Caspian was elusive after that. Busy, I guess? At any rate, it turned out guests weren’t a problem, as long as I gave Bellerose enough notice to clear it with security and update Caspian’s diary so he knew I wasn’t available.
I was actually super excited to see Nik. And I think he was happy to see me—although it was slightly overshadowed by his reaction to the apartment.
“Holy fuckballs,” he said, his bag slipping off his shoulder and thumping onto the floor. “When you said to meet you at Hyde Park, I assumed you were just using it as a landmark and we’d be off to some scuzzy bedsit you were renting in Peckham.”
“Yeah, I’m just crashing here while my crack den is being repainted.”
Nik turned dazedly, his eyes skidding over glass and silk and marble, much as mine had done when I’d first arrived. As, to be fair, they still did because I wasn’t sure how you ever got used to a place like this. “Seriously, Arden. How can you afford it?”
It was an entirely reasonable question. “I’m housesitting, I guess? For a friend?”
“What friend? Mohamed Al-Fayed?”
“Um”—crunch time—“Caspian Hart.”
I was being gaped at. I shuffled my feet.
“Do you want to maybe not stand in the hall?” I asked. “There’s a sitting area. And a receiving area.”
“Sure. Why the hell not. Receive me.”
I didn’t, in the end, receive him. The sitting area was cozier—cozier, that is, by the standards of the apartment. Meaning it looked basically like a magazine except the pearl-gray sofa was only very large as opposed to inconceivably vast. You could have fit all my friends and family into the receiving area with room to spare. Here they would have had to squish up.
“Let me get this straight.” Nik sank onto a chair. “Your…friend…Caspian Hart. Is letting you stay in his home?”
I curled up in the corner bit of the sofa. Sofas with corner bits were the best sofas and this one, being an elegant U-shape, had two. “It’s not his home. It’s just one of his houses. He was very clear about that.”
“Right. But he’s just letting you stay here?”
“Only for six months.”
“It’s not the duration that’s confusing me here.”
“Is it really so weird that Caspian Hart would offer his multimillion-pound luxury— Okay, yes, it’s weird. The truth is, I’m sleeping with him.”
“You’re dating Caspian Hart?”
“No, just sleeping with him.” Squirm. “And while that’s happening, this is where I’m living.” Squirm. “I know it’s a bit prostitutey.”
He stared at me. “Are you kidding me? I think it’s awesome. Look at this stuff.”
“Isn’t it neat?” I mustered a limp smile.
“Oh come on. You don’t feel bad, do you?”
“Sometimes. A little bit. I mean”—awkward gesture—“this place is just…and I’m not really…”
“Not really what?”
“Worth it.” Eep. That sounded bad. “I mean,” I added hastily, “in a literal exchange of goods and services way.”
“You’re not fungible, Ardy.”
“Damn right I’m not. I’m very hygienic.”
He laughed. “Boom tish. I just meant, it’s all proportional. He’s a multibillionaire who keeps this place around as his spare…I don’t know what. This is nothing to him. And you’re something.”
I blinked. He actually had a point. Caspian wanted me. Within certain limitations, admittedly, but he wanted me. And it wasn’t like I’d be any less interested in being with him if the apartment was no longer on offer. Cards on the table, I was secretly hoping he’d still be into me when it wasn’t.
“Besides”—Nik was once again gazing at the magnificence—“I think I’d sleep with him if he let me stay here. And I’m straight.”
“I think that makes you heteroflexible at the very least.”
He grinned. “No, just mercenary.”
“What about the time—”
Before I could remind him about the enthusiastically received hand job delivered by yours truly, he’d bounced off the sofa. “Can I get the guided tour?”
“Um, sure.”
It didn’t take very long because everything was laid out to look as impressive as possible, which meant most of the rooms flowed together. But Nik gasped and cooed and squee-ed over everything, turned on all the devices, opened all the cupboards, poked and prodded and peered, and rolled around on the guest bed like an excited golden retriever. And, for the first time since I’d moved in, I felt…not at home exactly, but unambiguously happy to be there. It was that naughty holiday feeling you got from staying at a posh hotel, knowing you could flump around in the branded dressing gowns and use the fancy shampoo in the tiny bottles.
“This is the best.” Nik waved his arms and legs in the air. “I wish I hadn’t got onto this research project now. I could have stayed here, leeching off you.”
“No, you couldn’t. Caspian is going to want to, y’know…bone down on me at some point.” Soon, I hoped.
“You could put a sock on the door.”
“Go fuck your own billionaire.”
Grinning, Nik sat up and gave me what he probably thought was a coy glance. “Well, at least show me a good time tonight.”
I’d always been nervy of taking advantage of Caspian’s generosity. Which, in practice, meant living on Coco Pops and pretending not to exist. Honestly, if there’d been a cupboard under the stairs, I’d probably have moved into it. But he’d given me access to a lot of really cool stuff and Nik didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with what I was doing so…maybe…just this once?
“Come on, then,” I said, holding out my hand. “Let’s live the high life.”
I took him down to the pool, which was way less murdery when I wasn’t on my own. And afterward we tried out the sauna, where I got to enjoy the sight of a largely naked and incredibly glisteny Nik. Unfortunately, I think I probably just looked pink and fainty—so I removed joint sauna taking off the list of sexy things I could daydream about doing with Caspian.
I’d never quite been able to wrap my head around the fact that the building had its own spa—but it really did, and they welcomed us lavishly enough that it made me self-conscious. Nik seemed pretty happy, though, as he was whisked off to do this special gentleman treatment thing called a power lift facial that wouldn’t threaten his masculinity. Since I gave no fucks about my masculinity, I had a rose-themed series of massages that left me limp and fragrant from toes to scalp.
“Wow.” Back at the flat, Nik had raided the fridge, poured a glass of the water I hadn’t dared drink, and draped himself over the sofa I usually perched on. “I can’t imagine being able to do this every day.”
“I don’t,” I protested. “Mainly I spend my time failing to be a journalist.”
Nik gave me a look. “I think you have to actually do something to fail at it.”
“You mean I’m failing at failure?”
“You’ve hardly been here five seconds.”
“Yeah, I know.” I heaved out a tragic sigh. “But I was supposed to have applied for internships and I didn’t, so now I’ll have to approach people and pitch stuff and waaaah!”
“Hey,” he started dramatically, “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you approach people and pitch stuff?”
I pouted.
“What? You know you’re a good writer.”
“Maybe at university. But this is the real world now. The stakes are different.”
“Not really. It’s the same pool of people if you think about it.”
Huh. “I guess.”
“Then maybe…write something?”
I opened my mouth—
“And don’t whimper about it.”
“But I’m so cute when I’m whimpering.”
“Save it for your billionaire.”
I whimpered anyway. “I don’t know what to write about.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Nik gazed around the flat. “Nothing to write about here.”
“I can’t…OMG. That would be a total violation of Caspian’s trust.”
“I’m not suggesting you give us a blow-by-blow of your relationship. But isn’t this lifestyle magazine gold dust?”
“Regular reader of those, are you?”
“I went to school with half the people who show up in Milieu these days so”—he blushed—“yeah. Of course I am.”
Oh my God, too adorbs. I just had to tease him. “And how else would you know what handbag Kate Middleton is carrying.”
“Hey, hey.” Nik got, if possible, even pinker. “They do this watch and sports car pullout, which is amazing.”
More famous still was The List, which was a rundown of the UK’s top hundred most eligible single people. I could vaguely remember a time when it had been bachelors only but yay for social equality. Last year Caspian Hart had been number seven, sandwiched between Prince Harry and Phoebe Collings-James. Not that I’d looked it up or anything. Ahem.
“It would be completely amazing to work for Milieu,” I said dreamily.
“Then get scribbling.” Nik had obviously reached his limit for talking about my feelings—which, to be fair, was higher than you’d expect for someone whose preferred emotional outlet was running really fast or lifting heavy things. “Is there anything to eat around here?”
“Coco Pops? Or I could make toast.”
“Seriously? People who live in places like this dine on breakfast cereal?”
“Well, no. There’s private chefs and restaurants I could call, I guess. Or there’s…what’s it called…in-residence catering from the hotel next door.”
“Isn’t that one of Heston Blumenthal’s places?” Nik gave me starving puppy eyes.
I winced, very aware I was being a rubbish host. Bellerose had explicitly told me I had access to, well, basically anything I could imagine wanting. But running up a massive bill felt seedy as all hell. “Let me check, okay?”
I left Nik devouring the menu on my laptop and went into the hall to phone Bellerose. He picked up on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“Um.” Was I ever going to manage to talk to Caspian’s assistant, either in person or at a distance, without feeling gauche and stupid? Our survey said: no. “You know how I’ve got my friend Nik staying?”
“Yes.”
“Well, is it okay if we order dinner from the hotel restaurant?”
There was a sharp little silence.
“Yes, Arden. It is okay if you order dinner from the hotel restaurant. If you’re very good, you can even stay up till eleven.”
Great. Now I wanted to curl up and die. “This is your way of telling me I shouldn’t be bothering you, isn’t it?”
He hung up.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
Nik was still glued to the screen when I slunk back. “Ardy, this menu is totally whack.”
“Order the whole damn thing if you like.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He glanced up. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
He held out an arm and I snuck in gratefully beside him. Tried to distract myself with the familiar warmth of his body. And the menu, which was, indeed, whack. “I don’t think I know what any of this is.”
“We could roll a dice.”
“Nerd.”
“Or pick for each other.”
Sensing a prime opportunity to troll my beloved friend, I perked up and went for it. “Let’s do that. You’re having Rice & Flesh to start.”
His eager little face went through several variations of perturbation, distress, and apprehension. “Well, fine. You can have the Savory Porridge. Which is frog legs, garlic, parsley, and fennel. Mmmmmmm. Sounds delicious.”
I’m pretty sure my own little face turned gray. “Yay,” I said weakly. “I love fennel.”
Sadly the mains and desserts offered a lot less opportunity for mischief, though we did our best. I tormented Nik by ordering him a dish just called Braised Celery, which made him get me the most expensive beef thing on the menu—bone in rib, apparently—on the expectation he could share it with me when the braised celery turned out to be a bust. Because, as Nik put it, fucking celery, man. For pudding, we went with Sambocade, which was apparently a kind of goat milk cheesecake, and an apple tart, the description of which contained absolutely no references to apples.
While I phoned through the order, Nik opened a bottle of champagne. He’d chosen one of the less-extravagant-looking bottles—just dark green glass, foil that seemed to hover somewhere between gold and silver, and an austere label reading CHAMPAGNE KRUG CLOS DU MESNIL 1988—so hopefully it wasn’t too expensive.
All that time I’d spent thinking champagne was meh? Turned out I was wrong. Very very wrong.
“This,” said Nik, “is like…if there was a unicorn made out of vanilla and sparkles, and it was running through a field of primroses on a spring morning to meet its best unicorn friend for honey cakes…like…if that was champagne.”
I nodded. “Or like…if you had a pear, right, that had lived a life of absolute virtue and had reached a higher state of pear…and if that pear was nestled into the bosom of a nymph, with flowers in her hair, bathing in a crystalline spring in the Elysium fields.”
“Yeah. Just like that.”
“It’s…it’s really good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
We contemplated this for a while.
“You don’t think,” I asked, “it was special or anything, do you?”
“Nah—1988 isn’t that old.”
“It’s older than me.”
“Yeah, but you’re not mature. Or champagne.”
I pressed a hand to my heart. “If I was, I’d like to be this champagne.”
“If you were, I would drink you.”
“I’d probably let you.”
Sometime between opening the bottle and finishing the bottle and embarking on another one, we had decided to lie on the rug to better appreciate the beauty of the universe.
Which was when dinner arrived. It was super super weird to be served in your home like it was a restaurant, except it was hard to imagine One Hyde Park being anyone’s home really, and we were tipsy, which helped with the embarrassment factor.
The food went by in a blur of faint weirdness. They’d brought us this complementary starter, which was an orange and some burned toast, except the orange was actually pate and Nik exploded it with a knife when he tried to slice into it like you would a piece of fruit. The Rice & Flesh turned out to be saffron risotto with cow bits on top—although it was delicious—and my savory porridge was the worst thing in the world. Probably it tasted okay once you got over the fact that it was bright green and the frog legs croquettes had the bones sticking up like they were flipping you off.
I got my revenge with the mains, though, since the braised celery was still, y’know, braised celery, despite being covered in cheese. Whereas I was presented with most of a dead animal in this amazing sweet-sticky-smoky sauce and crispy, thick-cut chips like you get in gastro pubs. Although, if those were my terms of reference, probably I didn’t have much of a future as a food critic.
By the time we got to dessert, we were basically dead of indulgence. The caramelized apple tart turned out to be literally a caramelized apple on a pastry base, with ice cream on the side. So that was sort of hilarious. As was the fact that Nik cut into it super carefully, having obviously been scarred for life by the disguised orange experience.
What was left of the evening found us in a pile on the sofa, under a duvet dragged from the guest room, watching Supergirl on the enormous wall-mounted TV. Nik idled his fingers in my hair and it was like being at Oxford—except university had been this closed system, made up of habits and proximity and inevitability. Now we were in the world. And the world was kind of…ours.
Full of possibility.
Or I was just full of champagne.
“What’s he like?” Nik asked.
“Hmm?”
“Caspian Hart.”
“Oh.” Tricky one, that. “Complex.”
“Wow, you’ve really developed this keen insight into him, haven’t you?”
I gnanged his shoulder. “I’m not sure what to say. He’s rich, powerful, and insanely hot. He lives in a different world from me.”
“Yeah, but do you like him?”
I wondered how to explain.
“The fact that you’re taking so long to say yes isn’t a great sign, Ardy.”
“Oh my God, of course I like him. I just…I’m not sure I know him.”
“Well, you only met him a few months ago.”
“I get that but”—I chewed my lip thoughtfully—“it feels…deeper somehow. Like maybe he doesn’t want me to.”
Nik was quiet for a moment or two. “This reminds me of the time you broke up with that guy because he didn’t like Labyrinth.”
“Yes, because what sort of monster doesn’t like Labyrinth?”
“Um…maybe this isn’t about Labyrinth. Just saying.”
I peeped at him over the top of the duvet. “You mean—dum dum duhhh—it’s about me.”
“You do have a way of getting out of relationships.”
“But,” I pointed out, all logical-like, “I’m not in a relationship with Caspian.”
“And yet you’re still looking for the thing that’s wrong with it.”
Wow. He’d got me there.
“Wow,” I said, “you got me there.”
He pulled me in closer and attacked my hair until it was all fluffy and annoying. “I’m really going to miss you.”
“I love you too.”
I snuggled down even farther. Vaguely turned my attention to Supergirl—who was saving the world with her compassion and sincerity, and some hard-core punching. Mainly, though, I was thinking about what Nik had said and if it was true. I mean, yes, it was. Kind of.
Or maybe it was a totally different problem this time. Because, for once in my life, I didn’t want out of a relationship: I wanted in one. But that meant finding my way—probably through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered—past the man Caspian kept trying to be, the one who sent me flowers by rote and touched me by rote and didn’t seem to see me when he looked at me, to the one who had whispered to me down the phone, laughed with me, listened to me, comforted and believed in me. The man who had come for me at Oxford when I most needed him to be there.
And whose harsh kisses stripped bare his needs to me as surely as I bared mine to him.