2. Natalie

2

NATALIE

H ave you ever seen a celebrity in the flesh? I have, a few times. Mainly here. It’s always surreal, seeing the flesh-and-blood version of what you’re used to seeing as pixels. It can even be underwhelming. You know, when you can see up close just how much work they’ve had done, or when the guys are a good three or four inches shorter than their Instagram feed would have you believe.

This guy is anything but underwhelming as he towers above me, in front of me, his rich-guy cologne invading my nostrils and his very presence invading my nervous system.

Gen’s voice cuts through the tangled blur of my emotions like a speedboat through a swamp. ‘Nat? Nat. Are you okay? Are you crashing?’

I’m conscious, somewhere, of finding that mildly amusing, because, bless her, this isn’t my blood glucose.

This is something far, far worse.

I manage to shake my head as I hold onto the edge of the lectern, keeping my eyes squeezed tightly shut. My hair falls over my face. I must look absolutely ridiculous, but it’s far better than having to look at him. I know she means well, but the heat radiating from my skin is enough to reassure anyone that this isn’t a hypoglycaemic episode.

My face is on fire, and my brain is being squeezed as if it’s being clamped. This is a rush of blood to the head the like of which I don’t think I’ve ever experienced, but I’ve never experienced this , either.

Coming face to face with the man who ruined my brother’s life, that is.

The man I’ve hated, resented from afar for over twenty years.

The man I’ve stabbed in my fantasies, in my dreams, over and over and over until he’s bloodied, lifeless pulp on the floor.

(Maybe that’s taking it too far. After all, we’re not all violent shits. Some of us are capable of normal levels of self-control.)

Adam Wright.

Standing right in front of me, about a foot away from me. So close I can smell him. Joking with Anton as he waits to, in Gen’s own words, unleash himself on all those unsuspecting women.

Ugh ugh ugh.

‘I’ll call a doctor,’ Anton says, his voice decisive, and it’s enough to have me opening my eyes and training them fixedly on his face. In my peripheral vision, Adam hovers by the desk.

‘No. I’m fine—I’m so sorry.’

‘I think you should take a break,’ Gen says kindly, coming around behind me and taking hold of my biceps.

‘I’m absolutely fine, honestly,’ I tell her now. ‘I’m so sorry. ’

I do what may just be the bravest, scariest thing I’ve ever done, and I look up, up, up to meet Adam’s eyes. And for a second—for one despicable, traitorous second—I feel only appreciation. Because if Tom Ellis reminded us of anything in Lucifer , it’s that Satan is in fact a fallen angel… and he looks every inch of the celestial being he once was.

But that appreciation dissolves a second later, because the way he’s looking at me tells me he has no clue who I am. There’s something on his offensively handsome face that on anyone else would look like genuine concern, and, if my instincts are right, some appreciation is working its dark magic on him, too.

But nothing else.

What must it be like to ruin a life—several lives—and just walk away? To show up at a place like Alchemy in a suit that costs more than I make in a year, idly wondering how many women to fuck and in which ways you’ll violate them while a fellow human goes about his day with a life-altering injury?

I have no idea, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want a single insight into how the mind of a monster works. I don’t want a second more exposure to his toxic energy.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks. ‘Can I get you a glass of water?’ His voice isn’t overly posh, but it’s modulated. The South London vowels are long gone, polished up as a part of whatever bullshit reinvention he’s undertaken over these past two decades.

I can’t actually speak, so I shake my head. I just hope that, even if the force of my glare in this moment isn’t quite enough to transform into deadly laser beams, it’s quite sufficient to telegraph my deep, deep contempt for him.

‘Nat, this is our good friend, Adam,’ Gen says softly, rubbing my arms through my long gloves. ‘Anton can get him signed in. You’re going to come and sit down for five minutes. Okay? I’ll tell the guys outside to grab me if anyone else turns up.’

With that, she gently frogmarches me around the lectern and through the large doorway to Alchemy’s beautiful meeting space. She ducks outside quickly to speak to the doormen and returns, closing the door behind us.

The room is dim at this hour, lit mainly by the streetlights outside and by the pink onyx vulva sculpture in one corner. It’s the main clue that Alchemy isn’t your average members’ club.

I sit thankfully on the huge grey sofa. I’m an absolute tumult of emotions, sweat pricking along my spine under the velvet and heart racing as my adrenal system attempts to make sense of everything. I’m simultaneously mortified at how I’ve behaved in front of Gen and Anton and fucking furious that a guy like Adam Shithead Wright gets to walk around Mayfair as if he owns it, after the past he’s had.

Gen lets her huge coat drop from her shoulders and sinks far more elegantly down on the sofa than I did. She’s all gold now, and she’s so beautiful. That dress is a work of art, and right now it’s the anchor tethering me to sanity.

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Something’s not right, and I’m not letting you out of here until you’ve told me exactly what’s going on. I’m pretty sure I should be calling a doctor right now.’

‘You don’t need to call a doctor,’ I mutter, resting my elbows on my knees and letting my head drop into my hands. ‘It’s not a crash, I promise.’

‘Well, something’s going on,’ she presses in a voice that’s genuinely kind but still reminds me why the most formidable businessman in this country obeys her every word. ‘So why don’t you explain it to me? ’

I’m never like this with Gen. She makes me my most polished and sparkly. She’s the kind of woman you stand up straighter around. So I would never be weird or sluggish or mute like I am now. At the same time, though, I can’t bear that she doesn’t know. That man has waltzed in here with her and Anton. He presumes to a friendship with two of the most upstanding, impressive people I know, and it honestly makes me sick.

So if she wants an explanation, that’s what I’ll give her.

Except I start crying the second I raise my head and see the worry on her beautiful face, and that’s even more mortifying than my little episode out in the hallway, because I need to pull myself together right this second and get back out there and do the job Gen pays me to do.

‘Holy crap.’ She shimmies over on the sofa so she’s sitting right next to me and puts her arm tightly around me. ‘Please tell me what’s the matter, sweetie. Has one of the members been rude to you, or made you feel unsafe?’

One of the members has made me feel very unsafe, but not in the way you think. I let out a shuddery breath. ‘No, they haven’t, but there’s a problem with… that guy you brought.’

‘Adam?’

‘Yes.’ Here goes. I watch her face. ‘Do you know much about his past?’

She frowns. ‘I know it was rough—I know he’s overcome a lot to get where he is.’

I snort. I’m sorry, but for fuck’s sake. It’s no secret that Adam Wright has a past; he’s milked it shamelessly as part of his “personal brand”, which, from what I can tell, is heavy on redemption and equally heavy on bullshit. But clearly Gen’s been drinking his Kool-Aid, because her eyebrows fly up at my very unprofessional snort. She’s not pissed off, but she’s surprised .

‘Yeah, well, so have a lot of us. But some of us can’t just “overcome” the things that happen to us.’

‘I don’t get it,’ she says. ‘Do you know him, or you’re just not a fan?’

‘You’re friends with him,’ I say.

‘He’s a mate of Anton’s, yes, and I’m fond of him. But not as fond as I am of you, so spit it out.’

Fine. ‘I know him,’ I tell her. ‘He doesn’t know who I am, but he was at school with my brother.’

Gen presses her lips together like she already knows she won’t like what’s coming.

‘Adam used to bully him,’ I say, my voice shaking. ‘Badly.’

‘Fuck.’

The tears are flowing freely now, and I sniff hard and wetly as I drag the heel of my hand over my cheek. ‘Yeah, fuck. And one day, he—Adam—beat Stephen to a pulp, and it was so bad he lost his left eye. They couldn’t save it—they had to take the whole thing out.’

She reacts to this like all normal people do when they hear my story: with utter horror. She gasps loudly, covering her mouth with her hand, her eyes huge and appalled. ‘Oh my God ,’ she says, voice muffled.

‘Yeah.’

‘Adam Wright did this.’ It’s not a question.

‘Yep.’

‘I can’t believe it—I mean, I knew he’d done time for GBH, but I didn’t know the exact details. Jesus, Nat, I’m so fucking sorry for bringing him here.’

GBH. Grievous Bodily Harm. So laughably inadequate for what that ruthless thug did to Stephen. ‘It’s not your fault,’ I say feebly. She takes my hand and squeezes it, her other arm still around me, and honestly, it feels nice. Comforting. I think I might be in shock. Coming face to face with the man you’ve loved to hate all these years will do that to you.

‘And your brother? What… is he okay?’

Our faces are close enough that, even in the dim light, I can see the unshed tears brimming in her big blue eyes. I nod. I assume she’s asking for an overview. For a broad yes/no answer. She doesn’t want or need to know about the years of physical and mental struggle Stephen went through after the attack. ‘I mean, he lost the eye, obviously, but he’s alive. He has a prosthetic one.’

She shudders and rubs my arm briskly. ‘Good Lord above. That poor, poor guy. How utterly horrific.’

I stay silent, because it’s hard to disagree with that.

‘I can’t believe I brought him here,’ she says with a groan as she releases me from her embrace. ‘Jesus fucking Christ. What are the fucking chances?’

I love that Gen looks like a supermodel and sounds for the most part like she’s presenting The Antiques Roadshow but actually swears like a sailor. I’ve always found it a brilliant proof of her sincerity. There’s no artifice for her. And right now, her F-bombs at the situation she’s unknowingly put me in are little shows of solidarity. It’s not just me who finds this coincidence—if you can call it that—beyond horrific.

‘He’s your friend.’ I shrug weakly. ‘You weren’t to know.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘but he’s also... Oh, fucking hell. Shite .’

Now it’s her turn to drop her head to her hands.

‘What?’ I ask with growing alarm.

She looks up at me, what looks like conflict written all over her face. ‘Nothing. Hell .’ She inhales, nostrils flaring like she’s bracing for something. ‘Right. Here’s what we’ll do. I’m going to put you in a cab home—no, don’t argue. It’s the least I can do. I’ll get someone to cover for you. And I’m going to go and have a little chat with Mr Wright.’