by Alam, Donna
Traffic. People. Lights. Noise.
Cracking open the window, I’m instantly overwhelmed by the sounds and smells. It’s almost as though I remember, but I can’t see how that could be. A mouth-watering aroma of garlic on one corner gave way to something vile on the next. The noise and the traffic, they all serve to distract me from why I’m really here.
‘I’m going to drop you off at the hotel. Do you think you might be ready to leave by three?’
No take a little time to recuperate from your flight, Olivia. Or have a nap and I’ll see you this evening for dinner.
I look down at my own phone, check the time, and shrug. ‘Sure. Where are we going?’
‘To take care of the reason for your visit.’
Well, damn.
It goes without saying that Beckett wouldn’t stay anywhere but the very best, but this hotel? Another level. A liveried doorman and a red carpeted path herald the tone. I take the man’s hand with the sense of being very much out of time and place. I step from the car and look up. Amongst the glass and steel, the building stands like a sentinel of the old world order.
We’re staying at the St. Regis.
As I turn, I realise Beckett hasn’t moved from the car. I place my hand on the top of the door, preventing the doorman from closing it.
‘You’re not going to make me go in there by myself, are you?’ My voice is a little shrill in the darkened interior.
‘I have a meeting,’ he answers in that oh, so cultured voice of his.
‘Yes, but—’
‘Olivia, I really don’t have time for this. Your key to the room is waiting at the desk. Surely, that isn’t beyond even you.’ I’m almost surprised when icicles don’t suddenly sprout in the air. Though I feel my brows pinch, I swallow the retort balanced on the edge of my tongue.
‘Thank you, Beckett. My mistake, but I thought we’d have some points to discuss before we take care of the reason for my visit.’ I’m surprised my jaw doesn’t crack in the effort to keep my words reasonably calm.
‘My lawyer is waiting for you inside.’ His eyes move back to the screen of his phone, and I’m effectively dismissed.
Without another word, I straighten like an automaton, then silently applaud myself for managing to close the door with a satisfying thunk. No slamming doors on my watch.
‘Oh, sorry!’ I almost stumble into the doorman who catches me by the elbow.
‘Excuse me, ma’am.’
‘No, it’s my fault. I should watch where I’m going. And sorry about stealing your job with the whole door shutting thing.’ Shut up. Just shut up. ‘Thank you again. I’m just . . . just going to go in now.’
He smiles sympathetically. Oh, fuck. I’ve just turned into Julia Roberts. This is my Pretty Woman moment just without the skanky dress and thigh-high boots. I glance down, you know, just in case, and I’m actually relieved when I realise I’m still wearing yoga pants, a slouchy cardigan, and a pair of battered slip-on Vans.
Oh my God. I’m about to step into the world of the rich and fabulous wearing a striped T-shirt that makes me look like an onion seller.
Pushing the ridiculousness away, I climb the few short steps, the opening lines of the movie playing out in my head.
What’s your dream?
This. This isn’t it.
I cross the Italianate marble lobby, trying very hard not to marvel at the frescoed ceiling and the gleaming chandelier hanging above my head.
Pretend this is no big deal. Like you visit these places all the time. You know, when you’re holidaying at the Cap d’Antibes with your good friend J-Lo and—wait. The Cap is in France, not Italy. Okay, like when you’re on Lake Como with George Clooney and Amal—
And . . . I’ve just realised I don’t know what name the room is booked under. Beckett. Is that his first name or last?
‘I . . . have a room booked . . . under the name Beckett?’ Please say I have a room booked under that name.
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Beckett.’ There isn’t even a ripple of amusement in the receptionist’s expression as he dips his head, hammers something out on the keyboard, and passes me my key. ‘Mr Braunstein is waiting for you in the library.’
‘Mr Who?’ And why?
‘Mr Braunstein. Ali will show you the way.’
The library is the kind of place you’d expect to find in a neoclassical building such as this. Expensive-looking books kept behind glass and wooden panelling. With a domed ceiling and chandelier, the room is set up with a number of small tables covered with damask tablecloths instead of worn-looking leather chairs filled with curmudgeonly old men. Though there is one man in here with thinning grey hair and wearing a dark suit with a matching blue shirt which strains a little over his girth as he rises from one of the tables. Save for the outfit and the absence of whiskers, he looks like a scruffy Santa Claus between gigs.
‘Ms Welland, I presume?’
‘Yes.’ I try for confidence as I take the man’s outstretched hand.
‘Braunstein,’ he says, then waits for me to sit before doing so himself. ‘Thank you for making time to meet me so soon after your flight. Can I get you a drink? A coffee perhaps before we begin?’
‘No, thank you.’ I rub my lips together, not sure where to start. ‘Mr Bernstein, before we begin what?’
‘Braunstein,’ he corrects kindly. ‘Beckett didn’t mention we’d be meeting today?’
‘No. It must have slipped his mind.’
He makes a noise that’s not quite a surprise. ‘Beckett never forgets anything. No matter. I have the pre-marital agreement paperwork here. I believe you’ve had your own counsel look at this?’
‘Yes.’ I nod. Professor Google helped me with my copy.
‘As I’ve said to Beckett, I’d have preferred at least a month’s notice, but I understand this has been a bit of a whirlwind courtship.’
‘Some would call it that.’ I applaud him for playing his part in what he undoubtably knows is a charade. After all, he’s holding the paperwork. His smile confirms this, pushing a nondescript folder across the table. When I open it, the terms of our agreement sit on top of the files again.
Money. Monogamy. Cohabitation. Consummation. My cheeks heat as I read through the now familiar terms. I try not to think of the man across from me having read this stuff as I give it a cursory look. Underneath is our prenup. I scan through it once again, this time without my online legal counsel.
Except as otherwise provided below, both parties waive the following rights:
To share in each other’s estates upon their death.
To spousal maintenance, both temporary and permanent.
To share in the increase in value during the marriage of the separate property of the parties.
To share in the pension, profit sharing, or other retirement accounts of the other.
Same as before. I keep what’s mine, including what he’s giving me, and he retains his assets once we divorce.
‘Where do I sign?’
And just like that, I’m one step closer to selling myself.
Everyone has a price, but my price is not my worth.
As the elevator spirits me upwards, I try not to think of the journey but the destination, and I don’t mean which floor I’ll be exiting on.
A viable business. Food other than ramen. No disgrace. Actually, scratch that last one. I might not ever need to tell Gran I lost my money, but I think I’ll always look back on this experience and feel a little shame. But the honest addendum is that I’ve chosen this outcome. I may have all kinds of conflicting feelings, and I may end up spending thousands in therapy, but the choice is mine. I need to remember that.
The elevator doors open, and I step out, not into a hall, but a small lobby with grey tiles and tactile wall coverings. A padded bench sits against the wall along with a mirror and an Art Deco-esque looking sideboard. And only one door.
I swipe my key card and step into a suite that is the epitome of another world. In fact, I think I jus
t found the actual place where “the other half lives”.
Standing on the threshold of a lounge that’s so stylish, I almost don’t want to step inside for fear of making it less so. My gaze is immediately drawn to a set of French doors leading to a stonewall terrace with an expansive view of Central Park beyond—and from above tree height! So much blue and green, the city beyond shimmering on the horizon. Sumptuous drapes hang from original ornate coving, falling to the parquet floor in pristine pleats, and soft furnishings that look so inviting. The effect is just dazzling.
This place is more like an apartment, a home away from home, if our home is worth millions, I suppose. There’s a formal dining room with seating for a dozen, a small kitchen, and two bedrooms, each on opposite corners of the suite. As I discover my case set in the smaller of the two, I don’t know whether this makes me feel more nervous or less. Sure, he’s giving me the illusion of space, but as I stand in the master bedroom staring at the snowy-white bed, trepidation washes through my stomach. Will I be sleeping here? Or only . . .
Something that resembles a thrill very quickly follows the trepidation.
I back out of the larger room, feeling like an intruder, and make my way to the other. Equally sumptuous, there’s something haven-like about the calm space. But maybe I’m projecting. White linens cover the bed, a velvet sofa is tucked into the corner, and pale peonies placed in a vase sit on an end table, lushly blooming yet so delicate.
I unfasten the clasps on my suitcase, open it wide, and pull out the outfit I’ve packed for today. No wedding dress for me. No veil or flowers. My something old is a dress from my closet from what Reggie liked to tease was my Great Gatsby stage. Following the release of the remake with Leo D and Carey Mulligan, I became a little obsessed with clothing from that period. It was short-lived as there are only so many cloche hats and drop-waist dresses you can wear before people start staring.
This dress is glorious. I think I wore it once for a wedding, ironically. Peach silk overlaid with intricate beadwork and a ruffled hem. It’s more fancy than fancy-dress, and it cost me almost a week’s rent when I bought it in a little boutique in Camden.
I have a shiny barrette for my hair and a purse that’s definitely of the period, the treasure “borrowed” from my gran for prom what seems like a lifetime ago. I make a mental note to take off my phone cover to be sure I can fit it inside. Then I hang up my dress, throw my cardigan across the back of the sofa, and chastise myself for a ridiculous thought.
Something old and something borrowed.
This isn’t that kind of wedding. There’s no need for sentimentality.
But as I drop my cardigan, I notice a box placed on the velvet bench at the end of the bed, wrapped in blue ribbon.
My bedroom, my box, right?
I rapidly untie the bow, unravelling it from the shoe-sized box which might contain anything. But, quelle surpris, it actually contains a pair of shoes. There’s also a card, so no need to guess who these are from. Though if I find the previous occupant of this suite left a pair of Olivia-sized shoes behind by mistake, then too bad. Finders keepers!
I pull out the card and read it.
Olivia,
I hope you’ll enjoy this four-hundred-pound pair of shoes, bought for no good reason other than I wanted to. And because I can.
Your turn soon.
Beckett.
Despite our earlier exchanges, I find myself smiling as I recall the conversation including those same words.
It doesn’t make me a bad person to want nice things.
Maybe he’s trying to remind me. Or maybe it’s a gift for the pure sake of gifting. Whatever it is, I’m not going to read into it too deeply. But I am strangely touched all the same.
And something else I know? These shoes cost way more than £400. I saw them in Selfridges two weeks ago. Okay, coveted them. But two weeks ago, I would no more have been able to buy a pair of shoes as frivolous as these as I would have booked a night in a hotel like this. But in a few short hours, I’ll be able to buy all the ridiculous footwear I want.
No more nagging sense of dread at what will become. No more avoiding calls from the accountant. No more scrimping and scraping to get by or worrying about where my next month’s rent will come from. No facing the team to tell them I can’t pay them anymore. I can breathe easy. Buy fucking shoes.
I’ll just have to learn to live with myself.
As I glance down at the shoe in my hand, running my fingers over the kid-soft leather and frivolous ribbon, I think I can.
Chapter 19
OLIVIA
Forty-five minutes later, and fifteen minutes before I decide to go down to the lobby to meet Beckett—because there’s no sense in him coming to me—I hear one of the outer doors open and his deep voice calling my name. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Nearly,’ I call back, smiling ridiculously to myself. It seems I was wrong. Maybe the mountain sometimes does move for Mohammed. ‘I’m in the bedroom.’ Turning back to the floor-length mirror, I continue fixing my hair.
‘You’re in the wrong one.’ His deep voice pulls my attention to where he stands in the doorway.
‘Sorry?’
‘The bed in this room is smaller.’
My stomach turns over I glance at it, then swallow.
He’s saying we’re going to need a big bed.
Is that for what I think he means or for something else?
Maybe he wriggles in his sleep, or snores, or—’
‘Relax.’ In a moment, he’s behind me, his hands resting against the curves of my hips. Always so handsome and proper in a suit, there’s just something about the shadow of scruff on his jaw that lifts the whole effect. Something that deepens the suggestion of rakishness. And when he presses his lips against my cheek, something bursts inside me, something suddenly yearning and slick.
‘I am calm,’ I whisper to our reflections. Even though I appear to be pulling a face. ‘I’m mostly calm.’ I might be calmer if he wasn’t touching me. I might be calmer once we’ve done the dirty deed. As it is, just having him near feels all kinds of illicit. And just not enough. ‘My bag was already in this room when I got here,’ I continue, almost babbling. ‘And I didn’t want to presume—’
One delusory eyebrow lifts. ‘You didn’t want to presume I’d want you in my bed? On the night of our wedding?’
‘Fake wedding—’
‘Real wedding,’ he corrects with a squeeze of my hips. ‘Real wedding night. That was the deal.’
That sounds so wrong. Why can’t he just say fucking?
I turn in his arms, feeling all sorts of fluttery, but he doesn’t release me.
‘All I’m trying to say is I don’t know what to expect. My bag was in here, so I thought you wanted—’
‘What I want is you. In here, in that bed behind you, in the other bed, against the chair. Did you see the dining table?’ I nod dumbly, my lashes fluttering, though not for effect as he adds, ‘I want you there, too. Bent over the end or spread out against the wood like a feast while I sit between your legs and eat you like the glutton you make me.’
‘I didn’t make you anything,’ I whisper, rolling in my lips as all my plans for good behaviour fly out of my head.
‘Did you like the shoes?’ I nod, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking down at my feet. ‘Good. Because I’m going to fuck you in those, too.’
My heart begins to race at the pictures painted by his words. As if I can see it all before me, my body begins to tingle as it anticipates the path his lips will take and the ways he’ll touch me. Take me. But one thing is for sure, I won’t be passive. I think I might need this as much as he does. Maybe for different reasons.
‘I wanted you in the back of the car on the way here from the airport, with or without the driver watching. Because, my darling Olivia,’ he growls, his words such a visceral kind of compliment, ‘I just want to fuck you. Why do you think I didn’t follow you into the hotel?’
And he wa
s doing so well . . .
‘Probably because you had Mr Braunstein waiting.’
‘I would have kept him waiting downstairs all day, and his billable rate is fifteen hundred dollars an hour.’
‘All day? You’re sure you’d need all that time?’
‘Don’t start,’ he replies in that languid, taunting tone of his. ‘In fact, you go on. Make your assumptions and your little jokes. We’ll see who can’t walk tomorrow morning.’
‘Hmm, these shoes are a little high,’ I say, ducking my head as though to look down at them. But really, I’m just hiding my smile. When was the last time anyone made me feel like this? Their main focus. Their absolute desire. Probably never.
‘We’d better get going.’ His hands slide from my body with a slow kind of reluctance, his trailing fingers not quite interlacing with my left hand.
‘Let me just get my purse,’ I murmur, moving towards the sofa.
‘Don’t forget your flowers.’
‘Sorry?’ I turn, though my gaze immediately follows his to the side table.
‘I’m assuming those are for you.’
‘What? How—you ordered me flowers?’ I almost squeak. That is—that is so unexpected. And a little . . . un-Beckett-like, maybe? But the shoes, my mind whispers. Maybe I haven’t seen all sides of him. Like the physical parts of him I haven’t yet seen but already promise so much. I’m so banking on more than just viewing tonight.
‘Too sentimental?’ he asks evenly.
‘Absolutely not. Flowers are always a treat.’ Lifting them from the small vase, I admire the lush greenery. Their unusual colour—not quite cream and not quite pink—is the perfect complement to my dress. I inhale their fragrance, and when I look up to express my thanks more appropriately, he’s already left the room.
Something old. My dress
Something new. My shoes. My flowers.
Something borrowed. My purse.
Something blue . . . Spying the ribbon wrapped around the shoe box, I grab it quickly, wrapping it around the base of my bouquet.
