Page 24 of Pretender

Elliott laughs and I let go of his shirt, my mind reeling.

“I was joking, just helping you open your eyes,” he says, smiling at me.

“Fucker,” I mutter, shaking my head as I straighten his sleeve. “Sorry.”

“You’ve told her something, by the looks of it?” Elliott presses. “You seemed nervous around her today.”

“It’s complicated.”

I could’ve given him a simple ‘no’ but I didn’t want to.

The handful of investors, minus Mark, because he’s arriving with Rey for the official opening, are already in the Diamond Lounge with a glass of champagne. My hostess knows the drill. She’s flanking the door, ensuring I’m ready to take over. I nod a thank you to her and she returns the gesture before leaving the room.

I greet everyone, shaking hands, patting shoulders, throwing around the details I remember about all of them—children, wives, girlfriends, new business moves—whatever the conversation calls for.

“Aiden, darling,” a soft female voice sounds behind me, and I turn.

“Venetia, Rupert,” I say. “I didn’t expect you here tonight, but what a lovely surprise.” I dip down, accepting the kiss on the cheek from my self-proclaimed godmother and a handshake from her husband, Rupert. He’s never been as fatherly as Venetia has been motherly, but I really don’t mind that. He’s as dry as they come. But I appreciate his investment in my company. I appreciate even more that he’s not a Diamond member because, as much as I love them both, I don’t need Mum’s friends all over my favourite space.

“We weren’t planning on coming,” Rupert says. “But Venetia read something in her news blog thingy and said we couldn’t miss this talked-about event when we’re invited. Always have to keep an ear to the ground, this one.”

“I’m old and bored, Rupert, what else am I to do?” Venetia deadpans, swatting a hand towards him. “Now, this design is delightful, Aiden. I haven’t been in here before.” She scans the room, and I watch her as she takes in the fireplace, the red velvet armchairs in the corner, and the turquoise Chesterfield sofa on the other side. She walks over to the light sage green wall covered in paintings and photos with intentionally mismatched, ornamental frames. Her hand travels over the hint of texture on the wall, before it drops back to her side.

“Did your designer do all your rooms, or is this someone else?”

“Linnea?” I ask.

Venetia nods. Eyes wide and eyebrows raised, her gaze now lands on the elegant chandelier above me, before roaming over the dark green and off-white coffered ceiling.

“Do you enjoy working with her?” she asks.

“I do.”

Rupert returns from his networking conversations. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Linnea Fredriksen did this room,” Venetia answers. “Isn’t it splendid?”

“I thought you turned her down.”

“I did.”

“Why did you turn her down?” I ask. “If you don’t mind telling me.” I recall the evening last week when Linnea seemed so deflated. This must be why.

Venetia’s eyes meet mine, her nostrils flaring when she breathes in, and I wonder if I’ve asked too much.

“Well,” she starts, exhaling for a long time. “An interior designer would be very close to me for months. I need someone I’m comfortable with. Someone who’s genuine, not performing.” She sighs. “It’s so tiring constantly having people behave how they assume I want them to. I crave enthusiasm. Someone who’s passionate about design and not … transactional, or too structured.”

“Does Linnea’s design give you ‘transactional’? I understand where you’re coming from, but I can’t fault her on anything,” I say, and a memory of her first visit to The Orion floats back. Linnea walking through what is now the Green Room and the Pink Room, pointing and waving, talking fast, ideas storming. Her mind clearly racing and bubbling over.

She wanted to cover the ceiling of one room with sculpted branches and fake leaves, giving it a forest canopy effect (which she did).

“And she’s full of energy and enthusiasm when she gets into the flow of it. I’ve seen her in action, and it’s quite something,” I add, allowing the smile that tugs at the sides of my mouth to fully unfurl at the thought.

“Hm,” is all Venetia says, but she’s still eyeing up the design.

“Lady Beauchamp,” Elliott’s voice comes from my side. I didn’t notice him arriving next to me. “I couldn’t help but overhear. Are you familiar with Hotel Fabiano? Soho?”

Venetia shakes her head, but gestures for him to go on.