Chapter 11
Rafe
It’s a short and pleasant walk from the club to Dover Street, where Belle’s gallery is situated. I looked up the closing time before I left. Six o’clock, and it’s five-fifty now. Hopefully she’ll be able to get away.
I tell myself it’s an easy way to convey the message that she’s been accepted onto the Unfurl programme. That Gen’s reviewed her questionnaire and given her the green light.
I tell myself that, as her sponsor on the programme, I’m responsible for her pastoral care and that checking in to see how she feels before it, er, unfurls, is the right thing to do.
But really, I want to see her. Need to see her. Need to soak her up in the flesh, remind myself that the woman whose hungry words are replaying in my mind on a constant fucking loop is in fact a real person and not some figment of my filthy imagination.
I push the brass handle on huge glass doors.
Liebermann’s is etched on both doors in tasteful serifs.
The massive space is painted palest green in honour of the current exhibition, which is how Monet would probably have painted on acid.
It’s a whirl of pastels and textures and appears, at first glance, to be an exploration of the effect of light on water.
It’s ultra-feminine but stunning, and I can instantly see why Belle would be at home here.
A woman whose level of subcutaneous body fat I’d estimate at zero greets me with obvious interest. I’m not sure if it’s my face or the unmistakable price tag of my Savile Row suit that’s got her looking so cheery.
I’d guess the latter.
‘Good evening,’ she purrs. ‘Please. Take a look around.’ She gestures with a limp hand.
‘Evening,’ I say. ‘I’m looking for Belle Scott. Is she here?’
She visibly deflates. ‘One moment, please.’
Off she click-clacks to the rear of the space, and a moment later, I get my wish.
Because there she is, in a pale pink dress with a short, flared skirt that complements the hues of her surroundings in a way my not-so-creative brain can’t dissect but can most certainly appreciate.
She emerges from behind a wall dedicated to one massive piece, and I watch with a sense of satisfaction as her confident stride falters once she clocks it’s me waiting for her.
I stick my hands in my pockets and smile, enjoying the view. She’s all honeyed limbs and golden hair. She’s polished and sleek and feminine. She screams good breeding. I can’t imagine how many fuckers who come in here to throw their money around attempt to hit on her.
Exactly as I’m in danger of doing.
She closes the gap between us. ‘Rafe,’ she says breathlessly with a backwards look at the colleague who’s followed her out. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Thought I’d take a look at the exhibit,’ I lie smoothly. ‘I still need a few pieces for the flat.’ I lean down and kiss her on both cheeks. ‘And I have an update for you on Unfurl,’ I whisper against her ear. The telltale flush is spreading up her neck even as I draw back.
She squirms.
I smirk.
‘Oh.’ She stares at me, flustered. ‘Right.’
Jesus Christ. She’s so innocent. So easily ruffled. And yet…
Yes. Exactly this. Please.
I love that these two sides coexist within her.
I fucking love it.
I jerk my head at the paintings behind us. ‘You want to show me around? Maybe we can do a drink afterwards, if you’re closing up shortly?’
‘Okay.’ She blinks, taken aback by my suggestion. ‘You’re just in time, actually. We close at six.’
Well, fancy that.
***
I’m genuinely impressed by the thoughtfulness and intelligence with which Belle talks me through the exhibition.
The painter is a Belgian woman, and while the pieces are at first glance too feminine for my tastes, they grow on me as we circle the room.
Belle knows her stuff, but she responds to art the same way I do, with her heart. Her consciousness.
It’s not about how we’re supposed to feel. It’s about how art really does make us feel, and for a brief moment I consider painting my flat this exact shade and covering its walls in paintings like this that are trippy and luminescent and make me feel like anything’s possible.
God knows, they’re not to my usual taste, but my ten minutes in the gallery has me feeling almost giddy.
Or maybe it’s sliding Belle’s gauzy white cardigan over her shoulders as we exit the building that has me feeling giddy.
By silent agreement, we take a right on Piccadilly and begin to walk west, crossing over into Green Park, which is certainly living up to its name at this time of year in all its verdant glory.
It’s another warm evening, and office workers are losing their socks and shoes and pouring rosé into plastic cups on the grassy verges around us.
‘How are you finding the job?’ I ask her as we stroll. She’s changed into flats and seems to be navigating the path well, but I’m more than ready to give her my arm if she needs it.
‘I’m enjoying it.’ She shrugs. ‘I love being surrounded by art all day. The paintings feel like friends. I’m getting to know them, getting to know how they look in different light.
How I respond to them depending on my mood.
How they respond to me. They may look like static images, but I assure you, they’re not.
Especially not Renée’s paintings. They’re as mercurial as we are. ’
I like this considered articulation of something I’ve always felt to be true but have never voiced.
I like it more than I can say.
‘Glad the paintings are keeping you company,’ I tell her in lieu of divulging anything more heartfelt. ’Because it didn’t look like your colleague would be much fun.’
Belle laughs. ‘Marie’s okay. She’s the manager. She takes it all very seriously, but it’s a serious business. She’s fair, in her own way.’
‘Just not a barrel of laughs.’
‘Nope,’ she admits, and covers her mouth like she’s let an indiscretion slip.
I wink at her. ‘Your secret is safe with me. Not sure anyone goes into the art world for its sense of humour.’
‘The art is better company than the humans are,’ she agrees.
***
I take her to the Library Bar at the Lanesborough on Hyde Park Corner. It’s not the most obvious venue for an evening this warm, but it’s elegant and discreet. The staff here are friendly, and they make an excellent Old Fashioned. That’s good enough for me.
I order a bottle of champagne after establishing that she does indeed want bubbles. I’ll let her enjoy a glass before I bring up the topic I know will raise a flush to the surface of that slim, golden neck.
But she beats me to it, in a roundabout way, when she asks me what I actually do for a living.
‘I know about one bit, obviously.’ She looks down at her glass. ‘But I’m sure Mummy told me you were in finance.’
‘Yeah. I definitely didn’t tell your mum I owned a sex club,’ I deadpan, and she giggles.
‘So what else do you do?’
‘I started out in M&A. Worked my arse off. Learnt how to model a company from scratch. Then I went to a hedge fund for a while. Ran some long-short funds.’ I take a sip of champagne.
‘A few years ago, I left with some mates and we struck out on our own. Now we run our own money and we provide leverage for other people who want to do the same.’
She scrunches up her nose. ‘You mean you lend them money?’
‘Exactly. So they can take riskier positions. We also provide their infrastructure. Trading systems. Compliance. That sort of thing.’
‘And what do you trade?’
‘A bit of everything. The way my mates and I have organised things, everyone has their own expertise. Mine’s equity and corporate debt.
That’s what I learnt in M&A. Some of the others are better on macro stuff—interest rates, commodities.
FX. We worked out a while ago that it was easier to pool our money than all try to trade stuff we didn’t have a clue about.
But we all take an interest in everyone’s positions.
Keeps things more interesting, and keeps everyone on their toes.
We’re getting into more and more markets. NFTs especially.’
She’s smiling at me, and it’s a smile more unguarded than I’ve come to expect from her. That face of hers is alight. I can’t help but grin back.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She shakes her head and takes a sip of her drink. ‘You sound passionate about it, that’s all. It’s a world away from… you know. Your club.’
I shrug. ‘Not really. I just make markets. Sex is the oldest market in the world.’
‘You mean prostitution.’
‘Nope. I mean two people wanting what each other has. One offers, the other bids. That’s a market.
Doesn’t matter what commodity you’re trading—bonds.
Bananas. Sex.’ I lean in slightly, lowering my voice.
‘Take you and the Unfurl programme. You want something from our members. And believe me, they want something from you, too. There’s your market, right there. ’
She blinks. I sit back.
‘How did you… I mean, what’s the story behind Alchemy?’
A server arrives to top up our glasses. I wait till he’s poured, returned the bottle to its bucket, and laid the white napkin over the top.
‘A group of us had the idea three or four years ago. You met Gen—I was at uni with her, Callum, and Zach, our other co-founders. I went to school with Cal and Zach too. There were so many flash members’ clubs opening up around Mayfair.
We joined a few, and they were fun. Predictable.
Total meat markets, obviously. They got formulaic pretty quickly.
Just posh people looking to get fucked and fuck.
We felt that, for the amount of money they were charging, we should get more bang for our buck. Stupid pun intended.’
She rewards my lame joke with a little smile.
‘Anyway, there were some pop-up sex clubs around that were killing it. We thought it would be fun to try something more permanent. Somewhere with rules and vetting that meant you were far safer than in any of those other places, but where you could also try out things that maybe you’d just fantasised about. ’