16. Natalie

16

NATALIE

I t’s a testament to the outrageous comfort level of the bed that I found sleep again after Adam and his dick left the premises, but I did. Waking up and getting ready in my room felt almost as if I’d treated myself to a spontaneous overnight stay in a luxury hotel.

I spent way too long letting the shower’s epic water pressure pummel me as I washed my hair in a leisurely fashion. While under the spray, I may or may not have allowed myself to speculate idly as to whether that boner of his went down by itself, or whether he had to tend to it in that impatient, commanding way of his. Then I dressed and made good use of the Dyson hair dryer and Air Wrap I found in the bathroom cupboard. Again: fancy hotel.

Of all the life decisions I’ve made in the past twenty-four hours, putting my makeup bag in my tote bag was one of the best. Sometimes I just leave it at the studio. I turned up here last night looking half dead, and something has me wanting to look far better than that this morning. It’s this house, I decide. If I was staying at the Ritz, I wouldn’t mooch downstairs looking full emo. I’d make an effort .

God knows, I spend most of my days working hard and unglamorously in a very glamorous industry. I constantly bemoan feeling like I’m some poor little church mouse on the edge of all the fun. This place isn’t the Ritz, but it may as well be, and I may as well channel it before I have to leave the bubble and reenter normal life.

The thought is almost enough to take the wind out of my sails. It’s dark outside, but I opened my blinds as soon as I woke up. I suspected we weren’t overlooked on this vast plot of land. Sure enough, all I could see was the beautiful, barren stillness of Adam’s gardens in the moonlight.

How it’s possible, in a city of nine million people, to feel so utterly, blissfully, cocooned, I’m not sure. But I’m sure this splendid isolation was worth every penny.

I apply my signature Clean Girl daytime look: primer and a dewy base, only a smattering of powder, lip gloss and peachy cream blush and black mascara, with a shimmery eyeshadow and only the teeniest flick of eyeliner. It works perfectly with the athletic wear Adam gave me. Once my hair is pulled back into a sleek and perky ponytail, I eye my reflection appraisingly in what I fear is the overly flattering light of the bathroom.

My reflection gazes back looking exactly as I planned.

Healthy.

Usually, getting ready in my tiny, damp bathroom is something I grit my teeth and get through. This feels like a huge treat. It’s amazing how much of a difference pink marble and heated floors and mirrors can make to a girl.

Around seven-thirty, I drift down the wide, shallow steps of the sculptural staircase and tiptoe into the kitchen. The upstairs hallway is still, a bank of closed doors with no clue as to whether Adam is awake or where his bedroom is, but I sense activity as I enter the kitchen .

Sure enough, the friendly chef from last night, Kamyl, is standing at the island, already prepping a pile of vegetables. Did he go home and come back, or does he live here? There’s another member of staff here, too, a South East Asian man dressed like Toby was last night, in a tie and chinos with a sleeveless gilet over his white shirt.

They both turn to smile at me.

‘Good morning, Miss Bennett,’ the guy who’s not Kamyl says. ‘I’m Bal. Mr Wright should be down in a few minutes. Can I get you a tea or coffee?’

‘Hi Bal. I’d love a tea, please,’ I say.

‘Of course.’ He turns away to grab the kettle.

‘Miss Bennett, Mr Wright suggested some Turkish eggs for your breakfast with added black beans,’ Kamyl says in his charming French accent. ‘May I prepare some for you?’

I resist the urge to sigh and smile at him instead. It’s not his fault “Mr Wright” is an overbearing, pulse-obsessed dickhead. ‘If it’s not too much trouble, that would be lovely. Thanks, Kamyl.’

‘It’s his favourite,’ Kamyl volunteers.

That’s kind of sweet, I suppose. I stand for a moment while Bal puts the kettle on, wondering where I should settle myself. But he makes my decision for me.

‘May I show you the library? Mr Wright likes to take his morning coffee in there. The fire is on.’

‘I’ll bring your eggs through when they’re done,’ Kamyl adds. ‘It’s warmer in there.’

The kitchen is plenty cosy, thanks to the underfloor heating that seeps through my brand-new socks and makes every step a delight, but I dutifully follow Bal back out into the hallway and through a doorway, and Jeeesus. I want to die of happiness, because this room is extraordinary. Even with nothing more than the light of a grey, dismal dawn outside, it’s extraordinary.

It’s large and spacious, two of its walls lined floor-to-ceiling with ornate bookshelves painted an eau-de-nil so perfect I instantly want to design an entire collection around it. It has enough minty green to be sweet and enough grey tones not to be cloying. The intricate details of the woodwork are picked out in a dull gold that complements the green perfectly.

The other two walls are papered with a beautiful landscape scene that looks handpainted and is either De Gournay or Zuber—I can’t work out which. There’s a lovely little fire crackling in the grate and several arrangements of plump armchairs and occasional tables. I’m instantly certain that I could spend days and weeks in this room without coming up for air.

Bal leaves me to it while he makes the tea, and I wander around the room, taking in all the treasures. Some sections of the shelves are filled with beautiful, leather-bound classics, and I have the uncharitable thought that Adam’s designer probably bulk-bought these. He’s likely never cracked a single one open.

But then the next section is crammed full of business, economics and self-help books that do look well-loved, from Tony Robbins to The Lean Startup. I spot a few that I’ve read over the years in my desperate attempts to make this brand of mine viable. And, most enchantingly of all, at the far end of the room, the individual shelves grow larger, with some books facing outwards, like in bookstores.

I’ve stumbled upon the fashion section.

Oh my God. I thank Bal as he returns with a silver-laden tea tray and a large black wooden box bearing the chic branding of Parisian tea brand Mariage Frères. He’s brought me full-on tea porn to choose from, but I barely notice, so taken am I with this even better form of porn: coffee table books.

One of my absolute favourite things to do is to wander around the book department in Harrods, where I can spend hours reverently leafing through the coffee table books on display. They’re works of art, and their price reflects it. Some of the books they stock cost a couple of hundred pounds or more and weigh a ton. They’re boxed, foiled, embossed, filled with photos of the world’s most beautiful women shot by history’s most talented photographers and wearing gowns to die for, their likenesses protected by silky sheets of vellum bound into the books.

I run my fingers carefully over a stunning Assouline book on Dior under Raf Simons, its satiny cover a sumptuous riot of black and red. There’s a Burberry special edition, its spine showing off the brand’s iconic check. Chanel. Vuitton. Saint Laurent.

Forget weeks.

If Bal kept my tea topped up, I could live in here for months .

My studio has a few of these books, mostly bought in sales or with birthday money, some of them unearthed by me or Evan in charity shops. I’ve even managed to get a special edition or two on eBay. But this is another world.

I carefully select a huge, matte-covered Giambattista Valli book and carry it over to the table where Bal has laid out my tea things. After treating myself to a muslin teabag of Imperial Wedding tea and leaving it to steep in the pot of hot water, I sit and crack the book open.

Oh my God. It’s so adorable, filled with page after page of the designer’s sketches—impossibly pretty frou-frou concoctions worn by the little-bodied, large-headed alien mannequins he’s known for.

It’s official.

I’m in heaven.

Even if it’s the home of the devil.