never claimed to be romantic.’ Becker snatches my hand from my head and starts pulling me across the courtyard towards the showing room. ‘But I’m going to try.’
‘You are?’ This should be interesting.
‘Yes. Paula has given me a few pointers.’
‘You asked your therapist for relationship advice?’
‘Among other things.’
‘Like what?’ My mind is racing.
‘Like what dress you might like,’ he tells me nonchalantly. Really? Oh God, this could be a catastrophe. Did Becker tell her that my colouring isn’t exactly versatile? Did he tell her that I have a rather curvy arse? ‘Why did you have me take Paula’s calls those times?’ I ask.
His steps stutter slightly, and I glance up to find him pouting to himself. ‘I wanted her to get to know you before I declared my situation.’
‘What situation?’
‘You, princess.’ He sighs tiredly, as if bored of the conversation. ‘You are my situation.’
‘You make me sound like a burden,’ I grumble, pouting.
‘You kind of are.’
My slighted state just got even more slighted. That’s charming. ‘You’re a situation for me, too, you know? Being mixed up with your boss isn’t ideal. Especially one who’s a con artist, forger, and has you sworn to secrecy.’
He stops us and circles my neck with his big palms, looking down at me with a slight edge of tiredness. ‘Nothing about this is ideal, Eleanor. That much I’ve figured out.’ His expression softens and he loosens his grip of my neck a little, forcing a smile. ‘Just keep stumbling with me, princess, and I’ll keep stumbling with you.’
‘Will we ever stop stumbling?’ It could get tiring, wear us both down.
Becker’s forced smile transforms into a genuine, cheeky one, and he drops a chaste kiss on my forehead. ‘I fucking hope not. I love stumbling with you.’ He opens the door to the showing room, and music penetrates my hearing. I throw him a questioning look as Miike Snow croons ‘Silvia’.
‘Your therapist really gave you advice on what dress I might like?’ I ask, thinking this situation will probably tell me everything I should know about Paula and her intentions. I’m suddenly feeling threatened by the woman whom I haven’t met, and who sounded so sincere on the calls I had with her. Someone casting a negative light on our relationship is the last thing I need. She compared me to one of Becker’s treasures. She’s also a woman, so should naturally fancy Becker. She has a heartbeat and a vagina. It’s a given. Forgive me, but my faith in womankind isn’t the strongest it’s ever been.
Becker nods slowly. ‘Yes, she did.’
‘And what did she say?’ I ask warily.
‘She said to pick what I would like to see you in.’ My faith in womankind is restored again as he coaxes me into the showing room and points to the huge white wall at the back of the room where three dresses hang from hooks – the dresses he’d like to see me wearing. ‘I picked these,’ he declares proudly. My faith in womankind might have been restored, but my faith in Becker plummets.
My feet stutter to a stop. I’m speechless. Nearly. ‘Wow.’ I’m faced with some seriously racy dresses, not anything I would expect to be seen in at a posh gala at Countryscape. One is black . . . and leather . . . and short. The other is green, with a plunging neckline and it’s even shorter than the short black number. And the blood-red one? Well, I can barely see it.
‘My final decision depends on a few things,’ Becker tells me, wandering slowly over to his carefully exhibited display. I keep my eyes glued to the dresses. There’s a metre of white wall between each, and my eyes are jumping between them, worry plaguing me. I can’t say that I’d feel comfortable in any, but something tells me that my comfort isn’t high up on Becker’s list of priorities.
Just like when Becker has one of his priceless treasures on display in the showing room, there is nothing else to focus on, other than these dresses. Except, of course, my filthy-minded boyfriend, but I dare not look at him now. It’ll confirm how serious he is about me wearing one of these napkins. So I stare at the dresses instead, hoping that at least one will miraculously double in size.
I won’t ask. I refuse to ask the question. I don’t want to know. Because I’ll be horrified. But I’ll also be delighted. ‘What does it depend on?’ My inquiry sails from my mouth before