Page 35 of Unbind

She makes a fine sight when she’s not looking at you as if she’d like to douse you in petrol and throw a lit match at you.

Although, if I’m being honest, she makes a fine sight when she is, too.

I last six days, until Cal, one of the Alchemy founders, proposes drinks at the club, a chance for all of us to informally toast the passing of the baton from Wolff to Wright. Anton will be there, as will Max, Wolff’s current CEO, with his boyfriend, Dex, and his girlfriend, Darcy, who happens to be Gen’s sister.

This place is incestuous enough to put Ancient Egypt to shame.

I’m also expecting to see Cal’s partner, the charming broadcast journalist and documentarian Aida Russell, who’s interviewed me a couple of times in the past. It should be a good night. It’s the perfect chance to toast the changing of the guard and to catch up with friends, old and new.

It’s absolutely not about throwing myself in the path ofany beguiling Alchemy hosts who hate my guts and haunt my dreams. It’s a shame the gestures that might make Natalie hate me slightly less—such as my impassioned cold call earlier this week to plead her brother’s case to a friend of a friend who founded OcuNova, an impressive ocular prosthetics company—can’t ever come to light.

Changing Stephen Bennett’s fortunes for the better isn’t about improving my reputation. It’s about making quiet, necessary reparations when the opportunities arise.

When I enter the lobby and Natalie spots me, it’s not outright hostility I detect, but rather wariness. Conflict, even. She’s recovered her poise by the time I get to the lectern.

‘Hi,’ I say softly, taking her in. Her hair is tied back in a long, sleek ponytail. It’s a little like the one she sported the other morning, but more glamorous, somehow. Or perhaps it’s the heavy eye makeup that provides the glamour. She even has an arc of tiny, immaculately applied crystals above each eyelid. All I know is that she’s a vision.

The strapless, boned corset of her top—or dress, I can’t tell from here—is crafted from black satin and moulds perfectly to her body, its rhinestone trim sparkling prettily under the chandelier and its cut showcasing the delicate architecture of her collarbones, the toned musculature of her upper arms. The cups are the only parts not done in satin. Rather, they’re pleated chiffon, the edges of the fabric frayed, feathering against her skin like the impossibly pretty edge of a parrot tulip.

I’d put money on it being one of her creations. Still, it’s skimpy and it’s bloody November, after all. The faintest goosebumps are visible on her skin, and I make a mental note to tell Gen to turn the heating up in the lobby.

Far worse, in the split-second that I take her in, my brainserves up to me the morsel that her nipples are very clearly also feeling the cold.

Not fucking helpful.

I wonder what proportion of the clientele hits on her before they’ve even made it through to the bar. A decent one, I imagine. The thought irritates me.

‘Good evening, Mr Wright,’ she says smoothly, and I raise an eyebrow. Mr Wright? Seriously?

‘I’d like to think we’ve graduated to first name terms by now, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course. Whatever you prefer.’

She doesn’t react. Neither does she say my name. Her impassivity is armour indeed.

‘How are you doing?’ I ask her. ‘It’s a general question,’ I add hurriedly, in case she takes it as a circuitous enquiry about her glucose levels.

‘I’m fine. Thank you for sending the bag over last week. And for the book. You didn’t need to do that.’

‘It was my pleasure.’

‘I’m sure Nigel had better things to do than come back into town on my account.’

‘He really didn’t.’ I lean in confidingly. ‘In fact, one of Nige’s absolute favourite burger joints is on Brewer Street. So I imagine a lunchtime trip to Soho worked out very well indeed for him.’

That gets me a little smile. ‘Well, it was kind, thank you.’

We appraise each other for a minute. She’s inscrutable when she’s in host mode, and find I don’t like it. I’d far rather she was screaming at me, or being exceptionally rude, or giving me side-eye. I don’t like that she’s behaving as though I’m some random punter who can only expect small talk and barely-interested civilities.

I don’t like it at all.

Still, I find myself lingering, hesitant to go on through and bring my brief moment with her to a close.

‘Do you know if any of the guys are in there yet? I’m meeting your bosses and a couple of others—Max Hunter and his partners.’

An expression I can’t quite read flits over her delicate features—the wispiest of clouds across a clear sky. Disappointment? Disapproval? ‘Max just arrived with Dex and Darcy—they’ve gone on through. And the rest of them are in the bar, too, except for Rafe.’

Rafe already sent his apologies that he wouldn’t make it tonight. I know his wife is close to popping.

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