Page 25 of Unbind

I’d love to ask her why, but I’m not that foolish. I’m also oddly relieved that she doesn’t find her way to The Playroom every evening after her shift. After all, she’d have plenty of opportunity to do so. The club doesn’t allow guests in after eleven, but it stays open till one. And I can’t imagine how many of the patrons who ogle her at the front desk would be delighted to get their grubby mitts on her.

‘Anyway,’ I say instead, ‘your bosses are happy to have me on board, as is the Wolff team, assuming we can agree on a valuation.’ I pause. ‘But Gen cares about her employees a lot, and she won’t go for it unless she’s sure you’re comfortable with my being involved.’

‘So you want my blessing, is that it?’ There’s a sharpness in her tone that I should have expected and yet didn’t.

‘No. Not at all. Well, of course I want it, because I’d like to forge ahead with this deal, but I’m not trying to twist your arm.’ I wince internally at my unintentionally violent metaphor. ‘I mean, there’s no pressure on your part. None at all. But if you want any clarity on my role, or any reassurances, then I’d be happy to give them to you.’

‘Will you be my boss?’

I shake my head. ‘Absolutely not. I’d have no executive jurisdiction over the London club. Really, I’d be more of a silent partner. Gen and the Wolff team have rolled out a scalable format. New York is opening in a matter of weeks. You won’t see any more of me than you do Max Hunter.’

That gets me a tight little smile. ‘Believe me, we see a lot of Max in there.’

I grin, amused. ‘Seriously? Even though he’s ridiculously loved up?’

‘The three of them are in there a lot. Darcy still dances there one night a week, but she’ll drop it soon.’ She appears to rein herself in, realising she’s teetering on the edge of an actual, civil conversation.

‘Well, I won’t be in there more often than any other punter,’ I promise. ‘So all you’d need to do is endure the occasional sight of me in reception. But again, I understand if that’s a bridge too far.’

‘I’m not about to derail any of Gen’s plans,’ she says, rearranging her chickpeas with her fork. She’s certainly not shovelling her food down to the extent I’d like to see for her final meal of the day. ‘Given I’ve agreed to spend a night under your roof, I think I can manage checking you in every now and again.’

It might be more often thanevery now and againgivenhow successful my first visit was, but Natalie probably doesn’t wish to know how convenient I found it to have an easy, attractive outlet for my urges last night.

And shedefinitelywouldn’t want to know how tickled I am at the prospect of seeing her at the front desk each time I visit.

‘Only if you’re sure,’ I say. ‘I’ll let you catch up with Gen, and if she feels comfortable moving forward, she can let me know.’

We lapse into silence again, Natalie pushing her food around her plate, me shovelling mine up because it’s fucking delicious. My phone lights up with a message from my nutritionist. She’s excellent, and I suspect Natalie could benefit from her holistic approach.

‘Louise, my nutritionist, will be here by nine tomorrow to see you,’ I tell her.

She groans and puts her elbows on the island, resting her face in her hands. ‘I have so much to do tomorrow. I really need to get out of here first thing.’ She looks genuinely defeated at the mere thought of the workload awaiting her.

I bide my time. ‘What is it you do?’

She lifts her face. ‘I have a womenswear brand. A small one,’ she adds, and I hate that she’s felt the need to qualify her achievements in the face of my grotesque success.

‘Oh, excellent,’ I say. ‘So you run that during the day and then work at Alchemy at night?’

‘The fashion industry isn’t exactly a cash cow unless you have critical mass,’ she points out in response to the unanswered part of my question.

‘Fair,’ I say. ‘Still, two jobs and type 1 is a lot to handle.’

Her only response to my unsolicited opinion is a glare. I bet she’s a busy little bee. I bet she works that tight little arseoff and is responsible to a fault—when she’s not fucking up her insulin-to-glucose ratio, that is.

‘What part of the market are you in?’ I ask.

‘Demi-couture.’ She spikes a piece of fish and sticks it in her mouth. I wait until she’s swallowed.

‘And you have a team?’

‘Yes.’ I suspect the terseness of her one-word answer is a deliberate attempt to shut me down.

‘It’s an interesting part of the market,’ I muse. ‘Tough, but every part is tough, to be honest.’

Silence.

‘I know you have a lot on your plate, Natalie,’ I say, and she jolts like she can’t believe I’ve been indecent enough to use her name. ‘But please spare Louise half an hour. She’s incredible—she’s a very special human. Your body’s been through a lot today. Give it this one thing.’

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