Unfurl: Chapter 1

When you’ve spent your entire life being told something is wrong—and by wrong, I mean bad, wicked, sinful—there are two obvious ways to respond.

You can abstain from said wicked path. Avoid it, fear it, like it’s the plague itself. Like it has the power to tear you apart. To destroy all you know to be good and pure.

Even to kill you.

Or you can become fixated on it. For wasn’t it the apple’s forbidden nature that tormented Eve so cruelly, rather than any inherent qualities concealed beneath that rosy skin? In short, you can grow so fixated that the desire to experience this evil path, to know it, consumes you until you fall headlong into a life of sin.

I, personally, have been known to choose both responses. Not something I’d recommend. The push-pull of temptation and terror, of obsession and mortal fear, is exhausting. When you fear something as much as you long to live it, it tears you apart.

It’s torn me apart.

And I’m done with the torment.

Now I just want the ecstasy.

I want a bite of the apple.

Not just a bite. I want to sink my teeth in. I want to pierce rosy skin until it yields juicy flesh that cascades down my chin.

I want to devour it.

I want to know all the ways I will never be the same after I’ve tasted it.

I want the apple’s sweet, sweet nectar to undo me. Transform me.

And by apple I mean sex.

Obviously.

My hair is straight. Groomed. Glossy.

My dress, a classic white fit-and-flare laser-cut shift by Alaia, is exquisitely tasteful.

My makeup is dewy. Radiant. Flawless.

No wonder Mummy wants to show me off like a doll. A prize.

She and Daddy love people to look. Admire.

But not to touch.

Not that I ever challenge them on that front.

There’s no point.

I run a fingertip, its perfectly oval nail painted a low-key nude, over the immaculate surface of the dresser at my parents’ flat, although to call it a flat is like calling da Vinci’s Last Supper a painting. Their suite of rooms overlooking Hyde Park was a serious chunk of London real estate even before its recent seven-figure makeover (eight-figure, if you include their latest art purchases).

Now it’s spectacular. And that’s the only reason I’m prepared to endure Mummy’s little soirée tonight. I can stomach being introduced to the antiquated inhabitants of this mansion block if it means I get the whole place to myself for three glorious months this summer. Mummy and Daddy are going on a European tour, and I’ll be free to luxuriate in their insane pad.

Not that my own flat isn’t stunning. It’s a beautiful maisonette in South Ken. It’s just not… this. It doesn’t have the outrageous terrace facing Hyde Park, nor the marble kitchen, nor the impressive ceiling height, nor the ornate white mouldings, nor the exquisite new all-white paintings Daddy bought Mummy for her birthday, whose extraordinary textures look like creamy scoops of ice cream straight out of an authentic Italian gelateria.

So yes. A couple of hours of small talk is a palatable enough price to pay for three months of being unleashed in my parents’ home. I’m already swooning over the dinner parties I can throw in their light-filled dining room, with drinks on the terrace overlooking the park. Other twenty-two-year-olds may be tempted to hold a rave. Not me. I’d rather pretend to be a grownup, a fabulous host entertaining her close friends in her to-die-for flat.

‘Walk me through who’s coming again?’ I ask Mummy, making sure to inject into my tone a measure of enthusiasm I don’t feel. I always give my parents what they want to hear. To see. It’s far easier to let them think I’m exactly who they want me to be. Raised me to be.

She gives me a wide smile, one that says that’s my baby and sends a cold wave of guilt washing over me. Don’t get me wrong. My mother is a total sweetie. She’s delightful. It’s just that she lives life in a bubble, with far too much of that bubble being of my father’s creation.

And because I can’t change her, I placate her. No point upsetting the carefully honed equilibrium of our household.

As I said before, it’s not worth it.

Besides, I can’t blame her. When you live with a person whose emotional state dominates everything, who’s never got the memo that opinions aren’t facts or that he doesn’t get to tell other adults (or children) what to think, then you learn to put up and shut up.

Me, I’ve worked out, belatedly and too gradually, that I can think one thing and say another, but I’m not sure Mummy even knows that’s her right anymore. My brother Dex worked it out years ago—and then promptly moved across the Atlantic to buy himself some space from Daddy.

‘Peter and Joyce from the ground floor will be here,’ Mummy says now.

‘Of course.’ I’ve met them before. Sweet couple, around my parents’ age.

‘The McPartlins. Without the kids.’ She shudders. She’s mentioned before that the McPartlin kids are beautifully behaved in their own immaculate home and total liabilities when they’re let loose anywhere else. Mummy and Daddy’s flat is far too nice to turn them loose in.

She reels off the names of three or four other couples and then nudges me, a mischievous smile on her face.

‘And Rafe Charlton. You know, the man who bought the penthouse. He just moved in a couple of weeks ago. He’s very dishy. Far too old for you, of course, but he’s quite charming when I see him in the lift. Went to Loyola.’

I smile while internally rolling my eyes. Of course he did. Saint Ignatius of Loyola College is the most exclusive and hardcore Catholic boys’ school in the country. Come to think of it, it’s probably more hardcore than even the schools the Irish can produce. Named for the founder of the Jesuit order, it’s known for its conservative teachings and the staggering success of its alumni in business and government.

Which means if this Rafe guy went there, he’s either a monk or a deviant.

Not that I can afford to cast aspersions on either of those fronts, because while I may outwardly be the former, I suspect the thoughts I entertain when I’m alone in my bed make me the latter in reality.

Whatever. I’ve been to school dances with enough Loyola guys in the past to know it’s worth giving them a seriously wide berth. And if he’s engaging Mummy’s radar, then he’s probably dull as ditchwater. I smile to myself as I imagine a tall, gangly, socially awkward man with Catholic morals and zero understanding of how the female pleasure centres work.

No.

He won’t do for my purposes at all.

Half an hour later, I’m in full conversation with Peter and Joyce from the ground floor about the colour scheme of the herbaceous borders in Hyde Park this spring (although I’m contributing little more than automatic smiles that mask intense boredom and a few polite noises) when I sense the weight of someone’s stare behind my back.

I ignore it, because I’m too well bred to turn away from a conversation, but moments later, Mummy’s at my shoulder.

‘I’m terribly sorry to interrupt,’ she says to Peter and Joyce (whose surname I fail to recollect, if indeed I’ve ever known it). ‘Do you mind if I borrow Belle for a second? I’d like to introduce her to Rafe.’

‘Excuse me,’ I murmur smilingly, and I allow myself to swivel into Mummy’s guiding hand.

Oh, God.

It’s not just his physical presence.

The ease with which he fills out his beautifully cut suit.

The rich brown eyes boring into mine.

The somehow perfect texture of his dark hair, as if someone’s styled it for him and he’s messed it right up again.

No, it’s none of those things on their own. Though don’t get me wrong; the guy ticks every single box.

What hits me right in my lower stomach area with a shot of warmth is the confidence he exudes. And not just general confidence, because he’s clearly successful, judging from his clothing. His shoes. That watch catching the evening sunlight as he holds his tumbler of whisky.

It’s a very specific type of confidence.

It’s a look that somehow telegraphs this exact thought to me:

This guy definitely knows his way around a woman’s body.