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“Junk food?” Cleo retorted with feigned indignation as she swept a handful of Mars Bars into the cart. She assumed a haughty accent. “You’re mistaken, sir. This is the food of the gods. The British gods,” she added with a laugh.
Jack paid for the purchases and sent a quick text message to the front desk at his apartment building. To the cashier, he said, “A young man named Benny will be by shortly to collect my groceries.” He placed the plastic bag of fresh produce they’d bought previously in with the other purchases.
As they headed for the exit, Cleo observed tartly, “That’s a pretty sweet gig, having your servant fetch your groceries for you. I always wondered how the upper crust lived.”
Jack chuckled. It was true, he’d made an obscene amount of money since joining the international investment firm just after grad school. He’d been noticed and tagged by top management as a go-getter, and had been handed the plum portfolio.
After Annette died, he’d thrown himself even more fully into his career to avoid having to feel, working nonstop so he wouldn’t have to go home to an empty house. The money had continued to pile up in his various personal investment and bank accounts, to the point he really didn’t have to keep working if he didn’t want to.
Aloud, he remarked, “That ‘servant’ is just Benny. And fetching groceries is one of his favorite things to do.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s cool, then.”
“Glad you approve,” Jack said in a teasing tone.
Cleo’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean—“
“No, I know,” Jack interrupted, smiling at her. “I’m just giving you a hard time.” As they stepped outside, he said, “It’s such a lovely day. Let’s walk around some, want to? My goal is to stay awake as long as we can so we can get back onto local time as soon as possible.”
“Sure. I’d love to take a stroll,” Cleo agreed.
Jack took Cleo’s hand as they walked along past various storefronts. She stopped in front of a Stella McCartney boutique. A mannequin stood in the window dressed in a long, flowy red silk summer dress.
“So pretty,” Cleo remarked, peering more closely. “I love Stella’s stuff. Simple elegance.”
She made to keep walking, but Jack, still holding her hand, didn’t move. “Let’s go inside,” he said. “You could try it on.”
Cleo made a face. “Are you kidding? That’s an original Stella McCartney. It’s got to cost a fortune. No way am I even going in there.”
Jack snorted. “That wasn’t a request, slave girl,” he said, pulling open the door. “It was a direct command.”
They returned home as the sun was setting. The caretaker, who had a master key to all the apartments, had brought up the groceries and put away the items that needed refrigeration, setting the rest of the things on the counter. Cleo immediately tore open the packet of digestive biscuits and popped one into her mouth, her eyes fluttering closed in apparent bliss as she chewed. Jack was enjoying getting to know this playful, vanilla side of Cleo, and he felt himself falling deeper in love.
Both agreeing it was too dangerous to lie down, as they’d immediately crash, they decided instead to go to a nearby Thai place Jack liked for dinner. Cleo wore the lovely red dress they’d purchased. At Jack’s direction, she wore no bra underneath, her high, full breasts beckoning like an invitation, the little hoops at her nipples outlined beneath the silky fabric. Her small, perfect feet were shod in shiny black stilettos that added four inches to her diminutive height.
It was a little before eight when they finished their meal. If they could stay up a few more hours and then get a good night’s sleep, they’d be quickly re-acclimated to the London time zone.
Jack used his London ride-hailing app to summon a taxi. Within a minute or so, it pulled up to the curb in front of them. They settled side-by-side in back, Jack’s gear bag between them.
“Where to, guv?” the cabbie asked. Jack gave the guy the address, and he eased into traffic.
They had decided to pop in at the London Masters Club, though Jack wasn’t sure they’d have the energy for a full-out scene. But he could see Cleo was eager to return to her old stomping ground, and he was happy to oblige.
Real estate in London was at an even higher premium than Manhattan. Unlike the gracious, four-story brownstone that housed the New York club, the smaller London Masters Club occupied the two floors above a high-end shop owned by a clothier named David Harmon, who made bespoke suits for the very wealthy. David was a member of the Masters Club. He owned the building, located on Oxford Street, and he rented the two floors above his exclusive shop to the Masters. The club lacked the family feel of the New York club, but was still a great place for members.
