Page 33 of Spiralling Skywards: Fading
“Me too. We’ll add that one to the list.”
“Fitzwilliam?”
“Another fuck no.”
“What about William then, or just Wi—”
I stopped typing and looked over at her with my eyebrows raised. Her hand was covering her mouth and her eyes were wide.
“Abso-fuckin-lutely not. No way. Not. Ever.”
“Sorry, I didn’t think.” But I could see her dimple appear, meaning that she was laughing from behind her hand.
“How about Olivia, or maybe even Melanie.”
That earned me a dig in the ribs, which led to me tickling her until she screamed for mercy . . . which my dick liked and led to sofa sex, floor sex, and eventually bed sex.
Upchucking aside, I was beginning to like the effects of pregnancy hormones on my wife.
I left Sarah sleeping and crept out of the house at five the next morning to drive to Gatwick for my eight o’clock flight. It was delayed because of fog, and my flight didn’t land until almost lunchtime.
The company I was in talks with sent a driver to pick me up from Edinburgh airport, which was a bonus, and he took me to The George, a hotel in the city where the directors were staying.
They were already there waiting for me at the table, when I walked into the restaurant and no one wasted time dancing around niceties. Talks went well, but after three hours and four bottles of wine, I still hadn’t closed the deal. Lunch turned into drinks at the bar, and drinks and more negotiating at the bar led to a deal.
The hotel we were at was fairly up market and Andrew Hamilton, the man who had been breaking my balls all afternoon, insisted that I joined him in a toast.
“What’s on your top shelf?” he asked the barman. I had stuck to water since we finished lunch, only very casually sipping the scotch I had ordered for appearances. There was no way I was turning down a celebratory drink after closing the deal, though.
“None of that bourbon crap, either. I want Scottish single malt. What have ya got for me?”
Ross and Henderson, the other two partners were shaking their heads at Andrew, and I worries that their shared look meant things were about to get messy.
“I have Royal Salute, A Macallan Estate Reserve, or a Johnny Walker Odyssey, sir.” The barman informed him. It was all over and above me. I preferred the bourbon crap to whiskey, but I was not about to tell that to the man I had just shaken on a multi million pound contract with.
“Let’s crack open The Hundred Cask. We’ll take the bottle and four glasses. We’ll be over there.” He pointed to seating around the large open fire in the hotel bar, and we all made our way over and each took a seat.
