Always Alchemy: The Ever After Book (Alchemy #6)

26. Genetic Karma

26

GENETIC KARMA

ADAM

I t looks as though a staggeringly incompetent decorator has been applying wallpaper paste to the usually immaculate marble of my kitchen island.

It’s not wallpaper paste, of course.

It’s porridge. Porridge with added cashew nut butter for slower energy release, obviously. When you have a diabetic wife, you obsess a little too much over that stuff.

And it’s not the handiwork of an incompetent decorator. More an obscenely naughty three-year-old girl.

I give her my most withering glare, and she, in turn, graces me with her best give a fuck look.

Hers is better.

Also, she has her mother’s eyes, which helps her cause every fucking time.

‘Grace Ellen Wright,’ I say sternly. ‘Look at the mess you made.’

‘Sorry, Daddy,’ her meek little voice says .

We both know I’m not in the least bit sorry, so don’t waste my goddamn time, those huge brown eyes say.

Dammit. I knew I should have paid more attention to that dangerously mutinous gene in my otherwise perfect wife before we procreated.

I narrow my eyes, assessing my options. If I don’t, she’ll have me checkmated before I know it.

‘Eat your porridge,’ I say. Lame, but it’s all I’ve got.

‘It’s yucky.’

‘No it’s not. It’s delicious.’ And you eat it every morning, so don’t fuck with me.

‘Need more honey.’

‘No you don’t. If you have too much honey now, you’ll get tired at nursery.’

Grace isn’t diabetic—thank God—but everyone knows a day at nursery is a marathon. Especially when it’s your first day. And it’s never too early to learn the basics of avoiding insulin resistance.

She stares at me for a beat, as if to say is that the best you’ve got? Interesting. Then she simply sets down her little plastic spoon, which is sticky with oats, and waits.

She’s got all the leverage, and I’ve only got one card: the fact that she’s fastened into her booster seat and can’t get down from the table unless I let her out.

Still, she waits.

We glare at each other.

‘More honey, please, Daddy,’ she says in her sweetest little voice.

I sigh and pick up the jar of honey. As I twirl the wooden dipper around, I give thanks to whoever is up there that Nat isn’t around to see this pathetic defeat. She’d never let me live it down .

We both watch as I drizzle a minimal amount of honey over the utter car crash that is her breakfast bowl. ‘You’d better eat the rest, or you’ll hurt Kamyl’s feelings,’ I tell her lamely.

She doesn’t grace that with a reply, instead taking the revolting wallpaper-paste spoon and skimming it over the top of the bowl, removing the layer of honey and almost nothing else with a dexterity that should be impressive before sucking it into her glorious little rosebud mouth.

I roll my eyes and pick up my espresso. ‘You’re a cheeky monkey, you know that?’

She really is. She’s inherited her mother’s delicate frame and heart-shaped face, a fact that thrills me. But she has my head of dark curls, and when they haven’t been tamed, she looks positively feral.

My wife has joked a couple of times that I’m a beast under layers of Italian tailoring. (I think she means it in a good way.) If that’s the case, our darling daughter is a primate disguised in an immaculate Little Wonders by Gossamer dress.

Nat brushed Grace’s curls neatly this morning and swept the baby hairs off her face with a clip featuring a tiny pale pink velvet bow. But her simian energy still runs strong as she beams at me. Her teeth are the tiniest white pearls, and they slay me.

Despite her resemblance to her beautiful mother, there’s something in the wide innocence of her smile that recalls Ellen. My baby sister would be a grown woman if she were alive today—she’s two years older than Nat, after all—but I choose to think that a tiny part of her spirit is alive in our feisty little daughter.

I have never, ever known love like it. That someone so tiny can come into my life and turn everything I know to be true upside down still staggers me. She locked down my heart from that first perfect purse of her tiny mouth as I held her, a featherlight pink bundle, in my arms.

And she gets better, and feistier, and more hilarious, every single day.

‘Cheeky monkey,’ she agrees gleefully.

‘That’s right. You are.’ I reach under her huge silicon bib, heavily streaked with porridge, to tickle her tummy. ‘The cheekiest of all the monkeys. And quite possibly the hungriest, if you don’t eat your brekkie.’

I surreptitiously check my watch. We need to get going in fifteen minutes if we’re to make it to her nursery on time. It’s a small, friendly one right by Holland Park and has its own forest school in the park itself.

Should be perfect for our resident baby monkey.

‘I’m full,’ Grace tells me with the magnanimous tone of someone who knows victory is in the bag.

I sigh and wonder for the millionth time why I insisted on doing the first nursery drop off by myself. Nat’s working like crazy on the launch of Gossamer House, a standalone villa we’ve bought in Chelsea to showcase the brand’s extensive clothing and lifestyle lines in an immersive manner.

At least I’ll have Nige with me for moral support.

‘Okay, darling,’ I say now. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up, yes?’ As I cast around the kitchen for a clean washcloth, I mentally assess the likelihood of my Loro Piana sweater escaping death by congealed porridge.

Approximately zero.

NAT

I’m so tired. Like, crawl-back-into-my-mother’s-womb tired. Maybe I’ll do a session in the flotation tank when I get home. I need something that’ll wipe my brain clean. It’s no surprise that I’m exhausted, I suppose. The first trimester is always brutal. I’d forgotten how much of a toll those few months of growing a tiny human take on you.

Gossamer House is looking amazing. In homage to that first collection I launched with Wright’s backing, we’ve even had it dressed with the highest quality fake wisteria. The exterior is now festooned in purple gorgeousness. It’s all very Bridgerton .

The same theme carries through inside, because the master bedroom is fully decked out in the wisteria print we licensed to Osborne and Little. Five years later, it’s still one of their best-selling wallpapers.

My fatigue is physical as much as mental. It’s been a tonne of fun to spend a day out of the office, carting boxes around as our huge team decks the house out. I insisted on helping in the nursery, where our cherry blossom print adorns the walls, the crib bedding, and the tiny Little Wonders onesies hanging in the distressed white wardrobe.

For someone as visual as I am, being surrounded by the physical proof of our brand in all its forms is wonderfully reassuring. When I can see it, touch it, I can fully appreciate that we’ve done it.

I vindicated Adam’s faith in me. With the oxygen Wright gave Gossamer, our rise has been meteoric. And I may be shattered, but I know he kept the promise he made to me that first Christmas. I only get to do the really good stuff. The fun stuff. The creative stuff .

When I got pregnant with Grace, Adam and I hired a new CEO by mutual agreement, so that I could focus on my passion: my role as Creative Director. Michelle, our CEO, comes from Burberry. She’s firm and fabulous and I adore her. And with over a century of legacy to manage at her previous brand, she really gets what it means to build, to celebrate, our brand’s heritage, to solidify its DNA, to invest in what makes us us .

As Nige drives me back through the streets of London, I swipe through the photos Adam sent me earlier. Despite the craziness of today, I’ve looked at them a million times.

My two favourite people.

There’s a selfie from the back of the car and a few haphazard ones he took of Grace exploring her new nursery. She’ll only go for three hours, three days a week, but we both believe it’s a good way for her to socialise. In one photo, she’s stroking a sweet guinea pig and looking down at it in adoration.

But my favourite one is of Adam crouched down, balancing Grace on his thigh. He has both arms wrapped around her stomach, and they’re cheek to cheek. Just looking at them has my heart fit to bursting. I can’t wait to be at home with them. Who am I kidding? I don’t need a flotation tank. I just want to get in the hot tub with my people.

I text Adam.

10mins away. Family hot tub?

He replies straight away.

Grace is already in her swimming costume. She chose it from a shortlist of 5

I smile. The fashionista gene is strong with that one. She didn’t stand a chance with us two as parents (though I swear her father preens more than I do).

I forward the photo to the Bennett family WhatsApp chat.

Looks like the first day was a success.

Mum’s the first to reply.

So sweet!! Give her a huge kiss from Granny! xxxxx

Then Winky messages.

The curly gene is strong. Tell Adam I hope he’s been practicing his putting. I won’t let him embarrass me on Tuesday.

I giggle at that. Totum, Winky’s employer, is holding its annual charity golf day at Sunningdale next week. The founder, Aidan Duffy, asked Adam to be his golf partner for the day, but Adam opted to go with my brother instead.

I message back.

Think he’s been too busy doing Daddy Daycare to get any practice in. Sorry. xx

I managed three months off when I had Grace before weeping all over Adam and begging him to let me work, even remotely. He eventually relented, and I started to get stuck in.

But when work threatened to overwhelm me, he took a step back from Wright. He’s still the Chairman, but he’s no longer the CEO. Anton played quite a role in helping him find the right balance between prioritising family time and keeping his finger on the pulse.

It was a pretty emotional conversation between us, actually. My husband told me that he’d suffered enough loss and loneliness in his life. He wasn’t prepared to look up from his spreadsheets one day and realise he’d wasted years when he could have been spending time with our children.

Now he’s the primary caregiver for Grace. We have a nanny for the two days he’s in the office, and obviously we have a fleet of staff to cook for her and clean up after her, so it could be a lot more full-on. Still, that child runs circles around her poor father.

I know he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The man is a total softie.

They’re in the pool when I emerge into the basement in my bikini.

‘Mummy!’ Grace shrieks. She whacks Adam on the side of the head with the huge foam noodle she’s brandishing and swims over to the side. Her swimming style is flailing and splashy but surprisingly effective.

‘How are my favourite people?’ I ask, stooping so I can pick her up. She’s wet and gorgeous. I blow a raspberry on her wet cheek and she giggles. ‘How was nursery? Did you have the best time?’

She lays a tiny hand on my shoulder and chatters away to me. Now that I’m here with them, all thoughts of peace and quiet fly out of the window. I just want my Grace and Adam fix. As Adam jumps out of the pool, I eye him up shamelessly.

Dark hair slicked back .

More dark hair forging a trail whose destination I’m very, very interested in.

Pale blue eyes shining with an intensity of love so great it makes my breath catch.

My husband is so fucking hot. He can knock me up any day of the week, I swear it. Damn these pregnancy hormones.

He puts his arm around us and places a palm on my stomach, right next to where Grace’s tiny foot is swinging. Inside, there’s a heartbeat so small even I can’t feel it yet. In the next month, our baby’s movements will be noticeable—to me, anyway—as that magical flippy-fish flutter I love so much.

‘How are you feeling?’ he murmurs as he dips his head to kiss me.

‘I’m fantastic,’ I tell him. ‘This nursery sounds amazing! I want to hear all about it.’

He takes Grace from me so I can step down into the sunken hot tub and sets her on the top step. She instantly shuffles over to where the button for the jets is. She’s wearing a strawberry print swimming costume from Gossamer’s Little Wonders line. It has layers of frills on the bum. She looks beyond adorable in it, her cheeks flushed pink from her exertions in the pool with her father.

‘Daddy! Get in!’ she shrieks, her tiny finger hovering over the button. We both laugh.

‘Yes, boss,’ Adam says, lowering himself in beside me. The water is warm and gorgeous. He stretches his arm along the edge and I slide over so he can tuck me against his body before kissing my hair.

We both take in the sight of our tiny daughter vibrating with excitement. Turning on the bubbles is always her job .

‘Ready,’ Adam says in a ridiculously deep, dramatic voice.

‘Steady. And…’

Grace bounces in place, her feet on the seat, before she presses down on the button. The jets activate with their promising rumble, and she squeals in delight.

‘Bubbles!’ she cries.