I could still feel those lips on my neck. Still smell his freshly mown grass scent in my hair. Still hear his dirty laugh. The edges of my lips began to curl into a smile before I shook my head, trying to regain control, and scrolled down past the pictures.
I’d heard about Nathan over the years at the breakfast table but not taken much notice. I just knew he was rich and successful and liked to party. All the pictures I’d seen of him were coming out of a bar or nightclub with a beautiful woman in tow. But reading more detail, I learned that he was in insurance, not banking. He’d started with a small insurance product, ten years ago, and built the company he eventually floated two years ago. Nathan seemed to have a Midas touch pre-flotation, but since his transition from successful entrepreneur to CEO of a publicly traded company, the increased scrutiny of him brought up a recurring theme: was he serious enough to be a FTSE CEO?
If his PR person wanted me to profile him and tell the world what a focused, hardworking human being he was, no one would take me seriously if they found out that I’d been one of his extracurricular activities just this past weekend.
Unexpectedly, my mouse rolled over my mother’s name. I clicked on a story from this past weekend’s gossip column in the Sunday Mercury. As the queen of London gossip, and one of the oldest in her profession, Mum didn’t miss much. There were pictures of Nathan and the very married Audrey Alpern falling out of Annabel’s together, along with a chastising comment about marriage and karma.
I didn’t really know Nathan, but it still came as a shock that he would sleep with someone who was married. We hadn’t shared much about our lives, but from what I’d found out about him—bar the physical—I’d thought he was better than that.
Apart from being a little disappointed in the man I’d slept with on Saturday night, I now had to decide whether or not I should confess to Bernie about my one-night stand with Nathan. It was a potential conflict of interest as far as this story was concerned, and would likely result in Bernie reassigning the profile to someone else. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. Perhaps I couldn’t be impartial—although I wasn’t sure anyone could be when faced with those eyelashes.
Could I get past the complete mortification of having to work with a man who’d seen me naked two days ago? Very naked. And from every angle.
I’d been enjoying the freedom I’d felt since Saturday night. The energy I’d gotten had fired me up when I came into the office this morning, but now I felt like a deflated balloon. If this profile had been on anyone but Nathan Cove, I’d be itching to get started. But what should have been a simple, carefree encounter might potentially turn into very complicated disaster.
My colleague opposite me shot me a look and I realized I’d been tapping my keyboard with my fingernails. “Sorry,” I mouthed.
I’d wanted this job at the Post since I was a little girl and had gone into work with my mum during half term. I loved the hustle and bustle, the energy here. As I’d gotten older, I knew my future wouldn’t follow in my mother’s gossipy footsteps. I wanted to do something meaningful—something with a purpose—and I’d set my heart on the job I had right now. I didn’t want to pass over my chance to make my mark just because I was embarrassed. And I wasn’t going to confess anything to Bernie—not yet. I’d have to suck up the mortification. I owed that to myself. I was determined to become a credible journalist, and sometimes that journey was messy. Today, for me, it meant facing my not-so-recent past in the stark light of day.
Eight
Nathan
I hadn’t heard from Audrey and made a mental note to call her to see how she was holding up after the photos were released yesterday. I’d given her a heads-up about the story, but it was the last thing she needed given all she was going through. I checked emails on my phone as I strolled back to my office from the boardroom, where I’d just finished meeting with the chairman.
When several pairs of feet blocked my way, I looked up from my phone.
No, that couldn’t be right. I looked back at my screen and back up again, hoping that my brain had malfunctioned and needed a short reset.
But the same two women were standing speaking to my assistant, Christine: Gretel . . . and Madison Shore. Gretel being here was just annoying but Madison? That didn’t make sense.
I was hallucinating. It was the only explanation. Or perhaps I was still in bed asleep, dreaming, not standing outside my office staring at the woman I’d spent Saturday night tangled up in.