Page 100 of The Girlfriend Clause
“This is not quite how I remember the discussion at the welcome party going, Andrea. You said he was a playboy, if I recall,” said Monish.
“I … yeah.”
“And a capitalist arse.” Kelly shook her head. “Youconvincedusyou shouldn’t date him. What happened? Is this a rebound? From Rudy?”
The name made me wince. Rudy hadn’t crossed my mind for ages. Well, not since Liam had shown up, anyway.
“I don’t think so. But it’s just dating, right? I mean, what’s the harm?”
Monish frowned.
“He has a private jet, remember?” I said hopefully. “Maybe an island…”
They looked at each other briefly.
“I didn’t really mean it, Andy. When I said he has a jet and a yacht and all that. We were just sort of… joking. I never thought you’d seriously go there. If the guy’s as much of a douche as he seems… why would you? I mean…” Kelly rubbed the back of her neck. “He might be dangerous. He’s so fucking rich, he could do anything he wanted. You said yourself he’s a corporate sociopath.”
Her words hung there.Corporate sociopath. Dangerous.
All things I’d said. All the things we’d nodded along to in solidarity, like good friends do.
I’d said them loudest of all.
And now here I was, singing his praises like the proud girlfriend. The proud girlfriend who’d developed selective amnesia and completely gone back on everything she’d said. Who basically looked like a gold digger.
But it wasn’t like I had a choice. The NDA wasn’t something I could wish away. I’d already signed it.
It wasn’t lying. Just giving the official version. For legal reasons.
Fuck. Deceiving my friends sucked.But what choice did Ihave?
*
“Your fake boyfriend’s here.” Eliza was looking out the window. “In some sort of sports car. An old one.”
“Is he?”
Crap. He was early.
“Yeah. He’s managed to find the only parking space on the whole street.”
I looked out the window. A low, silver thing glinted between a bin lorry and my neighbor’s battered Vauxhall Corsa with its missing petrol cap. Much too shiny for Battersea Rise. The backdrop of a kebab shop and Nisha’s Nails made it extra inappropriate.
“Looks like the kind of car Clarkson would orgasm over,” Eliza said.
I snorted. “You think Liam’s ever watchedTopGear?”
“Doubt it. Too busy with corporate takeovers.”
The driver’s door swung open with a low, expensive thunk. Liam unfolded, sunglasses in place, his jeans and dark jacket sharper than the shards of glass in the gutter.
The street around him was its usual Saturday circus. Thepavement was blocked with prams. Someone was unloading a tower of toilet rolls from a van into the pound store three doors down, and a man in a hi-vis was shouting into his phone.
Liam glanced up at the flats, scanning.
Eliza squeaked and dropped out of sight. “He didn’t see me,” she hissed from the floor.
“Very stealthy,” I muttered.
