It’s utterly surreal.
It must have been, for me to suggest we date.
Date! What the actual fuck?
I don’t date. I screw. I screw beautiful, available, temporary lovers then move on. A week here and there, sometimes longer, but always on my terms, and always only if my lovers understand my ballgame. I don’t do promises, I don’t do hearts and candles, love, promises of a future. If I date a woman, it’s because she knows how temporary and superficial it will be.
One day, I’ll marry, someone like Saffy, except I’ll never make the mistake of falling in love with them again. The pain of Saffy’s desertion has been muted by the passage of time but it’s still there, a pressure in my solar plexus whenever I remember it. When I think of how it felt to stand in front of the church and realise that she simply wasn’t going to show. It’s a pain that only grew when, a month later, I learned she’d fallen in love with someone else. While I was preparing for our wedding, she was working out how to leave me for some new guy.
I feel my tattoo restlessly. I am my own.
I’d forgotten that for a while. I’d let the union my parents had pushed me into, had championed and supported, become something else in my mind, so I’d actually let myself fall in love with Saffron. So much so that I was devastated when we broke up. Devastated, humiliated, burned to a crisp.
Never again.
When I get married, it will be to someone who wants the title I can give her and the money at my disposal, who understands that, beyond polite companionship, I’m not offering anything more and that, beyond a need for a couple of heirs, I’m not looking for anything further.
It makes me see my parents’ marriage through a new light. I used to think their lovelessness was kind of sad—the way they wasp their way through life. Now, I get it. It’s a practical marriage. They married because it made sense, they had their son and heir to carry on the family name and probably never touched each other again.
Yeah, it’s a well-worn blueprint for marriage in their circles, in my circle, and I have no doubt my own will be just like it.
But until then, for one month, I’m going to enjoy Imogen Carmichael, and I’m going to make it one of the best months of her life. I’m going to take dating to the next level, set the bar so fucking high for the poor next guy that he has to spend the rest of his life working to make her as happy and fulfilled as I have in these four weeks.
Why? Because I’m Nicholas Rothsmore and I’m always, without fail, the best at everything I do, and now that includes dating Imogen.
A box arrives the following afternoon. It’s gunmetal-grey with white cursive script embossed across the top, proclaiming the name of an exclusive Manhattan lingerie boutique. My breath immediately speeds up. I ignore Emily’s curious glance as I take it from her, moving to my desk and placing it carefully on the corner.
‘RSVPs are coming thick and fast,’ I say. ‘Ticket payments are way ahead of where we were at this time last year.’
But, curious or not, Emily is all professionalism. She consults her clipboard for a moment. ‘And donations are great too. Sir Bennet Alwin has donated a guided tour of Australia’s Great Barrier Reef on his own personal submersible.’
‘I wouldn’t mind winning that,’ I say with a smile. He’s one of the leading naturalists of our time, and the Great Barrier Reef is regrettably a dying wonder of the world.
‘You can bid,’ she points out.
It’s true, there’s nothing to preclude me from entering the auction bidding, but, much like dating members, I have my own little set of rules that stands me apart from the other club members. In the past, I’ve matched donations for items that can be replicated, so the charity wins twice.
‘I might. What else?’
‘There’s the private performance by the London Philharmonic, the flight over the Baltic in Yuri Ostromonov’s helicopter, the private cruise of the Antarctic and the custom diamond choker from Alec Minton.’
‘Wow. That’s quite a haul.’
‘That’s just in the last week.’
I shake my head, floored by people’s generosity, even when I know half of it is about advertising and the kudos that comes from being visibly associated with The Billionaires’ Club.
‘Seriously, you should see my inbox. It’s overflowing with offers.’
‘Great. Well, let me know if you need me to wade in.’
‘Nope, I’ve got this. The caterer asked you to go by some time this week to review the menu. You’re free Friday afternoon.’
My heart notches up a bit. Before Nicholas left, he turned and said, ‘Friday night. I’ll be in touch with details.’
But the afternoon is a separate matter. I nod, turning away in case the heat in my blood has converted to pink cheeks. ‘Sounds good. Send me a meeting invite once it’s confirmed.’
‘Done.’
As soon as I’m alone, I cross the room and lift the box, running my finger over the embossed text with a small smile. My fingers shake as I pull on the satin ribbon. It loosens then drops to the floor, just a spool of white against the carpet.
I lift the lid slowly, placing it on the desk. There’s a gold sticker joining two sides of tissue paper together. I slide my finger under it, easing it up, deliberately moving slowly to counteract my body’s impatience, needing to control my instincts—which shout at me to rip the damned paper and see what’s inside.
The paper lifts and a delicate cream silk fabric sits inside, perfectly nestled, so I have to lift it out to see what it is. My breath hitches not at the beauty of the lingerie, though it is stunning, so much as at the idea that he, Nicholas Rothsmore, bought it for me.
I hold it up a little higher, skimming my eyes over the delicate spaghetti straps, which lead to a low V of lace. I can tell that when I wear it, my breasts will be visible through the frothy, twisting swirls. Silk kisses lace and it falls in soft folds down to what I guess will be my hips when I finally put on the exquisite piece. I spin, looking back to the box, and smile, because there are matching briefs, silk and lace, with ribbons at the side, so they can be undone with no more than a slight tug.
Anticipation supercharges my blood. I’m about to lay the lingerie back in the box and stuff the lid on when I catch sight of an envelope in the bottom. Intrigued, I reach for it, opening the back and lifting out a single piece of thick card.
It bears his name at the top, and a coat of arms, which, I imagine, belong to his ancient family. I stare at it for a moment, making out a lion, a spiky-looking flower and a bird with a full and impressive plume of feathers.
Aristocratic guys I generally avoid like the plague. And with good reason. All my experience has made me wary of people with too much money, but at least people who’ve had to work to earn it or fight to keep it have some appreciation for the value of it and an understanding for what life is like for those who don’t; the liberties and choices many are deprived of because of a lack of financial viability.
But it’s the lords and the sirs, the counts and the barons who are, by far, the most…wankery. In fact, the only member I’ve expelled from the club was a lord with an impeccable reputation, but we discovered he’d drugged a waitress at a club event—one of our members had found them in the Intimate Rooms just in time—but, God, it could have been so much worse.
Not that all the guys with titles are bad. They’re just definitely not my type.
I have no idea what my type is, but it’s not Nicholas.
That