‘So,’ Rafe asks, sitting on the corner of my desk. ‘You still on the fence about next Friday?’
I sigh and lean back in my chair, my eyes flicking downwards like clockwork to the silver-framed photo in pride of place on my large and, some might argue, unnaturally tidy desk.
Us. Our family. Our foursome.
We were watertight.
Until we weren’t.
Claire’s gorgeous brown eyes are shining with the light of love. A light so powerful it still knocks me sideways. She has her arms around the girls, but they’re all over the place. Nancy’s mouth and chin are covered in chocolate ice cream, and she’s making some stupidly adorable face. Stella’s teeth are actually brown, and it should be revolting, but it’s not. Not really.
My wife’s shoulders are a little pink. She fell asleep in the sun that afternoon after a long rosé-heavy lunch. We were on holiday in the Dordogne, and it was heavenly.
I probably rubbed Nivea into her shoulders later that night like the lovesick fool that I was.
One thing probably led to another.
I wish I could remember the specifics.
I wish I could remember every single time. Every moment.
Behind the three of them is me, grinning like a fucking idiot, my face the stupid, oblivious kind of happy that only a man who has no idea what the future holds can feel.
And here is Rafe, asking me if I want to attend some kind of orgy where people ignore the opportunity for transcendence that true love and intimacy can bring and instead focus on getting their next orgasm. On their basest, most primitive desires.
Are we really that basic? Have we really all sunk so low that we’ll lick and poke and fuck the nearest available, anonymous orifice for a quick thrill?
I can’t think of anything worse.
I rest an elbow on the table and sink my face into my hand. My non-answer must speak volumes, because he leans over and pats me awkwardly on the shoulder.
‘I totally get it, mate. I wanted to say you shouldn’t feel any pressure. I know it’s not your thing at all, and I know some members of the team have been coming on a bit strong.’
That’s an understatement. Maddy and Cal have been beside themselves about the fucking slave auction. If I hear about it one more time, I’ll put my head through a wall.
Then again, my amazing mates, who usually do events like this to bolster the coffers, are giving up an enormous wedge of cash for the charity closest to my heart. The auction itself will probably raise millions.
I’d be a certain breed of nob to refuse to lend my support in light of such an incredible gesture on their part.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I say weakly, raising my head so I can look my friend in the eye. ‘I’m working up the courage, all right?’
He laughs. ‘I get it. But seriously. Don’t feel obliged. Fancy a drink this evening? Can Ruth stay?’
I frown. I hate not seeing the girls. Ruth’s a godsend, but it’s not the same as having a parent around. Claire and I were always strict about rotating our work schedules so one of us was always home by six. We didn’t want an employee putting Stella and Nancy to bed each night.
That said, I’ve been in a funk all week and I could use some adult company.
‘Let me get the girls down,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you back at the bar by nine, latest.’
Being at home with the kids can, as any parent knows, range from torture to therapy. This evening was, mercifully, therapeutic. Ruth was around to do the heavy lifting while I did the fun stuff, hanging out with them and listening to their chatter from school.
I often feel guilty that I don’t get to pick them up from school more often. I aim for two days a week. But I have to agree with Ruth that the post-school segment of time with them is not the highest quality parenting experience. There’s the initial ego-boosting smile you get when they get out of class and spot you, which quickly descends into monosyllables and whining when you’ve inevitably brought the ‘wrong’ snack or their blood sugars have dipped so low that they don’t know what the fuck they want.
Then there are the really bad days, when something triggers their grief and you get a call from the school to say one of them is in the office, their little face buried in the school’s emotional support dog for comfort, and would it be possible to pick them up early?
Don’t even get me started on what the week running up to Mother’s Day was like for them.
Or for me.
Today’s been a good day, though, and this evening’s been a fun one. By the time I got home, Ruth had supervised homework and fed them both. I really do love that woman. If she wasn’t pushing fifty and fearsome as fuck, I’d definitely consider marrying her just to make sure she could never leave us.
Stella was full of chatter about the Industrial Revolution. When something piques her imagination, she goes full rabbit hole, so we chose some books together on Amazon for her to obsess over. Meanwhile, little Nance had earned the kindness heart in class today.
It’s thanks to them, and their grace and resilience and utter vitality, that I can put one foot in front of the other. And so I find myself back at Alchemy by eight-forty-five, showered and a couple of beers down. The club has a strict two-drink policy, so I allowed myself some sharpeners before I left the house. God knows, I need booze to take the edge off that place.
I find my team at a low table in the bar area. The Finance Director in me is delighted to see the place buzzing on a Thursday night. I hear them before I see them—rather, I hear Cal’s filthy guffaw over the din and smirk to myself.
Maddy spots me first. She’s on the far side of the table, but she stands and waves excitedly—I suspect I’m not the only one who had a sharpener before coming here—and leans forward to greet me.
Jesus Christ.
Given I’m human and male and straight, it’s immediately evident that she’s even more of a knockout tonight than usual. Her glossy brown hair is in long, loose, tumbling curls. Her skin’s glowing, and there’s a lot of it on display in that little black dress she’s wearing. The thin straps look not entirely trustworthy, and from the indecently short hemline hangs long silky fringing that brushes seductively against her tanned thighs and brings to mind the tantalising promise of secret delights hidden behind a peep-show curtain.
As she leans in to greet me with a loose hug and a double kiss, I’m simultaneously assaulted by her heady floral scent and afforded a generous glimpse of flawless cleavage.
Suddenly, the desire to be at home bingeing All Creatures Great and Small is not so acute.
‘You came!’ she sing-songs, beaming at me as she pulls away.
I shoot her a wry grin. ‘I did.’
‘I’m so happy!’
I frown and look at Belle, who’s tucked into the crook of Rafe’s arm and stifling a giggle.
‘She’s not drunk, I promise,’ she says. ‘I think she’s just happy to see you.’
There is nothing safe to say in response to that, so I make do with a noncommittal hmm as I bro-hug Cal and take a seat next to him.
He raises his beer in a toast. Long drinks that can be nursed slowly work best in here given the two-drink limit. Naked bodies and on-tap booze are a big no-no for us.
‘Team Alchemy,’ he says.
‘Team Alchemy,’ the others chorus. Maddy whoops. I need alcohol, and fast, if I’m to avoid being a downer tonight. I signal to a server and ask for a glass of pinot noir. I need something stronger than beer and longer lasting than the measly Nancy’s-little-finger-height slosh of whisky that counts as a unit in this country.
The wine arrives promptly—a perk of paying these people’s salaries—and I take a decent slug. Its silky warmth coats my throat and almost—almost—invokes in me a false sense of wellbeing.
‘What’ve I missed?’ I ask with forced jollity. ‘You all going next door?’
‘Yep.’ Cal slaps me heartily on the thigh. ‘You?’
I shake my head. Fuck, it must get boring for him trying to fluff me up every day. But I appreciate his efforts. The day he gives up is the day I know I’m past saving.
I should probably let him down gently. Disappointing Cal’s a bit like kicking a puppy. ‘Not tonight, mate. Maybe next time.’
‘Saving yourself for Slave Night next week?’ From across the table, Maddy treats me to a saucy grin and a raised eyebrow.
I manage a weak laugh. ‘Let’s see.’ Highly fucking unlikely.
Under the soft, diffused light from the crystal Art Déco chandeliers so extortionate that Gen tried to have the interior designer hide their cost from me, Maddy and Belle look exquisite. Belle’s an undeniably beautiful woman, and she wears the glow of someone rapturously in love as she gazes up at my mate.
But it’s Maddy who’s impossible to look away from.
It’s not just her looks. Not just the glossy skin and hair, the wide smile and the killer body. Although I wish she would stop crossing and uncrossing those legs, because every time she does, those silk tassels slink sensuously over her thighs, and everything about the sight is fucking hypnotic.
It’s that, with every cell of her being, she shimmers with wellbeing and good health and life. I don’t need to pay my therapist to explain just why that’s so compelling to me right now.
What would it be like to be Maddy? To exist solely for the present moment, to enjoy the shallow, fleeting pleasures of life in all their superficiality, whether they’re the glass of champagne she’s sipping or the imminent prospect of sweaty, anonymous sex with strangers next door?
The priests at our school, St Ignatius of Loyola College, tried several tacks to scare us off the pleasures of the flesh. Not only were they mortal sins, they warned, but they were transient. They brought a base kind of pleasure in the moment, but not deep, lasting happiness. Or peace.
I’m unlikely to find peace ever again, even if I take myself off to a Tibetan cave for the rest of my days. And, right now, Madeleine Weir is a pretty compelling advertisement for living in the moment.
Even without this suffocating cloak of grief, I suspect I’ve always been a bit of a pompous arse. I enjoy the view from my summit of intellectual superiority. I keep my guilty pleasures, from James Patterson to PornHub, strictly private.
For what benefit, I’m unsure.
Hedonists like Maddy and Cal may be onto something. Obviously, at some point the carousel they’re on now will stop spinning and they’ll need a new, brighter distraction, but it’s clear who at this table is faring best.
The lovebirds aside, that is.
After around twenty minutes of banter around the table, during which I manage to neck most of my second permitted glass of red, Maddy stands up.
‘Well, I don’t know about you lot,’ she announces, ‘but I have a hot date with God-knows-who next door.’ She gives us all a coquettish smirk and shimmies her hips so the fringing, or tassels, or whatever the hell they are, sway and part and tease.
If she came and stood in front of me, between my legs, I could slide a hand up her thigh and find nirvana, oooh, five inches or less from where those tassels start, I estimate.
I wonder what it would feel like.
Her skin.
I wonder how it would be if everyone else faded away, and she lifted one leg and planted that silly little stiletto on the stool between my thighs, and allowed me to brush my fingers over her impossibly silken skin to find her warm and wet.
The thought is… dazzling. Horrifying. Stupefying.
Jesus.
I blink.
‘Have fun,’ I tell her coolly, when I really want to tell her the opposite.
Don’t have fun.
Don’t let too many randoms put their dicks inside you.
She winks at me. ‘You know I will. Anyone else coming?’
Belle stretches lazily in Rafe’s arms. ‘Definitely.’ She turns and plants a slow kiss on his lips before standing and showing off a hemline that’s almost as uncivilised as Maddy’s. Rafe follows her to standing like a man hypnotised.
I wonder why those two bother. They’ll just find a room and fuck each other all evening. They may as well go home. But, according to Cal, at least, they enjoy the drama of it and, on occasion, the exhibitionism. I watch as they trail to the double doors behind Maddy.
‘I’ll come too,’ Gen says. She stands and bends to hug me. ‘Night, hon.’
I loop my arms around her neck. Gen’s the real deal, and she’s fucking gorgeous. Tonight she’s in a cream column dress and looks like she’s about to accept an Academy Award rather than get naked next door. Though, with whom I can’t say. She plays her cards close to her chest, that one.
Cal stalls, fiddling with a beer bottle I know to be empty.
‘I’ll follow you through,’ he tells the others.
‘Sure,’ Rafe says. He slaps me on the shoulder as he goes. ‘Night, mate.’
‘Night,’ I echo. I turn to Cal. ‘Honestly, go for it. I’m going to head home shortly.’
‘Nah,’ Cal says. ‘I’m in no rush.’
I stare at him. ‘All okay?’
‘Yeah.’ He blows out a breath. ‘Obviously. I was just thinking.’
‘Uh oh,’ I quip.
‘So tell me if I’m completely out of order,’ he begins.
