by Alam, Donna
‘What a pity.’ Now that sounded sincere. Go me.
‘Rosemary, look who I’ve found.’
Up ahead, a group of women all turn at our approach, Mark Jones slinking along to stand next to a very attractive woman of an indeterminable age. Long beige-blond hair, the woman could be Elle Macpherson’s doppelganger, or maybe the woman herself. Innately sophisticated and worldly, she dangles a glass of red wine from her fingertips. The women standing around her haven’t had the same kind of luck with their own plastic surgeons, unfortunately. But they do seem to have a lot of diamonds to compensate for that.
‘Beckett. How lovely to see you.’ Not Australian, judging by her very English accent, so not actually Elle, but beautiful all the same in that timeless way.
‘Rosemary.’ Is it me or is there a weird vibe between these two? A tension almost. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Olivia. Olivia, Rosemary, Mark’s wife.’
‘And Luke’s mother,’ she adds, holding out her hand. Check out the heavy emphasis there.
‘It’s lovely to meet you. You have a beautiful home.’
‘Thank you.’ I see the woman has perfected the art of smiling without cracking her touch-ups. ‘And congratulations to you both.’ Without giving up her glass, she steps closer, and with an arm languidly draped over Beckett’s shoulder, she kisses both his cheeks before repeating the action with me, bending from the waist and making a point of the disparity in our heights. But, hey, I’m not the one who married a troll. A rich troll is still a troll.
‘And how is married life treating you?’ she purrs, her gaze pinging back and forth between us.
‘In a word, wonderful,’ Beckett replies, his gaze cast to mine. ‘If only I could’ve found you sooner.’
I find myself blushing rather than crying. Ack! My hand suddenly splaying across the flat planes of his torso as Rosemary’s eyes track the movement.
‘That’s right. You two haven’t known each other very long,’ her husband’s assertion booms.
‘I defy anyone to take longer than a few hours to fall in love with Olivia.’
‘How sweet.’ Her expression says the opposite, and judging by her figure, sweet isn’t something she indulges in. Ever.
‘But darling, they don’t have drinks,’ she rebukes, affecting a pout.
‘We must certainly rectify that!’
And off we trot behind him, my hand in Beckett’s as we draw curious looks.
‘What was that all about?’ I whisper as Jones leads the way.
‘What was what?’ I send him and his blank expression an eloquent glance. A glance that I hope conveys don’t fuck me about.
‘I get the strange feeling that you and the lady of the house have boned.’ I feel more than see his chuckle.
‘Your impression couldn’t be more wrong.’
‘Then maybe I’m picking up on the fact that she’d like to. Bone you.’
‘Jealous, are you?’
Am I? Maybe? Oh, God, I think I am. ‘You wish.’ The face I pull? It can’t be attractive.
‘Thank you for the clarification, I think, but I wouldn’t fuck her with her husband’s dick, let alone my own.’
‘I’m sensing a story.’
‘It’s not a very interesting one.’
‘You’re sure?’ By this point, I’m teasing. Or trying to hide the fact that I’m actually jealous. Jealous of my former friend’s mother’s almost proprietorial nature toward my husband. My temporary husband. ‘I feel like I’m stuck in a ninety’s song; Luke’s mom has got it going on.’
‘It’s probably the house,’ he whispers back. ‘It’s a little dated. And I’m certain that Basquait is a fake.’
‘Bas what?’
‘The artwork we just passed. Jones has enough money to buy the original.’
‘And what was with the women Luke’s mom was hanging with? Any more plastic surgery and they’d all have had beards.’
Beckett almost chokes on his laughter.
Drinks are found, inane chats are had, and I’m introduced to a dozen people, each introduction going smoother than the last, thanks to my wave of wine-aided bravery. All the while, Beckett never leaves my side. I almost wish I could catalogue the litany of looks and small touches he sends my way as he weaves our tale for the masses.
‘I met Olivia outside of the office. She tripped and literally fell into my arms.’
Cue the adoring looks from the womenfolk, accompanied by longing sighs.
‘We met again on a flight to New York where I persuaded a member of the cabin crew to get her the seat next to me. Eight hours in her company was all it took for us to fall in love, wasn’t it, darling?’
Cue my own adoring look and a love-struck whispered agreement.
‘We were so certain this was meant to be, we applied immediately for our marriage license.’
Well, some of it’s true.
‘Without even having sex?’ I overhear the comment on the way to the bathroom. ‘I couldn’t do it—not without a free sample of the goods.’
‘Ah, so that’s you get up to on the weekends,’ cackles one of city boy’s friends. Someone from JBW rather than an investor, I’d guess.
‘I mean, what if she was rubbish in the sack?’
‘You’re so shallow,’ one of the girls in the group hisses back. ‘Besides, I bet ninety percent of the women here would marry Beckett, no questions asked.’
Judging by the looks he’s received since we arrived from all manner of age groups, I don’t doubt it.
‘There you are.’ Beckett’s gaze is warm and genuine as I find him in the garden, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘I’ve missed you.’ He pulls me against him, his chest expanding with a sigh of satisfaction beneath my ear.
‘Have you?’
It all feels so genuine that I have to remind myself it’s not really true. We’re just pretending for the benefit of others. But the problem with pretending and with lies is that after you’ve been doing it for a while, it’s hard not to begin to believe in it all yourself.
Chapter 36
OLIVIA
‘Investment is like marriage. It shouldn’t be entered into unless you want to hold onto it for a long, long time. A toast to the happy couple!’
The toast that Mark Jones had insisted upon was strange, especially given the fact that JBW is a venture capitalist company, and by that definition, believe in high risk investments and cashing in on fast returns. Also, as Beckett had pointed out, the man is on his fourth marriage. His “investments” aren’t exactly what you’d call long term.
‘But maybe not so long when you choose to invest in New York State,’ some bitch whispered from behind us, alluding to the State’s preference as a wedding venue for those requiring prenuptial agreements. As I’d attempted to turn to see who’d made the comment, Beckett had tightened his hand on mine, giving an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Haters are gonna hate, his glance said, though maybe not with the same patois.
But we didn’t have to fool everyone that night. Just the important ones. And fooled they seemed to have been, thanks in part to Beckett’s declarations of love, and my doe-eyed glances, and our tactile touches.
Beckett played his part perfectly.
Me? Like I said, I’m a bad actress.
Case in point? I’d felt a visceral green-eyed fury watching Jones and his wife eye fucking each other because of the hot glances they’d thrown Beckett’s way. It was almost as though they’d happily push him to the floor and make him their mattress. Or maybe the slice of prime beef in their sexual sandwich. I was so angry, filled with such vehemence that the moment we were alone, I’d curled my hand around his neck and whispered in his ear, ‘When we get through with this tonight, I want you on your knees.’
I deserved some kind of payback. Wanted to assert my own part in this. I’d spent the rest of the night with a smile fixed to my face, my body thrumming with need.
We’d made it barely through the front door when I dropped to
my knees, blowing more than just his mind while I desperately fought to assert my possession of him. His back pressed against the wall, his pleasure was all mine at the slow drag of my tongue. His eyes squeezing shut as I savoured the taste of him, his body jolting as I worked him deeper into my mouth. His hand tangling in my hair as I teased his thick crown.
‘Harder.’ His eyes were as dark as his demand, his intent calling to something inside me, something driving me to respond.
And then later, when he’d recovered the power in his legs, he’d pull me up from the floor, kissing me slow and sweet.
‘Where did you come from?’ He’d pushed the tangle of hair from my face then pressed his thumb to my mouth and smiled as I’d replied,
‘Have you forgotten our story already? I fell at your feet, then fell in love.’
I realised right then that I might not be pretending.
Since pulling off that state of newly wedded bliss, things between us have changed. Beckett is mellower and almost pleasant to be around, and we live in a state of domestic bliss. I wake alone in his bed most mornings, but he comes to me soon after, reeking of endorphins and need, his skin slick from his exertions, and his gaze greedy as he pulls back the covers. The evenings we’re home, I cook while he opens a bottle of wine from his climate-controlled cellar. We’ll eat in the kitchen before Beckett clears up, which basically means he piles the pots and plates in an orderly fashion before leaving them for the housekeeper to take care of. We usually take our wine to the sofa following; I’ll prop my legs in his lap or curl into his side while we watch TV. It’s usually something black and white and obscure, which I don’t mind. It’s not like we often make it to the end.
Because sofa’s make for versatile positioning.
I haven’t once felt the urge to return to manic cleaning sessions borne of anger and frustration. These emotions seem to have been replaced by a feeling of resignation.
I love him.
I know I’m not supposed to feel the way that I do, but I can’t help it. Why couldn’t he have stuck to being a pain in my ass? But it’s not always a garden of roses. We can still find use for the thorns.
I lean back in my very comfortable office chair in my very comfortable office. On Beckett’s suggestion, I’d leased the suite on the fourth floor. I needed more space for the new staff, and this floor had the added bonus of private office space. It turns out he was also right about making myself less accessible. I get more work done now because Mir and Heather have to schlep up a flight of stairs if they want my attention. The setup is good for us all, including Beckett, considering he has a habit of turning up unannounced.
Just yesterday, I’d almost dropped the files I was carrying as I’d walked in to find him sitting in this very chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a picture of manly ease. God, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to eat him up or slap him. Maybe slap him then kiss the sting. But that was the whole point of him choosing to sit in my seat. For the purpose of annoying me.
‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘Forgive a besotted husband who can’t stay away from his wife.’ His words were so smooth they might’ve been rehearsed. And while I would do well to remember that none of this is real, I’d still given in to the glow of pleasure. ‘I’ve been shopping.’
‘Buy anything interesting? A cruise liner, a small principality; that sort of thing?’ I’d turned from dropping the files to the desk as he’d sat up, catching me around my waist and drawing me between his legs.
‘I didn’t buy anything for myself.’ He hands fed up my body to my waist, a current of electricity chasing in touch. I allowed his hands to turn me and pull me back onto his lap. ‘I bought you this.’
Something delicate dropped in front of me, the slight weight settling between my breasts. I placed my hand over it a pendant, though as he fastened the chain, I was filled with the overwhelming sense of being collared like a pet. But as he’d pressed his lips to the nape of my neck, the sensation seemed to change becoming something much silkier. Longing, I guess.
‘It’s beautiful.’ A long pendant, the shape like an infinity sign, two green and two clear stones woven in with the gold.
‘I went with the intention of buying you a watch.’ He huffed an amused chuckle, the brush of his breath making me shiver. ‘But then I saw this. Diamonds for a diamond.’ Because diamonds don’t shine, they reflect. ‘And peridot,’ he’d added, ‘considered to be lesser stones compared to emeralds, but these are so much closer to the colour of your eyes.’
Is it any wonder I feel such confusion? I shouldn’t feel anything, because this is just pretend. He forced me into this marriage for his own reasons, and yes, the choice was mine to agree or not, but I should still be furious.
Why aren’t I?
A glance to the top of my desk brings my attention to the magazine lying there. Leaning forward in my chair, I pull this month’s glossy copy of Hiya closer. The magazine that contains our centre spread. As it turns out, Beckett hadn’t responded the way I thought he would, and was more than happy to invite the features editor and accompanying photographer into his home to sell the world on what a joy we’d found.
‘It’ll be good for business,’ he’d decreed privately. ‘Good for both our businesses.’ Publicity for mine, another layer of deceit for his machinations.
I spread open the glossy pages and look at the photo of us in his perfect kitchen. I’m standing on one side of the island, my back pressed against the cabinet’s opposite while Beckett’s long frame lounges on one of the high stools. There’s a bowl of lemons and limes sitting in between us, their vibrant colours a perfect contrast to the dark and sleek tones of the marble and cabinetry. My hands are curled around a cup of coffee and I’m laughing, though not for the camera but rather at something Beckett had said. And he’s watching me with that perfect half-smile of his. It’s a picture of love and domesticity, with a headline that’s a complement to the tales we’ve been spinning. The tales we’d continued to spin for them.
Love E-Volves
How the finance magnate and the romance start up owner found the algorithm for love.
If only.
My phone begins to vibrate against my desk, so I close the magazine before I get sucked into the article and all it represents for the third time today.
A click denotes a transatlantic call, Reggie’s dulcet tones almost a purr. ‘How goes married life?’
‘Oh, just peachy,’ I reply, my own tone more sing-song.
‘Not lime-y?’
‘Why? because he’s British?’ I sort of snort, my gaze turning to the window. Blue skies, fluffy clouds, and chimney pots. It’s shaping up to be a lovely autumn.
‘Good pun, but no. I’m looking at Hiya magazine online. I even paid for a subscription to get my hands on this baby.’
‘Ahh.’ I quickly turn my moan into something else. ‘The limes on the countertop?’ Did I even mention the interview to her? Maybe she saw it on one of E-Volve’s Instagram stories.
‘You didn’t tell me Beckett was rich—like, mega rich.’
‘I did, the first time we talked about him.’ The day she’d said that getting freaky on the back seat while his driver stood outside was unwise, that he’d left me there on a torturous simmer because he was a little eccentric. She’d said that the rich get a pass for being weird, as I recall. The second time we discussed Beckett was when I called her to tell her I’d married him. That time I did not get a pass. I got a grilling.
‘But babe, there’s rich and there’s ridiculous. And Beckett is—’
‘I know. But how do you tell people that?’
‘How do you say you’re marrying a rich man to your friend?’ she repeats. ‘Your best friend?’ Or maybe how do you avoid telling your best friend that your marriage is all business and convenience? ‘You just say it,’ she adds simply.
‘So I was supposed to say; Reggie, I’m marrying a man I just met. I fell into deep, passionate love with him but becaus
e he’s super rich people are going to say I married him for money and that’s going to make me feel like shit.’
‘No, you were supposed to say; Reggie, I’ve met the dick I’m gonna ride for the rest of my life.’ I burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the sparsely decorated room. ‘No one gets to make you feel bad for making decisions in your own life.’
‘You are a good friend, but you don’t think like other people.’ The ones full of scepticism. The ones whose doubts will be proven right in a few months.
‘Fuck other people. But not really, unless y’all aren’t monogamous. But their opinions don’t count. All that matters is that you know you’re far too principled to be that person.’
If only she knew. But she won’t. Because this is a secret I’ll carry to my grave. I suddenly feel like shit for projecting this on her. But at least I don’t have friends or family nearby to continually fool. Beckett might not have family, but he does have friends. Friends I’ve yet to meet. Friends he says he’s known forever and that, for my sake, it’s best we avoid meeting them in a social situation. I guess he fears my crappy acting skills. But avoiding them is easy given they’re grown men with busy schedules. There’s been no occasion to step over their sprawled legs while they drink beer and playing video games in Beckett’s den.
‘It’s your life, babe. Only you get to live it.’
‘I know.’ God, don’t I know it. But it would be good if I could stop fucking it up somehow.
‘Sounds like you’re having a rough day.’
I sigh and tip back my head to stare at the stained ceiling. ‘I was just thinking that we’ve been together three months now. This is usually the stage in a relationship that things are falling apart, or else couples are declaring their love.’
‘So your timeline is accelerated. So what?’ ‘I knew I loved Josh within a week of meeting him. We moved in together after only a month. You and me? We’re just both a little ahead of the curve.’
Nope, I’m right on the curve, performance as it should be at this three month mark. I’m just not declaring my love because there’s no space for declarations of in our marriage. This isn’t the contract he signed me to. And as for accelerated, she’s more right than she understand. In less than three months and this will be over.
