CHAPTER 5
Leo
Our friendship has only been short, but I really do love him. He’s the kindest person I know.
We had a great session tonight. He gave me exactly what I needed and we both left breathless, dripping and exhausted.
I love the feeling of my thighs burning, the dull but satisfying ache in my shoulders, my body strung out.
Jack helps me refine my shots as we rally, favouring the correct form over raw power, the result of which is always better.
My skill set has developed immensely since we became friends.
I glance in the mirror as I walk through the hallway, grimacing at my red face before walking through to my little kitchen and throwing some leftovers in the oven to heat up. I force myself to drag my body upstairs and shower. The water is blissful, soothing but re-energizing to my aching muscles.
I love this bathroom. I renovated it fully before I moved in and it’s exactly what I wanted.
I took full advantage of the space I had; a big bath sits in one corner, surrounded by dusty pink walls that stretch to white marble tiling, the finishes in burnished gold metal.
My shower is large enough for two (despite only me using it, and occasionally my family dog) and has a small bench built into the wall, seamlessly flowing in the same marble.
I sit down on it now, under the steady, hot flow, calming my mind.
I love this whole cottage actually, purchased last year with some help from inheritance money that allowed me to put down a fairly hefty deposit and be granted a modest mortgage. My mum helped with the renovations, declaring she might move in herself if I wasn’t careful.
I know how lucky I am, there was no way I would’ve been able to do it without help. Especially on a Mayfair Lifestyle salary.
It also helped that it was out of London. Luckily, I preferred that. Having rented my way across west London in my early twenties, I was over the city and relished the change in the air as I stepped foot out of the station every evening.
I must be getting old.
A short while later, freshly washed hair wrapped in a towel turban, skin moisturized and beautiful pyjama set on (one of my guilty pleasures), I grab my dinner from the kitchen and settle down at the table.
Switching on the TV, I find something mindless for background noise, giving my brain a break from the day, and pick up my phone.
Ignoring the last open tab, (‘No thanks. G’) I open TikTok, another mindless pleasure.
Apparently not tonight though. My phone has clearly been listening today.
From the moment I open it and scroll, my feed is edit after edit, all featuring fucking George Hampden.
‘Seriously?!’ I say out loud, before I can help myself.
I go to close it, but I can’t help watching highlights from his latest final in Rome. I know he went on to win, as I still keep up with the results. But I’ve refused to watch any of his matches in full since last year’s encounter.
If I’m not worthy of his time, he’s certainly not worthy of mine. Although technically, I’m now supposed to be there for him at all times. I brush the thought away.
I keep watching the highlights. His control hasn’t wavered, despite his previous dip in results. Every shot is still precise, achieving that perfect form Jack tries to get out of me. He’s not lacking in skill, that’s for sure – I mean, he won the whole thing. But something is missing.
I scroll back, watching some of the edits I’d ignored. He’s still just as good, but the power that radiated off him before has dimmed. Glimpses of it shine through at certain points, but the pure dominance that captured me so fiercely when I first saw him isn’t there.
Interesting.
I watch a few more videos, fascinated by the change, before remembering that I’m supposed to hate him.
And the fact I have to be up in less than eight hours.
And that really, I need to know whether Brett Tanner finally admits that he’s in love with Autumn, our sassy, sundress-wearing cowgirl heroine, who isn’t afraid to get her hands (or her mouth) dirty.
I sigh as I open my Kindle. Fictional men are so much easier. They always fall for the girl.
——
I wake up early with a new mindset, determined to make today a success.
‘You are capable,’ I tell myself as I brush my teeth.
‘You are capable.’ I waggle my toothbrush at my reflection, ‘You. Are. Capable.’ I step through to the spare bedroom, which has slowly become my walk-in wardrobe, and look in the mirror, noticing a glob of toothpaste dripping down my chin. Gross.
An hour and a half later, I step through the doors of the office, a quaint mews house in the heart of Mayfair, and look around to see I’m the first one here. Settling down, I take a sip of matcha and start to map out my to-do list for the day.
I know that George is one small, insignificant part of my responsibilities. I have actual, important work to do. Work with people who are excited to work with me. I berate myself for getting so twisted about such a silly spoilt man-child. Use the membership, don’t use it, who cares?
I breathe out slowly and look at my phone. It’s 8.15 a.m. and I’m still alone in the office. I call Rosa, knowing she’s working from home and will likely be walking Cassian.
She picks up after a few rings.
‘Hellooo,’ her cheery voice fills my ears. She’s such a morning person. ‘Any news from Mr Darcy?’
‘Good morning to you too. And no,’ I frown, ‘stop calling him that, you’re ruining Colin Firth for me.’
‘More of a Matthew Macfadyen gal myself.’ She pauses. ‘So what’s the plan? You always have a plan.’
‘Nothing. I’m going to do nothing. If he doesn’t want to use the membership, then it’s not my problem. Cece can get his interview and that’s it. No drama.’
‘Good for you, girl! Although I am sad not to know what George Hampden gets off on.’
‘What?’
‘You know, what you’re always saying, you get to know . . .’ She lowers her voice, whispering seductively, ‘his likes and dislikes, his preferences . . .’ She laughs, voice returning to normal, ‘And you’d be booking dates for all those models he’s always papped with.’
I roll my eyes at the thought of being on a date with George Hampden; a year ago, I would have done anything, but now, eurgh.
‘I doubt he bothers with dates. Doesn’t seem the type to hold any kind of conversation. All moody grunts and intense stares.’
‘Oh god, I bet he’s fantastic in bed!’ she moans. ‘That body! God he’s so tall . . .’
‘I bet he’s not. I reckon it’s absolute silence for thirty seconds, then he’s done and out the door. There’s a reason you never see him with the same girl twice.’
She giggles, ‘Oh, Leo, come on! Like if you met him, you wouldn’t totally melt?! I still don’t understand why you hate him so much. I couldn’t imagine a man who was more your type? He’s a literal tennis superstar, who looks like a Roman god?’
I rest my head on the palm of my hand. ‘I told you: I just know, you can see he’s clearly an arsehole, and I can’t be bothered to pander to him.’
I try to change the subject swiftly. ‘How’s Cassian? Switch to video so I can see his cute little face.’
I see the fields near home on screen, as behind the camera Rosa gives a sharp, ‘Cassian, here!’
Cassian, Rosa’s golden retriever puppy, comes bounding into view, tail wagging furiously before he skids to an abrupt halt and sits patiently at her feet.
‘He’s the most gorgeous, adorable boy in the entire world,’ I hear her cooing as she throws him a little bone-shaped treat that he catches in mid-air.
‘Yes you are, my good boy. Yes you are!’ She scratches behind his ears before he bounds off again and she flips the video to her face looking off to the side.
‘Charlie texted me last night by the way, just to see how I was doing.’
I raise an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t reply, did you?’
‘Maybe, just saying that I was fine and hoped he was getting on well with his new job.’
‘He’s engaged, Rosa,’ I say firmly. ‘To Eloise Tolbere, or whatever her name is. He chose whoever his mother picked out for him. It’s done.’
‘I know, I know, I just . . . I miss speaking to him.’ She bites her lip, still not meeting my eyes through the screen.
It’s so uncharacteristic of Rosa and her usual peppy self that I soften my next words.
‘Rosa, he’s newly engaged and texting another woman, someone he has clearly fancied for many years.
He doesn’t deserve you. You’re far too bloody good for him.
’ She looks at me then. ‘You’ll find someone better, someone you get along with just as well.
Someone who doesn’t care what his mother thinks is a “good match” and realizes what they have with you.
You’re so beautiful, inside and out. Please trust me. ’
‘I know you’re right about him really and I know it’s too late. It’s just hard.’
‘I know, but we’ll find someone, I promise.’ An idea pops into my head. ‘You should come to tennis with me! You already think Jack is hot.’ She protests but I shush her. ‘And he’s not the only eligible guy there. Granted, most are over sixty, but still!’
She laughs. ‘Is this what it’s come to? Retirees at the tennis club?’
‘Just try it. It will be fun! I wanted to go tonight with Jack, but he’s hanging out with a childhood friend, so maybe you could come and scope it out? Keep me company?’
‘I’ll think about it. I haven’t played since school, so you can’t be smashing it back to me.’
‘Promise I’ll behave.’
‘Promise you’ll behave?’ A booming voice behind almost makes me jump out of my chair. ‘Are you running some kind of early morning phone sex operation, Leonora?’
I hang up without saying goodbye and turn to face Cece, looking at the clock behind him.
It’s 8.30 a.m. I’ve never, ever seen Cece in the office before 9.
30 in my entire time working here. I’ve also asked him repeatedly to call me Leo.
Everyone calls me Leo, not Leonora. Everyone except my grandmother.
‘Just catching up with a friend before properly starting work. Sorry.’
‘Working hard or hardly working, eh?’ He guffaws. ‘I’m seeing Giles for breakfast and I need an update on George Hampden, Leonora. Is he all set up? How was the welcome call?’
That’s why he’s early. Giles Lockwood is our founder and I suppose even Cece needs to keep up appearances with him.
I purposely avoid the question. ‘I’m not entirely sure he’ll be using us much to be honest. He doesn’t seem to need us for anything.’
Cece’s already ruddy face deepens in colour.
‘What do you mean? Of course he needs us, everyone does.’ He comes up to my desk.
‘Leonora, I trusted you with this. Giles has managed to wangle a slot on the BBC coverage of Wimbledon, as long as they can interview George. He’ll be talking tennis of course, but a major part is about how Mayfair Lifestyle has vastly improved his life.
That kind of exposure for us is like gold dust.’
‘I’m sorry, what? BBC at Wimbledon? Why would they do that?’
‘Giles knows the producer and has pulled a few strings. You know it’s the perfect audience and, once I mentioned I knew George, well, Giles ran with it. I had to ask a few favours but it’s all done, and it’s imperative it goes well or it won’t just be my head on the line.’
Really? He seems un-fireable.
‘And George knows about this?’ I couldn’t imagine he would agree to a live television interview. Over the past few years he’d barely spoken in any post-match coverage, even when he won, providing short, clipped answers at every press conference.
‘Of course he does; Gordon will have told him the terms of our deal. But he can’t talk about us, if he hasn’t used us now, can he?’
I look up. ‘He’s proving a little difficult and I’m just not sure I have the time with everything else going on.’
‘If more time is what you need, Leonora, then you’ll get it.’ More people are trickling into the office now, wide-eyed and curious when they see Cece is here already.
‘Felicity, come here.’ His sweet, but slightly nervous assistant shuffles over. ‘You’ll be taking on Leonora’s workload for a few months while she deals with the George Hampden account. OK?’
She nods, her big blue eyes darting from me to him.
‘Excellent, well that’s sorted. I want you to do whatever he needs, Leonora. He says jump, you say . . .?’
‘Where’s the nearest cliff?’
Cece chortles. He thinks I’m joking . . .
‘Wonderful. Well better get going, Giles has insisted on The Wolseley and I do love their Omelette Arnold Bennett.’ He smacks his lips before waddling off.
Fuck my life.