Chapter 73 Aida
Aida
“The great end of life is not knowledge but action.”
—Milton, Paradise Lost
Afew well-timed calls from Mara to some of the classier society photographers pay dividends.
Cal and I are photographed strolling along leafy Westbourne Grove together, his arm clamped firmly around my shoulder.
As we stroll and chat, he keeps leaning over to pepper my temple and jaw and cheek with kisses so sweet I know they have nothing to do with the cameras.
Let me rephrase, because my boyfriend is an attention whore and I know he’s in performance mode. They aren’t just for the cameras.
I don’t mind that we’re being watched, though, because the sheer relief of being out and about with Cal is immense.
Being able to go where I please with him is as important as it is delicious.
I’ve endured the dark side of celebrity this year, but before John caused headlines, I could pretty much do as I please.
I wasn’t of any more interest than the dozens of glossy, vaguely familiar people who frequent this neighbourhood.
Our relationship couldn’t have gotten off to a less traditional start, so it’s crucial for me that we get some traditional parts, like strolling around, and window shopping, and just being—in a way that doesn’t necessarily involve nudity or masks or bondage, that is.
We sit down for an alfresco sidewalk lunch at one of the area’s chic eateries. It’s pretty cold, but we’re wrapped up in heavy coats, and the restaurant has outdoor heaters.
‘I want to buy you something here,’ Cal tells me, booping me on my nose.
‘Let me guess. Underwear?’ I ask.
‘Not necessarily. Just something pretty.’
I smile at him, hoping my face reflects the warm, gooey feeling inside of me. ‘You can always buy me something pretty. And maybe after, we can walk down Portobello and buy you a new gimp mask from the market?’
He lets out a hearty chuckle, and I love it. ‘Aren’t they more about antique spoons and Harry Styles posters?’
‘You never know. You might get lucky.’
We’re awaiting our coffees when two young women who can’t be older than eighteen approach us. They’re both fair-haired, very pretty, and carrying handbags no eighteen-year-old should be able to afford—if indeed they’re even that old. It’s so hard to tell these days.
I don’t love being approached in public, but it would be churlish of me to begrudge it when this little stunt is an exercise in courting publicity.
‘Hi,’ one of them says while her friend giggles nervously. They’re both looking back and forward between the two of us.
‘Hey there,’ I say warmly.
‘Um, are you Callum?’ she says, and I press my lips together to hide my amused smile.
Cal flashes them a grin that should come with its own hazard sign. ‘I certainly am. How are you doing?’
‘Oh my God.’ They dissolve into a fit of giggles. ‘That’s so cool. Um, we follow you on Instagram. And TikTok. We can’t wait for the show.’
I flinch inwardly, because these girls are absolutely not my target market, and the idea that they and their friends will tune into my very personal and age-specific journey is seriously horrifying. It rams home just how very public my story will be.
Maybe I should have fucked someone who’d be far less appealing to every age group out there.
Cal, on the other hand, appears not to be horrified at all. ‘Ahh, that’s so sweet of you,’ he says. ‘Thank you, honestly.’
‘Do you think we could get a selfie?’ the other one asks. ‘If it’s not too much trouble?’
‘Of course,’ he says, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. ‘With both of us?’
Their faces fall at the mere thought of me photo-bombing their selfie. ‘Just with you, if that’s okay?’ the first one says.
‘How about I take it?’ I say briskly, to prevent embarrassment all around. They drape themselves over my boyfriend, who looks far too pleased with himself.
I hand the first girl back her phone when I’m done.
‘Thank you so much,’ she says. ‘So are you guys, like, together?’
I glance at Cal.
‘We’re together,’ he says with a firm nod of confirmation as he sits back down. ‘Aida’s my girlfriend.’
‘Oh,’ they chorus, looking totally crestfallen. ‘Well, thank you and good luck with it,’ one says feebly as they edge away backwards.
When I look over at him, he’s grinning to himself.
‘Just say it,’ I say.
‘I’m more famous than you.’
‘You’re such an asshole. And you’re not. They’re not my demographic.’
‘You tell yourself that. And I have more Instagram followers than you do now.’
‘That’s because I don’t take my shirt off constantly on social media.’
‘Maybe you should. You’ve got great tits.’
‘I’ll take that under consideration, thank you. Anyway, I have more LinkedIn followers than you. I have, like, a hundred thousand.’
He attempts a straight face. ‘I mean, that’s seriously impressive.’ He nods earnestly. ‘LinkedIn. Wow. Yeah, you should be so proud of what you’ve achieved.’
I unfold my napkin and slap his arm with it. ‘Fuck you.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Ugh.’ I throw back my head and look heavenward. ‘I’ve created a total monster.’
* * *
If lunch with Cal is a lesson in humility (for me only), then picking the boys up from their extortionate, elitist, overly British prep school is one big fabulous Fuck You moment.
I’ve had looks and comments all week at drop-off and pickup.
The comments have tended towards back handed compliments and passive aggressive observations, heavy on the you’re so brave and presumably the BBC isn’t thrilled about it and gosh, a sex club, really?
They’ve inevitably included commentary on Cal, too:
A younger man!
Doesn’t the age gap bother you?
Just don’t let him get under your skin, darling.
And, my personal favourite: Is he taking on other ‘clients’? Like he’s some kind of gigolo for hire.
I get that none of the above looks too devastating on paper, but when it’s accompanied by wide eyes and raised eyebrows (where Botox allows) and bitchy, affected tittering, I can tell you, it starts to jar. It’s all par for the course, but that doesn’t make it enjoyable.
I’ve taken it in stride, and I’ve chosen to tell myself that my fellow moms’ reactions are less the polite moral outrage they pretend to be and more what I’ve christened Lucky Bitch Syndrome.
I suspect the green-eyed monster has come out to play.
There are plenty of divorced parents at this school, and even more attractive women married to very successful guys whose looks may not be their most appealing attribute, if you get what I’m saying.
I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else how to live their life, but I do know this.
When you stick your head above the parapet, people are going to treat you as fair game.
And they’re going to damn well take aim while they have that clear of a shot.
I guess, in the world of private school moms with too much time on their hands, partnering with a sex club and hooking up with a young, hot guy and filming part of that process is the gossip equivalent of climbing up on that parapet with a fucking bullseye on your forehead.
Back to the Fuck You moment.
Cal and I saunter hand in hand through Notting Hill to the square where the school is.
We’re five minutes early, but there’s already a line of parents and nannies running down the sidewalk.
One of the dads, Evan, who runs a large institutional investment firm, raises his eyes from his phone long enough to nod smilingly at me before his gaze shifts to Cal.
He jolts. The guy looks like he’s seen a ghost. Cal throws a quick hiya, mate his way before Evan glues his eyes right back to his phone.
After we’ve walked a safe distance past him, I murmur, ‘Do I want to know how you know him?’
‘Probably not,’ he says, squeezing my hand, ‘but I bet you can guess.’
‘Wow. I can, but I never would have.’ Evan’s divorced, so how he plays in his spare time is no one’s business but his. Still, I’m glad I didn’t run into him half naked at the Masked Ball, that’s for sure.
Ew.
‘I bet you know a lot of people’s secrets,’ I muse.
‘You know it, baby. Including yours.’
‘Nice.’
I bump my shoulder playfully against his and he halts, tugging on my hand so he can plant a kiss on my lips. It’s light and chaste and school gates-friendly, but that sense of how natural it feels hits me hard.
This isn’t some dark club.
I’m about to pick up my kids.
With my dreamy, sweet boyfriend.
‘Why, Aida. Hi there.’
The fawning voice of Lucinda, one of the more self-righteous moms, and the expectant tone of her greeting have me turning away from the kiss.
She’s with a gaggle of her friends-slash-minions towards the back of the line, and they’re all staring at Cal like he’s a snow leopard I’ve stolen from the zoo and am parading around Pembridge Square on a leash.
‘Hi there,’ I say.
We all stand awkwardly.
‘So you’re hanging out with your… co-star,’ she says. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Um—’ I begin, having no earthly clue what else to say.
‘Co-star?’ Cal says, a broad grin on his face. He lets go of my hand and throws his arm around my shoulder in what feels like a deeply possessive gesture. ‘Aww, that’s sweet. Are you familiar with the show?’
He just broke School Gates Rule number one.
Never call anyone’s bluff.
If I didn’t already love him, I would now.
‘I—’ Lucinda is a goldfish whose water supply is dwindling fast. ‘Well, actually…’
‘I mean, obviously there’s not much to see yet,’ he says, winking at Celeste, another mom who’s staring at him like she’s on a juice cleanse and he’s a big fat spaghetti carbonara.
‘But you need to tune in when it airs.’ His gaze drops to her left hand, which is rammed full of diamond eternity rings.
‘It’s very educational. It might be something to watch with your husband.
Or with the girls, if you feel more comfortable.
Ladies’ Night? You know what I’m saying?
You’re all exactly the kind of women Aida and her team are targeting with this. Right, baby?’
For once in my largely articulate life, I cannot actually form a sentence.
Lucinda rallies admirably quickly. ‘We really don’t watch much TV at home. There’s far too much to do.’
‘Tell me about it,’ Cal says. ‘Aida and I are usually getting stuck in at my club when we’re not with the boys.
Aren’t we, sweetheart? But we’ll also be running a huge social media campaign around the documentary to educate more women on how to take ownership of their sex lives, whether they’re single or married.
You might be able to fit in the odd “tidbit” between commitments. ’
He draws out the word tidbit, making it sound downright creepy, and it’s funny as fuck. Lucinda stares at him in horror. I think he’s broken her brain with his verbal diarrhoea, and I feel a vague sympathy for her. But he’s reeling Celeste in faster than you can say balaclava.
‘So, have you two been filming today, then?’ she asks, waggling her finger coyly between us.
‘We’ve pretty much wrapped,’ I tell her.
‘No, just hanging out,’ Cal says. ‘Getting to know each other, you know? Sometimes it’s healthy to take it out of the bedroom for short periods. Anyway, great to meet you all. Thanks for the support. Hope the programme gives you some inspiration!’