Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116759 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 467(@250wpm)___ 389(@300wpm)
Harry continually mocked his dad because he seemed to forget where the family started. Harry’s grandfather was Baron Grimstone of Kensington and a member of the House of Lords. However, he was born outside of Glasgow, never attended university, and worked his way up in life. He’d been in television in the eighties, as in he owned a UK studio. He’d then gone on to become a director of a massive telecommunications company, before snowballing more businesses under his billionaire wings. While Harry’s father had grown up in Kent, attended Eton, and St. Andrews University, Harry’s grandfather had never forgotten he was a working-class boy who did well for himself. He’d dedicated a lot of time and money to charities and was knighted for his philanthropy. From there, he’d ascended to the House of Lords.
Harry got on better with his grandfather than his dad who really was the most pretentious arsehole I’d ever met. I could have lived anywhere. I wasn’t fussed about accommodation. Neither was Zac, whose mother was an Academy Award-winning actor who had him through artificial insemination with donor sperm. She’d sent Zac to a posh prep school and then Harrow. Unlike Harry, whom I’d known since boarding school, we’d met Zac in our first year. To give Harry some peace from his old man, we’d moved into the posh flat on the Royal Mile.
We should have been the party pad, but many of the other residents were not students and didn’t put up with that shit. We’d tried holding parties in second year and they were constantly broken up by building security. In third year, we held our annual Hogmanay party and nobody stopped us, so we tried to push for a second event and once again, building security were called.
“If we’d rented some shithole, we could have a party every week,” Harry had grumbled last night. “We’ll have to settle for Hogmanay again this year.”
The three of us had chatted a little about it over beers and burgers on our large roof terrace.
I stepped out into the welcome sunshine of a mild September, wondering if Lily would be in my life long enough to invite her to the New Year’s Eve party. Music blared from my phone via my earbuds. My playlist mostly consisted of indie rock music, and I wondered what kind of music Lily liked. We hadn’t talked about that stuff yet.
I winced as what I soon realized was my new ringtone cut through a Hozier track as I headed down Victoria Street. “Bugger,” I muttered, pulling my phone out of my pocket to see it was my mum. Not wanting her to interrupt my coffee with Liv later, I answered. I also made a mental note to kill Harry who’d switched my Stereophonics ringtone to the retro Crazy Frog. Immature arsehole. “Mum,” I answered a little snappily.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asked tartly.
“Nothing, sorry. Harry just being an idiot.”
“That boy.” She sighed heavily. “Are you at the flat?”
“Just heading to meet a friend for coffee.” I braced myself. “What’s up?”
“Well, your father is being imperious about the use of the villa next spring.”
“The villa?” Our family owned a villa—a large farmhouse—in the south of France. We usually spent a few weeks there together in the summer, but, of course, it didn’t happen last summer, and it wouldn’t happen next.
“Yes, the villa. He has it for Christmas and three weeks in the summer. I want it for spring and September. But he’s arguing that he should have it in spring since I don’t like the mild rainy weather then, which is utter nonsense. Anyway, Juno has claimed a few weeks in the summer for herself, so I thought to spite your father, you could claim it for your spring holiday. You could invite some friends with you.”
Frowning as the steep descent of Victoria Street came to an end on the Grassmarket, I clarified, “You want me to have the villa for a week in spring? All to myself? To spite Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” Who was I to argue with that? “Is that all?”
“You’re rather abrupt this morning. Did you get my texts about Amelia? Have you seen her yet?”
“Mother, I have no interest in an eighteen-year-old fresher, whether she’s Lady Amelia or a pop bloody princess.”
“You’re saying she’s too young?”
“Yes, she’s too young. Also, I have no interest in a serious relationship, so please stop foisting women on me.”
“Would you prefer me to foist young men on you because you know I love you no matter your sexual orientation?”
Affection softened my tone. “I know you do. And I appreciate it. Though my interest does only lie with females. My interest also only lies with females who aren’t looking for monogamy or love.”
“That’s because you haven’t met the right one.”
I groaned.
“And I met the Viscount Wellmount’s daughter, Margaret, and she was quite lovely. Perhaps when you’re next at home, I can—”