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‘Why can’t you huddle with the girls and behave yourself?’ he asked as he walked her away.
‘I don’t know, Serge. Maybe I get a little bored talking about nail colour.’
‘That’s not what I mean, kisa, and you know it. A third of my management team are women.’
‘I know.’
He looked as if he was about to say something, but the wall of noise hit them as they stepped out of the box and there was no chance for further conversation. Serge wrapped his arm around her, instantly separating her from the world in his embrace. As she looked up she had her fifteen seconds of fame as she saw them reflected on the huge screen above the ring, and then flashing logos for sponsors, car companies, sports drinks. She tried to catch them all, but Serge was walking her fast.
The combination of lights, music and an excited crowd had Clementine’s blood pumping, and she could see Serge wasn’t unaffected. He might be focussed on the bottom line, but he did enjoy the hoopla on some level. She hadn’t noticed it before but there was a real feel for showmanship in putting on a spectacle like this, combined with meticulous planning. Serge was a planner—she got that—but this was another side to him.
It appealed to her.
Ringside seats meant they were right on the action. This time Serge introduced her in a general way to the people sitting with them, including two famous male faces that had Clementine tugging on Serge’s sleeve as they sat down.
‘Da, kisa, it is,’ he responded, sitting back and stretching out his long legs. He looked like a king on his throne, thought Clementine, highly amused.
‘I’m not impressed,’ she said. She was—but not for any of the more obvious reasons. Having these faces ringside was publicity. It was effectively labelling the brand. The fight game was an old one, but a rap artist and a young Hollywood actor brought a different vibe to the arena. ‘Serge, how much is this costing you? Setting aside the sponsors?’
He gave her a flashing smile. ‘Don’t worry, Clementine. I can still afford to keep you in the style you’re accustomed to.’
For a moment the volume was turned down, and all she could hear was the thump, thump as her mashed-up heart made itself known. Serge hadn’t noticed a thing—his full attention was on something someone was saying to do with the match. Clementine slid her hand away from his and folded her arms. Serge didn’t even notice. He just rested his forearms on his knees and sat forward.
The match was starting, but it didn’t much matter any more. Serge had just made it very clear how he saw her. His feelings for her were about as meaningful as the spectacle they were enjoying tonight.
She was arm candy. She was, to quote, ‘the flavour of the month’. He didn’t take her seriously at all. Showing him her professional skills wasn’t going to change a damn thing.
The fight started and Clementine braced herself. It was the reaction of the crowd more than the thudding contact of bodies in the ring that reverberated through her. She felt each and every time bone hit bone. She could feel Serge’s attention being dragged away from the fight to her, and she kept her chin up, trying not to flinch.
Serge’s arm was around her and his mouth at her ear. ‘What in the hell did you come for, Clementine?’
A job description, murmured a snarky little voice, but she didn’t voice it.
‘I’m okay, Serge. Don’t make a big deal of it.’ She lifted her head, made herself look at the ring.
Serge made a sound low in his chest and stood up, startling the people around him. He had hold of her hand.
She wanted to resist, but it was embarrassing enough. He escorted her towards the exit, ignoring everyone else to get her through, his minders running ahead, clearing a path. Most people were focussed on the fight, but Clementine felt humiliated as Serge dragged her grimly away from the lights and pulsing rock music that had made him his fortune.
Serge was silent as they drove at speed out of the venue and along the highway. He barely said a word to her other than, ‘Get in.’ That suited her. She couldn’t believe how highhandedly he was behaving.
He remained silent as they entered the house. Clementine took off her jacket and went straight upstairs. She didn’t want to go to bed. She didn’t want to pretend this was normal. But it was late, and there was nothing else to do, so she went into the bathroom to take off her make-up and undress. She put on her pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt—the least alluring bed-wear she had.
Then she climbed into bed and sat there and waited. And waited.
He wasn’t coming to bed.
Well, good. She didn’t want him there. All the descriptors went flying around her head: arm candy, flavour of the month, good-time girl. Who in the heck did he think he was, implying she was with him for what he could give her financially? She was independent. She worked. She’d never relied on another person for anything.
