Pretty mess, p.20
Pretty Mess, page 20
Suite? My eyebrow rises. I bet that cost a pretty penny. I amend that figure and add a few noughts when we get inside the hotel. It’s full of light from the enormous windows and it’s stunning. Large pillars rise from the foyer, and sofas and chairs are dotted around, upholstered in lime greens and reds. Bold patterned rugs lie on the floor, and the white walls are lined with huge abstract artwork. I can smell coffee and something else expensive—probably people’s money evaporating on entry. Everyone looks like they just stepped off a runway at a fashion show for business chic, and I edge closer to Mac, very aware of my battered jeans and old uni hoodie.
“Let me show you up,” the woman continues. “Are you here for business?”
She and Mac obviously know each other, and within a few seconds, they’re speaking French. I sneak a glance at Mac as we walk towards the lifts. His French is fast, his accent beautiful, and he seems fluent even to my untrained ear. They rattle off a conversation I have no hope of following, and I look around catching sight of myself in a big mirror opposite the lifts. My reflection stares back at me. My hair is a little messy, my face is tired, but my eyes glow excitedly. I think of the stuff I’d looked up on my iPad. There’s so much I want to see—the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Orsay Museum, and the Arc de Triomphe. Familiar names that always seemed like distant dreams to me before. Four days seems almost too short a time to fit all of it in.
“Wes?”
When Mac says my name, I look up and find they’re both looking at me. “Sorry. I was deep in thought,” I say quickly.
“The world quivers in fear.”
I laugh and shove him lightly, noticing the lady’s glance of amazement before she glances away. “Shut up,” I tell him.
He chuckles. “I’m sorry we were speaking in French.”
The lift doors open and we step in. I smile at him. “Well, I suppose it’s handy seeing as we’re in France.”
“Nevertheless, it was rude of me when you don’t speak the language.”
The lift moves upwards smoothly. “I wish I did. It’s beautiful.” I eye him thoughtfully. “You don’t need to entertain me.”
“God forbid. I’d need a whip and a circus tent to do that.”
“And little dancing dogs in tutus. Don’t ever forget that,” I say earnestly, and he laughs.
The lift stops, and I follow them out into a corridor. It’s panelled in light wood, and the lighting is bright and warm. Our footsteps make no sound at all on the checked carpet, and there’s only one door, which is carved and made of the same wood as the panelling.
The lady stops at the door. “This is yours,” she says, producing a keycard and letting us in. “There are two floors in the suite, so you have plenty of space.”
I step inside, and my mouth drops open. We’re in a huge room with polished wooden flooring and floor-to-ceiling windows that show Paris stretched out in front of us. The walls are painted in cream, and there’s more of the same abstract art as downstairs. A dining table with seating for ten people is set to one side on a big cream rug. On the other side of the room is a lounge area with an oversized sectional and very comfy-looking chairs around a marble coffee table. On one wall is an enormous TV.
The lady smiles at us and then gestures to a wide entrance to the side of the room. We follow her and I tag along at their heels as she shows us a meeting room with a table big enough to chair a board meeting, and an office set up with seemingly everything a business tycoon would need. A big desk sits in front of a stunning view, but Mac gives Paris the same cursory glance as I’d do for my local Tesco car park.
“Perfect,” he says politely, but obviously keen to get the pleasantries over.
The woman smiles in acknowledgement. “I’ll show you the bedrooms and then leave you to it,” she says. “Your luggage is being brought up, and you have the same butler as before.”
Mac nods. “Thank you.”
“Butler?” I breathe.
She smiles. “You have access to service twenty-four hours a day, so please feel free to ring anytime for anything you need, Mr Archer.”
I have a vision of a butler sleeping standing up like a flamingo so he can answer requests for caviar hamburgers at four in the morning. I hastily clear my expression and assume an innocent face as Mac shoots me a look. His lip twitches, and he gestures to me to follow the lady who’s disappeared around the corner.
She shows us a bedroom and en suite, both of them just as fabulous and sumptuously furnished as the rest of the suite. I’m trying to hide my awe at the surroundings, but Mac just gives a cursory look at the beautiful room. “Lovely,” he says. He doesn’t sound at all excited.
A bell sounds, and the woman says, “That will be the luggage. I’ll go and let them in.”
She disappears, and Mac turns back to me. “You can take this bedroom, Wes.”
“What? I mean, pardon?”
He gestures at the sumptuous room. “This one has the best view of Paris, so you have it.”
“I’m willing to bet this hotel has no bad views.” I hesitate. “Aren’t we sharing a room?”
“No. I don’t share my bed when I sleep. There’s another bedroom in the suite. I’ll take that.”
He tips his head, scanning my features and I hope I don’t look disappointed. I guess being away from the London flat and traveling to this fabulous location had made me think… Well, I don’t know what it made me think. But it’s impossible not to imagine sleeping in that gorgeous bed with Mac and waking up together and walking out onto that balcony to take in that even more gorgeous view. Together.
“I did tell you that,” he says after a moment, a thread of insistence strengthening his voice.
“You certainly did,” I say, turning from the view of the room and the bed. “It’s fine. No worries.”
The concierge appears again. “The luggage is taken care of. Shall we go over the final details, Mr Reilly?”
Mac nods and shoots his cuffs. “Why don’t you explore upstairs, Wes, while we go over the arrangements for our stay?”
I’m not sure if it’s a suggestion or an order. His eyebrow rises, and I realise it’s definitely the latter.
“Of course,” I murmur.
They walk away, discussing arrangements for cabs and meals. “Fuck,” I breathe. I poke my head into a dressing room. It’s big enough to house the wardrobes of five people and smells of cedar.
I’ve never been anywhere so opulent. I roll that word around in my head. Yes, it’s the right one—opulent.
Ten minutes later, I hear Mac call my name.
“Up here,” I shout. There’s the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and I grin at him as he appears in the doorway. He’s taken off his coat, and his tie is loose, his hair falling over his forehead.
“Fucking hell, there’s a pool,” I proclaim and indicate it with my hand in case he’s somehow missed the expanse of blue water.
“Thank you for pointing that out. I might have missed it, otherwise, or rung down to reception to report a leak.”
“Can I book to swim in this?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is there a booking system for using the pool?”
“Erm, no. That is ours.”
“What?” I gape at him. “All of it?”
“No, just the corner at the deep end.”
“This is our pool?” I say again.
“That is correct. Or at least, it comes with our suite. We won’t be able to take it home with us.”
“Fucking hell.”
“Sometimes I think my attraction to you stems from your incredibly varied vocabulary.”
“You lie. It’s my anus.”
He laughs. “True. It’s the prettiest anus in town and rarely speaks back, unlike its owner.”
I shake my head. “That’s just wrong,” I point out, hearing him laugh again. “There’s even a sauna and a steam room. I may never leave this place.” I shoot him a glance. “This must have cost a fortune, Mac.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “It’s a five-star hotel. Of course it does. But I like my comfort and space.”
“Space? You’d have less room if you’d booked Buckingham Palace.”
“I believe that comes with corgis.”
I follow him down the stairs back into the lounge. “Look at that view,” I say wonderingly. He opens the bifolding doors, and we step onto a huge patio with flagstone flooring and stone balustrades carved into fantastical patterns. I look up and find two gargoyles grimacing at me. We must be right at the top of the hotel, and these are the same carvings I’d seen when we got out of the cab. The sky has lost its blue, and storm clouds have gathered through which the occasional golden ray of the sun lights up a turret or a building.
Mac fastens his hand on my shoulder, and I shiver at the feel of his touch. “Alright?” he immediately says. “There’s a storm coming. Are you cold?”
“No, I’m fine.” His gaze becomes knowing, and then he turns me to face forward. “We are on the Left Bank. The Louvre isn’t far away if you want to walk to it. Over there is the Eiffel Tower. At night, it’s lit up and very pretty. That is the Île de la Cité,” he continues pointing to a green island. “On it is Notre Dame and the Conciergerie, where Marie Antoinette was kept prisoner during the Revolution. Ask reception, and they will get you a taxi wherever you want to go during the week. They’ll charge it to the room.”
“Wow. It’s so beautiful.” I turn in his arms and gaze up at him. “I can’t wait to explore. Where shall we go first?”
My heart sinks as he steps back, straightening his tie and smoothing his suit. “I did say you’d be on your own for this trip. I’m afraid I have a business meeting.”
“Now?” I can’t keep the dismay out of my voice, but I thought the “business” part of the business trip would start tomorrow for him. “Sorry,” I say immediately. “I know you’re not here to enjoy yourself.”
“No, but you are.” He dips his hand into his pocket and retrieves an envelope. He opens it, withdrawing the contents. “For you,” he says steadily.
“What?” I’m astonished by the wad of cash he’s offering me.
“For you,” he repeats, as if I’m having difficulty following him.
I put my hands behind my back. I realise it’s a childish gesture, but I can’t help it.
“Wes?” He tilts his head as he scrutinizes me.
“Why are you giving me money?”
“Isn’t that our arrangement?”
I flinch, jerking my head away from him as if he’d reached out to slap me.
His eyebrows lower and the blue of his eyes soften. I read his expression as a mix of apology, pity, and concern. It makes my stomach knot and my spine stiffen.
“Wes?” He’s obviously out of words. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sorry if you thought—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, my cheeks burning. I suddenly feel very young. “I knew this was a business trip.”
He hands me the money, and this time I take it.
His shoulders relax and he smooths his already perfect tie. Everything is right again in his world. All business. Boundaries set. “I’ll be out until late tonight, so dial one on the phone for food. You can order from the butler.” He pauses as if waiting for a joke from me, but I can’t summon one. “He’ll get you anything you want,” he finishes awkwardly, almost as though he’s disappointed.
“What time will you be home?” I grimace. “Sorry. I meant, when will you be back here?”
“Late. I won’t say a time because these meetings are important.” He doesn’t need to add that I’m not important, but maybe he hears an echo of that because he forces a smile. “So, scoot.” He gestures at the scene behind me. “Explore. You’re in Paris, Wes. Buy something nice.” His smile becomes kinder. “You must want some new clothes.”
“Why?” I ask.
He doesn’t respond. He’s already back in the suite, busy gathering his messenger bag, some files, and his coat. I dog his steps, following him to the door. For a second, he hesitates, and I think he’s going to kiss me.
Instead, he touches his forehead in a gentle salute. “See you later,” he says, and he’s gone.
I sink into one of the expensive chairs, which cushions my body as if it were designed for me. I look down at the money in my hands. There must be three or four grand here. It’s a generous amount and one I probably should have expected given our circumstances. The circumstances I keep somehow forgetting in the thrill of being with him.
“I am an escort, and he is my client.” I say it out loud.
The words are bald and simple, but I have to acknowledge that despite everything we’ve done, and all the details of our arrangement with him “keeping” me, I’ve never truly felt like a whore.
I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. I stare down at the money in my hand. Small—that’s how I feel. Dismissed. Like I’m an item to be checked off Mac’s list. And, for some reason, Mac wanted, needed, to make me feel like this.
I sniff, my eyes getting hot. Then I make myself get up and go over to the windows. Paris lies before me. I can see the grey blue of the Seine, golden buildings and roofs, and windows. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stands proudly. Lights are starting to come on all over the city, and they gleam neon-bright against the darkening sky.
“Get over yourself, Wes.” The words drop into the opulent room’s silence, making me instantly feel better. I don’t have feelings for Mac beyond gratitude and an intense attraction. I don’t.
“You are in a beautiful city with money and time to explore. So what if you’re on your own? You’ve been that before him. You’ll be that after him. Now get out there and explore.”
So, I do.
It’s midnight and I’m lying on the sofa when I hear the door click. I watch as Mac walks into the room. He doesn’t see me at first, and I indulge in a rare opportunity to observe him in a private moment. Lines around his eyes and mouth are etched deeply. His jacket is rain-splattered, and droplets shine in the thick, dark strands of his hair.
I put down my book and he startles when he spots me. “What are you doing?”
“Erm, reading.”
“At this time of the night?”
“I can usually manage to do it at all hours of the day and night,” I say mildly.
His eyes narrow. “Why are all the doors open and you’re buried under a duvet?”
“I wanted to hear the rain.” He stares at me as if I’ve spoken a different language. “Don’t worry. It’s not from one of our beds. I borrowed it from another bedroom I found on a second look through the apartment.” I shake my head. “Two bedrooms seemed like overkill. I don’t even know what to say about a third.”
“I’m sure that’s a fib. You always appear to have something to say about any given subject under the sun.”
He tosses his bag on the chair and drifts over to the window. The promised storm rolled in a couple of hours ago, and I’d had a front-row seat as thunder rumbled and Paris lit up with lightning flashes. Now it’s just drizzling, and the city is exactly what he called it—The City of Lights. It’s like someone threw a net of twinkling fairy lights over it.
He rubs his neck, a sure sign of tension, and I sit up, throwing off the duvet. “Come here,” I say.
“Did I miss the use of the word please, or did you just decide not to go with manners today?”
I roll my eyes. “You wouldn’t know what to do if I used them, so what’s the point?”
“Very true.” I pat my leg in invitation, and he narrows his eyes. “I am not a dog, so why are you making that ridiculous gesture?”
“Because I’m going to rub your neck,” I say patiently. I reach for the small leather bag on the side table. “I found this in the bathroom, and I’ve been going through it. There’s some hand lotion in here somewhere. Did you know they even give us hotel water bottles. They’re well posh.”
He drifts closer and I note that his eyes are twinkling, perhaps losing some of their tiredness. “That’s probably why the room is forty-five thousand euros a night.”
My hand slips, and I drop the bag. “You’re joking?” He shakes his head. “What the hell, Mac? That’s a deposit for a house you just spaffed away.”
“Your vocabulary is just stunning. Absolutely stunning.”
“Well, it’s your money, I suppose,” I say disapprovingly. “Spaff away.”
“Thank you so much,” he says silkily.
I triumphantly exclaim when I find the hand lotion. “Come and sit at my feet,” I order. I’m amazed when he does as I say and settles in an elegant sprawl at my feet.
He directs a sparkling gaze at me. “That shut you up.”
“It certainly did.”
He rubs his neck again. “Although I can’t imagine you can do much to ease this knot. I need a… Oh my god, that’s so fucking good,” he groans as I start to massage his neck.
“Bloody hell, you’re tight,” I say, digging my fingertips into muscle and finding knots of tension. “How are you still upright? You must have such a headache.”
“A bit of one,” he admits. “I thought it was the company this evening.”
“Mine?”
“Good god, no.” I smile at the honest surprise in his voice. “No, the men I had dinner with. Even after five hours, I don’t think there was a single interesting thing said.”
“So why did you stay?”
“Business,” he says simply.
I huff and carry on the massage. He sinks farther into me, leaning against my leg with a tired sigh. I gentle my grip a little as the knots ease. The smell of lavender and coconut fills the air.
“You’re right. It is nice,” he finally says in a dreamy voice.
“What is?”
He waves a hand at the doors. The curtains billow in the breeze, and thunder rumbles far away in the distance. “The sound of the rain. I don’t think I’ve stayed still long enough to listen to that for ages.”
“You certainly don’t stay still enough,” I scold. “Always on the go and never sitting down.”
“I’m sitting down now. You made me do it with your officious manner. Anyway, the business doesn’t run itself.”
