12. Natalie

12

NATALIE

W ith every minute of this journey, I’ve grown more on edge. I’ve allowed this man I loathe to spirit me away and take me to his home , for Christ’s sake. To his evil, billionaire lair that’s probably all stainless steel and cold black marble surfaces in which he can admire his reflection, and punching bags in every room to offer him an outlet so he doesn’t beat the shit out of his staff.

He doesn’t look like a monster.

He looks like a beautiful, successful, if tired, businessman.

But that tells me nothing. He’s probably got some Dorian Gray-type portrait of himself in his attic, only this version gets uglier and more grotesque every time his moral compass slips one rung further.

I can’t quite square away everything I know to be true about Adam Wright with the way he looked after me this evening. Despite my ungracious behaviour to him just now, I’m well aware that I’d be surrounded by paramedics if it hadn’t been for his quick action back at Alchemy. But that’s a puzzle I’m simply too tired to ponder.

We pass Kensington Gardens, though it’s too dark to see Kensington Palace, which is set back from the main road. Then we’re turning right and stopping in front of a barrier at an actual wooden sentry box.

‘Are we going into the palace?’ I ask him, craning to see outside.

‘No,’ he tells me with a small smile. ‘That’s next door. This is Kensington Palace Gardens—it’s a private road.’

There’s private, and then there’s security guards with assault rifles.

‘You must have a lot of enemies.’

He lets out a genuine laugh, and it’s startling. Let’s just say I avert my gaze from the sight of it pretty quickly. ‘They’re not for me, believe me. There are a lot of embassies on this road. It’s a pretty massive terrorist target.’

‘Fantastic,’ I mutter as the barrier lifts and the car moves slowly forward.

‘If it’s any consolation, the Russian Embassy is here, so that’s one superpower we don’t have to worry about nuking us.’

Better and better. For all its issues, you don’t get this shit in Seven Sisters.

After a few hundred feet on what must be one of the widest, quietest roads in London, we turn left and wait as huge wrought-iron gates open automatically. It’s too dark to see much, but I spot immaculate box hedges lit by spots along the edge of the gravel.

‘Wait there,’ Adam says as we pull to a stop. ‘Nige will help you.’ The driver gets out and comes around to my side, opening the door and helping me down with a kindly hand in mine. It’s appreciated, as the car is high, as are my heels, and my dress is short. I’d give anything to be unlocking my front door right now and collapsing face-down onto my own bed.

Still, I thank him politely and walk round the enormous SUV as I gaze ahead of me in astonishment.

This isn’t a house. It’s a mansion, and it’s so breathtakingly, perfectly beautiful that it actually hurts my heart.

Adam Wright lives here?

It’s official.

There is no justice left in this entire bloody world.

But back to this magnificent, creamy white mansion, its splendour illuminated against the relative dark of its vast gardens. Almost every room downstairs looks to be lit up. On either side of the main entrance, with its shallow flight of steps and grandiose porch, is a huge semi-circular bay window that continues up to the next storey. A glance upwards shows me a further row of picturesque dormer windows punctuating the slate roof.

It’s magnificent. Breathtaking. Every creative atom in my body is thrumming at the perfect architecture, the immaculate finish. It probably gets a coat of vanilla ice cream-coloured paint every other week.

The front door swings open, revealing a smartly dressed man who I assume is the butler, and there’s a light hand at the small of my back: Adam, ushering me up the shallow sandstone steps flanked with bobbing candles safe in their shiny hurricane lanterns.

‘You first,’ he says.

‘Good evening, madam,’ the kindly butler says, and I smile and murmur my greeting.

It’s like walking into a hotel. It’s ridiculous , and there isn’t a stainless steel surface in sight.

On the contrary .

A large wooden staircase that’s beautifully carved and graciously curved.

A chandelier that makes the one at Alchemy look like it’s from Ikea.

A glossy black-and-white chequered marble floor that must need to be buffed every time someone crosses it.

But it’s not cold, not at all, because the walls of this huge space are a warm, unexpected buttermilk, and the antique table in the centre is practically collapsing under the weight of its glorious burden of flowers and greenery, and there’s a grass-green velvet chaise longue that shouldn’t work but really does, and there are crazy, oversized paintings jostling for space the whole way up the staircase, and archways over open double doors leading off in all directions and providing all manner of tantalising glimpses into the rooms beyond.

It’s quite simply the most beautiful home I’ve ever, ever been in, and it’s nicer than most luxury hotel lobbies I’ve had the good fortune to sneak a peek at whenever Gen’s dragged us out for drinks. It’s nicer than Claridges, even. The taste level is off the charts, the art and the flowers and the furnishings exactly, perfectly right, and the smell—that of a florist mixed with expensive candles—nothing short of divine.

‘Toby, this is Miss Bennett,’ Adam tells the butler as I stand and gape and attempt to pull myself the hell together. ‘She’ll be my guest for the evening. Has Dyson arrived?’

‘Certainly, Mr Wright,’ Toby says. ‘He’s in the drawing room.’

‘Good. Send through’—Adam stops and surveys me with narrowed eyes before continuing—‘a grazing platter. Nothing too sugary. Plenty of protein. We’ll eat properly when Dyson’s done his thing. ’

We certainly won’t , I think, but instead I shoot Toby a smile I hope is grateful and apologetic as I follow Adam, who’s already striding off to one of the sets of open double doors.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

The drawing room may just end me. It is perfection. It has me at hello with a huge log fire that’s crackling merrily in the marble fireplace. I’d give anything to collapse on that nice, thick rug in front of it. Or maybe I should cuff myself to the brass fire surround with its padded leather seat so I never have to leave.

I’d stay forever if it wasn’t for the fact that this enchanted palace comes with a royal beast of an owner, unfortunately.

The overall vibe of the room is plush and grand. It’s very much a winter room, with its blue-grey walls that look to be covered not in paint, not in paper, but in linen, kind of like an art gallery. And this guy’s art budget must rival the GDP of Luxembourg, because there are more spectacular paintings hanging on the linen, each one lit perfectly.

It’s the lighting that’s the real clincher in here, I realise. Not just the picture lighting, and the dancing glow of the fire, but the dim, low-level lighting courtesy of the numerous silk-covered table lamps dotted around between various clusters of richly-upholstered furniture.

Everything is so damn gorgeous. Everything’s been chosen for its decorative value as much as its functional one, and it’s all been pulled together so expertly.

Adam Wright sulking into his giant bags of money in a cold, sleek and charmless bachelor pad I can handle. This is a far harder pill to swallow.

Alas, my chance at revelling in the sheer pleasure of my surroundings is fleeting indeed, because there’s a man rising from one of the armchairs nearest the fire, and Adam is beckoning me over and introducing me and Dr Dyson before hovering expectantly.

‘You can leave us to it, Adam,’ Dr Dyson says with a jerk of his head towards the door we just entered through. His demeanour is grumpy, but so would I be if I’d been summoned on a house call at seven on a disgustingly wet evening.

Thank God for that. I didn’t want to suggest it, but I’ve had quite enough of him seeing my vulnerabilities for one evening. I can’t suffer any more indignities in front of Adam Wright this evening.

Clearly, he’s not used to being told no. What a shocker. ‘I should stay,’ he insists. ‘I was there for Natalie’s hypo, and I’d like to stay and hear what you have to say.’

‘Not necessary,’ Dr Dyson, who may be my new best friend, says. ‘I’ll fill you in later where I think it’s pertinent. Otherwise, I’d like to offer this young lady a little privacy. After all, it sounds like she’s had quite an evening, so far.’

I swallow a smirk as Adam mutters a hostile fine and backs away from us.

Thank goodness someone can stand up to him.