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Dinner. Check. Goodbye, Charlize.
It’s as simple as that.
Chapter Eleven
Charlize
I change my outfit three times. It’s stupid really. Who cares what I look like for Alistair. It’s not like I have to look good just to impress him. He’s seen everything anyway. I almost facepalm at the idea. If I’m honest, I’ve been trying not to think about any of it since last night. It’s a little hard when he ate me out like nobody ever has and my body responded to him in such a way it blew my mind.
Nope. My conscience doesn't want to hear that. My conscience tells me I need to go to church or get a fucking exorcism. My refusal to let the guilt swallow me up is all I have left. My backbone. I suppose it’s the one thing that I did get from my grandmother. The one skill that I managed to get right. Even if I do pretend half the time.
I even went all out and got my nails done. It’s been almost a year —I’m not even gonna pretend I don’t deserve it.
I also ended up going to Liberty and bought some Chloe perfume, then stopped by Harrod’s to buy myself a cute handbag and two for my besties back in Seattle. I also bought some Lululemon leggings and a couple of tops to work out in. I’ve never bought Lululemon new before, only second hand on eBay. The entire time I was shopping, I felt on cloud nine. I really do love pretty things, and knowing that it was to do with Alistair gave me a fuzzy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Next, I bought some Yeezy sneakers because what the hell. If I’m going to burn in Hell, I may as well look my best doing it. If it weren't Sunday, I would’ve booked in to get my hair done as well, but nothing is open at this time of the afternoon.
Still. I’ve enjoyed myself and I fucking love spending money.
By the time dinner time rolls around, I’m dressed in patent leggings, my new Yeezy’s and fuck it, I pull on Alistair’s jumper. I don’t care that he wants it back; he can get fucked.
I like it, and I’m sure he can afford to buy another one. Plus, I think it suits me better anyway.
I smile, applying lip gloss in the mirror as I mentally prepare myself for whatever claptrap is going to come out of his mouth tonight.
I’m sure he’ll apologise again. Tell me how wrong it was. How he’ll never do it again. He’ll probably offer to buy me off — like he didn’t already. As if I’m some kind of gold digger who’s going to extort money from him. Clearly, I’m not the girl he once remembers.
I may have come from a high falutin’ family on paper, but that’s all it was. Appearances.
My grandmother was very good at keeping those appearances up. I should be grateful she even had the dough to cover the rest of my university fees. Lord knows why she did. Maybe she felt guilty. The more I’ve thought about it over the years, the less I believe it.
If she cared that much, she wouldn’t have made my life hell and made me feel less than something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I often wonder why she fought so hard with Alistair at the time, and the only thing I can come up with is money. She was in charge of my mother’s estate, not Alistair.
Don’t think about any of that, I tell myself. Tonight is about you and about getting answers from that dipshit. A dipshit that I let rail me with his tongue.
I clear my throat. Now isn’t the time to go into panic mode.
I finish curling my hair and when I’m satisfied, I blow myself a kiss in the mirror.
I’ve never been shy. I’m also not backwards in going forwards; I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. Sometimes— more often than not — that gets me into serious trouble, but I can never be accused of being a liar.
Sure enough, at five minutes to eight, a black Mercedes rolls up outside my townhouse.
Chelsea was happy when I gave her the rent money as well as utilities. And even after my shopping spree today, I still have half left. I’m going to put that away into my savings account for a trip. It may not be a lot — in fact, I’d be lucky to get a night or two in a decent hotel in Paris. But nonetheless, I’m doing it without excuses. Just like I promised myself a year ago when I was about to set off on this embarkment. Maybe I was having my mid-life crisis early, I’m not sure, but whatever this was, I’d be wise to get it out of my system now.
I close the door behind me and the driver greets me formally, calling me ‘Miss Prescott.’
I climb in and we take off. The boondocks of London slowly disappear as we move closer to the city.
I’ve always loved London. Ever since I was a little girl. Even though I chose to stay in Seattle after college, starting a new life with my two best friends Ariana and Imogen, England always has a special place in my heart.
I love the sounds, the bright city lights, the shopping, the nightlife. Everything about London envelopes you into its warm cocoon so you never want to leave.
When Imogen visited last month with her beau, Khristian, I was so happy to see her after several months of missing her and Ari, and while Ariana didn’t come on this trip, I know we’ll have a girl’s trip soon. I feel it in my waters.
It takes about forty minutes to get to the restaurant called Cruz. Immediately I regret wearing Yeezy’s and patent leggings, but whatever. I’m not here to impress Alistair. I couldn’t care less what he thinks of me. I can’t wait, however, for him to see me in his jumper.
Maybe I am acting like a brat, but can one blame me? It’s like the guy brings it out in me with absolutely no effort whatsoever.
Once inside, I tell the maître de who I’m with and he immediately asks me to follow him. He leads me through the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been in. The tables are all covered with plush tablecloths and have brass cutlery that gleams under the sparkling lights.
