Clara Ampleforth loves what her life must look like from the outside. She loves the lingerie company she should already be in control of. She loves the engagement ring that sits on her finger, from a man who treats her like another piece of furnitur...
Once safely back in her hotel room, engagement ring secure around her finger, Clara felt as if she could let out the hysterical breaths caught behind her teeth. She'd laughed at his laugh, he'd made a joke out of the fact that she was promised to another man. Sure, it must be funny to him that he'd managed to get her into bed with a few glances and two glasses of champagne. He must do this regularly, focus on a woman in a bar and take her home. Was this what Henry was like, her fiancé picking up women like he was collecting watches to be shown around his work friends? She couldn't say she had a lot of experience with men - although she had technically she had doubled her experience overnight - but she'd spent enough time around the little club that Henry had assembled from Oxford, that now followed him like loyal dogs.
Clara pulled the black puffer jacket from her shoulders and draped it onto the made bed, annoyed that she didn't instantly feel cooler. She was too wound up to feel the benefit, too annoyed as she tugged off her boots to set them alongside her waiting bag. She'd have to pack before dinner, considering the fact her flight was mid-morning and she had every plan of drinking a bottle of champagne before bed. Her mind was traitorous, still going back to Charles' shoulders as she'd stood in front of him in the gym: she struggled against the other memories of his skin.
Carelessly, she picked through her clothes for the evening and the next day - white this time, one of Henry's shirts to hang over a tennis skirt that she'd been bought for Christmas despite the fact she'd never spent any amount of time on a court. Her matching underwear was white too, the French lace pretty and winding in a floral pattern. If she only buttoned her shirt so high, you could see the start of the flowers up the cups and she'd designed it to be that way. Of course she had. All her pieces had the option to be admired even with clothes on, it was what drove her more often than not. She'd always wanted women to feel that their outfit was skin level, warm to the touch. Tonight, she'd look more casual in the bar, but a closer look would show the purposeful floral against her ribs.
It didn't take her long to pack up the rest of her clothes, the way that her things fit into the case was almost as if she'd never unpacked. Like she'd never been here, never met Charles, never made a mockery of her ring. She slipped through the shower, her skin more oiled than usual and styled her hair so it slipped over her shoulders in easy ringlets. The shirt fastened easily, the hint of her lingerie strap showing and her ankle high white boots finished off the look of her outfit. Clara didn't even need to check her makeup as she left, her eyes sultry as she gathered her bag. A final dinner. Hopefully without any further distractions to keep her from what was important.
As she stepped into the lift to head down the two floors, Clara pulled out her phone and sent another text to Henry - hoping at least this one wouldn't go unanswered. She was so engrossed in sending the message that she didn't realise the lift was coming to a stop and the doors were opening, a floor too soon.
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