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Elizabeth

Oliver Huxley is well-oiled tonight. I’m not surprised. He’s been drinking whisky since the party started at seven, and it’s now almost one a.m. Fortunately nobody else can tell, as he’s always been able to hold his drink. He’s one of those guys who just becomes progressively funnier with each shot he puts away.

I go to put my glass on the table, miss, and nearly fall off my chair. Hmm, maybe it’s me who’s well-oiled. I’ve tried to pace myself this evening, but it’s tough to refuse Huxley when he’s at his most charming, and he’s been sending over doubles of the most expensive whiskies all evening. Earlier I complained that he was trying to get me drunk, and he replied that he was hoping I’d fall over to entertain the guests. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility considering I’m wearing my usual three-inch stilettos. Being five-foot-one in my bare feet means I nearly always wear high heels—not that it brings me much closer to Huxley’s six-two frame. He’s always teasing me about being ‘vertically-challenged’.

I should go home really. But my dog, Nymph, is at my brother’s tonight, and I won’t pick her up until the morning, so the apartment is going to be dark and quiet.

Plus, the main reason I’ve been drinking is to summon the courage to talk to Huxley about a Very Important Matter.

I don’t know whether I’m going to get the chance now, though. He’s standing at the bar with a group of clients that our friend, Titus, brought with him, and Huxley is in full swing, telling some joke or anecdote that’s made them all burst out laughing. He looks gorgeous tonight. It’s Valentine’s Day and the height of summer in New Zealand, so he discarded the jacket of his three-piece dark-gray suit some time ago, but he’s still wearing his waistcoat over his white shirt, and his light-blue tie. His dark-brown hair is ruffled sexily in a way I’m never sure is contrived or natural.

The one woman in the group, a redhead who happens to be wearing a gold lamé shirt that’s unbuttoned almost to her navel, has been making eyes at him all evening. She’s been stuck to him like cling wrap, so I doubt I’ll be able to get him on his own now.

“Hux is in good form,” Victoria says. As his business partner and second-in-command, she’s been busy making her rounds through the various rooms in the club, ensuring the Valentine’s Day party is running smoothly. A while ago she came in claiming she needed a break, so we started chatting, and she hasn’t yet left.

“He’s always in good form,” I reply. “I’d be annoyed if I could summon the energy. He said he only had four hours’ sleep last night. I don’t know how he does it.”

“He might regret his lack of sleep if the redhead gets her way.”

“I know what you mean. Her tongue rolled out like a carpet when she met him.”

The two of us chuckle. It’s not spiteful. We’re well used to the effect he has on women.

Huxley bought this club eighteen months ago, and he spent months refitting it before opening it around this time last year. Private clubs are hardly a new idea, but Huxley wanted to replace the men’s-only port and smoking rooms with something that catered for the young entrepreneurs of Auckland. Trust in business is essential, especially in our current economic climate, and he recognizes that networking builds relationships that can be nurtured over time. He wanted a place that focused on business but also had the luxuries of some of the more social clubs. And so Huxley’s was born.

It’s always tough starting off a new enterprise, and so I, Mack, Titus, Victoria, and some of our other friends have spent a lot of time at the club, holding meetings here, bringing our clients, and introducing as many new faces as we can. And it seems to be working; Huxley’s won second place on the list of top New Zealand business venues in the last issue of the prestigiousKaipakihitrade magazine, so word is definitely spreading.

Situated on five floors, the building has fully serviced offices, nine high spec meeting rooms, a stunning restaurant, lounges and workspaces, a gym, and a range of personal suites. It also has a main function room and several smaller bars, each boasting a different vibe. The one we’re currently in is called the Churchill Lounge. It’s a bit old boys’ school, which I moan about, but secretly I love all the dark-brown wood, the red leather seats, and the bottles of whisky and brandy above the bar. The whole building is non-smoking, but there’s a great painting of Winston Churchill on the wall, complete with cigar. Tonight, Victoria and Huxley have decorated everywhere with strings of red hearts and white Cupids complete with bows and arrows, which is rather adorable.

The club has been busy this evening, many of the young businessmen and women apparently relieved to escape the Valentine’s Day craziness, pretending to spend their time talking stocks and shares rather than sweet nothings over their champagne, although I suspect romance has flowed beneath the surface, as it often does when people get together. But it’s quietening down now, and Titus has obviously decided to call it a night, and is escorting his guests out. Huxley’s going with them, the redhead attached to his arm, so I guess that’s it.

I’m sitting with my chair turned sideways, my back against the wall. I sigh, stretch out my legs and lift my feet onto the chair opposite, then carefully peel off my false eyelashes as they’re annoying me. I’m ashamed to say I made an extra effort on my appearance this evening, knowing he finds it harder to say no to me when I use my womanly wiles. Clearly, though, it was a waste of time. I finish off my whisky moodily. I’m never going to win over a redhead who’s obviously interested in some serious sex.

“It’s a shame Mack didn’t make it tonight,” Victoria says, referring to one of our other closest friends. “I wonder where he got to?”

I smile. “Didn’t you hear? He proposed to Sidnie, and she said yes.”

Her face lights up with genuine pleasure. “Oh, no, I didn’t. That’s fantastic.”

“Yeah. He seemed terrified she’d say no. As if that was going to happen. She’s clearly nuts about him.”

“And he about her,” Victoria adds with a grin. “I’ve never seen him so obsessed about a girl.”

“I didn’t think any woman would be able to distract him from his research. But somehow she managed it.”

“The magical power of the pussy. Guaranteed to keep even billionaire geniuses from their work.”

I snort. “They’re all the same. Obsessed with sex.”

“There speaks a woman who isn’t getting any.”

“I don’t need a man to satisfy my urges, thank you very much. Battery-powered devices are much less trouble.”

“This sounds like a conversation I definitely want to be involved in.” Huxley appears out of nowhere, knocks my feet off the chair in front of me, and pulls it around so he’s sitting like me, with his back against the wall. “I’m always interested when women start talking about their—Jesus!” He slams his hand on the table, making us all jump as the glasses rattle. He lifts his hand to inspect his palm, then glares at me as he peels my false eyelashes off his skin. “I thought they were spiders.”

I start laughing, pleased he’s joined us. “You’re such a wuss.”