Chapter 21
It’s been a strange week. Gregory has made love to me every night like it’s his last. Each time, it’s been passionate and slow.
Tentative, like I’m the most delicate thing he’s ever held.
No expletives, no roughness or kinkiness, just pure, unadulterated lovemaking, beautiful in a way that’s every bit as earth-shattering as the explosive orgasms he’s so good at giving me.
But unnerving. Neil Wallace flew out to Dubai the day after the decision, which means I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet and give him my answer.
Or rather, tell him his assumptions are wrong.
A conversation I think I need to have in person.
The old Scarlett wouldn’t have turned down the opportunity, nor the request of a new client.
But I don’t know where she is. I don’t know exactly when she left but this Scarlett is different.
There’s no way in hell I’ll ever do anything to put myself in a position to lose Gregory.
I can’t, not now I know how much it scares me.
He’s my anchor. The centre of the new version of me.
The core of sense, the only thing that joins all the messed-up pieces together.
I don’t need Dubai or anything else. There’s one thing that matters to me, one person, one man.
I love him and so long as I have him, I’ll always be happy in our world, as dark and twisted as it is.
Whilst I’m dreading it, I will let Neil Wallace down.
I smile to myself as I apply my make-up.
On Thursday, Gregory came back from an oh-so-normal run and to our oh-so-normal bedroom, sweaty and so goddamn hot, and told me that he wanted to take me somewhere on Saturday: tonight.
He’s been planning a surprise for two days and I can’t wait to finally find out what it is.
He sent me to Julia at Harrods and we picked out a gown.
I have no idea why I need a gown but I decided to make it my surprise to him.
Refusing to put it on his account, I bought it myself, the most extravagant thing I’ve ever bought.
I think my first car actually cost less than this dress.
Okay, so it was only a little runaround but it had a purpose beyond one night.
Yet, oddly, and against all my sensibility, I’d rather have this dress.
I stand back from the floor-length mirror and assess my finished look. I’ve got to admit, for me, I look good. Fantastic. It feels like how the other half live, honestly.
The long, black, lace sleeves are finished with an extravagant pearl and crystal cuff.
The front of the dress is high and square and hugs my skin perfectly until it pools at the floor.
The train at the back pulls the front against the shape of my legs, which are looking lean in high, strappy heels.
Then the pièce de résistance: the drooped back, cut out to just below the waist. I turn my back to the mirror and cast a glance over my shoulder, biting down on my lip.
My pinned hair shows off the open back and the necklace Julia picked out is dazzling in the light.
A square-cut diamond rests on top of the square neckline at the front and a platinum chain sparkles all the way down to the middle of my back where three pearls run into another square diamond.
The necklace I did have to use Gregory’s account for but only as security.
Julia said she’d make an exception to the rules and allow me to loan the precious stones, on the basis that Gregory’s account would back it up.
There’s a gentle tap on the dressing room door. ‘Scarlett, are you ready?’
I run my Chanel red over my lips one last time and open the door. ‘Ready, Jackson.’
‘You, ah, you look lovely.’
I take a deep breath as my heart thumps in my chest. ‘I hope he likes it.’ Looping my arm through Jackson’s, I let him lead me down the staircase. ‘Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?’
‘I’m under strict orders not to.’
I shake my head and smile. I knew the answer before I asked the question.
My insides tie themselves in knots as we drive through the city in the Mercedes.
I dismiss the signs for London City Airport until there’s no alternative but the airport being our destination.
Jackson drives across the tarmac surface until a private jet comes into view.
On its side, GJR Enterprises. He rounds the jet in the Mercedes and a red carpet appears on the other side.
He stops the car at the edge of the red carpet. I look around but don’t see Gregory.
Jackson opens my door and offers his hand to me in his usual black suit and black tie. I take it with a nervous smile, stomach sick with excitement and anticipation. Jackson chuckles as my wide eyes silently thank him, my mouth incapable of releasing words.
‘Your man,’ he says, closing the car door and turning me to look towards the steps of the plane, no longer empty.
My heart explodes in my chest, my head in a spin, my legs weightless. He moves his palm to his heart. I take him in, all of him: his tall, perfect body, his immaculate dinner suit and bow tie, his slicked-back hair.
‘Holy shit,’ I say beneath my breath.
I can’t move. I can only stare in awe. His lips turn into a knowing half-smile and he mouths something, which I can guess is, ‘Get here.’
I’m aware of the eyes of airport staff and Jackson on me as I find the ability to move one foot in front of the other.
Lifting my dress at the side with one hand and holding onto the stair rail for strength with the other, my eyes follow two sparkling, precious, brown stones, lured by their magnetism.
He holds out a hand which I take as I climb the last step to him and when I stand before him, he whispers, ‘Aurora,’ just loud enough for me to hear.
‘My very own Richard Gere,’ I say.
‘My very own stunning woman.’ He lifts my fingers to his lips and melts my heart.
‘Where are we going?’
That cheeky half-smile is back. ‘To the opera, baby. I want you to know the fairy tale.’
I suppress the irrational fear that he means for one night, before the end.
‘La Traviata?’ I ask.
‘If it’s good enough for Julia Roberts.’
‘It’s a good offer for a girl like me.’
He winks and nearly knocks me from my feet. ‘Shall we?’
I nod, air having escaped my lungs, and follow him into the jet.
It’s just like I would’ve imagined: an almond burr and biscuit leather interior.
We’re greeted by an air hostess who offers two glasses of champagne from a tray.
I thank her and take a sip, a huge grin rising on my face.
It’s Pol Roger 2002, the bottle Gregory ordered the first time he took me to dinner, the night of his thirtieth birthday.
He takes my hand and leads me through a channel flanked with four beds, curtains closed across each of them, then through two cream suede curtains into the main area.
Four large recliner seats and two cream leather sofas sit on top of a red carpet and there’s a small bar in the corner at the far side of the room.
Another air steward stands behind the bar, his beige chinos, white shirt and red pocket handkerchief a match for his female colleague.
‘Good evening, Miss Heath,’ he says.
‘Good evening.’
Gregory rotates one of the large chairs to face another and gestures for me to sit, then takes the seat opposite me.
When I do, I lean forward, holding up my champagne flute. ‘To moving forward in our own little world,’ I say.
For a second, the sparkle drops from his eyes and his brow furrows, then with a straight face, he clinks his glass against mine.
‘To the most incredible woman I’ll ever know,’ he says.
Our moment is interrupted by the pilot’s voice coming over the speakers. ‘Good evening, Mr Ryans, Miss Heath. It looks like we might catch the sunset over Europe. The skies are clear all the way to Rome. We should touch down in a little over two hours. Enjoy the flight.’
‘Italy?’
Those devastating eyes are shining again alongside his smug smile. ‘It’s the only place to watch the opera without subtitles.’
I throw my head back with a giddy laugh. ‘You’re crazy.’
The pilot announces we’ve reached our cruise altitude, then Gregory rests his champagne flute on the table attached to the side of his seat. ‘Get here,’ he says in that way he does.
Without hesitation, I unbuckle my seat belt and climb onto his lap, my arms wrapped around his neck as we fly through the burnt-orange sky to Rome.
A limousine is waiting at the airport and we’re swept away to the opera house, where we’re met at the door and escorted directly to our private box.
High, because it’s Gregory. Another glass of champagne is poured and small, Italian canapés are brought to the table in our box: mini caprese salads, small bruschetta, crostinis with olive tapenade.
Gregory sits with his knee pressed against mine and takes my hand as the lights fall, the band strikes up and the stage curtain rises, revealing the opening scene of a courtesan’s party. I nip his fingers in mine enthusiastically as Violetta sings for the first time.
‘She has a wonderful voice,’ I whisper.
Part way through the first act, I look back to him and find his eyes on me rather than the stage.
They aren’t sparkling; they’re saying something else.
It’s unsettling. I push the thought away and turn back to the stage but something in the way he looked at me plays on my mind as the tragic love story unfolds.
‘Is everything okay?’ I ask him in the interval.
‘Perfect,’ he says, kissing the back of my hand.
I shuffle from my own seat to his lap and rest the palm of my hand on his cheek. Then I press my lips against his and hold them there, breathing him in, soaking up the feel of his lips on mine. ‘Thank you.’
‘No. Thank you, beautiful girl.’ He strokes a rogue hair from my updo away from my face. ‘For showing me a new way.’