IV

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It was barely six in the evening as they walked down Davies Street. Or rather Henry walked and Lauren struggled to match his stride in her impractical heels. If she had her way she would always wear flats; in fact she normally wore trainers or pumps with jeans, but there were certain situations that required heels, and this was one of them.

A doorman in a black top hat and tailcoat, edged in gold fabric, smiled and pushed open the door for them. Lauren's heels tic-tacked on the black and white marble tiles of the entrance; she was so preoccupied with keeping them on her feet and standing as straight and tall as possible, that the way the staff inclined their heads in subtle bows as Henry marched through the lobby almost escaped her notice.

Henry stilled and waited for Lauren to catch him up, pulling out a high red leather chair for her by the curved bar. He sat down beside her and leaned across to talk to the bartender; a young french man in his early twenties.

"Lauren, this Pierre," he said, before ordering two gin and tonics.

Lauren leant over the bar herself. "Pierre," she said. She noticed Henry turn to stare at her but she ignored him, focussing instead on the bartender, informing him that in fact she didn't want a gin and tonic at all, but would prefer a Kir Royale.

"You didn't ask what I wanted," she said, turning to face a bemused Henry. "I don't like gin," she explained.

Henry's lips twitched into a downward arc, before resuming their original line. "My apologies."

There was a warmth to the noise in the bar, as though the gentle sound of people enjoying themselves was cushioned in velvet. Glancing about the room Lauren noticed two attractive young women, a little older than she was, seated at a corner table. They had not stopped watching them since they entered the bar. Correction: watching Henry.

"So, shall we discuss business?" His voice distracted her and her eyes flitted back to his face, lingering only for a moment before the penetrating stare of his green eyes set her skin aflame.

The idea of discussing anything at all with Henry made her uneasy. She began to doubt her motivation in applying for the job in the first place. She had wanted to prove a point; to show him how capable she was, but he had barely given her the chance in the interview. He had chosen her for some peculiar reason of his own, which she could not even begin to fathom, and in so doing had taken all the power, all the control, from her moment of glory.

"I will provide accommodation for you, both here in London and in Brecktonshire."

"In your house?"

He tipped his head to one side. "Effectively. It means your living costs are minimal, which I should imagine equates to a fair increase in disposable income, given that you will no longer have to pay rent."

Lauren nodded. It would make a huge difference to her.

"And you know what the salary is?"

"I saw it in the advert. Thirty thousand upwards, dependent on experience."

She noticed him flinch as she enunciated the actual sum she was to be paid, and had an acute sensation of having committed an unforgiveable solecism.

"And given that you have no experience -"

"I do have experience. I told you, I was an office manager. I ran an office for nine months."

"Of how many employees?"

Lauren felt her stomach sink, and she couldn't prevent her eyes flickering nervously over his head. "I don't see what difference that makes."

He twisted his signet ring around his finger. "Do you know how many people I employ?"

"Approximately three hundred. Fifty based in your office here in Mayfair, twenty at the offices at Marbedon Manor, and the rest in the City."

Henry stirred his gin and tonic once more, poking the slice of lemon, watching it bob up and down. When he glanced up she was sitting, alert, waiting for him to reply. "Correct. Well done. And I have plans for international expansion-"

"With the focus being Asia."

"Yes. My last development-"

"Was sold almost entirely off-plan to investors in Shanghai."

Henry twisted his chair around to face her, holding her gaze for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "I'll speak to Human Resources about your remuneration."

Her heart was racing. She knew she'd impressed him, and she felt she could relax and begin to enjoy his company. And, if he pressed her, there was more where that information came from. She was never one to turn up to an interview unprepared.

*

Henry certainly did not hold back when it came to ordering alcohol. He ordered champagne, followed by wine, and then port. When Lauren, unsettled at the thought of the wasting anything, told him she couldn't eat or drink anything else he told her it didn't matter.

He had enjoyed watching her delight in the food, and in a small way, offering her this experience soothed his guilt for treating her so badly at the Dorchester. He liked to see the way she licked her lips between bites and tucked her dark hair behind her ears when it got in the way. He felt a perverse pleasure in knowing how he controlled this situation; how he had orchestrated it. The promise of continuing to control her when she worked for him loomed in his mind like a long-desired gift.

He knew she was drunk, because her cheeks and nose were splotched with red; but he too felt a quiet inebriation detach his senses from the surroundings. All he could really concentrate on was the girl in front of him, as the alcohol loosened her up. It was as though something had been undone, a belt, a garter, that had previously held her conversation, her personality, in check. She laughed when he said something funny, but not in the fawning way other women did; this girl laughed as though it were genuinely amusing, and the laughter was something she could not restrain.

"Would you like to see the house?" he asked.

She stopped, scrunching up her napkin and placing it on the table top. "Yes."

He smiled. "My driver will be outside. Shall we?"

Lauren's hands were pressed on the table and the back of the chair as she got up. She was more drunk than he had thought, and he reached out for her arm, which she took with evident relief.

Together they proceeded from the restaurant and through the lobby. All the while he was aware of her small hand gripping his sleeve. He released her as he stopped to collect his coat.

"Henry."

The voice, the way it undulated over the sound of his name, made his spine contract.

"Henry," again.

Slowly, he turned. "Lydia."

"I saw you earlier. In the bar. I thought it was you."

She was as beautiful as he remembered, but he took no pleasure in that face.

"Are you in town for long? Do you have time for a drink?" He saw her gaze dart to Lauren, and her lips snarl into a dismissive twist.

"I don't. I'm sorry." He turned away.

"Did you like the article?" she called after him, her skittering footsteps faster behind him. He took hold of Lauren, clasping her against him as he led them towards the exit.

"No."

"I'm thinking of running a sequel. I have a draft ready to send to my editor. I'm sure it would send shockwaves Henry, shockwaves-"

He pushed Lauren away, harder than he meant to, and stepped back towards the Lydia, so close that he could smell her perfume. "What do you want?" he hissed. "Money?"

She tilted her head back and laughed, false and brief. "You know I don't need any more of that."

He clenched his teeth, feeling his jaw tighten and begin to ache. How could he have been so foolish as to get mixed up with a woman like that?

Once more he gripped Lauren's arm, hauling her out of the hotel like a child who had misbehaved, forgetting who she was in his desperation to leave.

When they were out on the street Lauren pulled away from him. "Don't hold me like that," she said, tugging her arm free, feeling the hurt where he had gripped it. She was drunk, but not so drunk that she would accept being manhandled.

"The car," he said, pointing to where a chauffeur stood, waiting for them.

The vehicle was dark and sleek, shining under the streetlights. Henry waited for her to step in first, and as he elegantly climbed in after her she felt light-headed. The chauffeur closed the door with a puff of metal on metal and went round to get in the front himself.

"Take us home Andrew."

Lauren saw the flat black cap bob up and down as the driver acknowledged the instruction. Henry moved next to her, the fabric of his coat brushing against her thigh. She felt its touch as forcefully as though it had been his fingers trailing her skin, and she realised how much she had wanted an opportunity just like this since she had first met him. Alone, aside from the driver, in a dark enclosed space. She watched the orange glow of the streetlights flicker over his features, his jaw still tightly clenched.

Who had that woman been? Lauren's curiosity was piqued, but she didn't want to ask a question about someone who had so obviously disturbed his equilibrium. But she was irritated too that he was now distracted; he had previously seemed captivated by her in a way she had not imagined possible. Now, it seemed, an opportunity had been missed.

She sat back and placed her hands on her distended stomach. "I am so full," she said, rolling her eyes. "My dress is too tight."

Henry turned to her, his features so rigid they looked to be carved. "Take it off."

Lauren slid upright on her seat and moved away from him, pressing her body against the car door. She stared, her eyes wide, waiting for him to laugh or smile, or in some way indicate that he spoke in jest.

"What?" she asked, when he failed to do so.

"If it is too tight," he continued, "take it off."

She laughed in her own attempt to diffuse the tension. "You aren't serious?"

"I am quite serious." His tone was flat.

Lauren looked at him again, her heart hammering, smashing against her ribs. All she could feel was the rush of blood through her limbs, making them heavy. An excitement that appalled her began to build deep within, only to be swamped by a more visceral instinct. Deciding in seconds, she leant forward and tapped on the partition.

"Stop the car."

The soundproof glass that separated them from the driver rolled down.

"Excuse me?" said Andrew, glancing over his shoulder.

"Stop the car. Stop it right now." Lauren fought to conceal the true distress in her voice, but the shock of his words made it difficult to keep her tone even. She didn't want to sound like she was panicking.

She felt the car slow as Andrew pressed the brake.

"What? No. Andrew, do not stop the car."

"Do stop it. Right now, or I'll get out anyway." Lauren banged her palm on the partition, leaving a cloudy imprint. The car rolled to a stop in a quiet street in Belgravia, and she pushed the door open and flung herself out.

Henry sighed. "Wait here," he instructed his driver as he too jumped out of the car, feeling his body lurch towards the woman he had agreed to employ; the woman he had spent all evening desiring, wanting, imagining...

She had taken off her shoes and was pacing down the pavement, heels in hand.

Lord Almighty, he thought as he broke into a trot to catch her up, if anyone looks out their window and sees this, I'm going to be in trouble tomorrow. He didn't shout her name for fear of alerting his neighbours or any lingering paparazzi. He ran his hand through his hair, envisaging his image plastered in the gossip columns of the tabloids.

"Stop," he said, when he was close enough for her to hear without having to raise his voice. He took a few longer strides and reached out and grabbed her. He felt the flesh of her upper arm yield in his fingers and he twisted her round to face him. "What are you doing? Are you crazy?"

She shook away from him. "Are you?" Her eyes were blazing like two angry demons, beckoning him down to hell.

He felt himself pinned to the spot, his tongue useless in his mouth. When he said nothing she spoke again.

"I can't work for someone who thinks it's acceptable to make that kind of comment."

Henry battled the urge to laugh. If he had known she would react like this, he would never have said it. Her words were slurred, but he felt the full force of her anger nonetheless.

"I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did. You meant it. I wouldn't be surprised if you've said it before. Just like that. And I bet they did it too."

She was right; of course she was. Normally they did take their clothes off if he made it clear he expected it. Sometimes they were only too willing to do so, and he didn't even have to pose the question. He wondered, momentarily, if he should have waited until they got back to the house; but shook his head. Somehow even the house wouldn't have worked on this woman, as young as she was. He reached out and pinned her arms to her sides. "Please get back in the car."

"Not with you."

"Lauren, you're over-reacting. It was a joke" - this seemed to him the most appropriate explanation - "I'm sorry if my sense of humour offends you. I really am." He bent lower so he was more on a level with her as he spoke.

She scowled at him.

God, he'd really ballsed this one up. He jerked his head to flick his hair off his forehead, and gave up the chase. She was drunk and obstreperous; he could not reason with her now. He stood up straight and looked down on her.

"Andrew will take you home. Where do you live?"

He noticed her bare toes scrunch up on the pavement, like she was trying to grip the ground as she told him her address, right down to the postcode. He waved back at the car, which immediately turned round and quietly hummed up next to them.

Still with one hand clasped to her arm, in case she chose to take flight again, he told Andrew to deliver her safely home. But just before she climbed in the car, he whispered:

"Please, Lauren, don't refuse my offer based on a drunk misunderstanding."

She neither agreed nor disagreed, but continued to look at the ground.

"Please Lauren."

Her steely gaze met his, shooting it down as she lifted her soiled feet into the vehicle.

Henry stood watching the car drive south, the only vehicle moving through a dark summer's evening.

I almost begged her, he thought, confused by the new sensation.

*

Lauren stirred two heaped teaspoonfuls into her coffee, staring at her unmade bed, wondering if she should get back into it. Her head was pounding, and the most monstrous of hangovers hid just behind her eyelids, writhing awake whenever she moved. The smell of the damp bedroom crept into her nostrils, and she listened to the silence of the house around her. The others had, thank goodness, gone to work.

Her borrowed suit lay in a heap by the bed, her knickers inside the dress, where she had drunkenly stepped out of them. Her shoes were nowhere to be seen.

The alarm clock on her bedside table read 11.42am. It was nearly midday. It was late.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. Initially, she thought it was for another of the flats, so she let it ring. But almost as soon as it stopped, it began again.

She sighed and, desperate to stop the noise which threatened to rupture her brain, she padded down the hall to the front door and pressed the buzzer.

"Who is it?"

"Miss Lauren Taylor?"

"Yes?"

"Delivery. Can we come up?" The voice was male, and Lauren wasn't keen on the idea of letting any man in when she was home alone. He must have sensed her hesitation.

"We're from Banville Developments."

She took her finger from the speaker button so they couldn't hear her curse. Then she buzzed them in anyway and ran to put some more clothes on.

When she finally opened the door, a smartly dressed man stood in her doorway with boxes piled high in his arms. Behind him stood another man, with shopping bags looped over his wrists and arms.

"Miss Taylor?" he questioned.

Lauren's jaw dropped. "Yes."

"May we come in?"

She frowned and moved aside. "Are those for me?" she asked, following the first man as he placed the boxes down on the only available surface; the coffee table. The other man placed the bags on the floor nearby.

"Yes. And this," he said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a thick envelope.

When they had left, Lauren, her fingers trembling, moved towards the boxes on the table. Lifting them up she read the names; Louis Vuitton, Salvatore Ferragamo, Lanvin. In the bags on the floor were shoe boxes and a leather handbag from Loewe.

The boxes contained suits; five dress suits, to be precise. Each one pristine and wrapped in tissue. Each one in the right size.

She fingered the rich fabrics.

"I'm being bought," she whispered, frightened to hear the words spoken out loud.

She collapsed on the sofa and opened the envelope, half expecting it to be a handwritten apology from Henry himself. It wasn't.

Inside it contained her contract, and other details of her offer of employment. She flicked to the salary and the amount, typed in bold print, made her gasp. She took such a rapid breath that she nearly choked on the air itself. It was more than double what the original stated salary was. It was more than she had ever imagined earning, let alone in her early twenties. And, the letter read, there was also the possibility of a discretionary 'performance-based' bonus.

There was a compliments slip from Henry, with nothing written on it; just his title and address and the words 'with compliments' printed on it.

She folded up the letter and put the lid on the boxes, piling them on top of one another and moving them aside.

She needed to think about this.

*

"Darling, we'll come and collect you and your stuff tomorrow, is that OK?"

Lauren sighed as she contemplated the best words to let her mother down. "I'm not coming home mum. I've found a new job, and the accommodation is included."

"Is this the private secretary role?"

Lauren swallowed. She hadn't accepted the role, and she wasn't sure she was going to; but right now she wasn't ready to admit that to her mother. "Yes. I got it. I start next week."

She heard her mother's breath wheeze down the line. She held the receiver away.

"Are you sure you want that job?"

Her mother's tendency to ask just the right questions never failed to make a shiver run down Lauren's spine.

"Well - "

"Look" - her mother cut through her - "I told Tony you would meet him, in Brentwood."

"For Christ's sake mum, I didn't ask you to do that."

"Do not use that language with me, young lady." She heard her mother's disappointed tsk-tsk click over the line. "And you did say you would meet him, and I knew you were coming home this weekend."

"Well, I'm not."

"I think you should. Spend some time with us. I've already bought the ingredients for chili con carne...your favourite." Her mother's voice lingered on the last words, pleading with her to come home.

"I have a lot to sort out before then," she said.

"Just come home for the night. We booked tickets to a matinee because we knew we had to come up to get you, so we'll be in London on Saturday anyway. We'll pick you up and drive you home. Then you can see Tony on Sunday."

*

"You've done what?" asked Emily, as they walked up the main staircase in the Royal

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