GAVIN
Thursday lunch with my mother is not optional.
It’s not formalized in any document or calendar entry. It’s not listed under shareholder obligations or brand image protocols. But it is, somehow, binding. Every Thursday at noon, I make the pilgrimage to a members-only country club carved into the Bel Air hills, where linen is crisp, steak is blood-warm, and expectations are lethal.
The valet knows me by name. His uniform is spotless, his smile neutral. I tip him well—always. Not because I care about appearances, but because I like being remembered for something other than my last name.
The dining terrace is exactly as I left it last week. Manicured hedges flanking smooth concrete, canvas umbrellas casting diffuse shade across white tablecloths. The air smells faintly of rosemary an
