Page 50 of Unstitch

He crosses one ankle easily over its opposite knee and lolls back on the sofa. Not for Max that particularly British faux pas of exposing an inch of hairy leg above the top of his socks. No, he’s wearing the longer, fine merino kind that my European colleagues wear and which were probably hand-knitted by wholesome young virgins. ‘I heard you’ve moved back to join Loeb? Head of Equities, is that right?’

‘It is,’ I say.

‘Congratulations. That’s impressive. You’re seriously young—you must be one of their youngest ever partners.’

I am in fact their youngest ever partner, singular, but I’m not one to toot my own horn. ‘I am, yeah. I’m thirty.’

‘Wow. And you’ve been back how long?’

‘A week and a half, but it feels like a year already,’ I confess, and he chuckles.

‘I’ll bet. I assume they’ve put you to work? You must be busy.’

‘Not as busy as you,’ I deadpan, and he rolls his eyes, amused.

‘You’ve got that right. If I have to read one more RFP I’ll shoot myself in the head.’

I can only imagine. The RFPs, or requests for proposal, that every bank submits as part of its pitch to win an IPO are as tedious as they are girthy.

‘I don’t envy you,’ I tell him. ‘So tonight’s about a little light relief from the grind, is it?’

Something about the way his eyebrows wing up and the hand holding his drink freezes halfway to his mouth has me regretting my use of the word grind. I meant it as the epitome of relentless toil, but I suspect he’s homed in on its possible double meaning, a hunch that has me flustered. He’s probably the kind of dirty bastard who’ll wring an innuendo out of the most innocent throwaway comments and manage to make them filthy in their raw physicality.

‘Light relief, definitely,’ he muses. ‘And who knows what else, eh? The night is young.’

‘Not if you have my wake-up call,’ I say in a feeble attempt at a joke. ‘It’s nearly my bedtime.’

He surveys me, and for a second I have the most discomfiting feeling that he can see through every thread of the bullshit I wear like an ineffectual cloak.

‘You’re thirty,’ is all he says. ‘Live a little. Walk in there tomorrow when you like and don’t even think of explaining yourself. You’re a fucking partner. It’s none of their fucking business how you structure your time.’

He’s correct, absolutely, but I don’t particularly care for this avuncular, fireside-chat style he’s adopting.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I mumble.

‘Besides.’ He leans forward. ‘Sex is far more restorative than sleep. And you can have as much of it as you want next door—they’ll go crazy for you. Guys. Girls. The lot. Take your pick.’

I stiffen. ‘I don’t—I mean?—’

But he’s not listening. He’s draining his drink and looking around the bar. ‘Let’s go through, shall we?’ he asks. ‘And for God’s sake, relax and enjoy yourself. Even good boys come first here, if they play their cards right.’

And with that he stands, slaps me far too hard on my shoulder, and strides off through the throng.

34

DEX

The Playroom is a masterclass in sensory overwhelm and disorientation, which I suspect is exactly the point. The music is seriously loud—some kind of house with sexy, moaning vocals overlaid—and this space I’ve been so nervous about stepping foot in is the oddest mix of classy and carnal.

It has high ceilings and huge white pillars from which billow gauzy white drapes. It’s pretty full, and maybe it’s because of the time of night, but the, er, coupling isn’t as in your face as I was worried it would be. There are plenty of sofas dotted around, and I definitely spot some horizontal action on one of the near ones, but most people seem to be dancing and mingling and making out rather than hardcore going at it.

Thank fuck.

Darcy told me the other night that she was the patrons’ fluffer, and it looks like she was bang on, because if everyone in here isn’t desperate to hump each other after the show she puts on, then there’s something physiologically wrong with them.

The stage runs down the right-hand side of the room. I stand beside Max towards the front of the dancing, writhing mass of bodies. We’re almost shoulder to shoulder, which is far too close for my liking, and both nursing a pitifully small scotch that he procured from the bar across the room as soon as we came through.

His proximity, the heat pumping off his body through that beautifully tailored shirt, is bothering me, but it would bother me more if less of my brain function (and blood flow) was redirecting itself to the woman undulating on stage like every fantasy my teenage self wasn’t inventive enough to conjure. I’m growing hard, and I despise myself for it.

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