed him?
He looked across at Viktor Kivvi, chatting to the head of a French luxury goods empire and his Colombian socialite wife.
It gave him small comfort to know Viktor Kivvi didn’t seem to have obvious successors either.
One of his sons ponced around with a fencing sword while the other bummed around Kristalldorf as if he were still fifteen.
And the daughter really was just a child.
‘So what am I to do?’ Walter asked, feeling a little dejected.
‘Dad, it’s so obvious. Vivian. She eats, sleeps and breathes the business. She’s a wonderful host and a fair boss. She’s too kind for anyone in town to double cross, so people don’t mess around with her. It sounds like the Anna Maria is doing wonders, whatever you think.’
‘It is, it is …’
Lysander looked across at his father, a little disappointed by his everyday sexism.
‘Come on Dad, I’m your first-born son but that does not mean I’d be the right person to run the business. Seriously.’
Walter and Lysander paused as they watched Lumi Kivvi glide across the terrace in a long silver dress to join her husband and his group. She furnished her husband with a glass and he looked irritated by her in response.
Walter nodded, as if he were conceding a game of chess.
‘I know. I just wanted to check with you, that you’re certain the door is closed. It’s my dream for you all to take it on. Even Caspian, in his own way …’
‘Sorry, Dad. And it really is obvious. If you want to get things in place, I think Vivian is your woman. It won’t be easy, but perhaps you can carve out a different role for Anastasia. She seems so … frustrated with everything.’
Walter nodded and took a sip from his glass but curled his nose up at it. He preferred Laphroaig Scotch whisky to Louis Roederer.
‘Is everything OK?’ Lysander had the feeling his father was holding something back.
He remembered Walter’s string of infections last winter, but he didn’t seem to have had one for a while.
And his mental cognition seemed tip-top, even if his mood had been a little grumpy of late. ‘Is there something else on your mind?’
Walter looked across the terrace again and felt a lurch.
‘Yes. There is.’
‘Well, is it anything I can help with?’
‘Yes. Get me out of my marriage, will you?’
Lysander breathed a sigh of relief; finally his father was seeing sense.