Page 100 of The Unraveling

“No more guests at the apartment.”

“Wh-what?”

He smiles at me and then says, “I have cameras at the place. Outside. Not inside. Don’t worry. I didn’t and wouldn’t watch. I couldn’t bear it.”

I feel a plunge of embarrassment. “Oh, shit.”

“I know I have no right to ask for this, but I couldn’t stand thinking about you there with Luca. It didn’t help seeing him handling you just now. I’m not usually a jealous man.”

I know I’m beet red. “It’s your place, I understand. I probably shouldn’t admit it, but you have nothing to be jealous of.”

He lifts my chin up to him. “Look at me.”

I obey, looking up into his steely eyes. “Really nothing. You’re all I can think about.”

He kisses me again, more eager this time. His hands playing with the strap of my leotard. It would be so easy for him to just pull it down. I moan, wanting that so desperately. He pulls back, smirking, and says, “Good. I know I have no right, but I like the idea that I consume you and no one else does.”

He steps back. He knows he’s completely being a tease.

“Now listen, I need to run,” he says. “But tomorrow. Berretti’s at six p.m.”

—

Part of me thinks that I should cancel the meeting at Berretti’s. The reality of meeting Clementine yesterday in rehearsal makes my forbidden thoughts about Alistair seem suddenly more inappropriate than ever before. I’m confused and I’m angry. What the fuck is going on? He told me he was separated. They didn’t seem close, but they also didn’t seem on the brink of divorce. And then what happened in Mary’s office. Who am I becoming?

I could tell him I have an added rehearsal. Or I could say I need to call Mimi because I had a voicemail from her care home and something happened—no, first of all he’d probably know if I was lying, and second of all I don’t want to jinx her. I believe in that kind of thing.

I try to remind myself that this is all part of the job. It’s part of having a donor. It’s part of keeping everyone happy. And maybe I should try to enjoy it. My mom certainly would. Berretti’s is a beautiful luxury department store. If he’s taking me shopping there, which is what I assume is happening, it should just be exciting.

Shouldn’t it?

I arrive about ten minutes before six p.m., going through the old, ornate revolving doors, the warm gust of air a welcome relief from the cold, damp weather outside. It’s dark out today, the moody, heavy clouds gathering low and opaque in the sky, seemingly just a little higher than all the buildings.

I decide to take the escalator up to the fifth floor to meet Alistair, wanting to take the time to admire each floor and its elegance. Plus, I’m here early. This is why I showed up early.

I’m dressed simply, in a black fitted turtleneck and tight black jeans, my hair in loose curls, diamond earrings in my ears. I bought them for myself after my promotion to principal with NAB, deciding that I deserved them after a lifetime of cubic zirconia from Claire’s. It was an irresponsible thing to do with my money, but I have never regretted it. Every time I need to elevate myself for my surroundings, they’re the first thing I grab.

Despite them, though, I still feel like a fish out of water. There’s a sophistication to this place that makes me feel like I’m about three generations of wealth behind on knowing how to shop here.

The first floor is jewelry, makeup, and handbags. The glass counters glow as spotlights land on sparkling diamonds, gold, platinum, and silver earrings, rings, bracelets, necklaces, and even—I spot—a tiara. The makeup looks more glamorous here than it ever does in a makeup bag, every little compact and brush looking like something to be treasured. The bags are all perched on their own little pedestals. The place smells like roses and leather.

The next two floors I pass are women’s designer labels. I see Prada, Dior, Celine, Yves Saint Laurent.

The fourth floor—my heart nearly stops as my eyes land on all of them at once—is shoes. Fucking amazing shoes. Patent leather loafers gleam beneath the lights, sparkly pumps glisten, and delicate stilettos that hardly look as though they could support the weight of any woman. Even a carb-starved ballerina.

Finally, I get to the fifth floor. Menswear. I feel a flush of embarrassed disappointment. Maybe I wasn’t brought here to be treated, but instead to help him. Help him with what, though?

Surely he has people for that. And plus, all of his suits look custom-made.

When I don’t immediately see him, I find a clerk. There’s a woman adjusting the belt on a mannequin, a little obsessively, if I’m honest, as the adjustments she’s making are almost imperceptible.

“Excuse me,” I say.

She turns. She’s an older woman, one of those women who looks like she never goes anywhere without her “face on.”

“Yes, miss?”

“I’m looking for Special Services.”

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