Page 93 of Untether

‘She’s thinking about it.’ The admission hurts. I glance back down at the paused video. I feel exactly like I did before I met her, like a schoolboy with a crush on his most incredible teacher. She’s so out of my league it’s not funny.

‘It’s high stakes for her,’ Zach says softly. He’d know, even if he doesn’t share Aida’s celebrity. He has kids, and I know the emotional toll it took on him as he prepared to bring Maddy into his daughters’ lives in a formal sense.

‘I know,’ I mutter.

‘Zach’s right,’ Gen says. ‘All this—it’s a lot. And I know for a fact she hasn’t gone into this project looking for a relationship.’

‘I know,’ I say again.

‘I also know,’ Gen continues carefully, like she’s choosing her words, ‘that what she’s had with you has meant an enormous amount to her. You’ve given her a wonderful gift, Cal. And I definitely got the impression, last time I chatted withher, that what she feels for you goes beyond the physical, but it’s going to be an adjustment for her. She’s having a hell of a year.’

I believe Gen. I believe Aida has feelings for me. That face of hers gives her away every time.

‘Maybe actions speak louder than words in this case,’ Maddy suggests. ‘Maybe being there for her right now is what she really needs. Help her get through this mayhem, you know? She’s really cool, and I know she’s a badass at this, but it can’t be easy, reading this stuff about yourself. Maybe just act like a boyfriend rather than badgering her to put a label on it.’

It’s so similar to what Aida told me she needed the other morning that it gives me pause, and not for the first time I’m struck with gratitude for the amazing women who surround me.

Mads is right, of course, and it’s what I’ve already decided for myself. I’m going to be there for her so fully it’s not funny.

61

AIDA

When I court controversy, it is absolutely not because I seek drama. It’s because I believe the subject at hand warrants more profile. And if I can increase that profile by throwing my weight behind it, I’ll do it. I’ll push boundaries, question assumptions, engage in uncomfortable conversations. I will stir that shit as much as I deem it necessary.

Doesn’t mean I always enjoy it. Especially when the public backlash to my actions is as downright vitriolic as it has been today.

Do I believe that my journey to “find paradise” is the right one for me and the right dialogue to raise in society more broadly?

Unequivocally yes.

Am I comfortable with my particular kind of profile shifting from that of a hardened journalist and uncompromising interviewer to a woman of a certain age putting herself out there, not on the dating market, but worse: on a journey for sexual satisfaction, pure and simple?

Fuck no.

But for the first time all day, the special kind of terror that is putting one’s head above the parapet for all the world to see is dulling, easing a little. Because, for the first time all day, I have something that succeeds in distracting me where even Simone’s pep talk and my boys’ cuddles have partially failed.

Callum is kicking off a performance for me on my iPhone screen, and I am one lucky gal.

‘When you said you wanted to be there for me today,’ I remark, ‘I did not expectthis.’

‘You should expect the unexpected where I’m concerned,’ he shouts. The shouting is necessary, because he has Enrique Iglesias singingTonight (I'm Fuckin' You)at full pelt. His shirt is already off, and his bare torso looks magnificent in the low light of his bedroom. He gets his belt unbuckled and pulls it out of its belt loops in a single smooth movement before throwing it somewhere behind him.

‘I’m beginning to work that out,’ I mutter as I shamelessly watch him drop his pants, but it’s not totally true. Really, I’ve known this since Callum Sinclair rolled that ice cube over my underwear at the Zebra Club.

A second later, I’m narrowing my eyes in disbelief. ‘Is that…baby oil?’

‘You know it,’ he pants, dousing his palm liberally with some Johnson & Johnson’s. He sets the bottle down and rubs his hands together before smoothing the oil over his shoulders and down his biceps. I swear, this routine would not be out of place on stage at London’s iconic G.A.Y. club. They’d go crazy for him with his gorgeous body, the tight little black boxer briefs with their alluring bulge, and those dangerously gyrating hips.

‘If it all goes wrong at Alchemy, you could be a go-go dancer,’ I tell him. ‘Or even a Chippendale.’

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘They’d probably make me wax my chest. And I’m all man, baby.’

I giggle as he smooths the oil through the dark hair on his chest. ‘Yes, you are.’

Satisfied that he’s oiled his chest up sufficiently, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs. ‘You ready for me to beallman?’

I take a sip of the large glass of chardonnay on my nightstand and settle back against my pillow. ‘Hell yeah,’ I say with the bravado of someone who’s not actually in the room with him. ‘Bring it on.’

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