Page 59 of The Unraveling

“Oh…I don’t…”

“Just say the word. I want you to be able to perform at your absolute best. So, whatever that means to you.”

My mind starts to reel as I imagine what I could ask for if I were willing to take full advantage.

And…am I not?

I always hate movies where the main character rejects help. Where they tear up checks. Where they turn down the great promotion just because of some ethical dilemma. It’s not very human. I went from living in a shithole town to living in a shoebox in New York to this. Why wouldn’t I let this rich, incredibly sexy guy—no, no, just this platonic donor—treat me.

I think of Mimi. Mimi, who needs care, who is about to be out on the streets. I open my mouth, trying to get up the nerve to tell him the truth—I need help paying for my grandmother’s care.

But at the last second, I can’t do it.

“This isn’t what it was like for me in the States,” I say. “My donor was sort of invisible.”

“Not me. I want to be involved. I want to take care of you.”

There’s something soft in his features then. I crumble under his gaze.

“No one’s ever taken care of me,” I say, and then regret it so instantly I actually slap my hand over my mouth. “Oh my god, sorry, what a weird thing to say. Maybe I’ll take you up on the therapy.”

His knee touches mine under the table as he moves it, saying, “So sorry,” touching my thigh briefly in apology and ironically doubling down on the mistake.

“Where are you living?”

“Oh, um. I guess with Arabella. I just left my old flat where I lived with my boyfriend.”

“Christ, in that lesbian brothel?” he asks.

He’s not wrong. There are constantly girls over and they’re constantly hooking up. I mean…myself included.

“No offense,” he adds.

“I’m not actually a lesbian,” I say, remembering what Arabella said to him. “I’m just open. When an opportunity arises and I want it, I usually don’t stop myself.”

“That’s none of my business.” He drops to a whisper. “And, anyway, I kind of knew that.”

“God. You’re killing me.”

I push away my glass of champagne.

“What are your conditions like? Do you have a good mattress? Can you afford to eat well? These things matter, Jocelyn.”

I pause, again thinking of being in bed with him. “I’m sleeping on an air bed at the moment. But I will get a bed soon, I just haven’t had time and I’ve been settling in and—”

“Your body is too important,” he says, looking deadly serious. “Do you think Rembrandt was just leaving his paintbrushes in a dirty bucket every night? No.”

There’s a sternness to his tone that makes me shy away. “No.”

“You deserve better.” His eyes briefly seem to glance at my lips. It’s so quick that I become certain it was my imagination.

“To be honest,” I say, my chest heaving with this low rumble of desire. I look up through my lashes. “I am questioning living with her after her little display tonight. I’ve never seen her do that before.”

“I’ve got a flat near the theater in Bloomsbury. You can stay there. It’s got everything you need. Including a doorman, which I doubt you have right now.”

“No doorman, no,” I say, understating. “I can’t—”

“I bought the place a few years ago. Clem and I were—” His eyes cast downward, and I shrink a little at the nickname for his wife, who has hardly come up yet tonight. “Clem and I were going through a rough patch. The housing market was up and down and I bought the place just to have a place to go if I needed it.”

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