Chapter 32
I have never been convinced by the idea that it’s best to leave a party early, at least . . . I never am at the time. The morning after is a different matter, when on more than one occasion over the years I’ve cursed not having been tucked up with my Horlicks at 9pm the previous night. But, while life is generally too short not to suck every minute out of an evening like this, those rules don’t apply when you’ve just assaulted a man who, according to Krishna, has been hailed as ‘this generation’s Hugh Grant’ and is currently tipped for the lead role in the latest Sally Rooney adaptation.
Still, judging by how my victim has subsequently swanned about the room, neither his career nor his retina has suffered much harm. In fact, the only thing close to the definition of a catastrophe is my own dilemma following the incident – to have wonky boobs or go braless.
I closed my eyes and thought of Germaine Greer, before binning the multiway monstrosity in the ladies’. I’d now kill for a bit of support, but there isn’t so much as a stick-on nipple cover available. After briefly considering whether I should just sit at the bar with my coat on, I remind myself that it’s late anyway, I’ve done my duty and Jamila et al seem to be ‘commiserating’ well enough without me. It’s time to go. I briefly see Krishna on my way to the cloakroom and, while strategically crossing my arms, I tell him I’ll see him at breakfast.
‘Did . . . Zach already leave?’ I ask, idly. ‘I just wanted to check in with him about the new compliance guidelines.’
‘Ah,’ he says with a knowing look that makes my temples redden. ‘Those pesky compliance guidelines, eh? I last saw him by the bar in the next room.’
I wave a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, doesn’t matter. I’ll catch him tomorrow.’
‘See you in the morning, Lisa.’
I take a circuitous route to the cloakroom, weaving through the tables and past dwindling partygoers into an adjacent function room, where I spot Zach. He’s not alone. The woman leaning flirtatiously into him has the look of a young starlet, with long glossy hair and legs that start at the sky-high hem of her sequinned dress and seem to never end. I divert quickly into a side door, but the sight of her seductive whispering makes something bilious rise in my chest.
Am I . . . jealous?
I hurry to the cloakroom, give my ticket to the attendant and pull on my coat, snuggling into its collar as I exit the hotel.
It’s one of those cool, early-summer evenings when a pleasant chill bites your skin and you could take or leave a coat. I walk along the pavement, past one grand entrance and then the next, all of them gleaming with polished luggage racks and doormen dressed in tails and top hats. It occurs to me after a couple of minutes that perhaps traipsing the streets of London at this time of night – even in these leafy and luxurious parts – might not be a great idea. Yes, it’s well lit, my bed is less than ten minutes away and there are still a few people around . . . but even so.
‘Hey, Darling! Wait up.’
I turn around to find Zach running towards me, his tux jacket flapping at his hips. He looks so like some charismatic action hero – Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief or Daniel Craig as 007 – that I half expect him to pull out a Glock and perform a stunt roll across the pavement. I try to fight the smile that spreads idiotically across my face, but apparently fail.
‘What’s so funny?’ he asks as his feet slow.
‘Oh, nothing.’ I shake my head as I turn to start walking again and he falls into step. ‘How is it that you’re hardly out of breath? How much time do you spend in the gym exactly?’
He shrugs. ‘I like working out, I’ll admit.’
‘Do you go every day?’
‘Six am before work each morning. And if not, I go afterwards. Never miss it.’
‘Oh Lord . . . you’re one of those people. I suppose you’re going to tell me it sets you up for the day?’
He chuckles. ‘I never realised I was so much of a cliché. Does it help that I haven’t always been like this? I didn’t exactly look after myself in my twenties. By then, my sporty teenage years were replaced by too many burgers, too much booze,’ he confesses.
‘When did the turnaround happen?’
‘Hmm. . . I guess when Sara became pregnant. Then, after the divorce, I didn’t want to sink back into bad habits, so hit the gym most nights. Part of it was because I had too much time on my hands. Pumping iron kept me occupied on the days I didn’t have Mila.’
As we stroll unhurriedly along the pavement, the conversation turns to the highlights of the evening.
‘Hope you’re not too disappointed about your loss.’
‘As a matter of fact, I’m gutted .’
‘You use that word a lot.’
‘Probably because I’m a very sore loser,’ I confess.
He slides his eyes towards me and smirks. ‘I could imagine that about you, somehow.’
I shrug. ‘I can’t deny it. I’m very competitive.’
‘It’s a good quality.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me playing Trivial Pursuit. It can get messy.’
He laughs. ‘Well, maybe this time next year you’ll be celebrating with My Teenage Bombsite. ’
I wince. ‘Hmm.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, I would love to say that it’s running like clockwork . . .’
‘Oh no. Don’t tell me?’
‘Ah, hopefully it’ll all come good,’ I say, though in all honestly I’m currently not 100 per cent convinced. I look up at him.
‘Meanwhile, Our Girl in Milan is getting PR left, right and centre.’
‘You read the piece in Broadcast then?’
He nods. The article was on their website today, detailing how filming has already started. ‘Well, that’s annoying. But I still don’t like that show. I don’t like that industry.’
‘Is this about your sister?’ I ask.
He narrows his eyes.
‘I saw your Instagram,’ I explain. ‘All the charity fundraising you’ve done.’
‘Ah. Well, yeah. I mean, maybe things would’ve turned out the same for Jenna with or without what happened. But I don’t think so somehow.’
‘That must be very hard, Zach. Were you close?’
‘Yeah, we were. She was my best friend, right to the end. I know some twins struggle with jealousy when they’re kids, but we were never like that. I just always felt like I was never completely alone, if that makes sense? We were inseparable. Right till the end.’
‘Oh, Zach. The whole thing must’ve been devastating.’
He nods then inhales deeply. ‘Yeah. It was. Anyway ,’ he says, as if the conversation is going to move on to something else. But, for a few silent seconds, it doesn’t go anywhere. We just walk.
Every so often, his sleeve brushes against mine and, even through the layers of fabric, it feels like an electric current through my whole body. I find myself thinking that I don’t want to go to bed now. What I really want is for this pavement to turn into one big treadmill so I can keep walking alongside him for hours, watching the movement of his Adam’s apple and the sparkle of his eyes every time he laughs.
I get a strange kick out of passers-by catching glimpses of us and concluding . . . actually, I don’t know what. That we’re old lovers? New friends? Or something else, mysterious and unknowable. Two people with an invisible force field that seems to be drawing us closer together.
We reach the hotel far too soon. The concierge greets us and opens the door. We step inside the foyer. Slowly. But, eventually, there’s nowhere else to walk.
‘Can I tempt you to a nightcap?’ he asks.
I look beyond the foyer into a dark, cosy bar area. It’s an intimate space, the kind that evokes old leather, whisky tumblers and Cuban cigars. Aside from a lone bartender discreetly polishing glasses under the amber glow of the ambient lights, there is nobody else there.
I look back at Zach and exhale.
‘It’s kind of late,’ I hear myself say.
He nods slowly, then leans into me and says, in a low voice: ‘You looked sensational tonight. Just thought you needed to know.’
‘The part?’ I reply, with a smile, remembering what he whispered to me on the way in.
‘Exactly. A leading lady. Pure Hollywood.’ He lowers his eyelashes to take in the full length of my dress and my heart performs a somersault. ‘Stunning.’
I’m about to say yes to the drink . . . that, fuck it, I’ve changed my mind. But he beats me to it—
‘Come on. Let’s head up.’
We walk to the lift and he presses the button. We stand in silence. When it arrives, he gestures to allow me to step in first, before following suit. We stand side by side. He presses the button. The doors close.
I become acutely aware of the rise and fall of my chest. Something that feels like my heartbeat is thumping at the base of my throat. The luscious smell of him is fogging my brain.
An erotic charge is firing through my skin as I turn to look at him.
He jerks his head to me.
And that’s all it takes.
Our lips collide in an involuntary blur. He pulls me in around the waist. I slide my hands on the sides of his face. My need for his mouth is as intense as his for mine and heat floods my body in one breathless, fluid rush.
So much so that, at one point my teeth clash gently against his lip, but it only seems to make him hungrier. The shoulders of my coat are halfway down my arms now and he has me pulled in hard, the soft warmth of my breasts pushing against his body. My nipples pinch. There is a building effervescence between my legs.
I am vaguely aware that we’re nearly at our floor, that we need to stop, but my senses are so heightened that I don’t know how to. I don’t need air, I think. I just need his mouth, his lips, his tongue.
Give me more, more, more.
The doors begin to open.
We pull away. Only our eyes are still connected and he’s holding my hand. We are both breathless.
‘This way,’ he says and leads me in the direction of his room.