SEVEN

 

Ida

 

“Marta!” I shout as I slam our front door shut behind me. Tossing my handbag and coat on the arm chair, I kick off my heels and head for the kitchen. By the time, Marta joins me, I’ve already taken a bottle of wine from the fridge and gotten two wine glasses down from the cabinet.

“What’s wrong,” she questions. She tilts her head in the direction of our balcony. “On second thought, let’s sit outside and you can tell me all about it.”

Once we’re set up on our sun lounges, with the bottle of wine on the little, glass table between and a glass of wine in our hands, I find myself speechless. Unable to determine where I should begin, I take a huge sip, then lean my head back against the soft, canvas cushion of my seat. Looking at the dark, night-time sky, I let out a huge sigh.

“Alrighty, spill lady,” Marta demands. “You were excited when you left for this dinner. Who’s ruined your vibe already?”

“Felix King.”

Marta drains her glass before she pours herself another. “Yeah, you’re going to have to expand your answer. I have no idea who he is.”

“Perfection is what he is,” I say with another sigh. “Tall, dark, handsome, foreign perfection.”

“I’m not detecting a problem, yet,” Marta quips. “Seems to me like you should still be at dinner, not sitting here sighing like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders while you drink all my wine.”

Holding my glass out to her, I make a toast when she clinks her glass against mine. “To a weightless world.”

Marta starts laughing. “You’re an idiot. Just tell me what’s happening.”

“It’s complicated and I don’t know how to explain it to you. I mean, you know how tight Infidelity’s rules are?” I ask.

She nods. “Well, der. I’m your sponsor.”

“Well, since it concerns Infidelity, I can’t really give you details.”

“Then give me the hypothetical version. It’s not rocket science, lady.”

Being on the receiving end of Marta’s snark is making me feel better already. The way I felt at the restaurant is finally fading into the background, and I’m starting to feel like an idiot for the way I behaved.

Sucking in a deep breath, I start from the beginning—from the call I received to meet my new Infidelity client at the restaurant tonight. It takes me a few minutes to get to the part that I’m most embarrassed about. So far, Marta has been silent, although the judgment on her face has been getting harder to ignore.

“So, I watched him sign the contract,” I say, quickly. “And I was ready to sign as well, until it hit me that if I do, I’m basically signing away any chance that we had. The connection we felt this morning was real, adding money into the equation makes it a transaction and turns our relationship into a commodity. I didn’t think I could do that, so I told him that I was sorry and I walked out.”

“You just left him alone at the restaurant?” Marta asks.

“No, Lydia was still there with him,” I reply. “She yelled something after me, but I was trying not to cry so I didn’t answer her.”

“Argh, Ida. You’re a such a princess. Why are you making this a thing?” She shakes her head at me. “Sign the damn contract and spend a glorious year with this gorgeous man you’re attracted to. Seriously, woman. Let him give you all the O’s, let him pay you all the money, and when the year is over, blow him a kiss and get on with your real life.”

“But—”

“There’s no but in this situation. This Felix guy has made his position clear. He’s in the country for a year and requires a classy companion during that time. Whatever you think you felt this morning when he helped you with your ankle doesn’t exist. Love at first sight, soul mate connection, and all that other shit. That’s the type of fairy tale bullshit that poisons women’s minds and makes them throw away perfectly good opportunities to better their lives. Felix is not a Prince. He’s not here to rescue you from your crappy life. He’s a man, who is living in a foreign country for a year and wants to spend that time with a beautiful woman on his arm. That’s reality. That is what’s real. Take it and make it your bitch… and earn some damn money while you’re doing it.”

When she lays it out in plain terms, I feel even stupider. Marta’s right. My dream is to make it on my own terms. I want to support myself with my writing, not throw away the opportunity of a lifetime over some idea that I had an instant connection with a stranger.

“I feel stupid.”

Marta slaps me lightly on the arm, then takes my empty glass from me and refills it. After she’s passed it to me, she rubs my hand and gives me her version of sympathy. “You’re not stupid. You’re just blindly believing the lie that the world peddles to us women as truth. Once you realise that we’re on our own and our life is only ever going to be as good as we make it, you’ll be fine.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” I ask. Marta’s family is rich as hell and more than happy to provide her with everything she could ask for. I always thought that Gabriel was her sugar daddy who provided the social legitimacy that she craves, but I never realised that her contract with him was her sole means of supporting herself. “Living on your own terms?”

“To a degree,” Marta answers. She lifts her right shoulder in a half-shrug. “My dad has certain expectations for me which I’m not willing to go along with. It’s easier to live an honest life with Gabriel than it is to play the games my father expects. With Gabriel, it’s clear what the payment is for. With my family, everything comes with strings and hidden agendas. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, it’s just easier to fund my own life.”

It might sound like Marta is talking in vague absurdities. She isn’t. What she’s explaining is what life is like in a family like ours. Being wealthy comes with unsavoury expectations that people without money would never understand. Being forced to marry into a particular circle to secure deals and alliances can seem strange to outsiders, yet rich families don’t think that it’s too much to ask of their offspring. Being seen in the media with a certain person, leaking information that ruins your competition, or sanctioning the illegal proclivities of your allies is normal in my world.

It’s also the reason I fled from Georgia the first opportunity I got.

“That’s enough of the dark stuff,” Marta declares. “Let’s head inside and watch Wonder Woman again. I have a burning need to see a hot woman kicking ass tonight.”

 

*

 

Throwing off my bed covers, I curse Marta under my breath when the banging and clanging that woke me up continues.

“I. Hate. Goddamn. Noisy. Disrespectful. Assholes. Who. Never. Sleep. In.”

I take the time to enunciate each word with precision. That’s how annoyed I am. It took me ages to get to sleep last night, my mind was racing as I thought about ways to fix what I broke with Felix. In the end, my plan was simple. Today, I planned to sleep in for the first time in forever, and then call the Infidelity offices to schedule another meeting to sign the contract. Hopefully, the offer was still on the table because once I’d signed, I was going to try to track down Felix and apologise. Not too profusely since I was determined to ascribe to Marta’s philosophy regarding relationships. That was—after I’d killed her for waking me up.

“What the hell!” I shout, slamming my bedroom door closed behind me. “Why are you playing folk music at stupid o’clock? Some of us were hoping to have a sleep-in for the first time in ages… we can’t all live in leisure permanently.”

My dressing gown is flowing behind me as I try to jam my arms inside it. I get my right arm all the way in before I realise that I have the damn thing inside out. It’s an over-reaction—even while I’m in the middle of my tantrum, I know it’s ridiculous—but my temper has snapped.

I rip my arm out of my dressing gown and throw it on the floor. The material has barely touched the shiny, palazzo-inspired tiles before I’ve stomped over to it and snatched it back up. I swing around in a circle, attempting to shove my arms back in place, only to end up with it knotted around me and covering my face.

That’s all it takes for me to lose it again.

“What the fuck is wrong with this thing?” My question is wholly rhetorical, but I just know that Marta is going to be a smartass about it. I’m surprised that she’s been so quiet during my meltdown, usually she relishes the opportunity to take free pot shots.

“Here, let me help.” A husky, cultured voice scares the living shit out of me. I’d expected Marta’s snark to answer me, not someone who sounds like sex on legs to come to my assistance.

The soft fabric is unravelled from my body and Felix comes into view. I knew from the second I heard the strange voice that it was him, but I’d been hoping to live in denial for as long as I could. No such luck when he’s standing right before me with a teasing smirk on his handsome face.

“Rough morning?” he quips.

Swallowing hard, I use my thumbs to wipe down my face. The surreptitious attempt to rid myself of any traces of sleep fails epically when Marta decides that now is the time to speak up.

“Jeez, Ida, you’re a mess. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

Her question sounds caring, except I know different. She’s trying to goad me in front of Felix so I’ll turn red. Determined not to take her bait, I take my dressing gown from Felix’s grip with as much finesse as I can, then turn to head back to my bedroom to compose myself.

Unfortunately, the universe is against me. As I take a step away from Felix and Marta, my foot clips something that’s sitting in the middle of the floor. My arms windmill wildly as I try to keep my balance. It doesn’t work. My feet slip out from underneath me and I end up face down on the hard floor, my stomach crushing whatever the hell I fell over, with my nightgown flicked up over my back… and my bare ass exposed.

It’s pointed right at Felix. Like, right at him. I’m so close that if he stooped down just a little he could pat it for me.

Red-faced, I scramble to my feet. Looking down to check that I haven’t broken whatever tripped me, I find the culprit is one I should have expected—and avoided at all costs.

Marta’s bloody Gucci handbag stares back at me. The soft, camel leather shines innocuously in the morning light, its presence seemingly innocent, rather than showcasing its evil nature as the catalyst for everything that I’ve endured over the past twenty-four hours.