Chapter 7 Titus

• Titus
• I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow. I sleep right through without stirring, and I only wake up when my phone goes off, telling me that someone is calling me on FaceTime. It’s 07:27 a.m., and the screen tells me it’s my father.
• Pushing myself up in bed, I answer it, still half asleep. “Hello?”
• “Lawrence? Did I wake you?”
• My history teacher at high school, who had a fascination with the Antarctic and knew everything about the Terra Nova expedition to the South Pole, called me Titus, and it stuck. Only my father calls me Lawrence, insisting my nickname is childish and unprofessional.
• I stifle a yawn and run my hand through my hair. “I was just rousing. Everything all right?”
• “Fine. I thought I’d see how you’re doing.”
• Of course, it’s early evening there. “Are you still at the office?”
• “Yes. I’ll leave after our call. How’s the trip going?”
• “Very well, thanks.”
• “George Barnard contacted me. He said you canceled your talk today.”
• Dammit, I’d forgotten he knew Dad. “I did,” I say. I refuse to apologize to him, even though I know he’s expecting me to because he set up the visit.
• “What happened?” he demands.
• “I decided to take some time off to visit a friend in Devon.”
• He frowns. “You blew off the principal of King’s College for a social visit?”
• “It was a one-hour talk to a small group of students, and my friend needed some help.” I don’t bother adding that I haven’t taken a single hour off to sightsee while I’ve been here, because I know how he’d respond to that.
• Dad surveys me coolly. “This friend, is it a girl?”
• “A woman, yes, not that it’s relevant.”
• “Jesus, Lawrence. Can’t you keep your dick in your pants for five minutes? Do you know how that’s made me look?”
• Fury blasts through me, due in no small measure to the fact that even though he’s married to my mother, I’m pretty certain he’s banging his secretary, and has been for several years. Six months ago, I finally plucked up the courage and confronted him about it. He denied it heatedly, tore me a new one, and called me a ‘disrespectful, ungrateful little shit.’ I’m convinced he’s lying, but there’s not much I can do about it without any proof.
• He’s brought me up to be polite and respectful, and never to give in to my emotion, but it takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to tell him to fuck off and hang up. “I spoke to him personally and explained the situation,” I say icily, “and he was fine about it.”
• “I don’t care. You’ve embarrassed me. I expected better of you.”
• This conversation sums up our relationship together. It doesn’t matter that I’ve spent the past week working flat out, that I’ve received compliments left, right, and center, that I’ve had staff and students hanging on my every word, and that my work in AI is receiving attention internationally. Dad will always find fault, somehow.
• I’m twenty-nine, a grown man, so why does he make me feel like I’m sixteen whenever we talk? Even though I owe him a lot, mainly because he funded my studies and invested in my business at the start, the fact that my bank balance includes nine zeroes has little to do with him. He knows nothing about the computer industry, and even less about AI and my work within the field. All he cares about is his image and how he can use me to further his position in the political arena.
• “I hope you’re not throwing away your career for a woman,” he says. “I thought I’d brought you up better than that.”
• “I have to go,” I say flatly.
• It makes me think about Heidi. Huxley has told me that their father had a tighter hand on the reins with her than he did with his other children. For the first time, I wonder whether that had anything to do with why she moved to the UK.
• I cock my head, listening, wondering if she’s up. I think I can hear her moving around in the kitchen. Also… I inhale, just managing to catch the aroma of frying bacon. She’s cooking breakfast.
• Nothing will get me out of bed as quick as the promise of a fry-up, and I leap out, go into the bathroom and take a fast shower, get dressed in a new tee and a pair of comfy track pants, and head down the funny, winding staircase.
• “Morning,” I say, ducking under the oak beam into the kitchen.
• “Hey! Sorry, did I wake you?”
• “No, not at all. I slept really well.” I lean a hip against the counter. She glances at me and smiles, then returns her gaze to the frying pan. Some more of her delicious, toasted beer bread lies buttered on two plates that are already topped with scrambled egg. As I watch, she lifts the pan and adds a couple slices of bacon, two sausages, a spoon of baked beans, and a heap of fried mushrooms to the plates, then picks them up and places them on the small kitchen table and gestures for me to take a seat while she goes over to fetch two mugs of tea standing on the counter.
• I sit, thinking how bizarre the situation is. I drove down last night in a kind of dream, and when I arrived at her village, I felt as if I’d somehow gone through a wormhole into the past somewhere along the A38. The roads are narrow, and the houses are squeezed together, many of them portraying features that announce their origins lie in medieval times or even earlier. The pub by the river even has a thatched roof, and I’m sure I saw a standing stone in its garden, although whether it’s actually prehistoric is another matter.
• Heidi’s cottage is miniscule—you could fit the whole house in my living room. But it’s beautiful, with its oak beams, real log fire, coffin hatch, and spiral staircase. The windows in my bedroom were double-glazed, but the walls were bumpy cob, and the ceiling was slanted. I know I’m going to brain myself at least once on the low beams, but it’s a small price to pay to stay somewhere so historic.
• Heidi looks fresh as a daisy, and has obviously been up for a while. She’s wearing a bright yellow sleeveless top and denim shorts, and her blonde bob shines golden in the sun slanting through the high kitchen window. She’s slender, with a girlish figure that’s nevertheless still sexy. She’s absolutely stunning.
• She’s also Huxley’s kid sister. I can see myself repeating that like a mantra all the time I’m with her.
• “This looks amazing,” I say, trying to distract myself.
• “Do you cook much?” she asks, sitting opposite me, and sipping her tea.
• “Nope. I love eating food. I don’t know the first thing about preparing it.”
• “So you live on takeaways?”
• “No, I have a housekeeper who makes and freezes meals.”
• “Wow,” she says, “you’re a spoiled brat.” I chuckle, and she grins. “HP Sauce?” she asks, showing me the brown bottle. “It’s great with bacon.”
• “Mm, sure.” We can get it in New Zealand, but I haven’t had it in years.
• “Did you know it stands for Houses of Parliament?” She shows me the drawing on the front, and I realize it’s of Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster.
• “I didn’t.” I reach for the bottle and knock it over. “Dammit.”
• “You really are clumsy, aren’t you?” With amusement, she stands it back up.
• I lift it and add a dollop on the side of my plate. “Did you know that you have a touch of an English accent now?”
• “I do not!”
• I grin. “It’s faint, but it’s there. It’s nice. Kinda sexy.” I wink at her.
• She lowers her gaze to her plate. “Lawrence Oates,” she scolds, “how come you can still make me blush?”
• “Skill.”
• She laughs and starts cutting up her bacon. “So…” She stops cutting and moves the scrambled egg around her plate. “I’ve got something I need to say.”
• “Oh dear.”
• “No, it’s nothing bad. I just want to say that after what you witnessed last night, I’ll understand completely if you’d prefer to withdraw your offer to go with you for the weekend. It’s no fun being with someone who’s been through a breakup, and I’m sure you don’t want a miserable girl tagging along with you.”
• I sit back. “First of all, you’re not a girl anymore. That much is obvious.”
• She looks down at her bust, then back up at me and raises an eyebrow.
• “I was actually talking about your ability to stand up for yourself,” I point out. “Jesus. I hope I’m more subtle than that.”
• She giggles. “Sorry.”
• I give her a wry look. “And secondly, maybe it’s what you need to cheer yourself up. It sounds like it’s going to be fun.”
• She wrinkles her nose. “As long as you’re sure.”
• “I’m sure.”
• “Okay. I’ll come then.”
• “Cool.” Pleased, I tuck into my breakfast, which is excellent, the bacon crispy, the scrambled eggs just liquid enough, and the toast done to perfection.
• “So what do you have planned for the next couple of days?” she asks.
• “I should really go back to London. I’m supposed to be attending a conference this afternoon, and I have two meetings tomorrow.”
• “How long have you been in the UK?”
• “Just over a week.”
• “Is it your first time in England?”
• “No, I’ve been to London a couple of times, although I haven’t been anywhere else.”
• “So you haven’t been to Devon before?”
• “No.”
• “Have you seen much of London?”
• “Hardly anything,” I admit. “I’ve spent most of the time either in meetings or giving talks.”
• “That’s a shame.”
• “I know. I’m a bit one-dimensional.”
• “But you love your work?”
• “I do.”
• “And you’re very good at it, from what I hear.”
• “I do okay.” I smile.
• “Taking time for yourself doesn’t come easy to you, does it?”
• “No,” I say truthfully.
• “When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
• “Ah… what year is it?”
• “Oh! That’s shocking. All work and no play…”
• “Yeah.”
• “Evie told me that at Mack’s wedding you fell asleep on the deck and were still there in the morning.”
• I laugh and cut into the toast, scooping up a forkful of scrambled egg and bacon with it. “That’s true.”
• “You didn’t pull, then?” she teases.
• “I didn’t even try. I was knackered. It had been a busy month.”
• “The IVF project?”
• “Yeah.”
• “I suppose it’s made things harder for you, with Elizabeth getting pregnant.”
• “Yeah. I wouldn’t say it to her, of course. Acheron will take me, but they really wanted her to come and head the research.”
• “So are you thinking of moving here?”
• I meet her big blue eyes for a moment. I can’t be sure, but I think there’s a touch of hope in them. I clear my throat and look back at my plate. “No, I’m hoping to persuade them to invest, but that they’ll let us run the project from New Zealand.”
• “Ah.”
• “I’m sure it would be a great experience, but my company is based there, and all my friends and most of my family are there.”
• “Of course.”
• “Well, you know what an upheaval it is, moving countries.”
• “Sure,” she says, “and I didn’t run a company. I was a free spirit. Still am.” She laughs.
• “That must be nice.”
• “Aw,” she says, “don’t tell me you regret all your hard work. I can see how much you love what you do.”
• “No, I don’t regret it. But I know I’m a workaholic. I find it impossible to switch off, I don’t know why. There’s always something work-related I could or should be doing.”
• “Which makes it even more important that you take a few days off.” She leans back and has a sip of her tea. “I have an idea. Cancel your meetings and stay here with me for a few days. I’ll take you on a sightseeing tour around Devon.”
• My eyebrows rise. “I couldn’t do that.”
• “Why?”
• “You must be busy…”
• “Not at all,” she says. “I was going to have a few days off myself. Not all those who wander are lost, you know?”
• “You’re a Tolkien fan?”
• “Big time.”
• “Do you have an English degree?”
• “No, History, but I’m interested in a lot of things.”
• “Like?”
• “I read all the time, fiction and nonfiction. I paint a bit. I play the guitar, and listen to a lot of music. I love astronomy.”
• That makes me sit up. “Seriously?”
• “Yeah. You too?”