Free A Bad Bride's Tale by Polly Williams Page A

phone, relieved. Thank heavens for Absolutely.com. He knew he had to book something as a surprise (as requested by Katy), but the blasted markets had been so unstable in the last two weeks—more terror alerts—and he hadn’t been able to leave his desk until nine, let alone research holidays. That he’d become the kind of man who’d use a concierge company to arrange a “romantic break” gave him a frisson of pleasure. It was a sign he had arrived. He was cash rich, time poor, and—for the first time in his life— confident enough with women to secretly insult them.
    Sebastian slid his black Amex back into his wallet with pale, fine-boned hands. A thumb-sized picture of Katy beamed at him from a small pocket. Katy was a superb-looking woman, no doubt about that. She was clever, funny, and hot in the sack. She had her own career, her own friends. But—as Mother had warned him— Katy was becoming neurotic.
    Did she look fat? (No.) Did she look old? (Yes, sometimes.) It
    drove him loopy. She needed constant reassurance. Why wasn’t she happy? He’d agreed to move in with her. But give an inch . . . She always wanted more. The woman had an agenda. He would marry if and when he was ready. And the more she pushed, the bigger the if grew. It was now writ across his brain, large as the letters on the Hollywood Hills.
    Of course, the geographical separation wasn’t ideal. He’d allow her that. But New York was a terrific opportunity. He’d have been bonkers not to take a bite. Obviously, the decision had disturbed Katy, switched their roles around, he thought triumphantly, his chest expanding slightly beneath his Turnbull and Asser white shirt. In the past, she was the flighty one with the glamorous ca- reer, tales, and travels. He was the gawky and posh younger guy, twice turned away from the club Bouji for wearing a tie and gener- ally radiating unhipness. As a banker, he was deemed a “good catch,” but one who was still only able to get a woman as good- looking as Katy once she’d hit her mid-thirties. He hadn’t realized how much he resented this dynamic until he got the New York contract and felt something within him lift.
    Seb took a last bite of his Dean & DeLuca brownie—a man needed energy in this city—and gazed out of his sparkling window. To his left was the scar of Ground Zero—it still made him jumpy, he quickly looked away; and to the right, was . . . Oh, she was pretty. Nice bottom. And another. Crikey, these New York girls, even this far downtown, the girls were terrific. They were even more Katy-like than Katy. Here he never encountered the kind of tombstone-toothed country creatures his parents had lined up for him in Surrey. And, more important, these women were accessible. His accent opened many doors, his wallet opened the others. But boy, did his balls ache. He hadn’t had sex for twenty-three days.
    Seb slipped on his suit jacket, and took the elevator —he loved us- ing that word—and dropped down the silvery artery of the build- ing, like a bead of mercury, through hundreds of offices where women in tight skirt-suits crossed and uncrossed their legs. On the sidewalk —so Woody Allen, so cool—he put his arm out assertively to hail a yellow cab. (He’d quickly learned that a wavering, apolo- getic English arm wasn’t effective.) As they drove riotously, horn- blasting, up Broadway into SoHo, his skin was goose-bumped with anticipation. The city seemed to be waiting for him, hungry to swallow him up. Resisting the urge to redirect the driver up to Midtown and pop back quickly to his apartment for a quick self- administered release beneath the sheets, he rolled down the win- dow and, with a sharp inhalation, sucked in the American air.
    In America— Ama-ree-ka , Seb repeated to himself silently—he was free of his past, his parents, and his increasingly dull old public- school friends. No one here put him in social boxes; well, only an En- glish aristocrat box. They all seemed to