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“I betyoucan’t wait, either.”
My subject change had the finesse of a rhino in a ballet shoes, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Have you published anything?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m still writing my novel.”
“What’s its working title?”
“Explicit Love,” she grinned. “It’s not based on here, though, not really...”
My breathing calmed as she rattled off details. A trick of the trade I’d learned by heart; there’s nothing a writer loves more than to talk about their own work. That knowledge had salvaged many an awkward moment for me, not least this one. I smiled and listened, nodding my head at the twists and turns of her Explicit heroine: Ruby Reynolds, the shy nerdy girl at a sex club who’s ravished by her boss, in definitely not anything like real life circumstances.
“So, you are curious. You could take some nights off, you know, become a member.”
She waved it aside like the idea was ridiculous. “Ruby Reynolds is so much braver than I am, I’m nothing like her.”
I didn’t push. “Maybe I could take a look at your novel some time? I have some experience with beta reading, obviously...”
Her face fell in a heartbeat. “I don’t think Mr Morgan would like that.”
“Mr Morgan can go fuck himself. He’d have fired you long ago if you weren’t excellent at your job, don’t let him intimidate you.”
“He threatened to fire me every single day for at least six months after I started.”
“Initiation by fire,” I said. “He’s always been like that. He’d fire me in a heartbeat if he could.”
“Maybe.” Her eyes sparkled as she finished up her drink. “Or maybe not.”
I checked my phone to find the time was running away. “So, where are we at, Topaz? Are you going to show me how to run this bar, or am I still learning from the instruction manual?”
She smiled. “Let’s get to it, boss.”
***
Andy
The security cam feed flicked back to the bar. Cosy, cosy, fucking cosy. Faye was always good at that, getting her feet under the table. So much for staff fucking loyalty.
They’d been chatting away all fucking afternoon, gesturing and gossiping.About me, probably. Or about him. Italy. Vincent fucking Blackthorne.
I turned my attention back to the online ordering system, keying in figures for spirits and coasters and all the other shit on the replenishment list. I shifted in my chair, the sore ridge of my ass pulsing as I moved. It shouldn’t feel as good as it did. A mistake. She’d slipped under my skin again.
And now she was slipping under the bar staff’s too.
I pressed confirm on the order and waited for the acknowledgement. It pinged through to my email and I scanned it along with the other fresh items. Nothing important.
Idly, I pressed the search icon.Faye. The most recent email was two years previous. A simplethankswith three kisses in response to my dividend report. She hadn’t given a shit. Not about the club, and not about me.
She had never been coming back, fuck what she claimed.
I pulled open my top drawer, checked the flip file was still undisturbed.No regrets. None.
Only now she was back, drinking at the bar like a cackling witch with Topaz. I buried the file under other paperwork and took out her address before I locked the drawer up tight.
City Inn,West Street, W1.
I looked it up on Google. An inoffensive Georgian terrace, nothing grand. I’d have expected more opulence from her. I dialled their number.
“I’m trying to get hold of Faye Devere, I have a parcel for delivery to her next week. Is she in?”
