Chapter 2 Mother's Demands

God forbid me from throttling my mother!

I glared across the lunch table at my mother. How many times had I told her to keep her nose out of my affairs, and that I barely have time to wipe my arse, never mind have a relationship? Not that I would say that to her, but she knew my time was limited.

“Absolutely not Mother! Why the hell do you think I want you to choose my life partner, my wife? I’ve been the head of a banking corporation for 5 years now and I am 36. She wasn’t paying the slightest attention to me when I looked across the table at her. She buttered her bread roll and glanced at the Vogue magazine resting at the side of her plate. She turned the page.

Some days there are meetings back to back, and the only respite I get is in the car going from one to the other. Even then, I’m reading notes and looking at emails. Where do I find time for a relationship? Though I’m not saying I’m celibate, there are certain girls who will drop everything to come and see me. I am a busy man as the CEO of a bank. Not the usual high street banks, but what used to be called a merchant bank. There are few of them left now, but my bank has a good worldwide business started by my several time's great grandfathers in the eighteenth century. 

I’ve brought this business back from the brink of bankruptcy, thanks to my father, who happened to be the biggest player this country has ever seen. He partied with royalty and rock stars, and any vagina he could get his cock into. Married or single, he didn’t care. From all accounts, he seemed to be a walking pharmacy, an illegal one, obviously. Unfortunately or is that fortunately I never met him. He died in a car crash on the day I was born. The bastard was trying to get out of the country when he found the police were after him.

My mother is not the maternal type either, which makes me wonder why she so desperately wants me to get married. It would not happen and especially not to a girl she had chosen from the collection of vapid airheads, and their mothers, that she surrounded herself with. 

I seethed, watching my mother flip through the pages of Vogue as if my words meant nothing to her. To be so dismissive of my desires and ambitions was infuriating, and I couldn’t believe that she was still trying to dictate my life at this stage in my career and at my age.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice calm. “Mother, I appreciate you want what’s best for me, but I am perfectly capable of finding a partner on my own. I don’t need you to choose one for me.” I emphasized each word, hoping to get through to her.

She finally looked up from her magazine, a hint of annoyance in her eyes. “Yes, Darius. I only want what’s best for you. You’re not getting any younger, and I worry that you’ll never settle down if you keep putting work first.”

I rubbed my forehead, trying not to be annoyed or blow my top. “Work is my priority, Mother, and I happen to enjoy it. Besides, I keep telling you, there’s no time for a relationship right now. The bank takes all my time.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “You can make time for the important things in life, Darius. And having a loving partner is one of them.”

I shook my head in frustration. “Not when someone else chooses my partner. I need to make that decision for myself.”

She sighed. “Fine, Darius. Do as you, please. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you end up alone.”

I rolled my eyes, knowing that she would never let this go. But I refused to let her dictate my personal life any longer. It was time for me to take control and make my own decisions, even if it meant going against her wishes.

 “I do think it’s quite possible, Mother, that I am able to find my own wife.” 

“But you haven’t, Darius,” she looked up at me. Yes, you are thirty-six, and you spend far too long in your office. You never go out unless it’s to a work function, where you sit with old men gassing about other old men and how their investments are doing." 

I wanted to interrupt her, but she raised her hand. 

“When was the last time you went out with a girl? Not last night, or last week, or even last month. It was at least six months ago, and I only discovered that because the paparazzi photographed you coming out of a restaurant.” She took a sip of her tea. “A first and last date because the paps got her clinging on to the arm of Jasper Neyve, only a few days later.”

“Yes, and good luck to him. Her conversation was mainly talking about my way of life, how big my house is, did I have a private jet and she almost asked how much I had in my bank account. I’m sure Jasper dropped her as soon as I did.”

For Christ’s sake, is this how my mother spent her days trawling through glossy magazines working out who was going out with whom? All I can say is thank God she was flying back to New York today.

“Jasper got photographed with her four times, from what I saw in Tatler.” 

“Well, I can only imagine she was good in bed in that case.” I scoffed. 

“Well, at least he’s going out with girls and not stuffy old men.” 

“Mother, those stuffy old men help to keep you in designer clothes and beautiful homes and facelifts.”

I shouldn’t have said that about facelifts, but she got me so mad. I knew she’d had something done. It wasn’t obvious looking at her face. My mother had always been beautiful, but I saw the bills. I knew what she spent her money on. 

“Facelifts? Are you out of your mind? I’ve never had a facelift, never! How dare you say that?” She stood up and flung her napkin onto the table. “I’m giving you three months, Darius Graves. By that time, if you are not engaged to be married. I will go to Albert Bartholomew and tell him you want to marry his daughter.” The door slammed behind her.

Oh for God’s sake! Albert Batholomew? His daughter could be only twenty years old if that. She had an odd name too, like a Disney princess type of name. Can’t remember what. I would make a few phone calls later, to find out more about Mr Bartholomew. He was a major business player across the pond, and I wanted to check my mother hadn’t got into something from which I had to rapidly extract her. She had as much clue about business and money as she did brain surgery. Her specialist mastermind questions would be handbags of the glitterati or some such nonsense. Before she left for the airport to take her home, I made my apology to my mum and she graciously accepted it.

I would skive this afternoon from the office and let the delightful Miss Bamford chance to get to grips with everything. This morning had been intriguing, watching her flit about from office to office. I had no idea if she realised it, but her hips swung when she walked and her gorgeous arse wiggled. Something to enjoy each day. In fact, she was going to keep me awake at night as I imagined her beautiful long legs wrapped around my hips.

I needed advice on this situation, and the only people who would give me the advice I needed happened to be my two mates, my best friends. Seb Norton, the Hollywood film star and Ethan Archer musical maestro, and the recipient of two shiny Oscars sitting on his mantelpiece for the music he composed for films. I sent them both a text, just one word, and they would both understand the enormity of my problem.

Dare: Dolly’s on Friday?

Seb had been filming some Regency rom-com in Oxfordshire and Eth lived in Highgate. I didn’t have to wait long before I got replies.

Hollywood: Sure. I have the weekend off,  if the director doesn't change his mind again.

Music Man: Sounds good to me.

I had no doubt there would be advice from my friends and I’m sure it would be worth having. Though neither of them had been married. Hollywood just had to flash his smile for women to fall at his feet. It seemed from what he told us, that it happened to be an everyday occurrence for him. The music man was charm personified. Quieter than either Seb or myself, but women flocked to him, and it wasn’t just for his millions. I grinned, I couldn’t wait to tell them about Kate Bamford. I’m the one who gets stuck with middle-aged assistants. HR think they will put up with me and my way of working. Nobody would dare say I got easily irritated if work wasn’t done or because of my temper. Would they?