Page 38 of Wilder at Heart
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 ofaround 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 pieceshang. 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’sdepressing. 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.’
