I tip my head back on a sigh, letting my shoulders sink. I can’t put it into words, at least not ones I would share.I found her… exhilarating, enchanting, addicting.
Henry clicks his fingers and points at me. “What you need is someone who isn’t going to turn you into an obsessive stalker. Take Melanie Castow out on a date.”
The Castow deal has been the last thing on my mind, despite how infuriating Melanie’s intransigence has been. We’ve made no progress in the last few weeks. “Oh, fuck off. You yourself said she’s the type of woman I should stop going for. Besides, it’s a conflict of interest. I can’t date the woman we’re dealing with.”
He shrugs. “One night stands obviously aren’t for you. Take Melanie out. It might get the deal across the line, and I know how much you want that agency. She’s holding out for something, and I think it’s you.”
“No.” I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t want Melanie or any other woman. Except—”
Henry’s low chuckle cuts me off. “I’d really like to meet the woman who reduced you to this. She must have a magic cunt.”
10
DIANA
My life has turned to shit. Not only did Dad kick me out, but he cancelled my allowance. All I had left was the money in my bank account, which was just enough to cover the rental deposit on a one-bedroom attic flat in Uxbridge. The end of the Picadilly Line. I went as far west as I could to maximise my cash without falling off the tube map entirely.
I thought about calling Sylvie and begging her to let me stay, but she’s living with her arse of a boyfriend, Dave, who once told his mates she was nothing but a dumb blonde who gave great head. I hate him, but Sylvie still won’t walk.
I mean, Dad crushed our self-worth, so I get it. It’s hard to hold on to the belief that you’re worth more when no one has ever shown you that. And it’s really hard to believe in love when you’ve never had it and don’t know what it feels like. I can only assume Sylvie thinks that being treated like crap is what being loved is supposed to feel like.
If I hadn’t read so many romance books, I’d probably feel the same. I’d probably be shacked up with some guy who holds me by the wrist so hard it bruises, and call it love.
I’d rather be cuffed to a bed in Delirium and fucked in the mouth by a handsome stranger, thank you very much.
But realistically, if I’d done what Dad wanted, I’d be married to Seb Hawkston, and although he’s obscenely rich and would never have raised a hand against me, he’d never have loved me, either.
As it is, I’m in this tiny attic flat with no central heating, shovelling reheated pasta into my mouth as I perch at a plastic kitchen table with a leg so wobbly I had to stabilise it with a wedge of tissues. My laptop is open but pushed to one side as I eat lunch and take a break from trying to piece together a business plan when everything has fallen apart. I have no idea what I’m doing, or how to move forwards, but I’m really trying to make something decent of this situation.
And there, propped up on the side of my laptop, is the tiny Delirium card.
Just in case you change your mind.
I’ve thought about contacting him, but what with the state of my life at the moment, I can’t even begin to think about dating. Not that I think he’d definitely want todateme. He’d probably just want more sex, but not anonymous sex, and really, how far is that from dating? I’ve just escaped an arranged marriage; I’m not ready to commit to someone else, not even for regular, casual sex. But if I were to commit to someone, it would be him, and that’s why I haven’t thrown the stupid card away.
It was a good night. A fantastic night. I’ve replayed it many times. Worked myself into a frenzy thinking about it, if I’m honest. Living here would have been a hell of a lot lonelier if I hadn’t had the memory of that night to get me through.
It’s a million times better than the memory of Dad wrecking my flat and yelling, “You’re a bad investment”at me, that’s for sure.
I’m going to show him. I amnota bad investment. I am fucking gold. I’m going to make so much money, I won’t know what to do with it. Dad will be tormented by my success, and I won’t give him a penny.
I scratch my eyebrow, wincing at the attempt to ‘think positive’ while I chow down this chewy, three-day-old penne and the nearly-broken washing machine shrieks and shudders so hard on its final cycle that the creaky old floor threatens to collapse beneath me.
Manifesting my way out of this shithole is going to be harder than I thought.
The buzzer goes, and I’m alert, spine upright. Who is it? The only person who knows where I am is Sylvie, and she’s unlikely to pay me a visit.
I get up and press the buzzer. “Hello?”
“Diana? Is that you?”
“Lizzie?” I ask, instantly recognising my friend’s voice.
“Oh, my God, Diana. Let me up. Why haven’t you answered any of my messages?”
I hang my head as I buzz the intercom button to let her up, guilt pulsing through me. Over the last year, Lizzie’s become my closest confidant and best friend. We met at a hot yoga class in Chelsea when we both had to leave because we were close to fainting. We bonded in our sweat-slicked gym kit and never looked back. I love her to pieces, but I’m not ready to see anyone. I check myself in the mirror near the door; I’m swamped in an oversized t-shirt, not a scrap of make-up on my face, my hair slung up in a messy bun. I’m a mess.
Peering through the peephole, I see Lizzie appear at the top of the stairs. She looks about, wrinkles her nose, and wraps her cashmere coat tighter around her like she thinks it might shield her from whatever contagion she imagines is lurking in the hallway.
