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‘What about them?’
‘You live in London. They’re here. Do you see each other often?’
I shake my head. ‘A few times a year.’
More uneasiness. His eyes bore into mine, as though he’s tempted to keep going, asking more questions—and to be honest, if he did, I’d answer them. Maybe he recognises that boundaries are normal for us to have, or maybe he’s just lost interest, because he leans back in the chair and smiles, back to being a guy who looks as if he’s had his cake and eaten it too.
‘Well, I’m glad they pissed you off enough to drive you into the bar tonight. Their loss is definitely my gain.’
CHAPTER FOUR
I FEEL AS if I am King of the World. I kick my shoes off at the front door of my penthouse, wandering across the tiled foyer and down two steps into the lounge room. The pre-dawn light of the Singapore sky buoys me and makes me miss my native Sydney all at once. Lights twinkle in every direction, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing a picture-perfect view. The sky is an inky black but there’s a whisper of grey building across it, with the first hint of colour—purple and a deep pink. I grab a beer from the fridge then make my way to the wraparound balcony, taking a seat on the edge of the infinity pool, cracking the top off the beer and throwing back a drink.
Well.
That was a decent night.
Decent?
Describing a night with Jessica Johnson as decent would be like calling the earth somewhat big. It was fucking awesome. When I’m an old man I’ll be fantasising about her—everything about her. The way she went down on me just for starters. The way she met my eyes in the mirror, a challenge sizzling from her to me. Fuck. She was perfection.
I replay the night as I drink my beer, remembering the way we’d bored of eating once our immediate hunger was sated and had made love on the floor beneath the stars, then taken a spa bath together, me soaping her body from top to toe, finding all her most responsive spots and toying with them, driving her to the edge and over it so many times I lost count. I remember the way I carried her to bed wrapped in an enormous hotel bath sheet, laying her down in the middle and bringing the duvet over her body, the way she could barely hold her eyes open as she smiled up at me.
I remember whistling as I left, feeling a lightness in my step I haven’t felt since the story broke about my brother’s secret child.
I liked how she didn’t keep digging there. It’s been news all over the world—you’d need to have been living under a rock not to know that Dimitrios Papandreo just announced he’s a father. Curiosity would have been normal, but Jessica Johnson didn’t drill me for the juicy details.
Not that I particularly know them, anyway. Even if I’d wanted to spill state secrets I couldn’t have; I don’t know anything about the relationship except that they are, apparently, in love.
How is that possible?
Love is a construct of Hollywood, an invention to make us feel less lonely and sell Valentine’s Day cards, but ultimately, we’re all born on our own, we die on our own, and the truth is we’re all motivated by our own self-interest at all times.
Another lesson my father taught me. Another lesson my ex, Emily, underscored.
A burst of self-disgust flares inside me. Emily is the biggest regret of my life and she’s a mistake I don’t intend to make ever again. I trusted her, I believed her, I thought I could ‘rescue’ her. I let myself care for her so much that even when she was actually just a lying bitch I couldn’t see it.
It was all for the best anyway. I’m not the marrying kind.
Life’s too short for commitment, and commitment, in any event, is a load of bullshit. A lie invented to fuel the wedding industry—a lie I’ll never buy into.
* * *
‘You should be selling now. You’re at your peak. It’s the time.’
Beneath the table, I dig my fingernails into my thigh, contemplating doing the same with a knife—if a visit to the emergency room is what it takes to get out of this dinner then I’d be seriously tempted. How can he look at me like this—as though we’re just brother and sister-in-law—when at one time he leaned close and whispered that we should go and get a room together?
‘Simon’s right, Jess.’ My dad’s the only person who calls me Jess. I used to like it as a girl, back when I thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that way and now the nickname is just another example of being infantilised. ‘Your value is sky-high.’
‘And growing all the time,’ I point out with a tight smile, reaching for the champagne flute. My smile relaxes as flashes of last night come back to me, spreading a heat through my veins that makes me kind of gooey.
‘There’s no guarantee that’ll continue,’ Simon pushes with his usual machismo know-it-all-ness. ‘All bubbles burst.’
‘She-Shakes isn’t a bubble, it’s a movement.’ Simon makes a snorting noise of mirth. God, I hate him. I stare him down and continue in my iciest of voices. ‘And there are a lot of potential clients out there who haven’t engaged yet.’
‘So you’re waiting for every woman in the world to click before you sell?’
‘On the contrary, I’m analysing my options,’ I say coolly, then turn to my mum, desperate for a conversation change. ‘The chicken is delicious.’
