Cancer And The Playboy

by Zee Monodee

  “Hey, get your own,” he complained.

  Elin pushed back, winning her place again, and plunged into the cake once more.

  “I swear, if this baby is hurt from you jostling me around like that—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Agneta. Stop using the health of that unborn kid as a threat every single time you want something to go your way,” Tindra said as she rolled her eyes.

  Magnus unceremoniously dumped her on the spot next to him and snagged his fork from her hand.

  “How dare you? In my delicate condition—”

  “Cut it out, Agneta. That baby’s yours, eh? Means it already has a hard enough head. Add to that his father’s DNA …”

  Magnus let the words dangle. Agneta had gotten pregnant from her brief fling with Premier League footballer Terry Gilliam a few months back—Gilliam, who played football more like rugby, and who hadn’t yet broken a bone in his body, let alone that thick skull of his.

  Truth be told, he thought Gilliam a right bloke, pitying him even for having gotten embroiled with diva Agneta.

  Nammy smiled at his mother. “Look, Elsa. All your children together again.”

  His mum swiped her cheek as if she were wiping a tear. Okay, so they all knew where Agneta had gotten that side of her personality.

  And truth be told, that’s how it should be—him with his sisters. Tonight would be the perfect evening.

  The doorbell seemed to ring in the distance. What, now?

  A sense of dread invaded Magnus as he sat there with his fork halfway to his mouth. Tindra took the opportunity to snag that bite and then his fork, too, as she still hadn’t gotten hers.

  Two little blond towheads marched into the kitchen, docile smiles on their faces as they came up to Elsa and let her kiss their rosy cheeks, then they moved on to Nammy. After they were done, the little boy and girl eyed their uncle and aunts and gave a pert nod.

  Magnus almost expected a curtsey to follow, so much they were stiff—and like zombies. Though, would zombies curtsey? None of the usual effervescence of family gatherings with that lot around. He’d always thought he’d shower love and hugs and kisses on little ones in his family, but it just wasn’t done with these two. He and his three sisters all wanted to love those kids, but they were the Devil’s Spawn, because the devil in their family actually wore Prada—Mary Margaret, Carl’s very proper English wife who’d had the misfortune of being born in the wrong decade; otherwise, she would’ve been a contender for the spot of Duchess of Cambridge. Or so she liked to let everyone believe.

  However, in Magnus’ case, this applied double, because the devil he knew wore Savile Row suits and hand-made oxfords. Aka, Carl Trammell.

  Indeed, the bane of his existence walked in, back ramrod stiff, followed by his witch-with-a-broomstick-up-her-arse wife.

  Watching that family there struck him as utterly strange. When he, or his sisters, had been kids the age of twins Bernard and Catherine, they’d have jumped onto any cake in their vicinity inside their house or their grandparents’ dwelling. But no, these kids didn’t even bat an eye, as if they’d gone on stand-by mode once they’d expressed their perfect manners. How utterly creepy.

  But speaking of them, what was Carl doing here?

  “Nammy here ran into Carl at the Italian Cultural Institute and since she hadn’t seen the twins in a while, she asked me if I could extend the invitation to Carl as well when I phoned her to let her know Ona was making quail, her favourite.”

  Magnus bit the inside of his cheek; he couldn’t fist his hands given they were on the table and everyone would see his frustration then. Why, of all days, had Carl needed to be in Belgravia today, where Nammy lived? Also, had his mother known about this before she’d called to invite him? A look at her placid face told him he shouldn’t put this ambush past her.

  “Come along, children,” Mary Margaret said as she herded the twins to another set of staircases. These two would have their dinner before and away from the adults. Because, apparently, that’s the way it was done. Saintly Mrs. Carl Trammell wouldn’t let it slip that Elise, the family’s French au pair who should never be seen, would be the one handling the delivery of that meal. Like a good mother, she would make herself scarce until her kids were done and she could join the family for sherry in the drawing room before dinner was announced.

  As Magnus stared at the mess this evening had now turned into, he contemplated leaving altogether. Pretend there was a party he had to attend or something. Though who would be partying so early in the evening? Nobody who wanted anyone in the party circuit to respect him. So he was well and truly fucked into staying here for this dinner. Even the very idea of quail now turned his stomach.

  He lent a distracted ear to the antics of his sisters—the girls knew he tried never to stick around Carl, the one who always brought all of them down, but more so Magnus when he was present.

  He moved to the dining room. Sat down. Fiddled with his food. Carl didn’t even speak to him. Just as well, as he had no intention of talking to that pretentious prick. How could that arsehole have come from the same womb and gene pool that had created him and his lovely sisters?

  He’d exchanged a scant nod with his father after a handshake in the drawing room, and then, nothing. Just as it should be. The old man would never see him as anything but a party animal, and suddenly, he didn’t have any wish to change that state of affairs. No, he’d wait for Stellan to come back and then they’d present the clinic project together. As things stood, Megha didn’t need their intervention as she’d already gone ahead with her procedure, so no rush on that end, though he did wish to reimburse her all the money she’d had to spend. He had said his endeavour would take care of that, hadn’t he, and he was a man of his word when he gave it.

  “Children, children,” Nammy started as she tapped her spoon to her champagne flute once the staff had cleared the dinner table and were supposed to bring out dessert. “I have an announcement to make.”

  “Oh, pray tell, Nammy. Tell us you’re getting married, and we get to be bridesmaids!” Agneta trilled.

  Tindra rolled her eyes at her. “Don’t be so daft, Agneta. Or is that the hormones talking?”

  “Shut up, you cow!”

  “Girls …” their mother said with a warning tone.

  Across the table, Mary Margaret tried to hide the disgust and contempt on her face. Could it be the feeling had been so strong she hadn’t been able to hide them, or had she gone for Botox and now had features she couldn’t bring back into place fast enough? As for Carl, Magnus didn’t even bother looking.

  “You were saying, Mother?” Ernest Trammell asked to restore calm at the table.

  Nammy smiled. “I have decided to give away the cottage.”

  Someone gasped, but on the whole, a thick veil of stunned silence fell on the room. Nammy adored that house, which was in fact the dowager residence of the Daimsbury property. Nobody would’ve even conceived of her parting with it.

  But none of that registered on Magnus really, because something worse must be coming. Nammy having brought up this subject, would she let it drop without any resolution of the speculation—she often loved to stir the pot—or would she spill the beans and implicate him, in the process?

  Fuck it, he wasn’t ready for this! He needed Stellan. He needed time. He needed to think this through much deeper so his father would have no objections to his project—

  “To which charity are you giving it to, Grandmother?”

  Of course, stilted Carl would use all the formality of a pompous arse, because that’s what he was.

  Nammy turned an indulgent look on the eldest of her grandchildren. “What makes you think it is to charity, my dear? The cottage has been a family property for centuries. It is going to stay in the family.”

  At the mention of this little fact, it seemed to Magnus that Mary Margaret appeared to perk up in her chair. Could that be a hint of a smile on her smug face? He wouldn’t have bet she even knew how to convey a posi
tive emotion.

  The hag must be thinking Carl would be getting the cottage. She was in for a rude awakening. He’d love to see that.

  “As a matter of fact,” Nammy continued. “I have put the cottage, as well as thirty-five million pounds, in a trust. The money is to be used for a respectable pursuit, which I am sure Ernest will be able to ascertain as the trustee when any project is then proposed to him for approval.”

  “Well, Grandmother, I can think of some very laudable avenues we could pursue—”

  “I am sure you can, my dear. The trust is in Magnus’ name.”

  Once again, stunned silence struck everyone. Magnus remained immobile, but inside, a storm raged. So she’d gone and done it. He had no way out now. Unless he played the fool and just upped and left … No, he couldn’t do this to her. It would be childish. He might act immature sometimes, on purpose, but he never behaved like a child, let alone a brat.

  Carl recovered first, a small, sardonic smile on his thin lips. “What respectable project will your beloved cottage be used for, in this case, Grandmother? The new Château Marmont of very far west London?”

  “Dear, as the oldest sibling, I expected more trust in your brother’s capabilities on your behalf.”

  Another forced smile greeted that gentle rebuke. If Magnus weren’t enjoying himself so much watching Carl being put back in his place, he would’ve been cowering in his shoes. What to do now? He had no way out, did he?

  “I do trust him, Grandmother. To come up with the most depraved party spot ever, in fact.”

  “Carl …” Ernest Trammell’s turn to warn his son to not overstep his bounds. Carl was, after all, in his house.

  Carl gave a short laugh. “I am merely stating the truth. Being diplomatic about it, too. We all know Magnus knows nothing of doing the respectable, let alone the responsible, thing.”

  Magnus thumped down the urge to rise up and go punch his brother in that arrogant face of his. On either side of him, Elin and Tindra both put a hand on his thigh, squeezing gently in silent support and urging him to not lose his cool in front of their asshat sibling.

  If only for them, he’d keep it together. Plus, Carl was the one making an arse of himself at the moment. They rarely got to see him lose it, so they must exploit that moment for posterity.

  “I can assure you Magnus is more than capable of doing the responsible thing when the need arises,” Nammy continued. “Did you know that he single-handedly found out why our Daimsbury store was flagging? It had to do with the manager, someone I believe your darling wife recommended, Carl?”

  Mary Margaret grew pink. Carl rushed to her rescue, though probably more to not lose face rather than to avenge her honour. “James Stilton came highly recommended. We had to fight to get him.”

  “And maybe that’s where it hurt. He must have thought himself entitled to more than what we were actually giving him,” Nammy added.

  His father choked. “You mean, he was embezzling us?”

  Nammy turned to her son. “Fleecing, more like.”

  Uh-oh, it would get to that … It should never have gotten to that. He really had no exit now.

  “How did you find all this?” a stricken Elsa asked.

  Nammy directed a beaming smile at him. “All thanks to Magnus’ dedication. That dear boy has been handling the managing of the shop since I gave him the all-clear to fire that nincompoop.”

  You could now hear a pin drop. And he was screwed over. No more hiding under the disguise of the court jester now. Should he stand up and admit to all this?

  He should. Because, ultimately, he wanted out of that costume. For her. It started now.

  So he cleared his throat. “I have in fact appointed one of the sales staff there as the new manager, with Nammy’s approval.”

  His father frowned at him. “Pray tell.”

  “She has worked at the shop for over a decade, knows its intricacies inside out. However, we have a temporary setback with her appointment as she has recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and thus needs medical leave.”

  “That poor woman,” his mother stated.

  Carl laughed. “Seriously, Magnus. So you left a full shop on a sick woman’s shoulders. What else had we expected?” He shook his head.

  At this, his ire rose, blood boiling. Never mind that Carl was attacking him as a man and even as a person; he didn’t have the right to drag Megha into it.

  “You’d never have expected me to help her, would you?” he burst out.

  “You, help? Oh, Lord.” Carl rolled his eyes. “Troll,” he added under his breath, but loud enough for Magnus to hear.

  The utmost insult from his brother—he’d always compared Magnus to the Nordic lore’s trolls, those ugly simpletons who lived high up mountains and who any human could best because they were so idiotic.

  And that’s what did it!

  Magnus threw his napkin down and stood. He turned to face his father and straightened his spine.

  “A way to help her, and also other young women in her condition, is to use the cottage and the money for medically helping them. Furthermore, based on research I’ve conducted, it has become apparent that the area we can most help these women in, and also younger men undergoing adjuvant therapy that puts their fertility at risk, is to provide fertility preservation in a setting conducive to helping them battle with the plight of cancer.”

  “What do you propose?” his father asked.

  He took a deep breath. If he thought too long and hard that this was actually happening right then, he’d lose his train of thought and any bravado that had infused itself into his system.

  “Setting up a fertility clinic. It would offer counselling services in relation to these patients being able to have children after their treatments are completed, as well as the structure and setup to harvest and then store ovum and sperm. The clinic would cover the costs for some patients who cannot afford the procedure as this isn’t covered by the NHS.”

  There, it was out. Everyone seemed to be pondering his words. Stunned expressions marked his mother’s and sisters’ faces. Mary Margaret looked pinched, but she always did look like that. His father appeared pensive, while Nammy had a small smile on her face. As for Carl …

  A clap. Then two. Three. Ringing in the room. Carl shook his head all while he tapped one palm against the other. “Bravo, Magnus.”

  No hiding the derision and the contempt in that tone.

  Magnus couldn’t take it anymore. He pushed his chair back and left the room, not even bothering to ask to be excused by his grandmother. He’d had it with that bastard, and he was out of there.

  His steps took him down a flight of stairs, then up another hallway, then another … He wasn’t getting lost now, was he? Finally, he spotted the entrance lobby, Carson waiting faithfully by the front door.

  His foot had touched the last step when he heard his name being called.

  He turned to find his father coming down the steps. Ernest Trammell had followed him? Magnus stayed put, letting his parent take the lead. His heart hammered, and not because he’d been across stairs for full minutes at high speed.

  “Son, wait.”

  Hold it—his father rarely, if ever, called him son. Did that mean something good could be coming from the current encounter?

  The older man, still tall and with a straight spine, joined him at the bottom of the stairs and faced him.

  For once, Magnus didn’t get the feeling he should evade that frank gaze, as he’d done any time in the past because being before his dad usually meant he’d done something to be chastised for.

  Ernest cleared his throat. “What you said back there … you mean it?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ve done the research, see if you’d even get a permit for that?”

  “If it’s set up as a leg of a non-profit organization, then yes, it can be done. Same rules apply as to a private fertility clinic.”

  “The money is not an issue, of course.”


  Thirty-five million pounds should cover the costs, and then some, for sure.

  “This is really doable?” his father asked.

  “Yes. I even have a proposal I’ve drafted that needs to be finalised. I can send it to you when it’s done.”

  He’d sounded like a proper businessman right then; where had such confidence come from? Just from the eyes of his father, which, for once, weren’t looking at him with patient exasperation?

  “You do that. At your earliest convenience.”

  He nodded. “Are we done now?”

  Never mind that his father hadn’t rebuked his idea. Having Carl inside the same building meant his skin crawled, and he wanted out ASAP.

  “That woman at the Daimsbury store,” his dad asked. “Who is she?”

  “Megha Saran.”

  Sheer surprise must’ve made his old man open his slate-grey eyes wide.

  “Jari Saran’s daughter? And she has cancer? She must be of the same age as Elin.”

  His father might be a business tycoon, but he tried hard to personally know everyone who worked for him.

  “Same age as Tindra, actually.”

  “Still, that’s too young for cancer. Is she going to make it?”

  Something stuck in his throat. He didn’t like thinking of her battling such odds. “She’s expected to make it, yes. But she has a long, tedious road ahead of her.”

  “Of course. Magnus, are we taking care of her? As an employee of Trammell’s, she is one of our own.”

  He acquiesced with a nod. “She’s the first one who will benefit from setting up this organization leading to the clinic.”

  “Good. And anything else she or Jari needs, you give it to them.”

  “Will do.”

  A lull fell between them, and he took this as his cue to leave. He outstretched his hand, shook his father’s, and turned to the door.

  Carson waited there with Magnus’ brogues in his hand. “Your shoes, Master Magnus.”

  When had the bloke found the time to go all the way to the back through that labyrinth of staircases in the short time it had taken Magnus to leave the dining room and get here? He accepted the footwear and quickly pulled them on.