She holds out her hand, all smooth, moisturized skin and baby pink nails. Reluctantly, I slide mine into hers and let her pull me out of my pit of despair.
Chapter 10
OPHELIA
I doubt any man has ever felt the relief that Eike feels as we pull up outside a posh hotel on the busy streets of central London.
He cuts the engine, and with that, his twenty-four-hour nightmare of two twenty-something-year-old women screeching theMamma Miasoundtrack has come to a close.
For the millionth time, I wonder why he stays in this job. He can’t be older than thirty-five, he’s smart, good-looking, could probably get a job anywhere he wanted. And yet, he’s spending his early thirties in a cold, damp castle with no social life, no family nearby, guarding the estranged daughter of some Luxembourgish billionaire.
But here I am, lingering at the very same castle for no real reason, so who am I to judge?
The hotel looksnice. The kind with smartly dressed men in earpieces stood on the steps and double doors that look straight out of a fairy tale. Eike rounds the car to open Colette’s door, and a hotelemployee clutching an umbrella opens mine, shielding me from the London drizzle. I go to grab my duffel bag out of the trunk, but Eike already has it, along with Colette’s suitcase—large enough to fit a small elephant inside.
Eike ushers us into the lobby, all polished marble floors and soft velvet furnishings. I vaguely hear him tell us to stay put while he checks us in, but I’m distracted by my lavish surroundings. If there’s one thing my lonely life has made me, it’s nosy, and a hotel lobby is a feast for the senses. A couple argue at the check-in desk. An influencer is setting up a tripod in front of the lobby’s water feature. A man with three bodyguards exits the lift.
Who are they all, and how do they have enough money to drop several thousand on a hotel night stay?
Colette comes fromoldmoney, Alex informs me. Like that matters. Everyone at Sorrowsong is preoccupied with exactly how old someone’s money is. What they’re not worried about is how someone’s money came about.It’s fine if you did something heinous to earn your mansion, as long as you did it before color television was around, seems to be the rule.
Eike materializes in front of us, his gruff voice drowning out the couple’s argument I was straining so hard to hear. “Room is ready.”
The journey to the hotel room is an adventure in itself, past not one, not two, butthreerestaurants, and the entrance to a huge gym, furnished in garish shades of gold. Colette doesn’t seem fussed, typing on her phone as the click-clack of her heels comes to a stop outside four elevators. I take a leaf out of her book, snapping my mouth shut and giving my best nonchalant face.
I’m not in the right tax bracket to understand why we need an immaculately dressed man to press the elevator buttons for us, but it’s a nice touch.
Our bags are already in our room when Colette swipes her key card and pushes the door open, kicking off her heels and diving onto the enormous bed. “Ooh, champagne in the mini fridge!” she cheers, starfishing over the crisp white duvet. “Shall we eat out? Or get room service? I haven’t had a girls’ weekend insolong.”
I’m busy exploring the ridiculous suite, sniffing all the free toiletries. There are two rainfall showerheads, and my traitorous mind wanders to what it might be like to share a room like this with Alex.
I squash my errant thoughts down and step back into the bedroom, where Colette is pouring two flights of champagne. “Is Eike staying here, too?”
“Yeah, he has a room somewhere.”
“How long has he worked for your stepfather?”
She takes a long sip and exhales like she’s in heaven. “Umm … a year and a half. He used to do more … high-stakes stuff. I think he wanted something quieter.”
I don’t pry further. I don’t think Eike is the sort of person to share much of his past with anyone, even Colette. I swipe the other champagne glass from the side table and join her in bed, taking a sip.
It’s nice. Not as nice as orange juice or hot chocolate, but it’s nice.
“We could get a pedicure?” she says, reeling off an endless list of details from the hotel’s website while I switch on the TV to some trashy reality show that Vincenzo probably loves.
“What’s going on with you and Vincenzo?” I blurt out.
“We’re just friends,” she says, easily.
“Right,” I say, doubtfully. Her and Vincenzo seem to have some kind of agreement going on where he comes over and fucks her seven ways to Sunday most nights, and then they both pretend it didn’t happen the next day. I know for a fact it’s her who’s holding it back, because Vincenzo is obsessed with her.
Her expression turns scandalous. “Likeyoucan talk. What about you and Alex?”
“Umm … friends also.”
Friends who do unspeakable things on FaceTime.
She nods slowly, tone sarcastic. “Yeah, sure.”
