Chapter 20 Andrea
Andrea
“You fucking what?” The Danish stopped just outside Kelly’s mouth.
“Yeah. We’re going shopping at the weekend. To get stuff. For the France trip.”
Monish side-eyed her. “Andrea, this is very surprising.”
“So you got stuck in a lift with him, shagged him, insulted him, attacked him in a meeting, and now, what … you’re dating?” Kelly scrunched her face.
“Standard relationship progression, right?” I laughed nervously.
Kelly and Monish’s faces were stony.
“I don’t—I mean—hadn’t you decided to hate him?” she asked.
“Yeah.” It sounded even less convincing now that I was sitting at the Banana Store with my friends. “He’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? Wow, girl. Relationship goals.”
Monish was examining my face. “Andrea. Is this because …” He looked from my eyes to Kelly’s.
“What?”
He twisted his wedding ring, looking desperately uncomfortable. “Money can make life … easier, Andrea. But a man like von Roth. It won’t be easy with him. Have you forgotten what he did after you … ah …”
“Shagged?” added Kelly, helpfully.
“Right. And the photos in the media of him with all those … women?”
Of course I hadn’t forgotten. We’d all discussed it at length.
And I didn’t give a crap about his money—I could make my own.
But I still felt like we might have misjudged him.
At dinner he’d seemed so genuine. There was something more to him.
Something vulnerable. He wasn’t just a womanizer. And he wasn’t fake, I was sure of it.
Even if our relationship was.
Anyway, it didn’t really matter what I thought of Liam. I just had to make it sound convincing.
“But how did you go from loathing his guts to going to France with him?” Kelly scratched her jaw. “I mean … fucking France?”
“We had a connection,” I said pathetically. “I mean, from the first hookup, obviously. But then afterward. It got a bit messy, but—I don’t know. We talked it through and we just … clicked.”
“Talked it through?” Kelly sipped her gin and tonic and leaned forward, studying me. “How did this actually go down, though? I thought you were filing HR letters and avoiding him like the plague. Did he hit on you again at the office? Surely that’s bad. Isn’t it? He’s the boss.”
“Exactly. We’ve been through this already, Andrea. I’m afraid you are playing with fire,” said Monish.
“He didn’t hit on me again, like some sort of sleaze. We met at an event by chance. The auction thing, for my art. He’s a collector, apparently. And we’ve been chatting since then. On text.” I paused. “He … he’s nice.”
Monish frowned. “And if there’s a restructure, what then? Does this make it worse for you, or better?”
“James thinks it’s fine,” I said. “Better, probably. But that’s not what this is about. We get along. We’re … well-matched.”
“This is not quite how I remember the discussion at the welcome party going, Andrea. You said he was a playboy, if I recall,” said Monish.
“I … yeah.”
“And a capitalist arse.” Kelly shook her head. “You convinced us you shouldn’t date him. What happened? Is this a rebound? From Rudy?”
The name made me wince. Rudy hadn’t crossed my mind for ages. Well, not since Liam had shown up, anyway.
“I don’t think so. But it’s just dating, right? I mean, what’s the harm?”
Monish frowned.
“He has a private jet, remember?” I said hopefully. “Maybe an island …”
They looked at each other briefly.
“I didn’t really mean it, Andy. When I said he has a jet and a yacht and all that.
We were just sort of … joking. I never thought you’d seriously go there.
If the guy’s as much of a douche as he seems …
why would you? I mean …” Kelly rubbed the back of her neck.
“He might be dangerous. He’s so fucking rich, he could do anything he wanted.
You said yourself he’s a corporate sociopath. ”
Her words hung there. Corporate sociopath. Dangerous.
All things I’d said. All the things we’d nodded along to in solidarity, like good friends do.
I’d said them loudest of all.
And now here I was, singing his praises like the proud girlfriend. The proud girlfriend who’d developed selective amnesia and completely gone back on everything she’d said. Who basically looked like a gold digger.
But it wasn’t like I had a choice. The NDA wasn’t something I could wish away. I’d already signed it.
It wasn’t lying. Just giving the official version. For legal reasons.
Fuck. Deceiving my friends sucked. But what choice did I have?
*
“Your fake boyfriend’s here.” Eliza was looking out the window. “In some sort of sports car. An old one.”
“Is he?”
Crap. He was early.
“Yeah. He’s managed to find the only parking space on the whole street.”
I looked out the window. A low, silver thing glinted between a bin lorry and my neighbor’s battered Vauxhall Corsa with its missing petrol cap. Much too shiny for Battersea Rise. The backdrop of a kebab shop and Nisha’s Nails made it extra inappropriate.
“Looks like the kind of car Clarkson would orgasm over,” Eliza said.
I snorted. “You think Liam’s ever watched Top Gear?”
“Doubt it. Too busy with corporate takeovers.”
The driver’s door swung open with a low, expensive thunk. Liam unfolded, sunglasses in place, his jeans and dark jacket sharper than the shards of glass in the gutter.
The street around him was its usual Saturday circus. The pavement was blocked with prams. Someone was unloading a tower of toilet rolls from a van into the pound store three doors down, and a man in a hi-vis was shouting into his phone.
Liam glanced up at the flats, scanning.
Eliza squeaked and dropped out of sight. “He didn’t see me,” she hissed from the floor.
“Very stealthy,” I muttered.
Unfortunately, he had seen me. I was still standing there, caught between curiosity and horror.
He lifted a hand in an easy wave. I raised mine and waved back stiffly, like the late queen.
Liam stared up at me, a smile spreading across his face. He looked really pleased to see me.
“I’ll come down,” I mouthed, pointing at the pavement.
He gave me a thumbs-up, seemingly oblivious to the crowd that was gathering around the car.
Shit. I’d better get down there fast, or someone would steal his hubcaps.
“Send photos from the dressing rooms,” Eliza called behind me as I flew out the door.
By the time I’d clattered down the stairs, Liam was leaning against the car like it belonged there, despite the recycling bags and double-parked delivery scooters.
“You’re now officially the most conspicuous man in South London,” I said.
He shrugged. “Want the top down?”
“I don’t mind.” I had no idea what the right answer was. Convertible etiquette wasn’t my area of expertise.
“I left it up,” he said, slipping his sunglasses back into place. “I thought … maybe you’d prefer not to arrive looking like you’ve been through a turbine.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I said, hoping he couldn’t tell I’d never been in a convertible before.
He opened the passenger door, and I slid in.
“That place looks busy,” Liam said, glancing back at Pound Masters. “The sign says they’ve got everything you need. We could save some time and grab a nice polyester evening gown or two?”
“Don’t knock it. My last ‘occasion dress’ came from TK Maxx, right between the ironing boards and the bathmats.”
Liam grinned and shifted gears. “Nothing wrong with TK Maxx.” He leaned forward and flicked on the sound system—the most modern thing in the car. “This okay?”
Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way” filled the small space. The slight movement pulled the fabric of his jacket tight across his shoulders, and I tried not to notice.
“Yeah. It’s … great, thanks.” Not what I expected Liam to have on his playlist. Maybe Mozart, or at least smooth jazz. Wasn’t that what posh guys listened to? “This is one of my favorite bands.”
He turned to me and smiled. It was quiet for a few minutes as we rolled out of Clapham, heads turning as we did so.
“Wouldn’t have picked you for a car like this,” I said.
“No?”
“Thought you’d be more of a Tesla guy. Maybe a Ferrari.”
“And why’s that?”
“I dunno. You seem pretty flash.”
It was definitely a fancy car. Just not very modern.
Liam laughed. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Just couldn’t bear to send this one off for scrap.”
By the time we crossed the river, I felt like we’d slipped through some invisible border patrol into a different city entirely. Shiny glass showrooms began to appear, the kind of places I’d never set foot in, where a handbag probably cost a month’s salary.
“Do they list prices in these stores, or is it one of those ‘if you have to ask’ situations?” I asked.
Liam laughed. “Probably the latter.”
The car glided through Mayfair with its polished glass and pavement cafés. We turned into a discreet side street to find a man in a black suit already striding forward as if he’d been waiting for us.
“Morning, Mr. Roth. Ma’am.” He’d opened my door before I’d figured out how the handle worked.
“Oh. Hi,” I said, clutching my bag. Liam handed the keys over and the man disappeared.
I followed Liam, trying not to feel like I was about to be arrested. Where were we—Bond Street?
The first shop we entered had no sign, just a single frosted pane of glass.
An actual doorman stood outside. Inside, everything was hushed, and nobody else was here.
How did they ever sell anything if it was too scary to enter?
The racks were spaced so far apart it was like walking through a showroom.
The exhibits just happened to be dresses.
How could I explain this to Eliza? This wasn’t even Selfridges. This was Selfridges’s snobby, thinner cousin who’d cut you dead at brunch because your highlights weren’t the right shade of blond.
A wooden mannequin stared at me, draped in something labeled with a price tag that might cover a small wedding. Or at least one in Croydon.
I swallowed. We were here for wedding outfits—proper ones. Not Coast sale rack wedding outfits. The serious kind, where shop assistants asked you if you’d made an appointment three months in advance.