‘Your decision.’ His lean shoulders shrug as he continues pulling me along behind him. When we pass floor three, my calves begin to burn and my lips part to try and get some air into my tiring lungs.
‘What floor are you?’ I ask on a little wheeze, ashamed of my fitness level. I walk a lot, but I don’t climb this many stairs on a regular basis.
‘Ten,’ he flips over his shoulder casually. The knowledge of six more floors deflates my lungs altogether and makes my legs seize up.
‘Are there no lifts?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why . . . I only have air capacity for a gasp and I let one out when he quickly scoops me up and pushes onward. I have no option but to cling onto his shoulders, my hold feeling right, my nose and eyes enjoying the closeness.
When we reach floor ten he pushes his way through the doorway into an empty corridor, then drops me to my feet and puts the key into the lock of a shiny black door. ‘After you.’ He steps to the side and gestures for me to step in, which I do – without thought, protest or asking why he’s brought me here.
I feel his palm on the base of my neck, warm and comforting, as I slowly make my way down the hallway, circling a huge round table, until the hallway opens up into a massive, marble-infested space with vaulted ceilings and colossal pieces of art at every turn, all paintings of London architecture. It’s not the grandness of the apartment or the sea of cream marble that holds me rapt. It’s those paintings – six of them, all carefully hung in selected spaces where they can be appreciated the most. They’re not typical or traditional; they’re abstract, making it so you need to squint to see exactly what each is. But I know these buildings and landmarks too well, and as I gaze around me I identify them all – no squinting required.
I’m gently guided towards the biggest cream-coloured leather couch I’ve ever seen. ‘Sit.’ He pushes me down and places my bag next to me. ‘Call your friend,’ he says, leaving me to find my phone while he strides over to a large walnut cabinet and retrieves a tumbler, topping it up with a dark liquid.
I dial Sylvie, and it rings only once before her fretful voice is piercing my ears. ‘Livy?’
‘It’s me,’ I say quietly, watching as he turns and leans against the cabinet, taking a slow mouthful of his drink.
‘Where are you?’ It sounds like she’s jogging. Her voice is slightly breathless.
‘At his place. I’m okay.’ I feel awkward explaining myself while he’s watching so intently, but there’s no escaping his steel gaze.
‘Who the f**k does he think he is?’ she asks incredulously. ‘And you’re beyond stupid for going, Livy. What were you thinking?’
‘I don’t know.’ I answer honestly, because I really don’t. I’ve allowed him to take me, bundle me in his car, and bring me to a strange apartment. I really am beyond stupid, but even now, when I’m listening to my friend rant and rave down the phone and he’s staring expressionless at me, I’m not frightened.
‘Jesus,’ she huffs. ‘What are you doing? What’s he saying? What does he want?’
‘I don’t know.’ I watch him watching me as he takes another slow sip of his drink.
‘You don’t know a f**king lot, do you?’ she fires, her heavy breathing settling down.
‘No,’ I admit. ‘I’ll call you when I get home.’
‘You’d better.’ Her tone is threatening. ‘If I don’t get a call by midnight, then I’ll be ringing the police. I took his registration.’
I smile to myself, appreciative of her concern but knowing deep down that it’s not required. He’s not going to hurt me. ‘I’ll call you,’ I assure her.
‘Make sure you do.’ She’s still agitated. ‘And be careful,’ she adds more gently.
‘Okay.’ I hang up and immediately dial my nan, keen to finish up and find out why he’s brought me here. It doesn’t take much explaining to Nan. She’s delighted when I tell her that I’m joining a few work friends for a coffee, as I knew she would be.
I finish up and place both my phone and his on the gigantic low glass table in front of me, then I commence twiddling the ring on my finger, wondering what to say. We’re just staring at each other, him taking frequent sips of his drink, me losing myself in that potent gaze.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asks. ‘Wine, brandy?’
I shake my head.
‘Vodka?’