Page 114 of Untether

‘That’s because I don’t take my shirt off constantly on social media.’

‘Maybe you should. You’ve got great tits.’

‘I’ll take that under consideration, thank you. Anyway, I have more LinkedIn followers than you. I have, like, a hundred thousand.’

He attempts a straight face. ‘I mean, that’s seriously impressive.’ He nods earnestly. ‘LinkedIn. Wow. Yeah, you should be so proud of what you’ve achieved.’

I unfold my napkin and slap his arm with it. ‘Fuck you.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Ugh.’ I throw back my head and look heavenward. ‘I’ve created a total monster.’

If lunchwith Cal is a lesson in humility (for me only), then picking the boys up from their extortionate, elitist, overly British prep school is one big fabulous Fuck You moment.

I’ve had looks and comments all week at drop-off and pickup. The comments have tended towards back handed compliments and passive aggressive observations, heavy on theyou’re so braveandpresumably the BBC isn’t thrilled aboutitandgosh, a sex club, really?They’ve inevitably included commentary on Cal, too:

A younger man!

Doesn’t the age gap bother you?

Just don’t let him get under your skin, darling.

And, my personal favourite:Is he taking on other ‘clients’?Like he’s some kind of gigolo for hire.

I get that none of the above looks too devastating on paper, but when it’s accompanied by wide eyes and raised eyebrows (where Botox allows) and bitchy, affected tittering, I can tell you, it starts to jar. It’s all par for the course, but that doesn’t make it enjoyable.

I’ve taken it in stride, and I’ve chosen to tell myself that my fellow moms’ reactions are less the polite moral outrage they pretend to be and more what I’ve christened Lucky Bitch Syndrome.

I suspect the green-eyed monster has come out to play. There are plenty of divorced parents at this school, and even more attractive women married to very successful guys whose looks may not be their most appealing attribute, if you get what I’m saying. I wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else how to live their life, but I do know this.

When you stick your head above the parapet, people are going to treat you as fair game.

And they’re going to damn well take aim while they have that clear of a shot.

I guess, in the world of private school moms with too much time on their hands, partnering with a sex club and hooking up with a young, hot guy andfilmingpart of that process is the gossip equivalent of climbing up on that parapet with a fucking bullseye on your forehead.

Back to the Fuck You moment.

Cal and I saunter hand in hand through Notting Hill tothe square where the school is. We’re five minutes early, but there’s already a line of parents and nannies running down the sidewalk. One of the dads, Evan, who runs a large institutional investment firm, raises his eyes from his phone long enough to nod smilingly at me before his gaze shifts to Cal. He jolts. The guy looks like he’s seen a ghost. Cal throws a quickhiya, matehis way before Evan glues his eyes right back to his phone.

After we’ve walked a safe distance past him, I murmur, ‘Do I want to know how you know him?’

‘Probably not,’ he says, squeezing my hand, ‘but I bet you can guess.’

‘Wow. I can, but I never would have.’ Evan’s divorced, so how he plays in his spare time is no one’s business but his. Still, I’m glad I didn’t run into him half naked at the Masked Ball, that’s for sure.

Ew.

‘I bet you know a lot of people’s secrets,’ I muse.

‘You know it, baby. Including yours.’

‘Nice.’

I bump my shoulder playfully against his and he halts, tugging on my hand so he can plant a kiss on my lips. It’s light and chaste and school gates-friendly, but that sense of how natural it feels hits me hard.

This isn’t some dark club.

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