RAFE
Beneath the table, I fist a hand, imagining clinching this deal. I’ve done this so many times—sat here in the Jupiter Private Equity Boardroom and witnessed the weak flicker of my opponent as they crumble beneath my force of will—that you’d think it gets old.
But I never tire of winning.
Melanie Castow, current head of Castow Management, sits opposite.
I’d put her around my age: mid-to-late-thirties, with a bob so stiff and neat it resembles a helmet.
The only tell that she’s anxious is the constant twisting of her pearl necklace about her fingers as if she means to garrotte herself with it.
“We’re worth more.” Releasing the pearls, she prods the table with her index finger. “We just signed Erica Lefroy, for God’s sake.”
I take a slow, deep breath. “One celebrity isn’t enough to pull your agency out of the red.”
Melanie puckers her lips, sitting a little straighter. “Erica isn’t just any celebrity. She’s the most famous supermodel in the world.”
“Everyone knows Erica signed with you in desperation after an acrimonious separation with her mother, who has been her only previous agent.” I sit back, crossing my arms. “Otherwise, Castow Management wouldn’t have got a look in.”
“Hmm.” The confirmative rumble comes from Henry Banville, my long term best friend and regular investor, sitting to my right.
I shoot him a sideways glance, taking in his sharp pinstripe suit and the gold signet ring that glints on his left hand.
To conceal his burgeoning smirk, he bites down on the end of a pen so expensive that no ordinary mortal would dare put it near their teeth.
But Henry would chew it up and spit out a new one as quick as blinking.
I clear my throat, taking Henry’s smirk for the signal it is: this one’s in the bag. Whether he means the woman or the deal, I can’t be sure. Knowing Henry, probably both.
“Ms Castow. Your father left the business in dire straits,” I begin.
“Without our help, you cannot save it. Miss Lefroy aside, your clients are a worthless selection of wannabes and ageing stars who aren’t worth their keep.
” I place my hands flat on the desk. “We can take this business apart and turn it around. Castow Management will be the name in the industry. Offices worldwide. A-listers desperate to sign on, eager to be represented by you, Melanie Castow.” I emphasise her name as if she’s famous herself, and a greedy glint appears in her eyes.
“A worthy successor to Golden Era agent, the legend, Alexander Castow.” I lean in, just a fraction.
“Don’t let your grandfather’s legacy die with you. ”
On my left side, my other regular investor and the third wheel in our friendship trio, Julian Maxstead, lets out a snort that’s almost a laugh.
Melanie glares at him and tugs her cashmere cardigan neatly around her shoulders. “I will not budge. I know exactly what this company is worth, and your offer is a joke.” She stands, and the three of us mirror her, rising to attention.
“Ms Castow, we’ve run the numbers. I assure you, your agency isn’t worth a penny more than our offer, and no one else will come close.”
Her lips tighten. “We’ll see about that. Thank you for your time, Mr Bastion.”
My friends stand rigid, erect as towers on either side of me, chins tucked, eyebrows lifted. They’re as surprised as I am. We made a damn good offer, and she point-blank refused.
Melanie comes around the wide table and shakes our hands in turn, taking mine last, and giving me a handshake that’s firm and strong, but hot and damp too. As I accompany her to the door, I subtly wipe the moisture onto my suit pants.
When she’s gone, Julian curses and thumps his fist into his opposite palm. “I thought for sure we had her.”
“So did I,” I agree.
“We could increase our offer,” Julian suggests.
“No.” I shoot him down. “The price is the price. We’ll get it.”
Julian’s smile widens, and he raises his hands over his head and gives me a slow round of booming applause. “Yes, Rafe! That’s the spirit. Crack her like a nut.”
“I don’t want to crack anyone like a nut,” I say, but he only chuckles, far more amused than he ought to be. “I’m serious. This offer is the best thing that could happen to her business.”
“She’d be a fool not to agree,” Henry adds, straightening the knot of his tie. “That’s a dying business if ever I saw one.” He looks at me. “And I know how much you love to save a dying thing.”
“My speciality,” I say.
Julian, still grinning, focuses on me. “Didn’t know you knew so much about celebrity gossip.”
“Only what’s relevant.”
Henry tips his chin at me. “Don’t fuck her.”
I pull back. “Where did that come from?”
Julian nods. “She wanted you. Could see it in those greedy little eyes of hers.” He squints at me in what I assume is an impression of Melanie.
I flip the back of my hand at him. “That was about the money. The recognition. Nothing to do with anything else. She’s holding out for more.”
Henry slips one hand into his pinstripe jacket and rubs two fingers of his other hand over his lower lip. “She’s exactly the type of woman you always go for and need to stop going for.”
I bristle. “I don’t have a type.”
“Sure you do,” Julian says, listing on his fingers. “Middle-aged, divorced or single, sometimes with their own children.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Every middle-aged woman is going to fit into those parameters.”
Julian and Henry share a meaningful glance that sets me on edge.
“Melanie ticks your boxes,” Julian says.
“Fiscally responsible, reliable, unlikely to run away or shirk responsibilities. Not flighty. You know…” He shrugs, and I gesture for him to continue.
“Boring,” he says with a reluctant roll of the eyes, as if it’s my fault he had to say something so critical.
Henry sighs. “Not every woman you date has to fit your pre-conceived idea of a good stepmother for your daughter.” Julian nods his slow and serious agreement. “She’s eighteen,” Henry continues. “She needs a mother about as much as I do.”
Eighteen.
My daughter, Lizzie, left her London day school this summer with a slew of top grades, and I’m so proud of the young woman she’s become. But holy fuck. Eighteen.
I was eighteen when she was born.
I have no idea how she got so old. How I got so old.
The air settles, thick with Henry’s accusation, and I can’t deny the truth of it.
I do always assess women through the lens of potential stepmother.
Lizzie’s welfare has always come first, and there seemed no point in dating a woman who couldn’t fill that maternal role.
The only thing is, I’ve never found a good one, and recently, I’ve more or less given up on finding anyone at all.
Julian and Henry look concerned. More concerned than I’d like, in fact.
I’ve known them since we were thirteen, when we went to boarding school together, the year after my family moved here from the States.
Henry and I went on to Cambridge afterwards, and Julian left us for Oxford, although we never lost touch.
If they weren’t my closest friends in the world, I’d tell them to get the fuck out of my building for encroaching on personal matters when we’re here for business, but they are, so I tolerate their concern.
As godfathers to Lizzie, they’ve been ever-present figures in her life. They’re more like uncles to her, and brothers to me, so while Melanie Castow might not be of interest to me, what they have to say is.
Left to my own devices, Lizzie would come first every single time. Occasionally, I need my friends to remind me to balance my needs with hers.
“You need a change,” Henry says, tugging a piece of black fabric from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the table. It skids in my direction, and I step towards it, picking up what looks like a Scarlet Pimpernel black face mask edged in velvet.
“What the fuck is this for?” I say, letting it dangle between my pinched thumb and forefinger.
“Masquerade night at Delirium,” Henry deadpans, as if this is a plan we’d put in place weeks ago, nothing more irregular than a business meeting I’d forgotten, and he’s casually reminding me.
Henry has owned and run Delirium, the most elite sex club in London, on the side of his more socially acceptable business ventures, ever since his father, the fourth Duke of Brecktonshire, died there in the arms of his mistress.
Of course, that’s not what the obituary in the Telegraph said, but it’s what everyone in the know knows to be true.
Sex is Henry’s bread and butter, although he conceals it well amongst London society. If you aren’t inclined to discover the allure of sex clubs, you’d accept him at face value: an upper-class aristocrat with a property portfolio to rival the king’s.
He’s been pestering me to sign up for membership to the place for years, and I’ve never conceded, not least because I don’t have fucking time.
Raising my daughter alone and running Jupiter Private Equity takes up almost every waking hour.
Granted, Lizzie needs me far less now, but she and the business have always been my top priorities.
I toss the flimsy mask back at him. “I’m not coming to your sex club.”
“Mask nights bring out the kinkiest women,” Julian says, tugging his own mask out of his pocket and flapping it. “They’re the best nights.”
“Not my scene,” I say, gently shaking my head. “If I’m having sex with someone, I want to see their face. I want to know what I’m getting into, and with whom.”
Henry and Julian share another of those looks. I don’t like it one little bit.
“You want a copy of their fucking passport?” Julian asks.
“Maybe,” I concede.
For a moment, we’re all quiet.
“You haven’t been out with us for a non-work-related event in far too long,” Henry says finally. “Just come with us. Please.”
“If this deal doesn’t come off,” I begin, pointing at the door Melanie just left through. “I will—”
“The working day is over.” Julian glances at his watch. “Relax. Melanie will come around. You’ll get your agency.” He pings the elastic of his mask, pulling it back like a catapult, aiming in my direction. “All work and no play makes Rafe a dull boy.”
Henry steps towards me. “He’s right. Come and let loose for once. You deserve it.”
I eye my best friend, his eager smile, the emotion on his face that looks like genuine desire to see me have a good time.
“What is this? An intervention?” I ask.
“Exactly,” Julian says. “Come and pick a woman with your dick, not your head.” He taps his temple and flashes a wicked grin. “Just this once.”
A tightness occurs in my chest. Lizzie’s mother, Evangeline, was the last woman I ‘picked with my dick’, and it didn’t end well. She was beautiful, wildly fun, and always up for a good time. A free spirit. Fantastic in bed.
I haven’t had sex like that for years. In fact, I’ve actively avoided it and women like her. After Lizzie was born, Evangeline vanished, leaving a note that said she couldn’t be tied down; thought the child would be better off without her. She wanted to explore the world.
I searched for her for two years. When I finally found her, she was high on a beach in Bali pretending she had no memory of me or our child.
The lesson: my dick has poor taste in women. Don’t trust it.
The only problem: my head is no better.
Julian scrapes a hand along the scruff on his jaw, eyes narrowing. “Have you been getting laid?”
“None of your fucking business,” I say, and when Julian raises an eyebrow, I blow out a sigh. “I’ve got the fund to focus on. I don’t want any distractions.”
Henry strides towards me and lays a firm hand on my shoulder. “You need a distraction more than any man I know.”
Does he have a point? I’m not morally averse to one night stands, but I don’t go looking for them. It’s easier to channel my energy into the business. Anything unexpected that occurs in that arena, I can handle.
“One night,” Henry says. “You can take one night off.”
“And Lizzie doesn’t have to like the woman you pick,” Julian says.
“Lizzie’s fine,” I confirm. “She’s got me. She’s always had me.”
Julian puffs his chest, his smile somehow both mocking and proud. “Rafe Bastion. Billionaire. Father. Mother. The unstoppable man who truly can be everything to everyone.” His deep voice booms like the voice-over at the cinema, introducing the next big blockbuster.
“Fuck off,” I say.
Julian pulls an expression of mock-offence and splays a hand over his heart with theatrical aplomb. “I don’t want to see you drop dead before you get a good lay, is all.”
I huff. “My cardiovascular health is in peak condition.”
“Of course it is,” Henry agrees. “But anonymous sex at Delirium is way more fun than punishing your body in that basement pool of yours.” He glances at Julian. “You seen this guy swim recently? He’s still a shark. Pure muscle.”
“Captain of the water polo team,” Julian says, miming throwing a ball over his head and making a pop sound. “Give me a date, and I’ll come and watch.”
Before I can tell him he’s never getting that invitation, Henry grabs the mask I tossed aside and thrusts it back into my hand. “The car’s downstairs. Take the damn thing and come and find someone who can really satisfy you.”
I stare at the eager expressions on my best friends’ faces, considering their desire to help me address this aspect of my life. It comes from a good place; I know that much, even if they’ve been a pair of assholes about it.
I could still say no. I could tell them to go without me, but something about what they’ve said rings true on a deeper level I can’t ignore. I’m thirty-six, single, and not a step closer to finding anyone. Maybe I do need to do things differently.
I put the mask in my pocket. “Fine. Lead the way.”