Chapter 1 Aurora
Aurora
Okay, so two p.m. I have to be at the Winslows’, who are in Notting Hill. Then after, I’m taking Freddie to the groomers.
‘So good.’ Charlie grunts in time with his thrusts, his balls slapping against my skin.
I need to remember Freddie’s pink collar. The blue one makes him itch after he’s been groomed.
‘Yeah, baby,’ Charlie groans, speeding up.
I’ll go to the shop and pick up some crisps on the way. Salt and vinegar. Ooh, or maybe barbecue.
I stare at the pendant light fitting above the bed as Charlie circles his dick, awakening a glimmer of hope inside me.
‘Oh, oh, just there,’ I encourage, eager not to let a rare opportunity pass. My eyelashes flutter as he circles again and anticipation blooms low inside my core. ‘Yes . . . don’t stop,’ I plead.
He repeats the move a couple more blissful times and my toes tingle. Just a little more and . . .
He stops abruptly and I bite back a disappointed whine.
His dick stays rigid, buried inside me, and his abs tense between us.
‘You okay?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, just . . .’
A loud fart rips through the air.
‘That’s better,’ he groans.
He begins thrusting again with renewed vigour.
I wrinkle my nose as a waft hits me, projected through the air from the motion of his clenched butt cheeks.
He gives one final big thrust, accompanied by a throaty grunt like he’s impressed himself.
I trace my fingers up and down his shoulder blade idly as he comes inside the condom, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
I should take Freddie’s favourite toy too.
Charlie rolls off me and lies on his back. He pulls the condom off with a snap, before admiring the meagre dribble of liquid inside it with pride.
‘Did you come?’ he asks, looking at me expectantly.
‘What? Oh, yeah,’ I lie.
He smiles, then flings the condom across the room, punching his arms in the air when it successfully lands in the bin.
‘Thought so. I can always tell when you do,’ he says, climbing out of bed and pulling his boxer shorts on, then reaching for his shirt and trousers on the floor and swiping them up. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘I know.’ I give him a sad smile. But it’s due to my lack of orgasm – again – not the fact he’s returning to work after our lunchtime tryst.
‘Don’t be sad, babe. I don’t get to choose my hours like you do.’
I open my mouth to argue, then clamp it shut instead.
I’m wasting my breath going over this with him again.
Charlie doesn’t consider my jobs to be ‘real’ ones.
Regardless of the fact I put in more hours than him most weeks.
I don’t wear a suit and swing my dick around with other men in suits every day, so what I do can’t be a ‘proper’ job.
‘See you tonight?’ he asks, leaning down to kiss me.
‘I can’t tonight. I have dinner with Dove.’
‘Okay. Tomorrow then.’
He kisses me again, then walks from the room, pulling his shirt on.
‘Oh, and Rory?’
I look up from his bed as he cranes his head back around the doorframe. Hope lifts my chest as he smiles at me.
‘Remember to lock yourself out and post the key through the letterbox, okay?’
My smile tightens. ‘Sure.’
He winks. ‘Good. Later, babe.’
I fall back against the pillow with a huff as his retreating footsteps pass over his polished hardwood floors and the sound of his front door opening and closing echoes up the hallway.
We’ve been dating for a few months, but he doesn’t trust me to have a spare key.
He’s happy to have me over all the time, but when I’ve suggested it would be easier to have my own key, rather than waiting outside for him in the rain – and getting pitying looks from his elderly neighbour – he’s quickly changed the subject.
I grab my phone and shuffle up the bed, resting my back against the padded headboard. I’ll take a shower before I leave. Charlie’s shower heats above ‘freeze your tits off’ level, and the water pressure doesn’t resemble a gnat’s pee like that last shower I took. Bliss.
I smile as I type out a text to Dove. Having dinner with my best friend is exactly what I need.
Me: Can’t wait to see you later. Shall I meet you at your place first and we can travel together?
Her reply comes almost instantly, and my initial happiness is replaced by an ickiness as I read.
Dove: I’m so sorry. In a meeting that’s likely to run over. Can you meet me here?
I swallow the acid that’s threatening to rise up my windpipe.
Me: No problem. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.
Dove: It’s hard to find. Meet me at the office. Don’t worry, and I promise it’ll save time that way. Trust me.
I type back okay and a kiss, then throw my phone down on the duvet with a huff.
Dove doesn’t need to concern herself with me being worried. Meeting her at her office will only result in one emotion if I have the misfortune of being in close proximity to her older brother, who she works with.
And that’s indifference.
Complete and utter indifference.
I’m not worried about seeing Rafael Fairfax.
The man is positively vile. The fact he and Dove are related continues to astound me. She’s kind and considerate. And she knows the truth when she hears it.
But Rafael?
That man wouldn’t know truth if it came and rammed itself down his stupid thick neck. Although the sight would be welcome. Especially if the arsehole choked on it.
I smile as I slide out of bed and pad over Charlie’s plush bedroom carpet to his en suite.
Rafael Fairfax being choked to death. Now there’s a wonderful thought.
Twisting, I show the back of the Chanel suit I have on. It’s a beautiful white tweed with fine gold thread as soft as angel’s hair weaved through it.
‘So gorgeous. And look at the shoes,’ I say as I perform a cute little leg flick behind me to show off the patent Mary Janes I’m wearing.
I spin back around and grin, placing a hand on my hip. ‘The perfect workday outfit.’
I allow a few seconds to pass before heading to my phone propped on top of the dressing area drawers and stopping it recording.
‘Perfect,’ I murmur, checking the video and trimming it before I write a quick caption and add my saved hashtags. I click ‘post’ and turn to survey the space.
Rails and rails of designer outfits all in my size line the oyster-coloured walls. And there’s a whole display purely for designer bags and purses. One in every colour you can imagine. Then there are the shoes . . . oh my God, the shoes.
I step out of the Mary Janes, stroking them lovingly as I place them back on the shelf with the tenderness one would cradle a premature baby.
They’re exquisite. Just like everything else in here.
I sigh, unable to muster my usual enthusiasm. It’s not the same without him.
Nothing has been the same since my father went to prison three months ago.
His girlfriend managed a month.
One month of the press hounding us and waiting on our doorsteps, harassing us for interviews.
One month of seeing my father stripped of his freedom and dignity, locked up in that place.
One month of living with the stigma of him being found guilty of theft from the investment company where he worked, before she packed a bag and left.
She had the decency to say goodbye, at least, before suggesting I should move out of London and start fresh somewhere no one knows me.
But that would have meant leaving my father to deal with this alone.
With a five-year sentence to serve.
But he’s not a quitter. He can do it without a girlfriend who doesn’t believe in him. We can do it without her. We’ve always done okay by ourselves anyway, me and him. I just wish I got to see him more than the measly one visit per week the prison allows.
The beautiful Chanel suit suddenly feels hot and tight against my skin. I pull it off quickly, grabbing my jeans and t-shirt, and sliding them back on.
My phone beeps and I check it, finding over one hundred notifications, most admiring my outfit choice and some asking me to film a dressing-room tour. I gnaw on my lip, checking my watch. It’ll have to wait until another day.
I place the Chanel suit on its hanger and wink at Freddie, sprawled out on his belly in the corner, watching me with big, doleful brown eyes.
‘Aww, come on, boy,’ I coo. ‘I know you hate the idea of the groomers. But you always feel better afterwards, don’t you? And you’ll get steak strips for dinner as a treat.’
Freddie’s ears prick up at the word ‘steak’ and he tilts his head to one side. I walk over and his tail wags harder.
‘It’ll be worth it, I promise.’
He rolls over so I can scratch his belly.
‘Sometimes we have to go to places we can barely stomach, because the outcome will be worth it,’ I tell him, before I glance around the lavish dressing room.
It’s filled with hundreds of thousands of pounds of the most coveted labels in the fashion industry. But since I lost my father, all I see are things. Things weighted with guilt. Tarnished with dishonesty and corruption.
I tear my eyes away as nausea threatens my stomach.
‘Believe me,’ I whisper, gazing into Freddie’s eyes. ‘It’ll be worth it in the end.’