Adam
Me or the job, that was the ultimatum. In other words: either Adam Groom told his brother Ned by the end of this weekend that he was quitting, that he wanted to be bought out of his share in the Home Group, that a working partnership which had lasted a quarter of a century was over – or his marriage would be.
‘Am I being unreasonable?’ Laura had asked him.
She was not, he had told her. She was not an unreasonable woman, his wife. She had been very patient. He could remember telling Laura on their very first date – dinner at The Ivy （back when it was still cool） followed by a nightcap on the roof terrace at Covent Garden Home – that he was keen to strike out on his own eventually, emerge from Ned’s shadow, cash in his stake in the business and start up his own place – a little gastropub somewhere, near the river maybe. Perhaps a local wine shop, with a couple of candlelit tables for evening bookings. Get fitter maybe. Take up golf, or tennis.
That was the vision. That was the dream. That was fifteen years ago.
Ten years ago, on holiday, he could remember them sitting up late with a bottle of wine one warm evening and discussing how much his share of the business might now be worth, who might buy it, what they could do with the money, getting excited about the possibilities. The great thing about life coaching, she had pointed out, was that she could practise anywhere. The restaurant scene back home in Melbourne was amazing. She still had contacts who could help her set up over there, find clients. Why not start up something of his own, out of Ned’s shadow – or if Adam wanted to be further away from her parents, maybe Sydney?
It was now a decade later, a decade in which Home had been steadily opening clubs all over the world, and he still had not extricated himself. Adam could understand why Laura was starting to get impatient. He could understand why she was annoyed. She had also been woken up at seven that morning by a grumpy taxi driver ringing their doorbell. ‘Adam Groom?’ the man had asked. He’d been waiting outside for half an hour, he said. He had been calling and calling. The problem was that the phone he had been calling was Adam’s phone, and Adam’s phone was in the pocket of Adam’s jacket, which was hanging on the back of a chair in the suite nine miles away in Covent Garden where Adam was still fast asleep.
‘Where are you?’ Laura had asked, angrily, when eventually Adam had answered his phone.
‘Home,’ he said, not meaning for it to sound like a joke. ‘Look,’ he told Laura, reflexively checking the time on his watch and flinching as he did so, ‘it got late. I didn’t even sit down to eat until almost ten thirty, and then people wanted one more drink afterwards. I know. I’m sorry. I did promise, and I’m really sorry.’
He had let her down. He had let himself down. He had no excuses, really, or at least none he had not worn out already, years ago. Could he not have called? Could he not have sent a text? He pictured Laura waiting up, reading in bed, checking her phone, alternately anxious and annoyed. Probably mostly the latter.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Adam again.
And he was. He really was. But she knew the drill by now, surely, how stressful a new launch got on the eve of opening.
With Ned on the island – as he had been non-stop for the past month – Adam was not only in charge of signing off every aspect of the still-ballooning budget for the biggest party in Home’s history, he was also making decisions for the whole company. It was a lot of responsibility. It was a lot of pressure. Not to mention that he’d had just three days to find a new Head of Housekeeping for Island Home because Ned had taken it upon himself to sack the old one ten days before they were due to open. And all the time, constantly, he was getting calls from around the world asking for his approval for this expense or that arrangement, calls from Nikki making sure he knew where he was supposed to be next and how to get there.
One of the downsides of having a role as ill-defined as Director of Special Projects was that he never quite knew what special project his brother would foist on him next, or who was going to be on the other end of the line with a request, a question or a problem. Who would suddenly turn up in town and need to be taken out to dinner, or want to discuss something over a drink.