by Alam, Donna
‘Yes, I know. I’m just exhausted because I insisted on doing it myself.’
‘Why?’
Why, indeed? To stay out of his way, maybe? Because of last night and the day before and the day before that. Honestly, I feel like I’m suffering from whiplash. Just when I thought we were beginning to get along, he pulls out Dr Hyde again. And sure, we talked about it, but that doesn’t mean I understand him. Does he really think he’s unworthy of being my friend, or was that some kind of warning?
‘What were we saying?’
‘I asked why you moved out of your flat into the house by yourself.’
I wave away her concerned glance. ‘I only packed a couple of suitcases. For now, I mean.’
And ran over the place with a vacuum. And a mop. And a bucket of bleach. What can I say? Cleaning soothes me.
‘Was New York amazing?’ Heather asks, all starry-eyed.
‘It’s pretty cool.’
‘What did you do?’
‘She got married and went on honeymoon,’ Mir says with a cackle. ‘What did you think she got up to?’
‘Okay, enough,’ I instruct as Jorge comes back into the office space. ‘Tell me what I missed.’
‘Well.’ Mir sits straight, her body almost vibrating with the need to spill. ‘There has been a twelve-percent rise in our membership numbers over the weekend.’
‘Awesome! Do we have any idea of the reason behind that?’
Her eyes positively sparkle as she says, ‘I’m getting to that. I also heard back from the Lust Island guys, and I have three of them interested in coming along to our retro speed dating night.’
‘What were their fees again??’ Just because I now have money in the bank doesn’t mean I’m going to become profligate.
‘Free.’ One shoulder rises in a shrug. ‘They just want to hang with the cool, new hookup app on the block, apparently.’
‘But that’s not what we are,’ I say carefully. ‘That’s not our ethos.’ Relationships, not casual hookups.
‘Don’t judge. Sometimes casual leads to more.’
‘Hmm. I’m not sure I believe that.’
‘You and the new hubs weren’t exactly seeing each other seriously last week, as far as I can tell. There were lots of sparks flying and buckets of chemistry, but you weren’t doing the whole dating thing, were you?’
‘Ours was more a whirlwind affair.’ That’s all I’m offering, and I do so in my boss voice, hoping to end the conversation. Notice there’s no mention of love in that explanation? No love. Nope. But maybe a little like. Just a little—and with no small amount of begrudging. He can be sweet when he wants to be. My wedding, gorgeous ring, the shoes and flowers, and his compliments. But equally, he can be an annoying, aggravating ass. But strangely, when he’s behaving like this, it’s almost as though he doesn’t have any choice, which is ridiculous because we all get to choose our behaviour. Except when we don’t, like when I’m throwing things around under that red swirl of angry mist. But at least I apologise afterwards. And that’s a choice Beckett seems to wholeheartedly reject.
So like. I can manage to like him, just about. And mostly when we’re in bed and my pleasure centres are lighting up like the Vegas Strip.
‘Just to confirm.’ Mir’s voice brings my attention back. ‘We’re not going to get concerned about that kind of thing? Publicity first, bums on seats second. Or rather monthly payments deducted from our subscriber’s bank accounts.’
‘Fine. But if the Lust Island boys are doing it for free, don’t offer them membership as a sweetener.’
‘Why not? Think of what their profiles will bring.’
‘Yeah, they’re like, modern day poets,’ Heather offers up.
‘Okay, I’ll bite.’ I turn her way.
‘What about the iconic phrase “No pizza before Ibiza”?’
‘Poet Laurette worthy, for sure.’
‘Weight Watchers worthy, at least. I think one of them got a gig representing Weight Watchers with that slogan.’
‘I’m just not sure they’re the right look for us.’ It’s not that I have anything against reality TV celebs. In fact, I think they must have a pretty awful existence, their moment in the sun lasting about as long as it takes for Lust Island to be aired on TV.
Check me out, being all highbrow and selective, and worrying about the long-term effects of partner associations. Before the weekend, we were nearly bankrupt. The only thing long about the business then would’ve been our list of creditors.
‘Well, I do have another idea. Did you happen to look at your Insta feed over the weekend?’
‘I imagine she was very, very busy.’ Heather sniggers. ‘Being banged and boffed and bent in funny shapes.’ My gaze slides to hers with an emphatic glance. ‘Oops,’ she mutters, a little red around the cheeks.
I definitely need to work on the whole authority thing. Maybe Beckett will rub off on me. Yep, so not going to suggest that to him. ‘I saw your messages.’ Which reminds me, I still need to call Reggie.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but I shared your post to the E-Volve account.’ As she speaks, I pull out my phone, flicking over to the account. ‘See how much love that post got?’
‘Yeah.’ I look up, confused by the numbers. ‘But how?’ Our following isn’t huge. We’ve been trying to harness the potential of the platform with limited success these last few months.
‘Because, boss lady, that image went viral. It was in the weekend newspapers and all over the net! Oh, the spin I’ve spun! Move over Tinder, E-Volve owner finds love in her own algorithm!’
‘But that’s not true. That’s not how it happened.’
‘Yeah, but it was reported, so I just ran with it.’
Beckett is going to flip his lid when he finds out he’s been linked to an internet dating app—not only linked to me, but as a customer of E-Volve.
Why does that make me feel a malicious sort of glee?
‘And guess what?’ she adds, brimming with eagerness. ‘We’ve had a phone call from Hiya magazine. They want to interview the happy couple!’
That sounds like it’s going to be an interesting conversation . . .
Chapter 33
BECKETT
My phone rings with Harry’s number flashing on the screen. I swipe it, silencing his call again, only for it to chime with a message in a group conversation we’ve had going for at least a year.
Harrison: Alexander, would you care to refute the scurrilous accusations that have reached my ear concerning your wedded status?
Beckett: Not particularly.
Harrison: This isn’t your fucking press office I’m speaking to. Why haven’t you picked up your phone?
Beckett: Because I’ve been busy. Very busy. But not busy with fucking my wife sadly, who appears to want to be anywhere that I am not. I suppose I can’t blame her, not after the way I’ve treated her due to my own fucked-up head. If only it were a case of making a note in my diary to remind me to behave more appropriately. I’m going to try anyway.
Harrison: Answer the fucking question.
Beckett: Unbunch your knickers. I’ve simply been too busy to speak.
Harrison: Did you get married in NY this week?
Beckett: In a word, yes.
Harrison: I’m calling you now. You’d better pick up the fucking phone this time.
Beckett: Not convenient. In a meeting.
Harrison: You’ve got me worried now. Very worried.
Becket: What’s to stress over? I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.
Griffin: What my learned friend is trying to assess is if you were in possession of your full faculties when you decided to tie yourself to a woman, you know, for life.
Beckett: Affirmative.
Griffin: Impossible. Any man who marries has already handed over his balls at the very least. The question remains, did you marry a nice young lady you met in a crack den?
Beckett: Crack was never my poison. Fuckers.
Griffin: So you
didn’t propose to a nice young lady you’ve been doing speedballs with in New York?
Beckett: Relax. I haven’t relapsed. When you meet her, you’ll understand.
Griffin: Mail order bride from the Eastern Bloc?
Griffin: Some Russian oligarch’s ugly (but richer than sin) daughter?
Griffin: An AI sexbot?
Beckett: None of the above.
Griffin: Then please explain.
Griffin: C’est à dire.
Griffin: What do you mean?
Griffin: Please.
Griffin: Explain.
Beckett: Are you taking Adderall? Had a big night and an even bigger morning?
Griffin: Negatory. But come on, she must be at least a little bit defective if she married you.
Harrison: Congratulations, Beckett. @Griffin, grow the fuck up.
Beckett: Thank you. @Griffin, fuck you still.
Harrison: @Griffin . . .
Griffin: Okay! Congratulations, fucker. And congrats also to me. The pool of pussy just got bigger.
Beckett: With a bit of luck, you’ll drown in it.
Griffin: Ha, funny. You know what else is also funny? Not once in this exchange did you mention love.
Chapter 34
BECKETT
In the weeks following our return to London, I discover dozens of things about Olivia. She invariably starts her day with a cup of tea the colour of brickwork and ends it in a glass of white wine after dinner without much thought to quality or palate. Her taste in fashion is eclectic and her beauty regime fascinating, and I’m especially fond of watching as she lotions her skin nightly with a product she describes as body butter. It certainly makes me want to gorge. She like to sleep in short pyjamas but invariably wakes up naked, though upon reflection, that might be my doing following her nightly basting. She sleeps like the dead and is just difficult to rouse in the morning, though I have learned one or two tricks. She likes to cook almost as much as she likes to eat, which are two things I find utterly fascinating to watch. She has a favourite daytime perfume that’s citrus based and another for evenings that smells like secrets and night blooming jasmine. She’s not a devotee of jewellery beyond her wedding ring and a pair of earrings, often hoops. And she could do with a decent watch because she’s always bloody late.
Then there are the other facts and facets that I’d somehow utterly overlooked as a possibility. She has a temper that shakes the walls, but thankfully, a very long fuse. She’s kind to a fault and not only invariably manages to find a few pounds in her purse to press into the hands of the homeless, but she also stops to speak with them. She’s a terrible actress, which came as quite a surprise, and the word she’d insisted described her personality perfectly all those weeks ago—nice?—doesn’t come close to doing her justice. There are a thousand others much better suited, but the one I find suits her best is beguiling. And the strangest thing is that she doesn’t even realise I’m under her spell. I’m sure she thinks I follow her around just to annoy her, and that I turn up at her office to entice her to lunch because I have nothing else to do.
‘Why are you here again?’ she’d asked yesterday when I’d turned up unannounced. Again. ‘You’re only supposed to show up for board meetings.’
‘I’ve come to see how the new team members are working out.’ I’d leaned closer, adding in a whisper as I’d pulled her in to kiss her cheek, ‘While playing the part of the doting husband.’ What I kept to myself was the fact that I find it hard to stay away from her.
I am beguiled. Entranced. Spellbound by the woman I’d bullied into marrying me. But it’s an infatuation that will runs its course before the six months is out. It must.
Maddening. That’s another suitable Olivia descriptor, and one most appropriate when speaking of her timekeeping.
In one hour, we’re due at the home of Mark Jones. An invitation issued under the guise of getting to “know my gorgeous new wife”. His words, and my absolute irritation. It’s an invitation wrapped in a pretty bow to hide the fact that the old bastard’s just nosy. He trades knowledge like currency and likes to think he has a finger on the pulse of what happens in this city. But it doesn’t matter what he thinks, not when this invitation will take me a step closer to my ultimate goal.
Ownership of JBW.
I twist my wrist, glancing down at my watch—a Rolex, not the Phillippe Patek; there’s no need to remind Jones that I’m wealthier than he is—while wondering for the tenth time where the fuck Olivia is. The car has been on standby for hours to pick her up, and my calls to her phone have gone unanswered, and now are going straight to her message bank, but as the front door clicks open, I find I’m propelled out into the reception hall.
‘Honey, I’m home,’ she whispers, her black dress almost invisible, absorbed by the same coloured door that dwarfs her frame.
‘You’re late.’
‘Jesus, Beckett!’ Hand on her chest, she spins to face me, her eyes wide for a brief moment before narrowing. ‘You scared the crap out of me.’
‘You do know we have a dinner to attend in under an hour?’
‘Yes . . . ’ The woman is a terrible, terrible liar. It’s perplexing how I could’ve gotten it so wrong. ‘I knew we had an important dinner to go to this week. I just forgot it was today. Or maybe I just forgot what day it is today.’
‘Fascinating,’ I drawl, slipping my free into my trouser pocket, the other gripped tightly on my whisky glass. ‘Perhaps if you looked at your phone once in a while, you’d notice your calendar. You might also have seen my texts.’ Not to mention my calls.
‘It died on me in the bar.’ She shrugs. ‘Mir and I went to the place we’re holding the speed dating event to brainstorm and have another look at the place, I guess.’
My chest rises and falls with a terse, irritated sigh. ‘You went to work dressed like that?’
She glances down at her black dress. It’s more like a long T-shirt that gently skims her curves before ending at her calves. A pair of pink glittery Converse peek out from underneath. She looks more like an art student than a businesswoman. Young but not quite innocent.
‘What?’ She looks up from her shoes, eyes wide now. ‘You don’t think this is dinner appropriate?’
‘I don’t think that outfit is office appropriate. In fact, I don’t think it’s any kind of appropriate.’
She immediately fires from mildly amused and happy to bait me to seriously pissed off. ‘Did they teach you how to be an insulting dipshit at boarding school? Or maybe that’s where guys of your ilk go to get the stick surgically shoved up their—’
‘As charming as this conversation is, we’re due at the Jones’ in fifty-five minutes now.’ I make a show of looking at my watch.
‘I ate tapas at the bar with Mir.’ She whirls around, dropping her huge blue purse to the hall table as she begins to tug at the strands that have fallen from her high bun, a style that’s more haphazard than elegant. And one hundred percent her, if I throw in the adjectives raw and sensual. In the mirror, her breasts rise with the motion of her arms, the soft cotton moulding to her like a second skin. It evokes the way her bathwater had clung to her last night as she’d risen from the tub, the effect fleeting but so enticing. ‘I don’t think I feel like dinner now.’
Yet I’m ravenous. For a feast named Olivia.
‘I don’t particularly care for what you do or don’t feel like.’ Except for how she feels under my fingertips. How she feels under me. My own reflection as I step behind her is tense. Eyes dark, my jaw flexes under the pressure of temptation, of not reaching out for her. But it’s a look that could be interpreted many ways. ‘You know how important tonight is to me. I expect you to do your part and play the dutiful, love-struck little wife.’
‘You know what I think?’ She turns to face me, her hands grasping the table edge behind her. Yet another action that that pushes out her breasts. ‘I don’t think this is about me being late.’ She reaches up, her hand cupping my cheek, her thumb pressing my b
ottom lip as her own exaggeratedly juts. ‘You’re always so pouty, Beckett.’
‘And you’re always so late.’
‘But you don’t care. Not really. You care more about this dress.’ I quirk a brow, an action contradictory to my surprise. Her hand falls away, and she pulls at the scooped neckline with that same thumb, revealing a little more of the constellation of freckles and her creamy skin.
‘Remember your position in this partnership, Olivia.’
‘How could I forget?’ she purrs, her words ending in a playful curl. ‘But would you tell a junior partner how to dress?’
‘I would if they were doing so inappropriately.’
‘You don’t like it?’ Now who’s pouting as she leans back again, this time stretching out her foot to run it along my inside leg.
‘Be careful. You’re playing with fire.’
‘Tell the truth. You don’t like my dress.’
‘You’re right. I don’t.’
‘You want me to take it off.’ Something twists in the pit of my gut because that wasn’t a statement. It was an invitation. ‘Don’t you.’ And those words? A dare.
‘Take it off. Strip.’ My words are a command, my grip on the situation tenuous.
‘Oh, I’m sure your fancy boarding school taught you better manners than that.’ She smirks; a provocation.
‘Take off the dress, Olivia.’ My voice sounds deeper. Rougher. The air between us filled with the energy of this push and pull. ‘Take it off. Before I do it for you. Before I rip it off you.’
‘Well, if you put it like that . . .’ She pushes off from the table, her movements unhurried and indolent. Until she crosses her arms over her body and prepares to pull.
‘Slowly, darling. Don’t rush.’
‘I don’t remember asking for audience participation.’ Even as she speaks, she’s uncrossing her arms and trying to hide that damn smirk.
‘But you want to make me suffer, don’t you?’ I watch as she places her hands on her thighs as she begins to draw the cotton up her body in small increments. Slowly, so slowly, the action like a rising curtain on opening night. With ten times the anticipation for the reveal.
