Lady Eliza Weatherford had always believed emotions were like sauces, best served on the side, and never allowed to stain the table linen. This ethos had been maintained throughout a long and highly successful career that was celebrated with business awards, international attention and way too many friends for any one human.
Eliza was 52, a legendary hospitality consultant and cold-blooded perfectionist. She had money, a beautiful home, rather too many nieces and nephews whose names she had memorised, and doting parents who had remained in great health despite advancing age.
Eliza boarded another private jet in Neice after salvaging a failing three-star restaurant in Monaco. Wearing an immaculate cream trouser suit, Prada sunglasses, and the smirk of someone who has fired a Michelin chef before breakfast, this was another ordinary day in the life of a happy milionairess.
Then came Sebastian Knox, 29, tousled, charming, rumpled in that rich-boy-on-his-third-startup way. He is the co-owner’s son, sent to "observe excellence" under Eliza’s no-nonsense regime. Eliza had agreed to Sebastian shadowing her, under duress it had to be said. He was an Eton boy, all very pleasant but nervous around her and this, Eliza knew well, would prove to be an irritant.
Sebastian spilled champagne on her files almost immediately. He had no idea how to mop the table down as his butler wasn't around and his flies were undone after his last trip to the small room.
“I’d suggest you stay out of my way,” she murmured, blotting her paperwork with disdain.
“But then I’d miss all the chances to impress you,” he replied, trying to be amusing and lounging across from her like a particularly well-designed sofa.
In Tokyo they visited a restaurant, another part-work part-pleasure trip.
It was a twelve-seat sushi temple in Shinjuku. Eliza gave each grain of rice a critique. Her surgical precision in these matters was legendary. Sebastian, undeterred, ate with his fingers after breaking a chopstick on the water bowl. Eliza was forced to listen to stories of boarding school scandal and tech-failure-millions.
“I once caused a blackout across three data centres,” he says, watching her lips as she sipped Sake.
“And I once made Gordon Ramsay cry,” she replies.
“I bet you did.”
“In a good way.”
“Even better.”
Seb (yes she had finally come around) had been energised with extreme confidence by the Sake. It quite took Eliza by storm. She was laughing at his jokes and became absent minded with her guard. Before she knew it there was a massive public school boy snog in the taxi. He never made it to his room.
In the morning, Seb brought the breakfast tray to the bed. He was wearing her silk robe and it had fallen open. He looked luscious and brought knew meaning to the words, 'full English'.
On the flight to São Paulo, Sebastian was explaining Merlot terroir in the most unconvincing way imaginable. “If you’re going to seduce me mid-flight, at least understand the difference between Bordeaux and Burgundy,” she whispers, licking red from his lower lip.
“Teach me everything,” he grinned.
The affair, if two nights in different countries count as such a thing, was an ongoing secret.
Sebastian was besotted and Eliza became suspicious of her own pulse. She’s not built for this: giggles, texts, jealousy over Instagram likes. What ever was she doing? Summer madness would have to end come autumn.
But a good secret always rises to the top.
It leaked to the press. Paparazzi, whispers in private clubs, rumours she’d lost her edge, Nastiness on Instagram about Sebastian's mummy issues, Criticism about her botox, cheeks, lips, eyebrows, forehead.....It was endless.
The board of directors suggested she take a leave. Eliza was furious, but also felt ridiculous. A silly old lady getting sidetracked by a ridiculous notion of self worth and vanity, a desperate obsession over a hot youth. So she ghosted Sebastian. It was somewhat unprofessional but affairs of the heart were not in her superpower box.
Eliza had blocked his number and thrown herself into work, and she also left the country.
Then this....a hand written letter delivered via her PA...
Dearest Eliza,
How I miss you. My days stretch endlessly into a chasm of deep sorrow and it sucks me in. I am not sleeping. I haven't had a hard on in three weeks and I am bereft in your absence.
I don't care if I am half your age, and it is nobody’s business. We were enriched by one another, we helped each other grow. My breakfast does not taste the same without you.
I am slowly dying,
Yours forever,
Seb. x
It was heartfelt but Eliza was adamant not to rekindle things.
That evening was the hardest. She sat at the hotel bar drinking coffee after a martini made her depressed. There was a stack of new properties to peruse for her investment portfolio.
She had successfully eradicated the memory of Seb for three whole hours when she returned to her room. But as she opened her door even the smell of his aftershave returned.
And that, dear readers, is because Seb was lounging like a greek God across her bed. He was wearing her silk robe, slightly open, and irresistibly ready to give new meaning to Eliza's favourite bedtime story.
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