17. Natalie

17

NATALIE

W hen the man himself wanders in with an espresso cup and saucer not five minutes later, it’s an unwelcome interruption. At least, it’s unwelcome except to my eyeballs, because he looks good enough to grace the pages of any of these coffee table books.

He’s in a similar uniform to the ones I’ve seen him in the past couple of times we’ve met—black, beautifully cut trousers, white, beautifully cut shirt, open at the neck. But there’s something about seeing him here, freshly showered, his dark curls damp and raked off his face, beard immaculate, that motherfucking cologne already wafting over to me, that steals the breath from my lungs.

‘Good morning,’ he says, and his tone is hesitant, I think. Maybe that’s because the last thing I said to him was an insult, or maybe he’s remembering that he woke up next to me with a raging boner. Either way, he’s on guard, as am I.

‘Morning,’ I say, closing the book on my lap.

‘Don’t let me disturb you. I have to head out shortly—a meeting I can’t get out of, unfortunately.’ His mouth twists like he’s pissed off, and I get the distinct impression that he’s telling the truth; the early meeting isn’t a convenient way to dodge me.

I put the book down on the low table in front of me and stand so I feel more equal with him. ‘I’m sorry for what I said last night,’ I say, holding his gaze. ‘It was really rude, especially after you’ve been so kind to me.’

He gives a little shake of his head. ‘It wasn’t anything I didn’t deserve ten times over.’

‘No.’ I press on. ‘It wasn’t cool at all. And—I regret it.’ Last night’s parting shot was also the only reference either of us has made to his treatment of Stephen in the twelve or more hours I’ve been in his home. If someone had told me that I could coexist with Adam for that long without the massive, burning elephant in the room coming up, I’d have scoffed.

This time, I get a nod. ‘It’s forgotten. I’m sorry if you found me overbearing. I was worried about you, so I tried to take control of the situation. Maybe I pushed it too far.’

I wonder if that apology extends to creeping into my bedroom with lancets and gels and that dick of his and watching me sleep for God knows how long. I’d definitely call that pushing it too far, but I suspect he’d die of mortification if I called him out on it. As would I, obviously, so we’ll just pretend it didn’t happen. He absolutely does not need to know that I woke up when he was there.

When he was hard.

‘It’s fine,’ I say.

His gaze rakes over my body and back to my face. ‘Well, you look… much better. You’re glowing.’

‘Thanks.’ I swear I flush. ‘I feel much better.’

‘Seriously, sit down, please.’ He waves his free hand about. ‘Finish your tea. Your breakfast should be here in a couple of minutes, and Louise texted to say she’ll try to be here a little earlier, so…’

I stay standing. ‘What, no “Turkish eggs with extra black beans” for you today?’ I make bunny ears with my fingers when I reel off my not-so-voluntary breakfast order. ‘I thought it was your favourite.’

He takes a sip from his espresso. ‘It is on Saturdays. I tend to do intermittent fasting during the week.’ A pause, then a little smirk creases the corners of his unfairly attractive mouth. ‘You know, because I can.’

The jibe takes me a second to absorb, but when it does, my mouth drops open.

‘Hang on a sec. Did you just diabetes shame me?’

He’s still smirking. He looks awfully pleased with himself, and I can’t help it. I grin.

‘You smug bastard.’

‘Yep. But I suspect you already knew that.’

We stand there and smile at each other. It only lasts a moment, but it’s long enough to make me flustered. I cast around for a change of subject.

On the table in front of me is a neatly fanned array of today’s papers. The Times is up top, bearing a front-page photo of the Oscar-winning British actor, Ellery Hart, wearing fucking custom Omar Vega, no less. I point at it. ‘Nice work.’

He looks down at it and grins. He really is in a good mood this morning. And no sign of a boner. He definitely jacked off in the shower. The thought of him getting himself off, probably vigorously, probably with those white teeth pressing down on his full lower lip as he reached his climax, makes me feel slightly weak. I should probably sit down .

‘That’s all Omar,’ he says. ‘He’s such a star-fucker.’

I swallow down another smile, because there’s no way I can let Adam Wright have two of them, even if Evan and I hold exactly the same opinion of Vega. ‘Harsh but fair.’ Clearly, his star-fucking works for him.

Awkwardness descends between us. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘I’ll leave you be. Nigel’s going to drop me into town, but he’ll be back in time to take you to work after you’ve seen Louise.’

‘Oh my God, no. That’s really not necessary,’ I protest. ‘I’ll just get the tube.’

‘It is. I insist. It’s still pissing it down out there. He’s under strict instructions to take you wherever you need to go.’

My shoulders sag. I suspect there’s no point in arguing with him, or in putting Nigel in a difficult position later if I refuse to let him carry out his orders. I have to admit, a ride in that lovely big Range Rover would be a far nicer way to reacquaint myself with reality than the tube.

‘Okay.’ I shift from one foot to another. ‘That would be great. Thank you so much for looking after me yesterday.’

He hesitates, then comes towards me, holding his espresso cup out of the way, and leans in to give me a double kiss. It’s surprising, but also not a big deal at all, because it’s more of an air kiss than anything else, his beard lightly brushing my jaw, and it’s also how absolutely everyone in the fashion industry greets each other. So it shouldn’t feel so… intimate.

He pulls back. ‘Thank you for letting me look after you,’ he says softly, and then he’s gone.

The studio feels particularly drab today, and no wonder. We don’t see clients here. Ever. The kind of space I’d want to reflect our brand would cost so many thousands of pounds a month it’s not even funny. A shitty, albeit well-lit, attic studio on one of the less cool side streets in Soho is as good as we can get.

Even Soho’s taking the piss, if I’m honest. We should be somewhere cheaper, less central. But my Alchemy paycheque subsidises the rent enough to make it barely justifiable. When we see private clients, it’s at their homes or in a hotel room or meeting space we book for the occasion. Expensive, but way cheaper than trying to run a client-facing studio.

We take the same approach with trunk shows. It’s best, and most fun, when clients host us and their friends at home, just like Gen, God bless her, has offered to do after Christmas.

The studio is passable. Yesterday, it felt fine, but that was before I was treated to De Gournay wall panels and bathtubs sculpted from slabs of pink marble and florists’ worth of bouquets everywhere. It was before I had a chance to remind myself so starkly of what real wealth looks like up close.

It was before I got a reminder of the kind of scale you need to achieve to create value, and generate wealth, in this industry.

It was before I reminded myself that Adam Wright, a guy who’s been in prison, for fuck’s sake, has achieved success and recognition and the lifestyle to go with it in a way I never, ever will.

Sometimes, when I’m feeling brave enough to be truly honest with myself, I wonder what the hell we’re doing here with Gossamer. Creating beauty, sure. Making our clients feel radiant and strong and gorgeous and capable of taking on the world. But with my combined business and fashion degree, I could have taken a dull salaried job that brings home far more and comes with a truck-load less stress.

I’ve always believed that positivity is a choice. We wake up every morning and we choose to view the world as a good or a bad place. If Einstein said it’s the most important decision we can make, he must have been right. I’m the master of reframing. Not I have to do this , but I get to. I am the absolute queen of faking it till I make it. Taylor Swift has nothing on me.

I work and work and I grind and grind and I smile and smile, and hardly ever do I permit myself the weakness of navel-gazing sufficiently to wonder if I have the energy to keep putting one foot in front of the other on this never-ending treadmill that is running a lovely but sub-scale brand in this gruelling industry.

Today, the single rail of dresses that Gail collected from the factory this week looks paltry. The paint on the walls is more grey than white in this grim November light. My colleagues look tired, and I think for the millionth time that they need a pay rise and then some.

Maybe today is the day where I allow the cracks to show, just a little. After all, it’s been a pretty exhausting, ooh, fifteen hours. My illness manifested in its most mortifying form. I was bundled off and pampered by an intimidating, bossy as fuck man who I have excellent reason to despise. He then had the nerve to lavish me with medical experts and disturb my blissful slumber with his sweet little snores and his monstrously big dick.

And then he proceeded to be utterly delightful this morning—by his standards, anyway—and discombobulate me even further .

No wonder I’m feeling flayed open.

‘Ooh,’ Evan says when I turn up for work, a couple of hours late thanks to the traffic and to an irritatingly invaluable session with Louise, the nutritionist. ‘You’ve never done dress-down Friday before. But your arse looks amazing in those leggings. New threads?’

I dump my tote bag on my desk with a sigh. It’s rammed full of my dress and heels from last night, but I left everything at Adam’s aside from the outfit I’m wearing. It’s not mine to take. And my flat is not somewhere you waltz around in Olivia von Halle pyjamas. I’ve come away with just the clothes on my body and the best-fitting of the three identical pairs of Veja trainers that awaited me in different sizes on the floor of my lovely bedroom.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you where I got them,’ I tell him with a grimace. He’s perfectly turned out, as always, in slim-fitting checked trousers that he made himself (obviously) and a black cashmere sweater that’s probably Uniqlo but looks a million dollars with the trousers.

‘Try me. It can’t be a more ridiculous story than the one where you ran into the bully the other day, can it?’

I wince inwardly at the term, the very same one I threw so callously at Adam yesterday and which, high-handedness aside, nothing about his behaviour last night warranted.

‘Funny you should say that…’ I begin as I make my way over to our crappy kitchenette to put the kettle on.

When I wrap my ridiculous tale up, fifteen minutes later, his face is so totally gobsmacked that I can’t resist reaching for my phone and snapping a photo.

He scowls. ‘Mean.’

‘Stop catching flies, then. Honestly, though, the library was epic. I even saw the full set of those Assouline destination books. You know, the Ibiza one, and Capri…’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He stops me with an impatient wave of his hand. ‘Tell me about his dick again.’

I groan. ‘But I’d much rather talk about the coffee table book porn.’

‘Bollocks. Give me the dick porn.’

‘It was there. It looked big. It looked hard. It looked like the answer to nuclear warheads and cancer and food inequality and every other problem facing mankind. Okay?’

He chews on the inside of his cheek as if formulating a reply, and I know I won’t like whatever he has to say.

‘So, in summary, he basically nursed you through your hypo in, like, expert style, he swept you up and took you home, he had half of Selfridges delivered to you, he bought you Olivia von Halle pyjamas , he fed you, he crept into your room in the middle of the night to keep a tense vigil through the darkest hours, oh, and he got an epic boner during said vigil…

‘What else? Ooh, he owns a palace, he understands the healing power of a beautifully shot coffee table book, and he lavished upon your ungrateful little head medical experts who probably cost hundreds of pounds for a consultation. But you called him a bully. To his face. Am I missing anything? And don’t roll your eyes at me, missy.’

If I could roll them any harder, my brother wouldn’t be the only member of our family in need of a prosthetic eyeball.

Evan pats his hair carefully to ensure it’s still perfectly coiffed. ‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’

‘I apologised for the bully comment,’ I mutter into my mug. ‘And what you’re missing , dipshit, is that he relieved my brother of an eyeball. Not to mention that his attack sent my dad into an endlessly black guilt spiral over fucking up our lives and our schooling. So forgive me if a few hours of perfectly pitched hospitality and swoony generosity don’t quite wipe the slate clean for me.’

He sighs loudly and stretches his arms above his head. ‘Mother fucker.’

‘Quite.’

‘Did you talk about your brother at all with him?’

‘God, no. That would be a can of worms.’

‘Because it’d be too triggering for you, or because you’re worried if you let him explain himself, you might hate him a bit less?’

Both. ‘The former. There’s nothing he can say to justify it. He beat the shit out of a kid half his size. End of story.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Evan groans. ‘Adam, Adam. Give us something to work with here. Ooh. Maybe he had a lobotomy in prison?’

‘That would explain a lot,’ I concede.

The giant Selfridges bag turns up at the studio a few hours later, with a sheepishly smiling Nigel attached to it. ‘Your stuff, Miss. The boss asked me to bring it over.’

So poor old Nigel has had to come into town twice today on my account. Fuck’s sake. I swallow my exasperation and thank him sincerely for his trouble, lugging the bag back upstairs to the studio.

Aside from the pairs of Vejas that didn’t fit me, it’s all there. The pyjamas, the skincare—the used and unused skincare, the unused underwear, and a couple of spare t-shirts from the original haul, as well as two surprises.

The gorgeous Giambattista Valli coffee table book .

And a little note, handwritten on a stiff white notecard monogrammed with AW.

You forgot your stuff. Thought you might like the book, too. And keep an eye on that glucose :) A.

Dear Lord in heaven, help me to survive this man.