Page 133 of Love to Loathe Him

So I leave it with a polite “Hmm.”

Alastair kicks things off with mundane chit-chat—asking about my day, where I live, rambling on about his posh sailing club in Putney near my flat. He goes on and on about his stunning wife, Vicky, and all the picture-perfect holidays they take together, complete with horses and yachts and everything else that screams “we have it all.”

Blah, blah, blah. I nod and smile at the right moments, making the appropriate sounds of admiration whenever he drops a name or brags about yet another luxury holiday surprise for Vicky.

This goes on through all of dinner. I choose chicken because I’m a little sick of fish after all my coastal trips.

I’m momentarily distracted when a man—who must be at least 100 and looks like Skipper Magee’s rich, slightly creepy cousin—walks past with his hand on a twenty-year-old’s ass. Wow. I guess money really can buy anything.

When Alastair brings up that job opportunity he mentioned before, I get the distinct feeling it’s not actually the main item on his agenda tonight. It’s like he’s just going through the motions, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

He seems politely interested when I ask questions about Vertex, but there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. Our conversation is just so polite and mundane, skirting around anything of real substance.

I’m starting to wonder why he invited me out to dinner in the first place. Maybe heissincere about the job offer? Or was this an elaborate ruse, plying me with booze until I spill Ashbury Thornton’s deepest, darkest secrets?

Whatever it is, he’s taking his sweet time, waiting until we are a bottle of wine down.

As the waiters clear away our dinner plates, I decide it’s time to test the waters, to see if I can get Alastair to show his hand. I’ve had just about enough of this polite song and dance routine.

“You certainly put together a tempting package at Vertex,” I say casually, swirling my wine in my glass. “In fact we lost a candidate to you recently.”

Alastair’s lips curve into a knowing smile, and I can tell from the gleam in his eye that he knows exactly who I’m talking about—my South Korean superstar, the one I worked my ass off to woo to Ashbury Thornton.

Poaching son of a bitch.

“I suppose great minds think alike when it comes to recognizing talent,” he says smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “We’re simply doing what we can to attract the best and the brightest. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“Of course not,” I reply, my tone just as even and measured as his. “As you say, great minds think alike. Your recruitment team must have also been watching her.”

Poachinglyingson of a bitch.

“Indeed.” Alastair takes a refined sip of his wine, his pinky finger slightly extended. “We have a particularly generous maternity package and working mother’s program. It tends to help us attract the crème de la crème of talent. Life isn’t all about work, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“Absolutely. Which is why I made sure our maternity package at Ashbury Thornton is perfect.”

He fiddles with his wedding ring, the diamond catching the light ostentatiously. “My dear Vicky laments that she scarcely seesenough of me. Hence, I’m rather passionate about ensuring our employees enjoy a proper work-life balance.”

“Hmm.” I nod politely, bored with this game.

“Have you given any thought to settling down, Gemma?” he asks.

I hate this question. It’s so stupid. If I did want to settle down, it must be obvious why I haven’t. “I’m focused on my career right now.”

“That’s smart. You’re certainly going places. In the prime of your life, with a sterling reputation to boot.”

“Yeah, I’ve worked hard.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, and I know it might sound a bit antiquated, but I think you’d agree that in our industry, it can be difficult for young, attractive women to be taken seriously in finance. People do tend to make the most dreadful assumptions.”

The shift in tone is immediate. It’s clear Alastair is getting down to what he really wants to talk about.

“What assumptions would someone make about me?” I ask, my voice carefully neutral.

“There’s nothing wrong with a workplace affair between two consenting adults. I would simply hate to see you risk your reputation on a fantasy. You wouldn’t be the first and no doubt you won’t be the last.”

I’m confused for a long, hot second. And the way Alastair looks at me, with that smug, knowing glint in his eye, tells me this is the effect he was hoping to achieve.

A tendril of dread starts to creep in, coiling in the pit of my stomach. I take a large, steadying gulp of my water. “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.”