Page 56 of The Unraveling

“Sure, we’ll come,” says Arabella.

Alistair briefly puts a guiding hand on my lower back, and even through my down coat it gives me chills.

We start down the busy road, Arabella talking to Alistair about some bureaucratic thing that happened at the company last year that only just got resolved.

“This place used to be a tube station,” he says as he opens the door for us.

Walking in, I revel in the bizarre juxtaposition of the gleaming, familiar tiles set against the sound of lively chatter and the glow of orange, hot pink, and green lights.

“It’s packed!” I yell to Arabella, who is standing right next to me.

“What?” she yells back.

I shake my head and do a never mind hand gesture.

Alistair leans in to speak close to my ear to be heard, but instead I turn the wrong way and my lips graze his. It’s like an electric current. When his lips find my ear, he doesn’t even seem to raise his voice, but its deep hum resonates through me so that I feel it more than I hear it. “I’ll be right back.”

He holds up a finger to tell me to wait a second, and he walks away and speaks to a woman with 1940s-styled hair who immediately nods and takes us to a small, intimate table with a Reserved sign on it. She removes it.

On the wall beside it there is an old poster of a foot on the back of a shovel with the quote, Grow your own vegetables for their sake! beneath it.

I sit down, Alistair sits beside me, and the girls sit across from us, Arabella across from me and Cynthia across from him.

A server comes immediately over. He’s definitely getting the star treatment.

“Do you know what you’d like to drink?” he asks, and I can hear him better now, but we still have to speak loudly and lean close.

“Uh—champagne?” I ask the server. It’s what he said he wanted to get us, so it feels like the best choice.

“We’ll just have a bottle,” he says. “Dom is fine if you don’t have Krug.”

The server nods, looking excited about her upcoming tip, and then goes off to retrieve it.

“You’re lucky I still like champagne,” says Arabella.

He gives a polite smile.

Understanding starts to creep in. They know each other. There’s something to their relationship that is more than passing ships at the company.

Who doesn’t Alistair know?

He looks good tonight in a black sweater with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of burgundy jeans. He doesn’t look stodgy and old-school. It’s clear that he’s wearing expensive things that are made to look basic, simple, and clean.

He smells like tobacco and red wine in a way that seems curated. I find him intoxicating. As he looks around the room, I study his profile. His jaw is sharp and cutting and I see stubble from a couple of days without shaving. I love stubble. I imagine the stubble grazing and tickling my tits and then I realize I need some water.

As if she reads my mind, the server comes back over with a glass bottle of Evian water and four glasses. She takes them off her tray and sets them down. A moment later, someone else follows with a bottle of Krug and four glasses.

She sets them down, and he asks her, “Do you have the Zalto glasses? Thanks.”

She nods, takes away the champagne flutes, and returns with four angular glasses with narrow stems.

Arabella does an exaggerated roll of the eyes and I kick her under the table.

Once it’s poured, I take a sip. It’s the best champagne I’ve ever had.

“Jesus, that’s delicious,” I say.

“I know Arabella thinks I’m a dick for asking for the nice glasses, but it makes a difference. No matter how rich you are, no one wants to spend four hundred quid on a bottle of champagne and then have it taste like piss.”

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