by Vivian Wood
“So. What’s he like?”
I sit down and take a deep, relieved breath. The coffee, Sloane, my bag full of notebooks. All of this is wonderfully familiar. I can’t quite believe I’m back here, and it’s all thanks to Misha. I smile into my coffee, feeling a warm surge of gratitude for him. “At first I thought he was a dick, but he’s turned out to be surprisingly nice, actually.”
Sloane stirs sugar into her coffee. “Is he crude and hypersexual? Does he have bad breath and bore you for hours on end as he talks about himself? Does he have a saggy old man butt?”
I laugh and shake my head. “He’s forty-two, not sixty-two. Sometimes he can be moody but I think it’s just because he’s a workaholic and not a people person. And he’s ridiculously tailored and neat. A runway model could feel frumpy standing next to him.”
“Is he into weird sex things?”
“Thankfully, no. Or if he is, he’s hiding it really well.” I feel more confident about this now. If he was going to ask me to do something outrageous or painful he would have done it before taking me to Chanel and giving me thirty thousand pounds. There are probably still things he’ll ask for in bed, but I feel sure that Misha’s not hiding any real secrets from me.
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “But how can you know that unless you’ve already gone to bed with him?”
I feel my face burn. Shit. I walked into that one.
Sloane grabs my wrist so suddenly that I almost drop my coffee. “You’ve had sex with him! Ciara, it’s been, like, a week.”
I peel her off me, my cheeks flushed red. “Stop screeching, please. Yes, things have become physical between us already, and it’s much sooner than I had planned, but he was perfectly, you know, ordinary.”
Lies. There was nothing ordinary about sex with Misha. It was the most incredible experience I’ve ever had with a man and I’m keenly anticipating the next time he gets his hands on me.
I would like it to be someplace better, where we can take our time. Misha, taking his time with me. Rubbing my clit in that expert way, maybe even licking me. Holy hell. My face grows hot again and it’s nothing to do with feeling embarrassed.
“We didn’t mean for it to happen but after our second date he kissed me and…” I trail off with a shrug.
Her eyes grow round. “You liked it?”
There’s no point denying it, because I’m smiling like an idiot. I can’t explain it but we just seem to fit together, physically. I’ve never had that with a man before. “Yeah. I liked it.”
Sloane is silent for a moment and I can see that she’s not sure what to say. Normally, finding that you’re compatible with a man is something to be happy about but the circumstances are so messed up. She knows it and I know it.
“How much of an allowance is he giving you?”
My eyes drop to my coffee cup. I really don’t want to talk about my allowance. It’s an obscene amount of money for what I’m expected to do and Sloane will go through the roof if I tell her how much it is, and then spend the rest of the day picking apart the reasons why a man who barely knows me might be giving me so much money. I’ve gone over the same thing so many times that I think I’ll go mad if I have to think about it anymore.
“It’s enough,” I hedge, and I’m saved from answering further by the others in our class getting up and heading for the lecture hall. I don’t know why Misha’s being so generous but I also don’t want to question it too much.
As we head to our class, I ask Sloane, “Will you let me borrow your notes for the tutorials I’ve missed?”
“It’ll cost you,” she says, but with a smile so I know she’s joking. “Even though you’ve missed a week I bet you’ll still beat me in our first essays, Miss Smarty Pants.”
“Thank you, babe. Seriously.”
After class I drop by the campus bookshop and buy all my textbooks, plus a set of new notebooks, pens, highlighters and sticky notes. It’s a splurge but I can afford it now, thanks to Misha. I imagine sitting in my own room at the Grand Imperial Hotel in Dubrovnik, the balcony door open and the sea air wafting in as I read Blackstone’s Statutes on Property Law, and then spending the evenings with Misha. A week ago I could barely imagine surviving, let alone such a pleasant prospect for the weekend ahead.
I’m home in time to receive my online clothing delivery. Everything fits, thankfully, but trying on the bikini reveals to me that I need to do some serious body maintenance, and I run down to the pharmacy on the corner and buy razors, fake tan, hair removal cream, body scrub, body butter and nude nail polish. After exfoliating from head to toe, I get rid of just about all my body hair with the razors and cream, slather on the body butter and fake tan and do a mani-pedi to finish up. It takes over three hours to do everything while listening to my favorite legal podcasts. It’s after nine p.m. when I finally get to my books, and I study for two hours before going to bed.
In the morning I wake up early to pack, set out my outfit for the plane this afternoon and rush off to class. I’ve got a tutorial first thing and the tutor gives me a sharp look as I slink into one of the seats, because I’ve missed two of her classes. Thankfully the topic up for discussion is one I read over last night, so I’m able to contribute to the discussion and improve my standing with her.
Sloane wants to go to the library afterwards but I explain to her that I’ll see her on Monday and that I have to rush off. I can see she wants to ask questions but I don’t have time, and I make a mental note to text her while I’m away and explain where I am.
I get home, curl my hair and do my makeup, and I’m standing outside my fake address with my carry-on luggage at one p.m., dressed in my new jeans, a white silk blouse and the Chanel heels and jacket. A few minutes later Misha’s Bentley pulls up. I was expecting a taxi so it’s a nice surprise to see him get out of the car dressed in a dark suit. He’s holding his phone to his ear and he kisses my cheek hello before going back to his call.
When I’m settled into the car I wonder if this is the same driver as the other day, and I blush. Thankfully the partition is up between the front and rear seats so I don’t have to make eye contact with whoever it is.
We drive northeast out of the city, which seems strange to me as neither Heathrow nor City Airports are in this direction, but I can’t ask Misha where we’re going as he’s still on the phone, talking about a contract that’s being disputed by the sounds of it. I can feel him growing tenser by the moment and one of his forefingers is tapping his thigh as he speaks in sharp tones. There’s nothing I can do about that, so I take Sloane’s notes out of my new handbag and start copying them out.
Thirty minutes later Misha ends the call with an angry stab of his finger and turns to me. “Sorry about that. An ex-client is disputing a contract. They don’t have any grounds to do so and don’t understand I’m trying to protect them from—” He breaks off and I see his jaw flex with irritation.
“From what?”
“Nothing. How are you? You look lovely.” He reaches out and strokes his thumb gently across my cheek. When I smile at him some of the tension seems to leave his expression.
Ten minutes later we pull into a private airport. There’s a sleek white jet being refueled on the tarmac and the driver takes us right up to the aircraft and gets our cases out of the trunk. Well. Isn’t this fancy?
The inside of the jet is all plush cream leather and clean, expensive lines. We take adjoining seats and a flight attendant approaches us with a selection of drinks. I sense that Misha is going to work the entire flight and I plan on doing the same, so I take a sparkling water.
I keep copying out Sloane’s notes for a little while before becoming distracted by the interior of the jet, the view out the window and, a few minutes later, the takeoff and climb through the clouds. Sure enough, as soon as we’ve leveled off Misha takes out his laptop and begins working. He seems to have the sort of enviable focus that allows him to shut out everything and everyone around him. I go back to my notes, but I’m inconsistent abo
ut it, my eyes wandering over to the window every few minutes.
The flight attendant brings us a lunch of roast pork and gnocchi in a mustard cream sauce. Misha mostly ignores his but the only thing I’ve consumed all day is the hazelnut latte I had instead of breakfast, so I tuck in. The food is delicious. I consider having a glass of Sancerre as well, but as Misha isn’t drinking I shake my head when it’s offered.
After, there’s chocolate mousse cake and coffee, which goes much better with the chapter I’m reading on European legal history than a glass of wine would.
Two hours later Misha sits back from his laptop and signals for a cup of coffee, and looks over at what I’m doing. “Studying?”
I look up with a smile. “Like crazy. Catching up on all the things I missed last week.” I tell him about borrowing notes from a friend and buying all my textbooks.
He nods his approval. “Good. I have meetings late this afternoon and all day tomorrow if you’d like to use that time to study. Saturday we can do whatever you like. Sightseeing, go to the beach. Or just do nothing.” Misha drops his eyes away from mine and clears his throat.
Nothing would be nice. I imagine a long morning in bed with him, naked, the fresh sea air blowing in around us. I think I could enjoy that sort of nothing with Misha.
Once we land a car meets us on the tarmac and whisks us away toward Dubrovnik. There’s a huge blue sky overhead and I can’t take my eyes off it. Living in London, being penned in by the narrow, gray streets, I forget sometimes how big the sky really is.
The Grand Imperial Hotel looks out across the bright blue waters of the Adriatic Sea but despite the heat of the day the lobby is cool, and decorated with colored tiles and long chiffon curtains.
Misha checks us in and hands me the keycard for my room. “I have to go out again. We can have dinner in the hotel tonight if you like. Meet me in the restaurant at eight?”
I nod and bid him goodbye, and he’s off out of the hotel without another word. I may have a tough job on my hands getting him to switch off later, but I suppose that’s why he wants me here. To get his mind onto things other than work.
In my room I finish reading the chapter on legal history and two on commercial contracts and then get ready to meet Misha. A Thursday night dinner in the hotel while he’s distracted by work doesn’t seem like the occasion for the silver dress. I choose the long skirt with a cream colored tee instead, and pair them with the wedge heels. I go a bit easier on the makeup, too, partly because I feel like it’s not called for, and partly because spending half an hour blending my eyeshadow is about my least favorite thing to do.
I’m ready by seven-thirty so I take a walk around the ground floor of the hotel and get a feel for Dubrovnik. The air is so fresh and clean, and the sun is still hot even at this time of the evening. People are drinking cocktails on the veranda and there’s a garden with a long, paved walk, lined by flowering bushes. I stroll along the path and find a swimming pool at the rear of the hotel. It’s peaceful here. I didn’t know how much I was craving a little peace.
Misha’s at the table when I go into the restaurant and he gets up to greet me, polite as always, but he seems distracted as we order.
“How was your afternoon?” I ask him.
He’s not looking at me as he replies, “Good. Fine. Things are coming along.”
With what? I want to ask, but don’t want to seem nosy. His mind is elsewhere for most of the meal and we’re finished eating by nine-fifteen. We head up to our rooms and he kisses my cheek and briefly touches my waist, and then he’s gone.
I don’t quite know what to make of that. Does he not want to seem too pushy about sex, or is he simply not in the mood? Or—I feel a twist of trepidation as I let myself into my room—is he going off me? Maybe he regrets giving me such a large allowance. He doubled it right after we had sex, after all, and I don’t know how clearly he was thinking at the time. Self-doubt and anxiety trickle through me. I hate second-guessing everything.
I didn’t drink with dinner but I take a half bottle of white wine from the minibar fridge and drink a glass while watching Netflix on my laptop, and then fall asleep around eleven.
I wake to blazing sun pouring through my windows, and don’t know where I am for a moment. Then I remember: Croatia. The bed is huge and comfortable and it’s tempting to fall back asleep, but I remember all the reading I should do today in order to be ready for next week. I pad over to the coffee maker and switch it on, and then check my phone. There’s a message from Misha that came through just before six a.m. He’s an early riser.
I’ll be out all day. Meet me in the lobby bar at seven tonight?
The message relieves some of my anxiety, and I reply, Yes, see you then. Have a good day.
You, too. Order room service. Study hard.
I smile to myself at that last part. It’s sweet of him to be concerned about my studies. I suppose he’s one of those sugar daddies who feels like he wants to be making a difference in their baby’s life in order to alleviate the guilt of sleeping with a much younger woman. Just how guilty does he feel about that? I think back to the night in the back of his car when he tried to stop me from going down on him, saying I didn’t need to do that. And then he gave in and let me do that, with very little persuasion.
I take a sip of my freshly brewed coffee. Probably not that guilty.
I start my studying with another chapter on legal history. Around eight-thirty I reach for the room service menu and order Eggs Royale, orange juice and a pot of filter coffee. It arrives on a silver trolley twenty minutes later and I eat sitting at the desk while making notes. At one p.m. I change into my workout gear and go for a run on the treadmill in the gym upstairs, and then eat a salad down in the courtyard.
I watch the couples around me, wondering about their relationships. About all the myriad hopes, needs, insecurities and desires that are hovering beneath the surface everywhere I look. A couple with an age gap capture my eye. He’s older and looks rich and self-assured, and she’s smiling a lot. A sugar relationship? Is that what other people see when they look at me and Misha together, someone rich and someone else faking their emotions to get in on the action?
I’m not faking my emotions, though. I don’t have to tell myself to smile around Misha or pretend to be someone else, not since after our first date. And that makes me wonder, is it worse to pretend to feel more than you do to get what you want, or to be paid in cold hard cash by someone who lives in your heart?
The man looks away and for a moment the girl’s face goes blank and she pats down her hair, checks her jewelry, smooths her dress. Do I look all right? Is he having a good time? Am I earning my money? Then her date turns back to her and her face blossoms with a pageant smile. She knows her appeal is only temporary but she’s going to stretch it out for as long as she can before he casts her off. She knows how this works. She’s smart. Her heart is all her own.
I charge the salad to the room Misha is paying for and then go back upstairs.
By four in the afternoon I’m done studying and the room is getting hot. I change into my swimsuit and pool wrap and head downstairs. There are a few loungers available in the sun and I stretch out on one and absent-mindedly rub sun cream into my body, looking around at the palm trees and the water. The color reminds me of the icy depths of Mr. Ravnikar’s eyes, and I find myself shivering despite the hot sunshine.
I bury my nose in a novel I’ve been trying to get through, and twenty minutes later my phone buzzes.
Nice red bikini.
Misha. I sit up and look around, surprised, but I can’t see him anywhere. Where are you? I type and send.
I had to come back to the hotel briefly and now I’m gone again. See you in a few hours. You look good enough to eat.
Heat rises from my toes and through my pelvis. I have a sudden vision of Misha between my legs, licking me. He kisses me so thoroughly it’s easy to imagine his tongue on my clit, homing in just where it feels best, teasing me, pleasuring me. M
y toes curl in anticipation.
At a quarter to six I hurry back to my room to get ready. I want to wear the silver dress tonight and I go all out doing a smoky eye and put some shimmer on my brow bone and cheekbones, and slip into some silver high heels along with the dress. I’m downstairs just in time, scrunching extra volume into my blonde waves as I go.
Misha’s waiting for me and I step into his arms, feeling my heart swell as he kisses my cheek and briefly caresses my ribs with his large hands. The other baby I saw earlier today would probably be thinking right now, Lean in so he catches the scent of your perfume, let your breasts press again his chest for a moment, smile like he’s all you’ve been waiting for your whole life.
I don’t have to think about any of that. It just comes naturally.
Misha leads me out of the hotel and I find myself wishing he’d reach for my hand. We’ve had sex and we’re ostensibly on a dirty weekend away, and yet there’s two feet of space between us. Maybe he’s not that sort of man, or maybe hand-holding isn’t something he’d do with a sugar baby.
“Happy Friday,” I say to him, hoping to lighten his mood. He gives me a quick smile before sinking into solemnity once more.
It’s me, he’s bored with me.
No, stop being stupid. He’s had a tedious day of meetings or some deal has gone wrong. I know how moody he can be. It’s not me.
“Good meetings?” I ask brightly.
“I can’t talk about them,” he says flatly, looking out to sea.
Ouch.
We’re walking along the seafront toward the center of town. Gulls are swooping and there are still plenty of people in the sea or lying on towels.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to be here,” Misha says a moment later.
My stomach drops about two feet. Here with me? This was his idea. Am I going to be put on the next plane back to London, a failed baby who barely lasted a week? But as he casts his eye around at the view I realize he means Dubrovnik.