Page 92 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
Not sure whether to bath here and be in my new underwear already (in which case I’ve got nothing else to pull out the bag), or whether it would be better to lay the underwear out on the hotel bed like a kind of enticing preview and then bath there? Think will do proper, useful bathing here (and the necessary hair maintenance – Guy has mentioned how grateful he is for the millennial approach to pubic hair and said that if he wanted to meet with an untamed bush, he’d still be servicing his wife) and then I can do seductive bathing and (unnecessary) underwear change there.
God, I’m nervous. Almost tempted to have some of Alan’s home-made whisky – bet it’s awesome.
I ask the Universe:
To please make sure Guy doesn’t turn up looking weird or wear one of those sleep mask things or decide tonight is the time to reveal he likes a gimp costume
To please, please help me out re Matthew…
Date: Sunday 19 FebruaryTime: 5.30pm
My thoughts and reflections:
Thank you, Universe!
Everything has gone way better than I could have hoped for.
Guy doesn’t look that different out of work clothes; he is still smart, sexy and with that sort of European Armani model vibe (albeit a little shorter and a little more hirsute than an actual Armani model). But he’s got the cashmere scarf, woollen jumper, three-quarter-length coat etc. No Vans in sight. He was duly appreciative of the beauty of Little Minchcombe, and downright grateful as soon as he’d entered the Lamb with its expansive reception and curved velvet sofas. ‘It’s fucking decent, Alice, for the countryside. What’s the wifi code?’
We were in the middle of checking in at the island desk when he got a call which he had to deal with, so I used the opportunity and casually leant round the vast bunch of flowers to ask the intimidatingly immaculate woman behind them whether Matthew was about and was told, ‘I’m sorry, but unfortunately Matthew’s away and won’t be here until Tuesday.’
‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘Any chance he’ll be popping in? How do you know he won’t be here?’
‘Erm, well, Mr Lloyd is currently out of the country,’ she said.
‘What time is his flight back on Tuesday?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give out personal details. But our manager will be very happy to help you today if—’
‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ I said quickly, trying to hide my relief. I had a sudden flashback to Matthew’s grin as he walked in on New Year’s Eve whilst I was talking about procuring seedy sex. ‘Are you absolutely confident he won’t just turn up suddenly?’ I double-checked. ‘I mean the man uses helicopters. Can you evertrulyrelax? CanIrelax? That’s what I need to know really.’
There was a moment where she looked bemused and where I had to hold my nerve, because when you’re paying this much (or when Guy Carmichael is, in this case) you expect good service.
She blinked a couple of times. ‘If Mr Lloyd does arrive unexpectedly, I can notify you… ?’
‘That sounds reasonable,’ I agreed.
So now, I finally get to enjoy the Lamb properly – and my first full night with Guy! The room we’re staying in is gorgeous – all pared-back luxe, cool linens and warm oak, gunmetal grey roughly plastered walls and exposed beams, natural rugs and flattering lighting. Guy gave it the once-over and said his wife would bust her Botoxed brow if she saw this – apparently they have the same cream boucle mid-century armchair. Still, at least he feels at home. We’ve already sunk one bottle of champagne and had sex (he was a bit louder than usual but nothing disturbing), and now we’re companionably working. Well, I’m writing this and Guy’s working (and occasionally running his hand up my thigh in a decidedly proprietary fashion which is doing it for me), but it all looks the sameto the casual observer. I only wish I could capture it and put it online for the casual (or not-so-casual) observer, but I’ve been careful to only take shots where Guy is definitely not in them – no way I’m doing a Charlotte. Am about to have a bath in the ascetic yet excessively generous tub and then I imagine it will be more sex before we go down for dinner, especially as Guy has just said, ‘The way you’re sucking that pen, Alice, is giving me ideas.’
Manifesting is the business.
In one word:
Winning
Date: Monday 20 FebruaryTime: 1.45am
My thoughts and reflections:
So, I’m curled up over here on the boucle armchair that Mrs Carmichael also owns, entirely awake, and wondering if I’ll ever be able to sleep again. Guy is snoring, contentedly. Something seems to have gone a little awry manifestation-wise. I’m in no way criticising the Universe (a poor workman blames tools, etc.) but I’m going to have to review my approach after this.
To recap, the bath was up there with the best baths I’ve ever had, and the La Perla underwear stayed on for all of two minutes and therefore can be deemed successful, and we were still only fifteen minutes late for our dinner reservation. All going well, so far, and I was looking forward to the opportunity to impress Guy with my dazzling conversation over supper as we’d done very little talking since we arrived. The ambience of the restaurant was intimate yet convivial, with its warm wood-panelled walls, medieval arched doorways and double-sided stone fireplace, and whilst it was busy, it was very much geared towards seclusion, with tables carefully placed to give the sense of discretion and separation. Maybe it was the result of sex and champagne, or maybe it was because Guy was looking particularly saturnine tonight – from a certainangle, the candles were giving him horn shadows – but I felt simultaneously relaxed and on edge.
Like any well-brought-up woman of my generation, I committedly drank and ate my way through my feelings, and we were therefore midway through dessert before I realised that the conversation wasn’t going as I’d imagined. I was enjoying a spoonful of my caramel miso, bergamot and buttermilk sorbet when Guy said, ‘Christ, Alice, the way you’re sucking that sorbet is giving me ideas.’ And as sexy as I found that, I was slightly tempted to point out that I’d given him ideas several times this evening, and all of these ideas were quite similar in nature. Then Guy tried the dessert wine which was paired with his chocolate marquise, and pretty much orgasmed on the spot. ‘Notes of honey and apricot with the chocolate, Alice. Riesling icewine in the fucking Cotswolds? The man is a bloody genius.’
This was on the back of Guy admiring the décor and the menu and even the service (admittedly good) and quizzing me about Matthew Lloyd – how long had we known each other? (Too long.) Had he always intended to turn his hand to hospitality? (I’d kind of assumed he was set on turning his hand to being an asshole, so no.) And he really hadn’t asked me anything about me.
‘I hardly think he’s a genius,’ I said, feeling a little prickly. ‘Anyone can choose wine.’
