Chapter 3

Grant Thornton came from a legacy family with all the trimmings: connections, wealth, classic good looks, manners, and a way of not caring for any of it. He was a classic high school super star, a bit of a jock in the British way, with a smooth life path: business degree, soccer and polo on the weekends, garden parties and coming out balls, rich little women, and just… enjoying the ride. Ask anyone else if they would trade places with him, and they would say yes. Yet, Grant was a strange one. He was truly the perfect son, but inside, he wanted to break perfection, break the rules, and piss it all off. He was in such a wonderfully rich environment that he had no time to wonder what it would be to need, to dream, to wish for something else. The what if, other people, lives, adventures that must be floating around out there in the universe.

He remembered scoring the winning point in his varsity polo game and how the crowd had roared and cheered his name. He had some girlfriend or other, a beautifully kept and prim young lady who would do literally anything he asked for. All he wanted, in those days, was to just sit and maybe talk about cars.

“Grant! Grant! Grant! “

Nothing. His heart felt no flutter, nor would he, until he left prep school and entered the world of Oxford privilege. He began his studies to become a lawyer, and slowly, his social circles and outer demeanor began to morph.

Grant had many young women waiting in line, eager to please him, with the hope that one day he would propose marriage to them. He never felt remotely interested in any one of them. One evening, at the beginning of term, his new roommate invited him to go to a first-year honor fete.

“Is it worth my time?” Grant muttered as he sat in his room, browsing through one of his textbooks, prepping to type his first assignment on his shiny, new laptop.

“Mate, you have never seen anything like this…” his new friend responded in a sneaky tone. Grant sighed, closed his computer, and followed him out.

They went down the ancient stone steps outside the gardens at the edge of the courtyard and into the old underground passageways. It was a humid, dark tunnel with some torches lit to lead the way. Grant was not excited, maybe a bit curious, but expected nothing. A hum was heard as they approached the end of the passageway where a door like a castle entrance stopped them. Grant’s roommate looked back at him and sneered.

“Ready, Grant?” he asked as he lifted the metal clang and hit the door three times.

Grant was about to say something smart when a girl opened the door, wearing a green velvet cape, black leggings, a black leather top, and dark smokey eyes.

“Finally, tossers…”

Grant was taken by this girl’s eyes but would never show her this. He walked by her into the party. His heart fluttered ever so slightly, but he controlled its rhythm. What did catch his eye was the place he was in now: a makeshift pleasure lounge. This would introduce Grant to a habit and lifestyle that would mark him for a very long period of his life. He would confuse pleasure with mission and passion. And, our green-caped girl would haunt him till he realized just how deep this dark hole would go.

She was the daughter of a rabbi, an heiress. She had no cares, with no need to work nor worry about ever paying rent or putting food on the table. She was attending Oxford for the same reason they all were—it was just the way things were done. They would inherit a family company, or marry into one, and begin their careers as their mothers and fathers had before them. It was all taken care of. Love, although thrilling to stamp on a very expensive wedding, was not required for a match to work. What mattered was pedigree, social compatibility, and an understanding that their lives would just sail on.

Grant’s family would have been thrilled if he settled down with an heiress. Alas, the only girl Grant wanted and saw himself marrying, would never, ever, be with him. But she would open his mind and soul up to a dark, murky reality, a circle of the wealthy that was reserved for the most desperate and bored socialites. She tended to frequent the more obscure clubs in London. Not necessarily password restricted, but they catered to a more, how do we say, particular appetite. Patrons of such establishments did not care about the drink menu, but rather, the carnal, more human portion on the list.

It was all fun and innocent enough when he started going with his roommate when he knew she would be there in these clubs. He smiled and felt the urge to touch but never did. But, after you get a taste of something so delicious and so bad for you… come on, why not just do it? She played with him and knew she could twist him around her little finger.

Grant transformed into a night creature. He started wearing expensive suits, and after his coursework and sports practices were complete at nights, he would feed his growing taste for intimate experimentation. Beautiful women were all well and good, but down in these places, they were somewhat more worthy... savage, dangerous, and wicked. You would not think so if you saw them walking down the street, seemingly rich and comfortable, with long brushed hair, perfect skin, nice legs. Only, looking in their eyes, there it was, their other side.

His family never questioned his hours. He was a gentleman of a certain standing; he had his right to “sow his wild oats.” But, they had no idea how wild his oats were. When he began university, they assumed he would begin dating one of the many suitable candidates who could become his wife. His father’s friends had several daughters, and his mother’s large social circle also provided many excellent choices.

“Rather common,” Grant usually responded when they asked what he had thought of a certain beautiful candidate they had introduced him to at a dinner party.

His temperament had changed to even more cold and distant that he was brought up to be. He stopped eating, and his youthful good looks began looking grey. His skin was white as snow, and his dark brown hair looked almost black. His mother felt an urge to ask him how things were one morning when he actually came down for breakfast..

“Dear,” she said.

The breakfast room offered a sense of relief and peace even to the most austere member of the family. It had white walls with yellow molding and large bay windows overlooking the north gardens, with grey and white decorations and porcelain adornments surrounding the round oak table. Flowers were in the middle, lavender and blue.

Grant’s mother was a thin, fit, and compact woman but with an imposing energy. An Oxford professor of art history, rarely at home between her students, her social life, and her husband’s traveling, she now realized her son was living a double life. She herself had a wild streak while attending Oxford, but as soon as she settled down with Grant’s father and got married, well, it all fell into place. She wore navy blue trousers and white pressed satin blouses. Her brown hair was cut short, and she wore black glasses. Her voice was rarely used outside of the classroom; Grant had not heard his mother’s voice in some time.

The sun came in through the perfectly clean windows and illuminated the room. Grant walked in and felt the warmth hug his entire body. He looked at his mother as he slowly pulled a chair out and sat down. The newspaper was laid out in front of him. He took a look at his mother who buttered her toast. The butler came in through the pantry door and approached Grant.

“Good morning, sir. Your usual?” asked the butler.

Grant nodded.

The butler tipped his head and went back to the kitchen. There was a grey stainless steel swinging door that led into the pantry and into the large, modern kitchen.

Grant began reading the sports section of the journal. His mother, wiping her mouth with her napkin then placing her hands on her lap, spoke.

“Grant.”

Her tone made the skin behind his neck shiver. Although it was not a shout or a demand, there was something demanding and regal in it.

“Yes, Mother.”

She picked up her teacup as she spoke again—this time, in a less harsh tone.

“It is time you were engaged. Are you seeing anybody serious?”

Grant scoffed.

“Serious, Mother? Or, you mean, seriously,” he mocked her.

A silence preceded her next reply, a deadweight silence which seemed to dull the brightness of the sun in the room.

“Grant. Don’t you want to be settled and continue the family name?”

The butler walked back in, carrying a silver tray with a black porcelain tea set and two eggs sunny side up on a black metal dish. Grant cleared his throat. The butler stopped in his tracks.

“I think I will have coffee.”

The butler gave a nod, then slowly turned around.

His mother gave a slight smile.

“Do I detect a mood, Grant,” she almost sounded amused.

Grant put the paper down on the table and now looked his mother in the eye.

“What is the point, Mother,” he said.

She paused and put her tea saucer down. It had yellow flowers, matching the yellow molding in the room’s decor.

“Of what, dear,”

The butler entered once more with the tray now holding a simple black coffee mug, elongated and Italian looking. He stood next to Grant, lowered the tray, and then placed the cup on the table.

“Thank you,” Grant said.

To the surprise of all in the room, Grant had thanked the butler. Not only had he wanted black coffee, but he thanked the butler for a chore he performed almost daily for him. His mother was certain, now, that her son would probably not listen to her and that this was the only chance she had of telling him she loved him.

“Sir,” replied the butler, bowing and returning to the kitchen through the grey, cold pantry door.

Grant took a long sip of the coffee, exhaled, then looked at his mother.

“What is the point of continuing a life which… does nothing for me. It is… empty. What if... I don’t want this.”

She took a sip of tea and held the saucer with both hands, staring at it for a moment. Then, for the first time probably in Grant’s life, she smiled.

“My dear,” she began as she put the saucer down then looked directly at him.

“You only upset yourself asking what the point of all of this is. Darling, there is no point in anything. Only choosing to believe a choice will maintain an illusion of happiness.”

She took the white napkin that had been on her lap and swiftly wiped the edges of her lips. The butler, as if conjured by magic, came through the door and pulled her chair out. She stood, and for a moment, looked at the butler. He had been trained never to make eye contact with the master and mistress of the house, yet she continued to look at him. He decided to also look at her. It would be rude to avoid her.

“Madam, was there something more I could do for you?” He placed both hands by his sides.

Old, wrinkled hands, which had carried Grant as a baby to and from the nursery, hands which had helped Madam up the stairs when she had drunk just too much bourbon after dinner—those hands which had tended to this house for more than thirty years.

She looked at his face and his tired eyes. She had never noticed; he had probably been quite a handsome man, in that Royal British Navy manner. For a moment, she wanted to say thank you for being my sole company when my husband was off on the continent with his hush hush girlfriend, when she had faced five miscarriages before having Grant, for just having been there with her.

“No,” she said.

He softly bowed and returned, once more, through the metallic door to the kitchen.

Grant watched his mother make her way out towards the great hall, but she paused and turned towards him. She had been a very attractive woman, still was, but the years had made her frigid and transparent looking.

She looked at the floor, searching for the way to tell Grant the only thing a mother wants their child to know that she will always love him, no matter what he chose to do.

He took a sip of his coffee and waited for her to speak.

“Grant,” she almost whispered his name.

He turned his head. She was on the brink of tears.

“Be brave.” And before she lost her composure, she turned away from Grant.

She walked away, and that was the last day Grant ever saw his mother, the breakfast room, or the butler again.