“Have you been to all these places?” I ask, scanning the landscapes of Tibet, China and, I think, Peru.
She shakes her head. “Not all. Some are from pictures. You’ll recognise these ones.”
She points to a collection featuring white houses with blue domes in the signature Greek landscape.
“Beautiful.” I smile. One in particular catches my eye. It’s a girl sitting on a beach in a summer dress. Her long brown hair is flowing in the wind and the brush strokes have aptly captured her long, graceful neck and high cheekbones. “I love this one,” I murmur.
“Thought you would.” She smirks.
I cross my arms over my chest. “How much?”
Megan’s eyes light up as her brain ticks over pound signs. She knows I’m not going to hustle with her in front of Elly. Let’s hope she doesn’t say a ridiculous figure like fifty thousand.
“Tristan,” Elly starts, “you don’t need to-”
“Elly, you ain’t the seller, buyer or barter so stay out of it,” Megan cuts in quickly, her eyes glinting.
I cock my head, waiting. “Well?”
She licks her lips, sizing me up. “Three thousand!” she shouts.
“Steady on, Pablo Picasso,” Elly grumbles. “At least give him a realistic price.”
Megan doesn’t speak. She studies me, as I pretend to mull it over. “Sold,” I say simply.
“Yessssss!” She screams, making every stall holder turn to see what the commotion is. I laugh and stand back as she fist-pumps the air.
Elly stares between both of us, dazed. “Tristan, you don’t have to do this. Megan! See sense. Three grand?”
“I want it.” I shrug. “Besides, I don’t want you hanging on anyone else’s wall. I was thinking I could put you in the Madison Legal HQ reception?”
“Wha-”
“I’ll remove the aquarium and put you there instead.”
Elly opens her mouth to say something then closes it. She looks so shocked, I almost worry she is going to faint.
Elly
We drive north towards central London. I haven’t seen enough of him since the conference last week as he had to visit the Hong Kong office for a few days. He asked me to go with him, but I’m not good at lying to pretend to my team that I coincidentally booked a last-minute Asia trip on the exact same dates as our CEO.
I’ve no idea where we are going. He says he has a surprise but is giving nothing away. I’m not sure I can handle any more surprises today after the painting purchase. Megan is bouncing in the backseat, ecstatic that the surprise, whatever it is, involves her too, and she gets to travel in a Porsche. So far, with three thousand more to her name, it’s been a good day for Megan. What a hustle.
It’s our first time in a sports car. Megan’s and mine, obviously, not Tristan’s. The guy collects cars like they are toys free with breakfast cereal. George usually drives him wherever he needs to go in his Aston Martin. He says he needs to take ‘her’ out to push the battery.
I call bullshit. I think he’s peacocking.
In less than a mile, two other cars tried to race us despite loggerhead traffic, and a random bloke on the street clapped at Tristan. Almost every pedestrian gives the car a second glance, some curious, some hostile, some flirtatious, eager to know who owns it. I don’t think he’ll take it too kindly if I admit I’m a tad embarrassed.
“It’s just off this street,” Tristan says as he slows down to check the GPS.
Whatever it is.
We are on a main road bordering Battersea Park. He steps on the gas and accelerates down the street, the engine roaring.
“Do you need to go so fast?” I hiss.
He laughs. “Elly, we’re only doing fifty. I’ve got it on sport mode so you can feel the full effect.” Oh. I check the speed dial. He’s right! Fifty kilometres. It feels and sounds like eighty.
After a left turn, the car slows to a crawl. The man who stood up in front of 2000 people last week seems mildly flustered today.
“Brilliant,” he says quietly. “He’s here.”
“Who’s here?” I peer out the window. I’m so low to the ground in this sports car, my vision is impaired.
“You’ll see,” Tristan says, mischievously coaxing the sports car into a parking space.
A bloke stands on the street in full business attire with a waistcoat, tie and fancy shoes. It means only one thing on a Saturday, he’s an estate agent. I wonder if he always dresses like this or if it’s because he’s meeting Tristan Kane.
I take ages to step out of the car for fear of damaging ‘her.’
The young estate agent with the fancy shoes spots us and licks his lips. I’m starting to get a bad feeling. Surely Tristan hasn’t bought an apartment near us because of my lousy bed?
Since that first night, I’ve been going to his house. Part of me is annoyed for making our relationship so one-sided. After all, why am I always travelling to see him? Then the other part of me thought, how can I be so cruel to force anyone to stay overnight at my house where you can’t sleep, eat or shag in peace?
Besides, I like his lush house. It feels like staying in a five-star hotel. But some nights when I’ve worked late, I’ve grumbled mildly about travelling to him too much. Surely… he hasn’t bought this to stop me complaining?
“Mr. Kane.” The young man runs forward to greet us and shakes Tristan’s hand. “Such an honour.”
He turns to us. “And you must be Elly and Megan. I’m Dave.”
“Don’t ruin the surprise,” Tristan says to Dave while smiling at me.
“Of course, sir, would you like us to start the tour?”
Tristan nods. “Lead the way.”
We follow Dave across the street to a high-rise all-glass lavish apartment block, perhaps twenty storeys high. I’m not sure if it’s offices or apartments. His dress shoes tap loudly on the marble floor as he leads us into the impressive lobby.
“Welcome to luxury living in Nine Elms.” Dave flashes his best sales smile as we approach the elevator. Almost like a robot, he says, “Amenities include a fully equipped spa with swimming pool,
sauna and steam rooms, residents’ lounge, rooftop bar and twenty-four-hour concierge.” Megan eyes me excitedly.
I shoot her a warning look. No.
I stay silent as we ascend.
Dave and Tristan converse politely about the building’s architectural features.
“You’ve certainly done your research, Mr. Kane,” Dave gushes.
“I’m familiar with most of the new builds in this area,” Tristan replies dryly. “The Lexington Property Group owner is a good friend of mine. This is one of theirs.” It’s said matter-of-fact rather than bragging.