The Underwriting

by Michelle Miller

  “So there I am in Bagatelle. It’s three in the afternoon and the shades are down, the music pumping, two waitresses in tight spandex dresses assigned exclusively to our table. And I’m standing up on the sofa, so I can see the talent on the floor,” Todd said, his grin broad, “and the champagne is just flowing, you know—sparklers in every bottle and all the girls just going totally nuts every time they bring a new bottle out. And Manimal is in the bathroom banging some chick—that’s totally his move—and all of a sudden these two girls show up and climb on the table in front of me, but they’re pissed, holding their phones in my face and showing me the identical messages I’d just sent them on Hook.”

  “Shit,” a balding man with pink cheeks and a gap between his teeth said. “What’d you do?”

  Todd paused and grinned. “Gave them each a sparkler and told them there was enough of me to go around.”

  “You had a threesome?”

  “I’m nothing if not a great problem solver,” Todd said proudly. “Though I’m sorry to say by the end of it I think they were more into each other than me.”

  A short, squat man with a big nose shook his head in envy. “Hell. If I’d had Hook when I was single . . .” he mused.

  “You’ve gotta come to Ibiza with me next year,” the American expat seated next to Todd said. “The two of us together would crush it. The babes there . . .” He kissed his fingers and waved them in the air. American expats in London were the worst.

  “Miss Taylor?” The waitress entered the room and the men catcalled to acknowledge their approval of her physique.

  Tara looked up. The waitress gave a tired smile. “Mr. Rees is here,” she said to Tara.

  Tara checked her watch. It was eleven thirty. How was it already eleven thirty? “Thank you,” she said. “Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.” Tara smiled as she stood from the table.

  “Oh, don’t leave,” the pink-faced, gap-toothed man said. “You were the only thing worth looking at at this table.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Tara said without a hitch. “Todd’s far prettier than me.” She winked at her colleague and the table laughed merrily at her willingness to play along.

  “At least you were keeping us in control: no telling where this night will end now,” another man said, reaching around to grab her hand as she passed behind his chair.

  She gritted her teeth and forced a smile. “So long as you buy lots of Hook shares, and have these boys on the plane tomorrow”—she pointed to Todd and Nick—“I genuinely don’t care what you do tonight.”

  “At last, the perfect woman,” the balding man joked to the rest of the men, who all nodded in agreement.

  “Good night.” She waved and turned to the door.

  “You scored with that one,” she heard someone tell Todd.

  “I’d rather be the one scoring with her now,” another said.

  She closed the door and rolled her eyes. Had it always been this bad? She sighed and let it go, allowing herself to be happy about the night ahead.

  She checked her e-mail as she walked to the elevator: fifty-eight new messages during dinner. She scrolled through, looking for urgent flags, and stopped when she saw the subject line: “KELLY JACOBSON.”

  She opened the e-mail and read:

  Tara—I’m Kelly Jacobson’s brother, and I’m writing to you because . . .

  “Tara,” Todd interrupted, touching her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I—” She looked up, then quickly put the BlackBerry away. “Nothing. What’s up?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To meet a friend,” she said, pressing the button for the elevator.

  “Why don’t you bring your friend to the club with us? Be a team player?”

  Beau had organized bottle service at a club in South Kensington for Nick and the team after the Shoreditch House meeting. No one ever slept on road shows. When there were only five hours between when the last meeting ended and the car left for the airport to head to the next city, it was easy to think there wasn’t much difference between two hours’ sleep and four.

  “I think I’ll pass,” she said. “Though watching Nick try to pick up foreign women does sound terribly amusing.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Todd pressed, stepping to face her so their bodies were close in the narrow hallway. She could smell the scotch on his breath and see the laugh lines starting to show on his cheeks and forehead. They made him look less like a Ken doll and more like a man.

  His blue eyes stared into hers, the way they had when they’d slept together so many years ago, asking silently if she was okay as he pressed inside of her.

  What had happened to make him the guy who bragged to investors about threesomes at boozy Meatpacking clubs? Did he really still think that was impressive?

  “I’m meeting Callum,” she said, taking her eyes away from his.

  “What are you doing, Tara?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  The elevator doors opened and Tara stepped inside.

  “Don’t you think you deserve better?” he said, putting his hand out to block the doors from closing.

  She searched his eyes for meaning. Better? she thought. Like your one-night stands, or Mr. Catherine Wiley’s public drunkenness, or Phil Dalton’s homosexual affairs?

  “There is nothing better, Todd,” she said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He stared at her for a moment before moving his hand. She let the doors close, grateful for the few moments alone.

  She was going to sleep with Callum, she’d decided. It had been almost a year since she’d had sex—a drunken night out at a bar where she ran into a guy she knew in undergrad and let loose for a night—or, rather, two hours, after which she’d taken a cab home to sleep in her own bed. But she was a grown, single woman, and it was normal for people in her position to have sex with people they found attractive. And she did find Callum attractive, and so she was going to sleep with him, like a normal person, and not worry about what people might say if they ever suspected it.

  “How was it?” Callum greeted her as she stepped off the elevator, standing by the front desk in his jeans-and-leather-jacket uniform.

  “How do you think?”

  He kissed her cheek, letting his hand reach lightly to her waist, inside her open suit jacket. “Full of drunk Englishmen hitting on you?”

  “They were more in love with Todd.”

  He held her hand and led her outside, where a black Aston Martin coupe was waiting.

  The car zipped through East London, silencing the sounds outside. It was the closest she’d ever felt to feeling invisible, in a superhero kind of way: looking out the window at the busy streets and traffic and knowing they ought to be accompanied by noise and bad odor and the tenseness of keeping your purse close, none of which existed behind the steady purr of the performance engine.

  “So what’d you have to miss to hang out with me?”

  “Bottle service at Boujis.”

  “Of course they’re going to Boujis.” He laughed, bemused.

  “Where are we going instead?” she asked.

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Liar.”

  “What?” she asked innocently.

  “I’m not so dumb as to believe a woman like you hasn’t thought this night out.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If you knew you had one more hour to live, but you had to spend it with me, and you could be absolutely certain I’d say yes, what would you propose?”

  “I—”

  “Be honest.”

  “I can’t say it.” She laughed.

  “I’m going to make you.”

  “Fine. If I could have anything, I guess I’d want t
o . . .” She rolled her eyes, blushing furiously. Why was it so hard? “Be . . .” She emphasized the word—that was the right word, right? “. . . with you.”

  Callum grinned and his eyes darted coyly. She laughed, relieved. “Back to mine, then?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She nodded. He shifted the gear and placed his hand casually on her leg, and her skin tingled.

  They circled back toward Shoreditch and he pulled into the garage under a large block warehouse, where he helped her out of the car.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Scared?” He lifted a brow.

  The elevator shaft was naked, a series of exposed beams in the corner of the garage that clanked and screeched as they rode it to the top floor. But the doors opened onto a spotless, spacious loft enclosed by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the London skyline and the twinkling lights of cars on the street below.

  “Wow,” she said, stepping into the room.

  “Views are one of my indulgences,” he said. “Can I get you a glass of wine?”

  “Sure,” she said, moving to the window. She’d thought the view from Shoreditch House was nice, but this was another level. The Gherkin twinkled like a diamond egg, glistening against the dark night sky, mocking the ordinariness of the other buildings.

  “My dear.” Callum handed her a glass of red wine and stood by her side, taking in the view. He pulled a stool from the aluminum bar and perched on its edge.

  “Do you worry it’ll get old?” she asked, imagining what it was like waking up to this view, day in and day out.

  “If it does, I’ll move,” he said simply.

  “Do you think there’s anything that doesn’t get old, after a while?”

  “I think that fear is not a good reason to avoid things that are novel to you.”

  “But what if—”

  “Shhh . . .” He put his finger gently on her lips. “Stop talking.”

  He pulled her hand up to his and kissed her fingers, keeping his eyes smiling on hers, before putting her hand behind his neck and moving his own to the small of her back.

  Their lips pressed together and her body melted.

  He lifted her onto the stool so their faces were on the same level. She hooked her heels on the crossbeam and let her skirt slide up so his torso rested between her legs. His lips moved to her neck and a shiver ran down her spine. She’d forgotten how good it felt to be kissed, and knew it had never felt like this.

  Her hands played with his hair as his lips moved down her neck and she reached to pull off her blouse. She caught the reflection in the window: this man kissing her chest, mingled with the city’s lights and bustle, and she realized this was what women meant when they talked about feeling sexy.

  He stopped and put his hand to her cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

  She nodded, smiling, and let her forehead fall on his. He smiled back, and picked her up to carry her to the bedroom.

  He pushed her onto the bed and she arched her back as his lips resumed their kisses. He slid his hand to unsnap her bra in a single movement, and she hesitated with the ease of his motion, remembering his playboy reputation. Don’t think about it, she told herself. He took his own shirt off and slid his forearm behind her arched waist and pulled her effortlessly up so that her head was on the pillow. She willed her brain to stop thinking about why he wasn’t at all clumsy: Who cares? Just appreciate that he knows what he’s doing.

  His lips continued their trajectory to her navel and the top of her lace underwear as he unzipped her skirt and pushed it down over her ankles. How many girls have been in this bed? She felt her body tense as he moved his lips between her legs and she became conscious of her stubble: it had been four days since she’d shaved. How did you forget to shave? she screamed at herself. Katerina wouldn’t have forgotten to shave.

  She ran her fingers through his hair and whispered, “It’s okay,” coaxing him back toward her face. He batted her hand away as he gently kissed her inner thigh. His warm breath gave her chills and she closed her eyes, willing herself to relax. But she couldn’t now. Not with him there, comparing her to all the others, who had remembered to get waxed and lasered and trimmed—all those women who knew what to do when a man was doing this.

  She moaned with pleasure so he wouldn’t think she was rude. “Yes, there,” she said in as sexy a voice as she could muster. It feels good, she told herself, his tongue moving here and there and right there and “Oh,” she caught herself. How long had he been down there? Too long. She put both hands in his hair and gently pulled his head up. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s do this together.” He looked at her and cocked his eyebrow skeptically. “I just started,” he countered. “Relax.” And he resumed his efforts.

  “Come on,” she whispered again, more firmly this time. “I just want to feel you inside of me.”

  “Do you mean it?” He slid his body back upward so he was on his hands and knees over her, his eyes not believing her.

  “Yes,” she insisted, brushing his hair back behind his ear.

  “I wish you would let me,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at this.”

  “That isn’t true; just relax,” he whispered, reaching for a condom while he unbuckled his pants.

  He pressed himself inside of her and the feeling made her forget the other women.

  “Yes,” she said, meaning it this time.

  His hands were firm on her body, directing her with the same masculine authority as they’d directed the car’s gearshift. A thin film of perspiration formed on his body, mingling with her own, and the stickiness made her feel alive, connected, like there was pleasure in the imperfect.

  “I’m almost there,” she whispered, knowing she wasn’t, and he moved faster.

  “Come.”

  “You first,” he said.

  She hesitated again. “Okay,” she breathed more heavily.

  “Don’t fake it,” he said.

  “I—” she started.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “I’m not going to,” she admitted.

  But he was already there, and grunted, his muscles relaxing around her body. She tried not to move, letting him have his moment while her own heartbeat slowed.

  He rolled over onto his back, breathing heavily. “Wow,” he finally said.

  “That was great,” she agreed, rolling onto her side to face him.

  “You didn’t come,” he said without opening his eyes.

  “I never do,” she admitted. “Don’t take it personally.” Then she added, “Not that I do this often.”

  He laughed, still catching his breath. “We’ll get you there.”

  She smiled, comforted by the thought he didn’t want this to be the only time.

  A noise rang from the other room.

  “What’s that?” he asked when it didn’t stop.

  “My phone alarm,” she realized. She’d set it for nine a.m. and nine p.m. to remind her to take her Celexa, which she’d upped to twice a day. But they were in London, so the alarm was five hours ahead.

  She pulled her legs out of bed and found her underwear in the sheets, then pulled on her blouse.

  “Stay naked,” he said from his pillow. “Why can’t you accept how hot you are?”

  She laughed at his compliment—didn’t he realize he’d already gotten laid?—and went to the other room, turning off her phone and digging for her pills. She saw her BlackBerry light flashing but ignored it: whatever it was could wait three hours. She poured a glass of water and came back to bed, swallowing her Celexa, half a Xanax and a handful of vitamins.

  “You take drugs?” he asked. He’d sat up in bed and was typing something on his BlackBerry.

  “Yes, I’m an addict.”

  “Of what?”

  �
��Birth control, vitamin B, ginkgo, calcium, Celexa,” she said, leaving out the Xanax, which she worried would give the impression she had issues.

  “Celexa?” He looked up from his BlackBerry and made a face. “Are you depressed?”

  “I’ve been on it for a long time,” she said.

  “How long?”

  “Since I was fourteen.”

  “Bloody hell, no wonder you can’t have orgasms.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a libido suppressant. So is birth control,” he said, returning to his device.

  Was that true? Her doctor had never mentioned that.

  “Why are you depressed?” he continued without looking up.

  “I’m not depressed,” she said defensively, crawling back into bed and taking her blouse off again.

  “Then why do you take an antidepressant?”

  “I just use it as a precaution, I guess, so I don’t get overly emotional about things. No reason not to.”

  “It keeps you from feeling,” he said.

  “No,” she corrected. “It keeps me from letting too many feelings cloud my judgment and my ability to evaluate their roots.” She repeated the explanation her doctor had given her when she’d made the same protest half her life ago.

  He lifted a judgmental eyebrow.

  “I was depressed,” she said, “and it was really bad, okay? I don’t want to go back to that—ever.”

  He pursed his lips. “What can possibly make a fourteen-year-old depressed?”

  “My youngest sister died,” she said.

  “Shit,” Callum said. “How?”

  “Leukemia.”

  “They couldn’t find a donor?”

  “They did, but the transplant didn’t work,” she said, looking away.

  “Babe, I’m so sorry.” He reached a hand over to hers.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Do you have other siblings?”

  “Another sister,” she said. “She’s getting married next week, actually.”

  “Where’s the wedding?”

  “Maine,” she said. “My grandparents had a house there, so we’d go up in the summer.”