Chapter 18 Andrea
Andrea
James had claimed his usual Friday night spot on the end of the sofa, his feet on the coffee table like he owned the place. Eliza was perched cross-legged on the armchair, glass of wine in one hand, dipping a cracker into a tub of hummus with the other.
“So.” James waved a breadstick at me. “Have you signed away your soul yet, or is Liam still sharpening the quill?”
I sank back against the cushions, tucking my knees up. “It’s done. NDA signed today.”
Eliza grinned. “With the clause.”
“The clause?” James narrowed his eyes.
“The girlfriend clause,” Eliza said sweetly. “Five years’ job security. If she’s made redundant or fired during that period, he covers her salary for a full year. Smartest thing Andy’s ever done.”
James gave a low whistle. “Bloody hell. That’s impressive.”
“I know, right?” I gave Eliza a quick fist bump.
Having a sister who was a law student had turned out to be surprisingly helpful.
I could hardly believe Liam had signed it.
And all I had to do—pretty much—was go along with this pretend relationship thing.
“We reckoned no harm in asking. The least he can do is guarantee I won’t end up unemployed. ”
“Loving your work, ladies,” James said, crunching his breadstick. “Turned out even better than we could have hoped. Feels very espionage.”
All week it had been like nothing had happened, apart from the back-and-forth with Bonnie over the NDA.
Neither she nor Liam had been at the office, and I hadn’t even seen Monish or Kelly.
It was just the usual stuff. Chasing a hematology registrar who still hadn’t replied to my emails, carting sandwiches into another hospital seminar room, smiling through glazed expressions while I explained the finer points of clotting times.
Rumors about restructuring were still just that—rumors. The new boss had yet to make a single move. Perhaps he was waiting for Daddy’s permission? There was no way someone Liam’s age would have made enough money by now to buy a pharmaceutical company.
It was weird. Officially, no one at Novexia knew I was “dating” the boss, except Liam, Bonnie, and me. And now we were just over three weeks away from the wedding.
“You do remember I’m not supposed to know,” James said, “so technically, you should be talking in code. Maybe just moo like cows every time you mean Liam.”
Eliza snorted wine out of her nose.
I closed my eyes. “James …”
“What?” He looked angelic. “I know nothing.”
Eliza leaned forward, animated. “You’re going to need a cover story, Andy. It’s super sus that it’s been a secret for nine months. Like, why now? You can’t just rock up at this posh wedding holding hands and expect no one to ask questions.”
True. At least a hundred little inconsistencies were waiting to trip us up.
“Well, we already know Liam’s private,” I said. “I think it’s believable that we wanted to be sure it was serious before making it public. We could say we’d decided the gallery was a good place to make our first appearance together?”
“Not terrible,” Eliza said. “You’ll need all the other details too, though. Family background. Favorite color. Doesn’t eat tomatoes. All that crap.”
All I really knew about Liam was what was on his Wiki and what he’d told me over lunch. And half of that was probably bollocks.
“Ooh, and not forgetting the good stuff,” said James. “I mean, after nine months, you’ll be well under the hood. Childhood traumas. Guilty pleasures.” He gave me a side-eye and nudged me with his elbow. “At least you know what he’s like in the sack already.”
I rolled my eyes. “I hardly think Hugo and Miranda are going to quiz me on whether Liam’s into the reverse cowgirl.”
“Andy, you don’t even know what that is,” said James with exaggerated condescension.
“Nobody does,” I said huffily. “It’s just something people say to sound wild.”
My mind flicked back to Liam’s mouth on my boob, his hard cock pressing against me. Damn him. Maybe hypnosis would fix this? I couldn’t spend a whole wedding with a man I hated and keep thinking about the sex we’d had.
It was silent for a moment, broken only by James munching his breadstick.
“Oh—any word on your painting?” Eliza said.
“Not yet. It’s still on display. It’s a silent auction, so bids will be coming in for a few more weeks. Then I’ll find out whether it sold.”
“So you could be rich,” James said.
“Or she could make enough to fix the roof.” Eliza reached for her wine. “Don’t hold your breath.”
“I can’t believe Eliza’s arm lard didn’t repel the buyer,” I deadpanned. “You know, that was the first time I’d ever painted a triple chin.”
Eliza threw a cushion at me.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Shit. It was Liam.
Eliza leaned in. “Speak of the devil.”
Liam: Thanks for signing the NDA. We still have a lot to sort out. Could we meet up to make a plan?
“He wants to meet up.” My stomach did a little flip. I immediately thought of the state of my nails. And when did I last pluck my eyebrows? I wasn’t prepared. I was never prepared.
“Breathe,” commanded James. “You’ve got this.”
“What shall I say?”
“Just say yes. You’re supposed to be dating him, hon. You’ll have to get used to seeing him,” said James.
Me: Sure. Tomorrow?
There was a pause. No ellipses. Nothing.
“Well. What did he say?” said James.
“Nothing yet. I suggested tomorrow.”
At the cat café, he’d been as smug and self-assured as ever. Swanking in like he owned the place and offering his terms. Honestly. Everything was a deal to him. Although I had to admit, it was quite gratifying to hear him practically beg me to continue the pretend girlfriend charade.
The ten grand hush money hadn’t hurt, either.
“He’s replying.” I put the phone down on the coffee table so we could all see.
Liam: Great. I’ll come to yours, 10 a.m. okay?
“Fuck, Andy.” James glanced around the living room. “This place is a mess.”
“Are you going to let him in again? Here?” Eliza asked.
“Tell him to meet you at Bump & Grind,” said James, panic on his face. “He can’t see … this.”
I pursed my lips. Damn this guy. He wasn’t even here, and he was causing us all anxiety. What was the point of the clause if I was going to cower in case he saw an empty bottle of Prosecco doing time as a bookend?
“Nope,” I said. “This place is fine. I’m not tidying. He insisted on pretending to date a commoner. So let him handle it.”
“Exactly. If every pork chop were perfect, we wouldn’t have hot dogs,” Eliza said, taking a sip of wine.
James and I both stared at her. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Oh, come on. From Steven Universe. It means stop trying to be perfect.”
“So … I’m a hot dog?”
“It’s a compliment. Hot dogs are great.”
James rolled his eyes. “Andy, I don’t think you’re getting this. Billionaires don’t understand clutter. Their idea of mess is a crooked picture frame in the guest wing.”
“We don’t all get to live in luxury penthouses with views of the Thames,” I said. Part of me relished the idea of Prima von Donna tiptoeing through the debris that had nowhere to hide because the apartment was so small. “He’s been here before and—”
“For sex, Andy. He wasn’t looking at the decor,” said James. “Did he even leave the bedroom?”
“He’ll just have to handle it,” I insisted.
“That’s my hot dog,” said Eliza.
Me: Cool. See you then.
Let him see it. This was real. This was life. May he trip over Mr. Darcy’s scratching post on his way out.
“Right, well, I’d love to stay and help clean up, but pad thai waits for no man,” said James, jumping up. “I’ve got to get home for my Uber Eats. Good luck with your sexy psychopath—don’t let him talk you into signing anything else.”
And he was gone.
“Bit late for a pad thai,” said Eliza.
I shrugged. Maybe we should just give it a light once-over?
Pizza boxes squatted on the floor like modern art sculptures.
The kitchen counter was hidden under three half-dead avocados and five sample packs of Fortis ErectaGel—one of which was suspiciously sticky.
And an overflowing laundry basket perched on top of the fridge—because where else could we keep a week’s worth of knickers?
Certainly not in the laundry room I didn’t have.
I wasn’t quite sure how things had got like this, but it definitely wasn’t billionaire boyfriend-ready.
“Okay. It’s ten thirty. So allowing for sleep, we’ve got … three hours?” I looked at Eliza. “We can do it. Right?”
“Andy, it’ll take you at least half an hour to do your hair in the morning.”
She was right. And I still had to take off my nail polish. Not to mention, a good thirty minutes to ensure my makeup was convincingly Saturday-morning-no-makeup.
Not that I cared what he thought.
But it was important that I looked good while I didn’t care.
I scooped up three wine glasses and jammed the pizza boxes under my armpit, then headed to the kitchen, booting a cluster of Mr. Darcy’s cat toys in the direction of his basket as I went.
“Well, we’re committed now.”
I mean, it wasn’t like the place was that bad. It was lived in.
We had nothing to hide.
*
“The loo! Andy, you haven’t cleaned the loo!” Eliza’s voice had an edge of hysteria. “What if he needs a wee? We can’t very well send him to the pub next door.”
She stood at the kitchen sink frantically scrubbing the last two pots, her hair tied in a pineapple on top of her head. It was nine forty. Fuck. He’d be here any minute.
I was already coated in a thin film of sweat from vacuuming like a maniac, but she was right—I’d forgotten the loo. Dammit. Liam’s toilets were probably so pristine you could perform open-heart surgery on the lid. Mine needed an exorcism, not a wipe down.
“On it,” I bellowed from the bathroom. I gave the loo a spray and a swipe, then threw the cloth into a bucket—only to realize the bucket had nowhere to go.
The airing cupboard would have to do. We’d been piling random junk in there since dawn, once it became clear that the homely debris of our daily lives wasn’t so much shabby chic as it was Hoarders: Mad Cat Lady Edition.