At first, she’d taken the news with a bit of detached surprise, but she’d had to rush off to New York and had actually managed not to think about it for a few days. Perhaps in there lay the answer to why he’d left her. She wasn’t stupid. The relationship had been exclusively on her terms and she was rarely around.
“Your father is outside. Do you want a drink?”
“Sure, a G and T, perhaps.” Terese walked outside where her dad sat on one of the sofas, still dressed in his golf gear, grass still crushed under his spiked shoes.
“Hello, peanut,” her dad said, standing up and embracing her. “Finally you make an appearance.” He always called her peanut. Neither of them could recall why, but it had stuck.
“How are you, Dad?”
“Good. Poor back nine today. I think the heat makes the back nine more difficult.”
“It is such a shame they haven’t created an air-conditioned golf course yet.”
“Ha, ha,” he said, sitting down again. Mum came out with a tray of gin and tonics. “Oh, fantastic,” he said and grabbed a glass. Ice clinked in the tall glass as Terese took hers.
“Have you told Parmenina you were coming?”
“No, I haven’t had a chance to.” Parmi had been her best friend throughout school. Like many who grew up here, they had gone to the international school throughout their childhood, to then be farmed off to more exclusive secondary school for their last year or two. Most returned to the UK, although there were other choices. Terese had ended up in Switzerland and she’d been okay with being there. Actually, back then, she couldn’t wait to leave. From there, unlike most others, she’d taken what was seen as a more avant-garde choice in education, foregoing the established path to Oxford or Cambridge and struck out into the new world. And thank God. Parmi had done Cambridge and even though they were still friends, they were quite far apart now in terms of how they thought. “It will be good to see her.”
In truth, Terese was a little nervous. She had gone so far in transforming herself, she didn’t really fit with this society anymore. Technically, she didn’t regret that, but she did miss her friendship with Parmi.
Chapter 7
There were just so many possibilities and so much that needed to be done, Cheyenne thought as she walked into Armada, an upmarket Spanish restaurant. Tonight, however, was about taking down a girl who’d grown a bit above herself, some vapid yoga instructor who’d bagged one of the local husbands. He wasn’t all that much to brag about, but according to this girl, the relationship had turned her from a privilege-grubbing little whore to a lady.
It had all occurred at a lunch some time back, where this girl, Cacy, had shown off the keys to the Porsche he’d given her, and proclaimed what a shame it was that Alexi had dumped Cheyenne, saying how some people just couldn’t hold onto a man. Cheyenne had burned with humiliation, particularly as Cacy had taken so much delight in her embarrassment.
And there he was, the man who bought Porsches for his yoga instructors, Roger Cavandish, sitting with two other men. Cheyenne considered him for a moment as she stood by the bar. He was attractive; kept himself in shape. Apparently, he’d taken quite a haircut during his divorce, but he was by no means done for.
Being a model taught a girl how to pose and Cheyenne knew what made her body look ridiculously hot. It was a good start and it drew attention. Now the only thing wrong with this tactic was that honey sometimes attracted more flies than the one you wanted. No, this required more direct engagement.
She firmly had his attention when she walked over to his table. “I’m sure we’ve met before,” she said with a smile, “but I can’t quite recall.”
“Roger,” he said, looking pleased, making sure his companion noticed. “It was at the Blake’s engagement party, I believe.”
“Was it? I don’t recall.”
“Please have a seat. Join us.”
“I wouldn’t want to disturb.”
“Not at all,” one of the other men said, less than subtle as he took in her form clad in the tight Versace dress.
“I just hate when I recall a face and don’t know where from. Hi, I’m Cheyenne,” she said to the men around the table.
“Are you here alone?”
“My date seems to be running late. Inexcusable, I know,” she lied, as she knew exactly who her target was that evening. “I think I might punish him.”
“And he deserves it,” Roger stated.
The waiter came over and Cheyenne looked up at him. “Champagne. I don’t care what,” which was the cue for the most expensive in the house. Roger would be paying, after all.
“Are you hungry?” one of the other men said.
“Sweetie, you don’t look like this by eating.” They all laughed obligingly. Anything she said would be hilariously funny. “So how has life been treating you since we last spoke?” Pride shone in Roger’s face at the implied intimacy.
“Wonderful. Couldn’t be better. Business has been fruitful.”
“Is there a girlfriend in your life these days?”
He hesitated for a moment. “There are girls, obviously, but no, not really.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” she smiled. “I need to go to the ladies. Excuse me.”
By the time she got back, a good fifteen minutes later, the two other men were gone and Roger was sitting diligently waiting for her. Exactly as she expected.
Roger was slowly kissing up her thigh as she lay on her stomach and looked through her phone. It had been four days since she’d picked him up from the restaurant and he came to her every night. “Are the redecorators done yet?” she asked.
“They say tomorrow,” he answered, the stubble on his chin tickling her skin. His hand massaged the mound of her backside. She could hear from his breathing he was getting turned on.
Cheyenne smiled. The redecorators were a euphemism for his yoga slag being cleared out of his house. “I think we should have a dinner party.”
“If my darling wants a party, she shall have a party.” He was positioning himself above her, his cock pressing between her cheeks until he found the heaven he sought. A low groan escaped his throat. She liked this position; it turned her on. She could also happily imagine anyone fucking her. Angling her hips, he reached deeper inside her and her insides clenched around him. Tension spread down her limbs and she arched her arse up further.
“I think you should invite Patricia Heath and also Alexi Sumneroff,” she said. Cheyenne knew full well that Alexi wouldn’t show up to a party she put together. But he would show up to Roger’s party. Roger was of that social group that Alexi wanted into, the respectable money. He’d always had hang-ups about how he was perceived. Russian money wasn’t quite as good; there was no tradition behind it. They had just been thieves, cutting up the old Soviet Union assets and growing insanely rich in the process.
“We’ll invite whoever you want,” Roger said, straining above her.
“And Dominic Dunbury.”
“Yes, yes,” Roger said, but she wasn’t entirely sure he was listening. Thoughts of Dominic circled around her mind. His dark hair and eyes. Now that was an attractive man. She felt herself tighten, her orgasm building. It wouldn’t be long until it was Dominic behind her. The culmination of pleasure washed through her.
Roger was good to his word. A dinner party was planned for the following weekend at his house up in the hills behind Marbella. It was a nice house, stylish. And there wasn’t a yoga instructor in sight. It meant be that she would have to keep Roger sweet another week, but she wasn’t exactly suffering. He was perhaps a little overattentive. Silly man.
Chapter 8
The Jag roared down narrow streets, seeking the restaurant where Alistair was spending the evening. It was his first night out since returning. He was quietly excited to see everyone. It had been a while. It was amazing a lot of his old acquaintances were still here. Some were gone, seeking serious careers in politics, law or banking, just as he had, but others had stayed, preferring the
laid back lifestyle here. Increasingly, that was an option and many chose it. Money made money these days; work didn’t.
Throwing the keys to the valet, he walked through the glass doors of the restaurant. His set were sitting along a large table. Things had changed a little since he’d left. His and his brother’s friends had melded now, when they had been separated strictly by age in their teenage years.
Felix Dunbury stood and embraced him in the awkward way that was the norm—more Spanish than at home, but nowhere near as Spanish as the locals. “Good to see you, Cartright.”
“Felix. You look well.”
“I look like shit.”
Now that Alistair had a closer look, Felix did look a bit worse for wear. “Still hitting it hard?”
“More than I should.”
“Alistair, it is so good to see you,” Aggie said, approaching him and giving him a hug—much more intimate than a guy would, but that was acceptable. “You know everyone, of course.”
There were a few new faces, but he couldn’t be bothered with introductions. “Sure.” They took their seats, and Alistair ordered a drink from the approaching waiter. “Black Russian.” The man nodded and walked away. “So, here you all are.” He looked around the table, noting the faces.
“Well, more or less. Some people are missing, including your brother.” Felix said in and almost accusatory voice. “Off exploring more exotic destinations.”
Alistair had never met his brother’s new ‘girlfriend’, who from what he’d been told, was a foreign stripper of some variety. His family didn’t really speak about her much. Apparently, mum had met her, said she was very pretty. But then Quentin had always been affected by a pretty face. But for some reason, Quentin had deemed this pretty face as a keeper. Well, they didn’t know what to make of her. Quentin hadn’t really had a girlfriend since Aggie.
Looking up at Aggie’s face, he tried to determine how she felt about it, but she wasn’t all that forthcoming. “She’s a lovely girl,” Aggie said blankly.
“You’ve met her?”
“He brought her on a trip with us. We didn’t actually get to know her that well. He was wrapped up in her more or less from the moment he met her.”
“What kind of person is she?” In truth, he had no understanding of what kind of person his brother had shacked up with.
Aggie shrugged. “Backpacker type. Hot, vacant and recreant.”
“She’s recreant?” he said, looking confused.
“Aren’t they all?”
The bitterness was unmistakeable now. Clearly Aggie wasn’t over Quentin.
“Aggie, here, had her own entanglement,” Felix filled in.
“No entanglement. It was just a bit of fun. And don’t think I didn’t hear that you just about wore out that American girl.”
Felix actually flushed, a sight Alistair wasn’t sure he’d seen before. This was all sounding a little juvenile. Speaking of, he wasn’t sure there was a female around this table he hadn’t slept with. Actually, there were a couple, but he’d seen no reason to go there. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising they were fishing in different waters.
The food came. Fish for Felix and a salad for Aggie. Alistair wasn’t really hungry, so just sat back and watched as they ate. “Have you heard from Cecil?” Aggie finally asked. Alistair and Cecil had been close when they’d been here, but had slowly drifted apart, which happened roughly at the same time Cecil got a girlfriend—one who had never lived here on the coast. Cecil was fully embracing the traps Alistair had just escaped, allowing himself to be led down that well-trodden path.
“No, not for a while. He’s still working for that law firm in London.”
“It’s a shame he’s not coming. It would be so good to see him,” Aggie said. “I suspect we will, though. Everyone who grew up here eventually returns.”
Alistair certainly couldn’t argue. He’d missed the sun and the brightness. They were also freer here in this special place, which was just a playground, really. Everything was brighter and more exciting. The strict protocols didn’t necessarily apply. People were more approachable and there was a sense of possibilities. You really could end up somewhere you’d never anticipated when you started the day, and it had been a while since he’d had that.
This was also the place where shortcuts were easy. Networks were fluid and this was a good place to look for something new. The idea of setting up his own shop still rummaged through his mind. Here he could pick up some weighty backers and the right introductions. It would be easy here. The right people were here and if you had the right name and contacts, whatever you wanted to do was possible—find money, change laws, influence decisions. The networks in the people around Marbella stretched all over the world.
Alistair smiled. It had been the right decision to come back. An open future was better than a prescribed one.
“So how long are you staying?” Felix asked.
“Not sure.”
“Alistair,” a pretty girl said and fell into his lap. He knew her face, but couldn’t remember her name. “I can’t believe you’re back. We’ve missed you.” She smiled in a suggestive way and he considered her. Yes, he’d been there before, quite a few times, as he recalled. “I’ve missed you.”
“Have you now?”
She nodded in what he could only describe as a coquettish way, biting her lip. She really was playing hard, wearing a dress that ended mid-thigh. He wasn’t the best at picking designers, but it was definitely Italian and expensive. Brown thighs stretched to perfect knees.
Maybe it was time to play with some of his old toys. What was her name again?
Chapter 9
Driving her red little Mini up her driveway, Cheryl was pleased to get home. It had been a long day and they’d had a difficult customer. The colour wasn’t right. They’d had to redo it twice. Cheryl had tried to persuade the woman to let her hair rest for a few days, but she’d just about gone into hysterics. So they’d had to redye her hair, yet again. Some people you could never please.
She stepped out onto the gravel and looked up at the sand-coloured finca they lived in. They were fifteen minutes’ drive inland and had an acre of fruit trees, olives and even almonds. The boys loved it. They ran around like wildlings.
“Zoa,” she called when she entered the house through the old, rustic main door. The whole house was whitewash and terracotta floors. The tiles were cool under her feet. They built these old houses smartly, using materials that would keep it somewhat cool without the use of bulk air-conditioning. The roof above the upstairs room at the salon was black and it didn’t matter how long they ran the air-conditioning, it never cooled down. Even at night, those damn black tiles pumped down heat. It made the little office she kept up there just about unusable.
This stuff she hadn’t known when she’d signed the lease. If she had, she wasn’t sure she would have made the same decision, but then the location was fantastic, so maybe she would have.
The kitchen was empty as she walked in. It was by no means fashionable, and she really wanted to install a new kitchen when she had the means. Currently, it was a little too retro for her liking. But for right now, that would have to wait until she could afford it.
“Boys?” she called out the backdoor.
“Yeah?”
Well, they are alive, at least, she thought and stepped outside, walking into a frozen scene of devastation.
“Did you dig up plants?” she yelled, seeing carnage on the lawn.
“It was an accident.”
“How can that be an accident? Where’s Zoa?”
“She’s in the laundry,” one of the boys said, getting his brother in the arm with a toy arrow. She probably shouldn’t have bought them that, but if she were honest with herself, all those boys wanted to do was kill each other. “Replant those,” she said, pointing at the uprooted plants, and shook her head as she walked back inside.
“Grace!” Cheryl called up the stairs for the niece living with them, but there was no an
swer.
“Grace miss the bus. She will be on the late one,” Zoa said, walking out of the laundry holding a plastic basket with wet clothes.
“She should have called me. I would have picked her up.”
“I don’t think she wants to be early,” Zoa said, giving Cheryl a meaningful look.
That was right; there was that boy she’d been talking about. Cheryl sighed. It did seem harmless enough, but Cheryl should probably tell her sister about this development, but they hadn’t talked. Cheryl told herself she would call Chloe that evening after dinner. “I’ll start cooking,” Cheryl said and returned to the kitchen, spotting the mail on the hall table.
Picking it up, she wandered back to the kitchen and opened the fridge to pull out a Styrofoam tray of pork chops, placing it down on the counter. Bills, bills and something from a law firm. Putting the other letters down, she stuck her nail in the corner and ripped open the envelope from the law firm. The letter was in Spanish and Cheryl swore. It looked important, though. She knew enough Spanish to tell it was from a real law firm. “Zoa!” she called. “Can you help me with something?”
It took a few moments, but Zoa wandered in and Cheryl handed it to her. Zoa read the letter, a frown creasing her brow. “It says you have to move out.”
“What?” Cheryl said, feeling unease crawl across her skin. They liked this place. She didn’t want to move out. “We were promised two years at least, if not more.”
“Not the house,” Zoa said, pointing down at the ground. “The salon.”
“Fuck off,” Cheryl said, dread spreading in her gut. “I have a lease for that building.”
“Yes, but they want to sell the land. They are offering money.”
“I don’t care. I have a valid lease in that building and they can’t sell the land. It’s part of the contract.” It was a clause Cheryl had gone over in minute detail with her lawyers. The Spanish had some odd land/building laws, but through the contract with the owner of the land and the original developer of the buildings, there had been an agreement. The land the buildings were on could not be sold unless the buildings were under no obligation. “No, you must be reading it wrong.”
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