Chapter 21 Andrea
Andrea
I shifted in my seat, trying to look over my shoulder. The red leather creaked as I moved, and behind me, the car’s so-called back seat had disappeared under shopping bags. Black ribbons trailed across Dior and Prada logos, a Saint Laurent box rammed up against Chanel.
I’d never even had a shopping bag from one of these places before, let alone any actual clothes.
We’d been there at least two hours. Miraculously, Karl had managed to find some outfits that worked on a normal-sized bum. Sylvia had been relegated to sheepish champagne glass filler. I’d even sneaked in a couple of photos and sent them to Eliza when no one was around.
I smiled quietly to myself and peered back at the glossy heap. “Nice to know my future grandchildren will have something to inherit.”
Liam glanced at me with a smile but didn’t say anything.
Shit. Maybe the clothes were just a loan. Maybe he planned to take them back? Wasn’t that what famous people did with party clothes? But no, Liam wasn’t really famous, just rich—and I was neither. Did rich people do that, too? I hadn’t thought to check, I’d just assumed, I hadn’t even—
“They looked great on you, Andrea,” he said with a grin. “I’m glad you got what you needed.”
Phew.
The window was open, and silk tissue paper fluttered in the breeze.
Great on you. A perfectly neutral comment.
So why did I feel so stupidly warm inside when he said it?
“You know, in South London, this is what we call an invitation to theft,” I said quickly, glancing back at the bags.
“We can keep them at my place if you prefer.”
“Your place?” Hard to imagine Liam lived anywhere outside of a boardroom.
“My apartment. In Mayfair. There’s more space, of course—”
“Of course. Panic room and a moat too, right?”
“No moat.” His eyes didn’t leave the road.
“But a panic room?”
He didn’t reply, which I decided to take as a yes.
“So what’s your interior design vibe?” I asked.
“Not as cozy as yours, I’m afraid.” He raised an amused brow. “But it’ll be easier for me to have everything sent over to France from there directly, before we leave for the wedding.”
Right. The wedding. The reason behind this whole day.
“Oh, okay. Well, sure, why not?”
I looked out the window. It had felt so weird when he’d called me his girlfriend before. Especially right on top of how he’d dealt with Sylvia. Was that what it would be like when we got to France?
I mean, he didn’t need to do that, did he? Jump in and … protect me.
I knew it was all fake, but some small part of me wondered if this was how it would feel to have someone really take care of you.
“Actually, Andrea, we do need to get a few more visible events under our belt before we go, if that’s still all right with you.”
Back to business, then. It was what I’d agreed to, after all.
“What did you have in mind?”
“Bonnie suggested we host Hugo and Miranda for dinner. It’ll create the right sort of impression—stability—without drawing any external attention.”
“You mean host … at home?”
Liam turned the steering wheel to the right. “He’d prefer to avoid meeting publicly for the time being.”
Of course. Hugo was some sort of politician. It probably wouldn’t look good for him to be seen out on the town with an infamous playboy. Even if he did have his stable pretend girlfriend on his arm.
I snuck a glance at him, but Liam’s face was expressionless.
“All you have to do is be there, Andrea.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “I reckon we could get all four of us around the coffee table at mine as long as you’re okay without side plates?”
Liam chuckled. “Very generous of you, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“So we’re having this at yours then, are we?” God. Entertaining with Liam. At his place. Although at least he wouldn’t expect me to cook.
“That would be the plan. I’ll take care of everything. Although Bonnie also thinks we should give the impression that you might actually … ah … live there.”
“With you? Me and you, living together?”
“Horrifying idea, isn’t it?” The side of his mouth twisted into half a smile. “But thanks to your Comic Con fiction, they think we’ve been involved for nine months. It doesn’t really look committed if you haven’t moved in.”
“Well, I just mean … I can’t see how we could … I … I live with my sister and my cat. Won’t it seem a bit … um …”
“I don’t think it should be too hard.”
“But I haven’t even seen your place. How can we … make it look like I actually … like we …” I couldn’t imagine stepping foot inside his place, let alone convincing anyone I lived in it.
“I know it’ll take more than a toothbrush in the bathroom, Andrea.”
Crap. This was a lot. It almost felt intrusive. But I had to admit, the idea of seeing a little bit more of the real Liam—what he kept in his fridge, what books he had on his shelves—piqued my interest.
“Hugo has a cancellation in his schedule on Wednesday. Would that work for you?”
I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. “I guess so.”
“Great. I’ll have Bonnie lock it in. She’ll come too, and Ben as well, if he’s free.”
Brilliant. Dinner with Bonnie. I barely knew the woman, but I already knew I didn’t like her.
“Can my sister come?” If ever I needed backup, it was hosting a dinner party at a billionaire’s flat. Especially with all his mates in attendance.
“Oh. Right. Eliza.” He thought for a minute. “Sure. It might make things more convincing. Assuming you trust her not to let anything slip?”
“I trust her.” Did I? Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. We had time to prepare, though. Wednesday was still four days away.
“In terms of seeing the place in advance, I agree,” he added. “We’ll need to give it your touch. We can pop in now if you like—it’s only three minutes away. Give some thought to how we could pull this off.”
“I—okay. If you like.”
He smiled back at me, and for a second, it looked like he meant it, like he wasn’t just inviting me over to prep for an elaborate lie. Like when he’d waved up at me from the pavement outside my flat.
Like maybe he actually wanted me there.
Talking Heads played over the speakers, and I nodded along. More music I liked—although still not retro enough to fit this car. I could imagine him listening to Van Morrison, though he’d probably tell me he knew him personally, as connected as he seemed to be to all things high-end.
“Into your eighties tunes?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. I love eighties music. My mum used to watch all those old films with Ben and me when we were growing up. The soundtracks bring back happy memories, I guess—”
His mum again. What had happened there? He sounded nostalgic when he spoke of her, like it was hard for him to think about.
Outside, shopfronts gave way to stucco terraces and discreet mansion blocks with brass plaques and doormen.
We were going to Liam Roth’s flat. Or, no, not his flat. His penthouse.
Was that just another name for an expensive top-floor flat?
My stomach gave a little lurch with the bags each time we hit a bump. Must have been the champagne.
*
By the time we reached the top floor of Harcourt House on Carlos Place—ten flights of stairs, because lifts and I still weren’t compatible despite the counseling James had arranged—I was completely out of breath.
I tried to cover it up, but it was obvious I wasn’t a big fan of treadmills. Liam hadn’t even broken a sweat.
The stairwell opened onto a quiet corridor with a single huge door at the end. When it swung inward, the apartment beyond was all concrete, chrome, and glass. The furniture was spaced with mathematical precision, and beyond the windows, Mayfair’s rooftops gave way to the London skyline.
Kind of what I’d expected.
I sank into his sofa, the leather cold through my thin cotton skirt.
God, did people really live like this? No half-drunk glasses, no laundry basket full of underpants balancing on top of the fridge. You couldn’t even see where the fridge was. Everything was immaculate and tucked away, so the whole kitchen looked like an expensive filing cabinet.
“Wow,” I said finally. The word bounced up into the high ceiling before dropping back down between us. “Not into upcycling then. Would it clash with your industrial chic?”
He set the shopping bags down neatly by the console, aligning the handles so they stood to attention.
“Apologies. If this isn’t to your tastes, we could pop into TK Maxx on the way back to yours and pick up some knickknacks.
Add a touch of Andrea’s South London hospitality before Hugo and Miranda show up. ”
I snorted. “I don’t think TK Maxx caters to this sort of vibe.”
“Probably not. So embarrassingly Mayfair, isn’t it?” He gave me his wonky smile again.
“So did you design the place yourself? It’s really—it’s incredible, Liam.”
“Oh. No. I don’t have time for that. It came like this. All the furniture and everything. It’s fine. I’m not here often.”
“Right.” It was hard to imagine that Liam lived here. Wilhelm von Roth—yes. But not Liam. There was no evidence of him at all. Not even a rogue sock. It made me feel rather sad.
“My brother used to have a smaller place a couple of floors down,” he said. “Sold it a year ago when he got a dog.”
“Oh. That sounds nice. Do you miss him being nearby?”
“Well.” He paused. “Not really. Maybe a bit. It was nice to be able to see each other more, though.”
Yeah, I got that. As annoying as Eliza could be, I loved living with her.
“The place is pretty sparse, Liam,” I said. “Do you actually cook in here, or what?”
“It has been known.” He laughed. “The bathroom’s through there, by the way. If you need it.” He gestured down a hallway. “Third door on the left.”
His right eye still had a cut above it from where the box of Fortis ErectaGel sachets had attacked him last week. He’d never mentioned the incident again, thank God. Perhaps he’d forgotten about it.
“Watch out for the airing cupboard, though. You never know what you might find.”
Perhaps he hadn’t.
“Are you hungry?” he said. “I don’t have much in the fridge, so I was going to order in for lunch. What do you fancy?”
“Oh, thanks. I don’t mind. Something light?”
He took out his phone.