by Alam, Donna
My God, he is breathtaking.
And breathtakingly unsuitable. That is, if I were looking to become involved, which I’m not. And neither is he, I’d guess. At least, not with me.
Suck, sweetheart. Make them wet. I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the images, the sound of his voice.
We’re just too different on so many levels, I tell myself.
First, his age. He’s old, though not too old. How old is he, anyway?
Second, our backgrounds. I bet he’s one of those posh boys who went to Harrow or Eton.
Third, our positions in life. He’s obviously wildly successful, or at the least, he has a very generous trust fund, while I’m not exactly sure who I am or where I’m going on any given day in the week.
I love my job, but I’m not sure it’s what I want to do forever. And when, in the quiet moments that allow introspection—which are admittedly few and far between these days—I feel a tiny bit envious when I think of Olivia. She’s not that much older than me, but she’s so together. So driven and focused. So settled in her life right now.
I’m not even sure what James does for a living if he does anything. But he doesn’t seem the type to be cruising through life living on family money. I know he said he was in acquisitions, but I’m now beginning to wonder exactly what he acquires, given the kind of home he lives in.
People?
Arms?
Drugs?
How would I ever know or ever find out? I suppose if I ever find myself shoved in a shipping container, I’ll find out. Although, according to my horrid grandmother when I was growing up, if anyone kidnapped me, they’d soon give me back.
The rotten old bag.
As we’d driven through London last night, Knightsbridge and then Belgravia, I came to understand just how different we are. Belgravia is one of the most expensive places to live in the world, I think, and has long been the home of foreign embassies, and holiday homes of billionaire sheiks, oligarchs, visiting dignitaries and a stone’s throw from Michelin star restaurants, Sloane Square shopping, Harrods, Harvey Nichols, and more.
Living here means James is wealthy. Probably wealthier than I can comprehend. And that makes me feel . . . odd. It’s hard to explain. I certainly haven’t been taken advantage of, and I’m not some silly girl with dreams of catching a rich man. Both nights have been about release—the kind of letting go of my life for a few hours, as well as the other kind.
But still. I feel kind of uncomfortable. Unbalanced.
With that last confusing thought, I slide from the bed, grabbing my clothes from where they fell last night, then slip into a bathroom that looks like it belongs to an exclusive hotel. Time to do what I can to gather myself.
I take stock of my appearance in the mirror above one of the his-and-hers dark marble-topped vanities that runs the length of opposing walls. I touch my fingers to the back of my shoulder where I’m pretty sure I almost convince myself I can still feel the delicious ache of his teeth.
You’re intoxicating.
With a smile, I wonder if he’d think that right now.
I look not so much intoxicating as intoxicated; the kind that comes with a quart of vodka in a brown paper bag and a shopping cart laden with rubbish.
My hair is a complete disaster—it looks like I’ve spent the night having sex in a wind tunnel—my eyes look like a panda after a night on the tiles, and my neck is still red from his whiskers.
But most of this can be fixed with the right apparatus.
I rinse my face, pat it dry, then realise my purse must be downstairs, so I don’t have a hair tie currently. Unless . . .
It’s with a sudden sense of trepidation and a whispered prayer of please don’t let it be that I open the drawers under both vanities. Though I could absolutely do with an elastic to tie back my hair, no, I don’t want to find one next to a tub of La Mer moisturiser, a Chanel lipstick, or a box of tampons. Because, from what I recall seeing last night, this house doesn’t look like a bachelor pad. Then again, it didn’t strike me as a family home. It’s more like the set of a high-end home magazine shoot, a peek into the lifestyles of the rich and famous.
But getting back to the drawers, neither has what I’m looking for; the units on one side are almost completely empty, though unscrupulously clean. On the other side, one drawer is filled with fluffy white hand towels and one inlaid with one of those wooden sock sorter looking things, each compartment holding a bottle of aftershave.
He certainly does like to smell nice.
So no hair tie, which is not only fine by me but also a huge relief. I suddenly recall seeing the article in the newspaper and the woman he was with, then wonder if I’ll ever return to the girl I was before Cameron cheated me of my trust. Yet I can’t seem to help myself from pulling off the lids of one or two of the bottles of his cologne to see if I can guess which he wears most.
Dark and spicy with a hint of leather. This one. It’s my favourite.
With a sigh, I close the drawer and turn my attention to my clothes, finding I have everything here but my knickers. I dress, then take a seat on the plush chaise in the centre of the room. A modern egg-style bath sits under a large frosted window, a shower big enough to hold a party in is situated in the middle of the room like a glass box of voyeurism with a three-sixty view.
I feel . . . well, I feel like I’ve spent the night having sex with a seriously well-endowed man. And I probably smell like sex, too, but I’m not going to shower until I get home. If I can, I’d like to sneak out without waking him. It’s the coward’s way out, sure, but also sort of perversely appealing. Like coming full circle to the way he left me. No matter how mitigating he might think the circumstances, waking up alone like that wasn’t a pleasant experience. Even without the added insult of waking to the view of a cat’s bum in my face.
A little payback might go some way to help him appreciate my point of view.
I attempt to comb my hair with my fingers, then give up before I pull half of the hair from my head. I make use of his deodorant and his toothpaste but not his brush because it somehow seems too intimate, which is pretty ridiculous, considering all the other things belonging to him I’d had in my mouth last night.
Also, the fancy electric thing might be noisy, so I’ll stick with my finger.
I’m two steps from the door when a sudden sensation washes over me, though the feeling is more like a wave that begins in the pit of my stomach and roils right through me, dragging me to my knees in front of the toilet.
I might’ve been worried about the noise of a toothbrush, but there’s no helping the sounds that come from me now. Can anyone vomit quietly? Personally, I can’t seem to do so without the addition of muttered bleurghs and yucks along with a generous helping of loud, sobbing tears.
I stagger to my knees, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth. I will never drink prosecco again. What is it they say? Wine before liquor, never been sicker?
‘Sheesh.’ In the mirror, my refection causes me one of those whole-body shudders of the very unpleasant kind. I wash my hands, wet a clean hand towel, and rub my face, patting my poor red piggy eyes. I no longer care if I’ve woken sleeping studly because one look at me and he’ll go running for the hills.
Next, I go to town with his toothbrush, brushing so thoroughly, I probably remove a layer of enamel. I dispose of the towel in the hamper and pull off the head of his toothbrush, dropping it into the space age-looking litter bin and find myself grimacing at the latex languishing there. In fact, it makes me heave a little.
‘I am never drinking again, period.’ I make my promise to the mirror as I breathe in shallow breaths. Once I’m sure I’m not about to hurl again, I return to the door and peek out.
Just one glance to see if I can make good on my escape unhindered.
He hasn’t moved. Thank God. I creep out, creep across the room, and pull the door silently closed behind me.
I pass one, two, three doors along the narrow hallway before comi
ng to stairs that lead upwards as well as down. I choose down, obviously, though I am super curious to see the rest of the house, but not right now.
Not ever, probably.
My bare feet pad against the warm wood, my shoes dangling from my fingertips. I need to find my purse so I can call an Uber, and thank goodness for the app being able to pick up the address because, other than Belgravia, I’m not sure where the flip I am.
I follow the staircase all the way to the bottom and look around, unsure this is where I want to be. It doesn’t feel right or in any way familiar. I’m in a small hallway, it’s a little dark, and several doors lead off in different directions. We came in through a garage and up a few stairs, didn’t we? Maybe this is the basement, probably the original cellar. On the way here, the houses we passed were all Georgian. Heritage listed, probably. One of these doors possibly leads to the service entrance and a way out, or I could go up one flight of stairs and find the front door. As my purse is up there too, that’s the way I’ll go. But the doors are so close, and James is two floors above, so I allow curiosity to get the better of me.
I pull on the handle of the nearest a door to reveal an indoor swimming pool of maybe twenty metres or more in length. Not what I was expecting. A mosaic-tiled spa sits at the far end, a glass wall running down one side revealing a small gym on the other side.
Urgh. I don’t know any gyms. And I wouldn’t speak to them if I did.
The next door opens to the garage; the Vanquish, a boxy looking Jeep, and a motorbike that looks like something Batman would covet stowed inside. And what’s behind door number three makes me squeal. Actually, it makes us both squeal.
‘My goodness, what a shock.’ The woman in front of me laughs a warbly laugh, her hand at her throat as her initial expression of terror subsides. ‘I didn’t think anyone was home.’ I take in the Waitrose shopping bag at her feet and the one placed higher on a kitchen worktop, her light application of makeup and her short, no-nonsense bobbed hair. She looks like someone’s mum. But not his, somehow.
‘He’s still asleep.’ The words are uncomfortable, my throat hoarse as the woman’s gaze widens in surprise and not shock this time. And she’s not hurling insults or produce at me, even though I currently feel like I could give Hester Prynne a run for her money. Maybe replace her scarlet A for a H. For ho.
‘Mr Harrison is usually at work by now.’ She smiles carefully, and things suddenly make more sense. She works for him. The housekeeper, maybe? Or just the woman who makes groceries appear in his fridge. I wonder if he writes his own list? The thought makes me smirk because I can’t imagine it.
‘He’s still out for the count,’ I shrug then realise what I’ve just said. My cheeks redden with a sudden and furious blush. Yeah, so basically, I left him upstairs naked and sleeping off our mammoth banging session. I might not have actually said that, but I may as well have, dressed as I am, shoes in hand and sex-crazed. At least my dress is quite demure even if the rest of me looks like I’ve been hanging out on a street corner somewhere. ‘Sorry, I was looking for the front door.’ To make my escape. You know, now that I’ve stolen his wallet. Shut up, brain! ‘I must’ve gotten lost.’
‘Oh, that’s easily enough done. This house is like a rabbit warren. The front door is on the next floor, dear. Let me show you the way.’
In case you steal anything else, she doesn’t add, but I think it anyway.
‘Do you want me to carry one of the shopping bags up?’ It seems the least I can offer to do as she reaches down.
‘No, I’m just getting it off my foot. I’ll take them up in the elevator later.’ Because why wouldn’t a house with a pool also have an elevator?
As I follow the woman upstairs, I don’t know what to make of her silence except that she’s being unfailingly polite. Maybe finding strange young women wandering around the place isn’t a common occurrence? Or maybe she’s just too polite to ask questions?
‘Oh, that’s mine,’ I say, making a grab for my bag which is lying where I left it. Thankfully, there’s no sign of my knickers because that would be beyond embarrassing. I’d rather lose them than find them hanging from the chandelier, a picture frame, or wrapped around one of his artsy knick-knacks. And speaking of arty knick-knacks, those knocked from the table last night in our state of passion are still scattered on the floor. I resist the urge to apologise, to pick them up, stepping over them instead.
‘Do you have transport arranged?’ Oh, boy. She’s good at this ignoring the obvious game as she steps over the copper bowl. ‘I’m sure I could call for the car?’
The car or a car?
‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you,’ I hear myself reply ins a completely even tone, ‘but I’m just going to get a cab.’ Or an Uber, if my phone has any charge. ‘Thank you for showing me the way,’ I add, pulling on the door handle, which doesn’t budge.
‘Here, let me.’ I move to the side as she presses a code into something that looks like a keypad without buttons. ‘These high-tech security systems are more trouble than they’re worth sometimes.’
‘Thank you again.’ With a tight smile, I edge out of the door before she’s pulled it fully open, jogging down the stair at a rapid pace.
I turn left at the bottom, not because I know where I’m going but because I need to go somewhere. My pounding heart slows to a more normal rhythm as I pause on the street corner.
I straighten my shoulders and take in my surroundings. The street behind me would look perfectly at home in a Regency period drama, the kind of houses mamas and papas would take their marriage age daughters to town for the season and the marriage mart. Tall, narrow, and rather uniformed, their stucco façades have something a little Roman about them. No doubt, could they speak, they’d have a lot to tell. Comings and goings more than just mine.
I pull my phone from my purse, sending up a silent thanks for the six percent battery charge remaining on my phone, then flip open the Uber app. I press in the specifics, noting my car is a red Subaru with a driver named Javid, then lift my head and let the morning sunshine warm my face while refusing to acknowledge the swirling, burgeoning thoughts of the things that led me to this moment.
The ring. My drunkenness. Having sex with an unsuitable man again.
All of it can wait for another day because right now, I have other things to concern myself with. Like forcing my stomach to settle long enough for me not to vomit in Javid’s nice red car.
14
Harry
‘Uncle Griff, that lady has really big boobies.’
Beside me, Griffin’s head emerges from his newspaper, following the direction of the child’s boldly pointed finger
‘You shouldn’t announce that so loudly, Mo,’ Griffin censures lightly. The child frowns, his hand falling to the tabletop as his uncle murmurs, ‘Even if you are right.’
It’s hard to believe I went to sleep with one of those in my hand last night—breasts, not small children—only to wake alone, much later than normal, the lovely owner of the lovely breasts having already left. But at least I now know where to find her Monday through Friday.
Instead of going into the office for a few hours, as I would usually, I’d left straight for our usual Saturday spot at Mortcombs. Part bar, part French brasserie, it’s my favourite for a reason. A few reasons, actually. The food is decent, the waitstaff outstanding, and it has the added advantage of rarely being discovered by tourists.
And when I say our usual Saturday spot, I mean Beckett and Griffin are often to be found there at the same time, too. I was surprised today, however, to find that though our party was still three, Beckett wasn’t present. Also, there isn’t usually a child present. Unless you care to count Griff.
‘Mummy doesn’t like it when you call me Mo,’ the kid replies, his curls moving in the gossamer breeze. Maybe we should’ve sat inside. Today is a scorcher; one of those lazy, hazy summer days when everyone is in a good mood and where brunch at your favourite spot should lead on to cocktails on a
roof terrace somewhere, and not studying someone else’s progeny. ‘She says I’ll be r-radically profiled if you call me Mo, and that you should call me by my proper name.’
‘Racially profiled,’ Griff corrects, rubbing a hand over the child’s head. ‘Can you be racially profiled on the basis of a name?’ His gaze flicks to mine, and I shrug.
‘More your arena than mine. Though I suppose the whole idea is the extrapolation of information based on assumptions. You look or sound a certain way, and you’re profiled, right?’
‘Who knows,’ Griff murmurs, looking down at the child once again, who thankfully has moved his attention to his plate. ‘Anyway, Montague isn’t a proper name,’ he adds. ‘So Mo it is. Now eat your chips like a good lad.’
‘Why is he so grumpy?’ the child asks after a beat. His gaze lifts to mine, surprising me. Am I grumpy? Could it be because I could see myself sipping cocktails with a particular someone? A blonde someone. A bold and intriguing someone.
The child’s skinny legs swing back and forth under his chair, thumping the leg of the table every now and again with the toes of his shoe. As it moves for the fifth time, I wince as it scrapes against the concrete. I’m not normally this short tempered, am I?
‘He’s grumpy because the positions of Sneezy and Doc were already taken.’ Griff smiles widely, tickled by his own wit.
‘Yes, but why is he wearing that angry face?’ he asks, a half masticated fried potato drooping from his open mouth before bouncing from the starched linen tablecloth and hitting the floor.
‘Do you think he would wear that face if he had another choice?’
‘Huh?’ The boy turns his head to the side like a terrier anticipating a knock on the door.
‘Harry’s expression is more querulous than angry,’ Griff replies, his exasperation growing. The man does love an audience, but it’s no fun if the audience doesn’t appreciate your humour. The lack of adulation is clearly killing him.
