‘You know, all the weird sex stuff and like sharing spouses and stuff.’ If I had been drinking anything in this moment, it would have ended up all over the windscreen. ‘What?’ Beatrice adds innocently, looking back at me as I crack up in the driver’s seat.
‘I think you’ve been watching too many films, or reading too many conspiracy theories.’ I shake my head, still smiling. ‘I have never been a part of anything like that. And, I don’t have a girlfriend.’
‘Good,’ is her simple reply, and I mentally kick myself for not asking her to clarify which part she was responding to before she changes the subject.
Chapter 23
Beatrice
Iam underdressed. I don’t mean trainers in a nightclub underdressed. I mean sheep-shit-covered shoes in the Savoy. Literally.
Perhaps I should have thought about the fact that this is more than just a chat in the pub with some mates and there are professional standards to be upheld before I dropped everything to hop in the stupid car. Arthur’s pressed suit and tie should have given it away. But in my defence, he always dresses like he’s just come from a business lunch in the financial district, even when he’s collecting hen eggs, so how was I to know?
Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror of the London Savoy, I realise just how much of my old self I have lost. These sorts of meetings were my bread and butter, selling myself, my work, to brilliant people in brilliant rooms, full of confidence. I dressed like someone who cared aboutwho saw her; I walked with my shoulders back, my head high, and in heels that would give me vertigo to even look at now. Now I have taken on the stereotype of country bumpkin and I didn’t even realise it.
Leaving that part of my life behind was intended. I suppose I thought it would ease the grief if I just pretended like none of that existed. But it hurts now, to see how much of my old self I have lost. Perhaps that wasn’t really me either – the pant suits, the fast pace – but somehow, I’ve swung so far back the other way that I have no idea who I am, or who I’m supposed to be.
I remember feeling out of place back then, surrounded by wealth I never knew existed, and entirely out of my depth. But at least I looked as though I belonged. I can’t fake being a city girl when I look fresh off the farm. The only thing I’m missing is the hay between my teeth and the straw hat and that would truly top the look off.
When a firm knock at the door startles me enough to restart my heart, I finally work up the courage make a decision.
‘You need to do it without me.’ Arthur has been waiting outside of the toilets for me for fifteen minutes and he frowns at my panicked words.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look at the state of me, Art,’ I rush. ‘No one is going to take me seriously, not a chance in hell.’
‘Art?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘What?’
‘You called me Art? You never do.’ What is it about this man that he sees a woman flustered and has absolutely zero sense of urgency?
‘You’re getting off topic.’ I fold my arms together to stop my hands from shaking. ‘I can’t go in there looking like this. You need to do this alone, just like we planned back home.’
‘Beatrice, you look b … fine.’ He coughs. ‘It’s just an initial meeting, nothing formal, nothing set in stone. Plus, it’s more authentic. These guys see suits and shaved faces every single day. Who knows, seeing a farmer girl in tight jeans might just push them in the right direction.’
‘Are you suggesting I have a beard?’ I choose to ignore his last comment. It’s either that or I slap him and I’ve already caused enough of a scene.
‘I’m not doing this without you,’ he says, his eyes swimming with feeling, brimming with such passion and honesty that a little of the tension releases on my chest. Only a little. He’s just as afraid as I am.
‘I don’t want to be the one to fuck all of this up.’ I rub my hands over my face and I snag a little powdery patch of toothpaste on my chin. ‘It will be easier on us both if I just have you to blame.’
‘Would it now?’ He licks his thumb and swipes it down the length of my chin where I had been mercilessly trying to scrub off my sloppy morning routine.
‘Gross,’ I mumble under my breath, too flustered about being stood in London, in the fucking Savoy, to actively fight against it.
‘Come on, being late is worse than being underdressed.’ He pulls me by my hand before I can protest and we slip into a grand dining room of white tablecloths and polite chatter. Though I keep my head down and stare at theimmaculate carpet as Arthur guides me along, I can’t help but feel like people are looking, watching me, judging me.
I’m just about to snatch my hand away to flee when I hear a nearby voice whisper rather loudly, ‘That’s that guy. You know the one. His mum and dad are famous.’
And their companion replies, ‘Oh, I know the one. The druggy? What’s his name? Something Cavendish?’
‘He’s not as hot in real life.’
‘Probably all the drugs.’
I raise my gaze to Arthur, whose grip tightens ever so slightly on my hand. He’s heard them, I can tell, but he doesn’t make his discomfort known. It’s not hard to spot the culprits: a pair of young women, who look like they’ve dumped their kids with the nanny for the afternoon to eat expensive cakes and bitch so loudly that the whole room can hear their vocal fry. I make sure to stare them out, but before I can unleash any of my twenty-odd years of pent-up rage on them, Arthur pulls me away.
