The Billion Dollar Love Affair

Chapter Three

By all accounts, it starts out as a normal Friday.

It’s 6 pm and a man has already thrown up on my shirt and so for the third time this week, I find myself in the backroom, fabric balled up and soaking in the sink while I stand in a bra, counting backwards from forty. It doesn’t take too long as I grab a floaty, discarded skirt from the lost and found and take a pair of scissors to it, sticking out my tongue in concentration.

Delilah comes in as I’m wielding the sewing needle from my bag and watches in awe as I stitch the skirt back together into a bandeau top, discarding the needle and pulling it over my head, struggling a little at my ample breasts.

“Jesus, Nina,” she mutters, “You’re wasted here. When are you gonna go to uni for design or whatever that black magic you just did with that skirt is?”

I laugh, wiggling into the fabric. It doesn’t quite fit but I won’t tell her that, because nobody turns down a compliment, warranted or not. “Never,” I insist, “University is more debt to add to my ever-growing list of debt.”

“But you’re so bloody good,” she tugs at my new shirt, “You whacked that out in ten minutes! Why didn’t you just make your own dress for your sister’s wedding?”

“Fabric is pricey,” I mutter, “And Genevieve isn’t really a fan of my creations.”

“I thought Genevieve was the nice one,” Delilah frowns, but she’s wrong because Violet is the nice sister. Only a couple of years older than me, we grew closer than ever after Dad died, while Genevieve and I let an ocean of space grow between us. Grief fractures or mends, and in the case of Genevieve and I, it obliterated.

“I’m the nice one,” I chuckle, but my voice quietens when I see Delilah staring at the floor, chewing on her lip. “Delilah?”

“Mm?” she murmurs, eyes widening, “Oh! Sorry. Did Maura speak to you yet? She’s going alphabetically through the staff, I think.”

“No?” I ask in question because Maura owns this pub - and about twelve others - and a chat with her is rare as they come. My stomach sinks to my feet as Delilah grimaces and throws her tea towel half-heartedly onto the counter.

“Basically, it’s not good,” she heaves out a breath, “For us, anyway. Maura’s thinking of moving to Florida and turning this place into some kind of bed and breakfast? I don’t know. She said she’s not sure, but you know what she’s like when she gets an idea.”

I’m glad I’m sat down because the world spins horribly and my head feels as though it may pound me into unconsciousness. This town is so devoid of jobs and if I lose this, I’ll miss rent. If I miss rent, I’ll be out on the street and I’ll have to beg Violet - or worse - Genevieve, for help. “Well, that’s good,” I whisper, heaving myself upwards, “C’mon, bar time.”

Delilah doesn’t argue and perhaps we both need the noise of a Friday night in this place as we pull pints and flirt the way we’re trained to, giggling as men push us a little extra money every now and again. Often, in the bustle of it all, I wonder how I got here. I had big dreams to be the woman who would make the dress of the century, or perhaps a beautiful, young lady would sway down the red carpet in my design and pride would swell so intensely inside my body that it would almost feel as though I was preening in front of the paparazzi myself. But instead, I find myself here, and I don’t know if it’s the fault of fate or my own lack of ambition.

It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve often found dwelling is a fast-track ticket to misery and so I paint a smile on, tousling my hair so it falls in a way that makes patrons order beer when they aren’t thirsty and crisps that they don’t like. It’s working fine until I glance up at around 8 pm and almost choke on my own breath. My heart halts inside my ribcage and I’m living inside a simulation because he’s here.

Walking through the front door and casting a sharp eye around this bar is Calvin Westfield.

It takes him only a few seconds to clock me and when he does, he pauses. I feel the man drinking me in and I can only do the same in return, noting he may be the first person to ever wear a suit in this place. He drips swagger as he glances around, locking eyes with me and walking painfully slowly over here, leaving me shaking. I forget to be angry as he approaches because he really is so intensely handsome that it sets feminism back about a thousand years.

“Miss Brookidge?” he tries, smile dancing ever so slightly on his lips. His voice is so deep that it rumbles through my chest and the seas have parted for him because even if you don’t recognise this man, you feel his power sizzling through the air.

“I’m not sure I have anything to say to you,” I murmur, trying to avoid the gravity that is his eyes. If I look, I’ll stare, and I’m deeply uninterested. This man essentially stole my time and my money, and I won’t let him do it again, despite my thudding heart.

“That’s a shame,” he says, “Because I’d like to order a drink. Whiskey on the rocks, if you’re serving.”

Everything about him is so deliberate, and I almost feel as though the drink is code for something I don’t understand and likely never will. But I’m the perfect barmaid and so I grit my teeth, willfully ignoring the fact that billionaires don’t stop in pubs called The Muddy Horseshoe.

“Not sure it’s quite to your taste,” the drink sloshes as I shove it towards him, but he only chuckles, bringing it immediately to his lips.

“I’m sure I’ll live.”

He’s drawing stares, and I have to remind myself this man is famous, really. He’ll likely be the biggest celebrity who ever graces these stools, especially if this pub won’t live to see another Christmas. I try to look busy as he sips his drink, but it’s difficult when he never takes his eyes off me. He watches as I serve patron after patron, gaze never wavering as I giggle at men who aren’t funny and positively stares as I lean forward, scrubbing away at the damp bar. Finally, when I nearly drop a glass under the scrutiny of it all, I turn to him, irritated.

“Is there something you wanted?” I push, watching the amusement crinkle his eyes, “Because I know this isn’t your local, and you’re making me nervous.”

“I make you nervous?” he asks in a low voice, and I immediately regret that the words ever left my mouth. He’s staring at my eyes, and only when his gaze drops to my lips for a brief moment do I shake my head, willing myself free from this vortex he commands.

“You make me irritated,” I clutch at the glass I’m holding, “And my shift ends soon, so you’re going to have to get round to whatever this is pretty quick.”

He nods, sitting up straighter. “That’s fair,” he says, throwing back his glass and downing the rest of his drink in a way that tells me he’s probably done that a thousand times before. “I know you think our interview method was a little unorthodox, Miss Brookidge.”

“No, it was rude,” I smile, and he chuckles quietly.

“Yes, it was,” he raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow, “And you were right to leave. I’m not a fan of dishonesty, but the entire process was inherently dishonest. We weren’t searching for my personal assistant - mine is perfectly adequate.”

“Then what were you searching for?” my forehead crinkles and he clears his throat, glancing around to make sure nobody is eavesdropping. The smile is gone and he’s in what I imagine is business mode, sitting up straight and commanding.

“The job pays extremely well,” he murmurs, “Money that would change your life.”

“What job?” I ask, leaning closer to him at the bar. He smells of the kind of aftershave I could never afford to buy boyfriends, and I can’t help but notice the way his thumb absent-mindedly caresses the whiskey glass. He is intimidating and I am intimidated, but he’s in my bar and so if I’m ever going to be in control, it’s right here, right now.

He tenses, sighing. “A girlfriend, of sorts,” he says, and my soul leaves my body. I’m sure he says something after that but my mouth has dropped open and no, I don’t care how much money this man has tumbling in waterfalls from his wallet.

“I’m gonna cut you off, stud,” I grab his whiskey glass, “I know you must come in here and assume that some kind of prostitution is what I need, Pretty Woman style, but-”

“-I really don’t want you to be a prostitute, Miss-”

“But this job doesn’t pay that badly,” I snap, leaving him shaking his head. I can tell he’s uncomfortable on his cheap barstool but to his credit, he doesn’t get up and complain. Instead, he shifts awkwardly and clears his throat, reaching out to grab my hand. I freeze, startled at the warmth.

“Sorry,” he holds his hands up, releasing me, “But I don’t want you running around shouting about prostitution-”

“Don’t bloody ask for it, then.”

“Fake girlfriend,” his sharp words catch my attention and I clutch at the bar, wondering at what point normal life paused and this odd alternate reality resumed. Calvin looks at me, eyes scrutinising as he watches me process his words. He’s sizing me up and I try to keep my face blank, yanking a stool from behind me and sitting opposite him. He’s a billionaire and I’m a barmaid and I’m not sure when our paths crossed, but they’re crossing. “I’m asking you - although honestly, I’m not sure why - to be my girlfriend, in the gaze of the media.”

My heart is thudding and I have a thousand questions, but instead, I whisper: “Explain.”

“Alright,” he murmurs, deep, chocolate eyes never leaving mine. He tugs slightly on his tie, clearing his throat and leaning into the bar where I dip to meet him. “My image online is harsh and my company is going for a rebranding. I don’t want to tell you too much for confidentiality reasons, but we think it would be a good idea to use a relationship to soften my image. It is - of course - not a real relationship, and you’d mostly be accompanying me on trips and the odd dinner. You’d be compensated handsomely.”

It’s hard to grasp the notion that this man is sitting in front of me, directing these words in my direction. He stares at me to gauge any kind of reaction but I can’t give him one, simply trying to process it all in my head. A very famous billionaire waits for my reply and I ask the only question which is plaguing the inside of my mind. “Why me?”

He pauses, pushing a gold ring further up his finger and sighing. He looks down at the bar and finally up at me, eyes colliding in a way that makes me want to leave this place altogether.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice liquid silk, “I asked myself that too. Will insisted you would be perfect, and I insisted you would be trouble. But - like it or not - you made more of an impression than the other women did, so I’m here. Do you want the job?”

I think of the kind of money a billionaire could pay me for nothing other than the odd lunch and jetsetting to places nobody would turn their nose up at. My instinct is to scream no and leave but the weight of this building collapses in on me and a lifetime of debt piles up in the debris.

“Would I have to quit my job here?” I ask in a breathless whisper, looking around at the place I’ve basically lived in for the last five years. Calvin nods.

“Yes. All in.”

“Christ,” I mutter, wondering why I’m hesitating when all I’ve ever waited for is something like this. Fate hitting me like a train with something good for once. I need the money. I need a break from this place. I need something. 

“Okay, yes,” I whisper to the man opposite me, and so it begins.