Connor
The front entrance hall of the Cotswolds estate at eight-thirty in the morning was like the terminal lobby of a hyper-exclusive private airport catering solely to the absurdly wealthy.
Leather duffel bags were lined up neatly against the base of the white-and-gold marble pillars. Chauffeurs in dark suits stood waiting patiently on the gravel driveway beside open car doors, their breath rising in faint white plumes in the crisp autumn air. Inside, the three primary men of the Coleman empire were preparing to head back into the high-stakes belly of London's corporate machine, surrounded by the usual blend of quiet affection and absolute domestic drama.
Standing near the tall double doors, Vasili, Malia, and I watched the morning send-off unfold. The sheer contrast in how these three men departed for work was pure, unadulterated comedy.
