by Kait Jagger
Step 1
Book luxurious, discreet hotel.
She arrived at their hotel at just gone 2.30, entering via the blink-and-you’d-miss-it, ultra-unobtrusive entrance on a side street in Soho. The hotel’s small reception area was flanked by a wood panelled seating area upholstered in a combination of leather, velvet and floral linen, and it smelled divine, like jasmine and cedar and roses combined. There were candles everywhere – on the tables, in alcoves, in the chandeliers – none of them lit now, but Luna silently revelled in anticipation of what it would look like that night, when she brought him back here.
Check.
Step 2
Conduct necessary preparatory work. Leave nothing to chance.
She went up to their room to drop off her backpack, opening the door to find a massive, antique wooden spindle bed bedecked in an immaculate white Egyptian cotton quilt and no less than eight pillows of assorted size and density. At the foot of the bed were two comfortable armchairs and a table with a jasmine plant on it. The floor of the room was covered in a gorgeous, oversized boucle coir carpet, with a small tiled section in the corner on which sat a sumptuous freestanding bath.
It was all Luna could do not to immediately jump into the bath and start using each and every complimentary toiletry at her disposal. Instead, she unpacked her bag, hanging up her dress for the evening and carefully taking inventory of the other items she’d brought.
As an afterthought, she stopped by reception on the way out and rather cheekily requested that they loan her ‘some of those delicious smelling candles of yours. Maybe five. Or ten?’ And was gratified when the man behind the desk, who also smelled very nice, offered to have them brought up to her room.
Check.
Step 3
Undergo rigorous self-improvement process.
‘I don’t want to look like a geisha,’ Luna warned the girl in Selfridges’ beauty hall as she wielded a brush next to Luna’s cheek. ‘It needs to be subtle.’
The girl, who was wearing a face full of expensive war paint herself, nodded seriously and kept brushing, and Luna knew a moment’s trepidation, wondering if she’d have time to remove it all if, as she feared, this didn’t go to plan.
Her hair, which she’d had done at one of the numerous blow-dry bars that had sprung up on and around Oxford Street, was currently covered in a scarf, with only a few glossy waves visible, trailing down her back. Knowing there was no chance she’d manage to avoid smudging her toes and fingernails, she had also paid over the odds for a gel manicure and pedicure. Clear polish on the hands, blood red on the toes.
And on the lips, she’d been insistent on that. Fortunately, the make-up girl was familiar with Kayla’s guiding make-up maxim: dark lipstick + heavy eye makeup = prostitute. ‘I’m just going to work on your lashes,’ the girl said, frowning with concentration as she finished threading Luna’s eyebrows. ‘Anything else would be overkill with your eyes.’
When she finished, spinning Luna’s chair back toward the lighted mirror for the big reveal, Luna regretted ever doubting her. The girl had made her look… beautiful. Blending foundation to perfectly match Luna’s skin tone, covering it with a light coat of mineral powder that made it appear luminous – flawless. Shaping and subtly darkening her brows, somehow managing to make her lashes look both incredibly long and natural at the same time. And her blood red lips, they were a triumph.
So much so that Luna promptly bought the lipstick and another £80 worth of products, tipping generously and pausing briefly so the girl, whose card she took away to share with Jem and Kay, could take photos of her to post on Instagram.
Check.
Step 4
Choose venue with care.
Where to go when you wanted to surprise your boyfriend? The one who lived in London, who was independently wealthy and a reformed womaniser? Who’d probably been everywhere that was worth going, beautiful women spread out like a shimmering, perfumed carpet before him?
In the end, Luna plumped for a bar she’d been to a few times with Kayla and some of her thespian friends, Manna and Quail. Styled in the fashion of an American speakeasy, it was all dark wood and modal jazz. Kayla liked it because of its house rules, which banned men pestering women; Kay always preferred to be the chaser rather than the chased, so the vibe here was perfect for her.
It also made killer cocktails, with a particularly fine line in the old standards. The bartender didn’t bat an eyelash when Luna walked in at 9pm and ordered a gimlet.
‘Vodka or gin?’ he asked.
‘Gin, please,’ Luna replied, sitting on a bar stool and crossing her legs. Her outfit had been the final step in her preparations for the evening, requiring a visit to the storage facility where she’d sent most of her possessions after leaving Arborage in January. She needed her Miami things; clothes from her two-year assignment working for a hotel magnate with somewhat idiosyncratic views on uniforms for his staff. All black, all the time, with LBDs the preferred option for his female employees.
The best and most expensive of Luna’s LBDs, reserved for special occasions, was what her boss referred to as ‘that bandage dress of yours’ – an extremely body-con, halter-neck Hervé Leger dress. One she normally might be reluctant to wear here in the UK, but, having yet to regain all the weight she’d lost in Shetland, decided to risk. She would also normally have worn it with a pair of plain sling-back heels. Yet here she sat, sporting her gladiator sandals with the five-inch heels and crisscrossing leather straps that ran up to her knees. The ‘fuck me’ sandals Stefan had so admired when the two of them were together on Miami Beach.
The bartender delivered her gimlet in a martini glass garnished with a slice of lime and Luna tried to focus on emptying her mind. Inspired by the bar’s house rules, her instructions to Stefan had been to behave as if they’d never met; with the aim to thrill, she thought he might enjoy being on the receiving end of a little chasing from her.
‘I say, you look very familiar,’ an uber-posh male voice pronounced behind her. ‘Have we met?’ So much for the house rules, Luna thought with a frown. She twisted around in her bar chair to find a tall, thin young man with flushed cheeks studying her with interest.
‘I know,’ he said, snapping the fingers of one hand, sloshing his drink in the other. ‘You’re that delicious selkie I stumbled upon during Isabelle’s house party last year.’ Luna’s heart sank. Yes, she remembered it: a pair of toffs appearing in the doorway of her attic bathroom at Arborage, catching her in the tub.
‘Fully attired now, I see,’ Posh Boy said, making sad, regretful eyes at her. Luna smiled a tepid smile as he grabbed the arm of a chubby companion next to him. ‘I say, Ned, do you recognise this Amazonian beauty?’ Ned professed mystification, so Posh Boy added helpfully, ‘Try to imagine her without clothes.’
That did the trick. Ned yelped in recognition, ‘The water nymph!’
‘The very same!’ Posh Boy jubilated, noting as an aside to Luna, ‘D’you know, if old Ned here hadn’t been with me that night, I’d have chalked the whole thing up to the absinthe. Some kind of heavenly apparition…’ His eyes wandered briefly, focusing on something behind her. Heart thumping ominously, Luna turned to see Isabelle Wellstone swishing her way from across the bar, looking immaculate and fragrant and perfect, as ever.
Jesus wept. This night was not turning out at all as Luna intended.
Isabelle was accompanied by a lanky woman with blushing cheeks; a foil, Luna thought to herself, somewhat uncharitably. Luna hopped off her barstool like it was on fire, ready to make her excuses and run. Unfortunately, there was no escaping Posh Boy, who insisted on making introductions. Himself, Tarquin; his sister, Lilith. Plus the aforementioned Ned.
‘And this is—’ he cut himself short and wagged a finger at Isabelle. ‘But of course, you two must know each other well.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say well,’ Isabelle disagreed, running a jewellery-laden hand through her blond tresses. ‘Luna is an ex-employee of my mother’s.
’ She let that linger, allowing the words she didn’t say to lend colour and weight to the ones she did. Lilith quickly picked up on the non-verbal cues Isabelle was sending her way, scrutinising Luna’s outfit with a flat, openly critical stare. In a painful flash, Luna foresaw how this encounter was going to go, the two men making oblivious small talk while their dates cut daggers into her with their eyes. Suddenly her outfit, her make-up, the venue… everything about tonight felt like a horrible mistake. Praying like she’d never prayed before for a way out of this, Luna glanced haplessly toward the door.
Where her saviour had just entered, the crowd parting before him just like it always did.
Wearing his navy suit teamed with a light pink dress shirt she hadn’t seen before and, sweet Lord, loved him in, Stefan strolled toward the bar, trying his best not to look at her, following her instructions to the letter. With some difficulty, Luna managed to catch his eye and give what she hoped was a desperate ‘abort abort abort’ face. Bless him, he quickly made his way over, to be greeted by squeals of delight from Lilith and Isabelle.
‘Darling!’ Isabelle cried as he approached. ‘What are you doing here?’
She was poised to throw herself upon him, but Stefan chose to ignore her advance, slipping an arm around Luna’s waist and saying, ‘Sorry I’m late, älskling.’ And nuzzling her cheek.
The opening trumpet strains of Miles Davis’s ‘Round Midnight’ began to play, soundtrack to the slow, portentous fading of Isabelle’s smile. She looked from Luna to Stefan and back, her eyes remaining on Luna as Stefan planted his hand firmly on her waist and launched into a full scale charm offensive, chatting with Tarquin and Ned, shining the light of his powerful charisma on Lilith. Standing quietly beside him, Luna barely registered the conversation, enduring a glare from Isabelle that was equal parts cold calculation and pure, unbridled hatred. How she wished, then, that she could just crawl into Stefan’s suit pocket and disappear.
‘It’s your birthday? Mine too!’ Stefan exclaimed to Lilith with exaggerated enthusiasm. ‘We must celebrate.’ He turned to the bartender, ordered a bottle of the house’s best champagne, and pulled Luna a little closer to him.
‘You must forgive Luna and me,’ he said apologetically. ‘We have dinner reservations across town.’ He leant forward and kissed Isabelle, and Lilith too, giving Ned and Tarquin both a sly this girl’s a keeper wink. And then they were off, Stefan’s arm around her, her strides matching his. Out of the door, onto the pavement, out of eyeshot. Whereupon Luna threw her arms around his neck and said fervently, ‘You are the best boyfriend in the entire world.’
Chuckling and sliding a quick hand down to her bum, Stefan asked, ‘Did I do right? The champagne wasn’t over the top, was it?’
‘It completely was and I don’t care,’ Luna replied, pulling her head back to gaze at him adoringly. ‘I’m not kidding, before you got there the four of them were looking at me like I was a high class call girl.’
‘Whereas now you look like—’
‘A high class call girl with a paying customer?’ she suggested, bursting into semi-hysterical laughter.
‘You look incredible,’ Stefan disagreed. ‘Not at all like a prostitute. I’m sure Tarquin was thinking, “I have chosen the wrong woman here.”’
‘Oh, shut up.’ Luna gave him a little shove on the shoulder. Deflating a little, she gestured back toward the bar. ‘Maybe we should abandon this whole thing? Do it another time?’
‘No way!’ Stefan protested. ‘With you wearing my favourite sandals and looking like you do? No. I want my full birthday surprise. We will improvise.’ With that, he pulled out his phone and got to work, contacting Dumbarton House, the private club where he and Nancy were members, quickly arranging for Luna to be added to the night’s guest list. ‘Go to the members’ bar in back. I’ll give you a ten-minute head start,’ he instructed.
So off she went around the block to yet another discreet entrance, up the stairs of a converted Georgian terrace to a reception desk where she was given an embossed card to present at the members’ bar. Walking through the main restaurant, which was full to bursting, Luna experienced another moment’s doubt, but thankfully the members’ bar was less crowded. And the bartender there also knew how to make a mean gimlet, his containing a delicate, curled piece of lime peel.
Unfortunately, there was no rule against men chatting women up here at Dumbarton House, and after a few sips of her gimlet a thirty-something charmer in a shiny suit sidled up to where she was standing, resting an elbow on the bar and looking her over like she was a new sports car.
‘Dirty martini,’ he said to the bartender without taking his eyes off Luna. ‘And for the lady?’
Luna lifted her full glass and gave a slight shake of her head, noting Stefan’s approach on the other side of the man.
‘Don’t tell me you’re here by yourself, an exotic creature like you,’ the charmer drawled. ‘Or rather, do.’
Here at last was a situation Luna felt confident in handling. Meeting the charmer’s eyes, she tilted her head to one side unsmilingly.
‘Ah, the quiet type,’ he tried again. ‘I like quiet women.’
‘Do you,’ she said coldly. At last the charmer felt the chill, and slunk away to drink his dirty martini alone.
She heard Stefan order a whiskey and exchange a few words with the bartender. Someone moved from a bar chair next to him and he gestured toward it, smiling briefly, absently at Luna. Well played, sir, she thought. But the chill lingered in the air, along with the memory of Isabelle’s malignant stare. Suddenly the idea of flirting with Stefan lost its appeal. So Luna sat down and waited, drinking her drink.
She looked at her watch. Then, on an impulse, looked at her phone. And sighed, so softly that you could easily miss it, if you weren’t listening carefully.
‘Late,’ came a voice next to her. She turned to look at Stefan, whose eyes were resting on his drink.
‘Excuse me?’ she said.
He looked at his watch. ‘Ten past ten. He’s late.’ Eyes returning to his drink, he lifted his shoulders slightly. ‘Am I mistaken? Is it a friend you’re waiting for? A business acquaintance, perhaps?’
‘None of your business, perhaps?’ Luna replied.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Quite right, it’s not.’ He smiled down at his drink, lifted it to his mouth and drained it. For an awful second, Luna thought he was going to call her bluff, get up and walk away. But then he looked at her and said, ‘May I buy you a drink while you don’t wait for someone who isn’t your useless boyfriend?’
Luna pursed her lips, then lifted an eyebrow and tilted her wrist slightly atop the bar. Acquiescing.
As the bartender got to work on their drinks, Stefan walked to the other side of the bar and retrieved a chair, placing it next to hers. ‘So,’ he said, taking a seat. ‘As you say, it’s none of my business. But if I were lucky enough to be with a woman like you, I wouldn’t keep you waiting.’
Luna frowned and lifted her fingers on the bar. ‘He’s a busy man.’
To this, Stefan said nothing. Again, playing it very well, inviting her to keep talking.
‘He… owns his own company, and has other demands on his time,’ she continued. ‘He’s under a great deal of pressure right now.’
‘So much pressure that he’s asked you to meet him here and can’t even be bothered to show up on time,’ Stefan said, accepting another gimlet for Luna and passing it to her, his hand briefly touching hers, warm against it.
‘I take it you have always been a paragon of virtue, when it comes to the women in your life,’ Luna said lightly, lifting her martini glass to her blood red lips.
‘Touché,’ he replied, and sipped his own drink. ‘I have not.’
‘And yet you presume to lecture me.’
‘No, but I would lecture your boyfriend, I think. On how easy it can be to… misplace precious things. How, if I were him, I would be doing whatever it took to keep you; whatever you asked…’
‘Easily said,’ Luna remarked, as dark waters shifted and eddied between them. ‘You don’t know me, or what I might ask.’
She could sense the bartender, pretending disinterest as he methodically ran a cloth over the highball glasses on the shelf behind him, all the while scrutinising the rather extraordinary exchange taking place before him.
‘True,’ Stefan said, playing for time.
‘A lot of men talk that talk,’ Luna continued, injecting a slight note of world-weariness into her tone. ‘That they want a woman to take charge, to set the rules. And yet, here I sit, waiting for a man who may or may not be coming. And there you sit, talking the talk. And nothing changes.’
Beat. ‘Then let’s change it.’
Luna turned and looked at him, lifting an eyebrow.
‘What if I told you that tonight I would willingly do anything you asked of me,’ Stefan said. ‘Anything.’
Oh, the bartender was floored by this, dishcloth hovering over a glass. Waiting with baited breath for Luna’s response.
‘Would your… boyfriend…’ Stefan enunciated the word disparagingly, ‘make you a similar offer? I doubt it.’ To emphasise his point, he looked at his watch, and looked toward the empty doorway.
Luna contemplated. Then got down off her bar chair, taking her martini glass and emptying it, setting it back on the bar. She picked up her phone and clutch bag, opened the clasp on the bag and pulled out her hotel card key, placing it, too, on the bar.
‘Room 202,’ she said, nodding toward his glass, ‘Take your time, finish your drink. We have all night.’ And walked out of the bar.
