Chapter Text
“You’re joking,” Rebecca says flatly. Keeley, to her credit, is no longer cowed by even Rebecca’s most imperious tone. She just bats her adorable eyelashes innocently. But Rebecca isn’t ready to back down. “Aren’t couples’ retreats for wives on the verge of murder because the husband is addicted to pornography or something?”
“That’s the whole point! This couples’ retreat is trying to break the mould. It’s not about rescuing a failing relationship, it’s about intentionally recentering your bond in a distraction-free, romantic environment.” Keeley punctuates each phrase-let with a flourish of her hand.
“Otherwise known as ‘rescuing a failing relationship,’” Rebecca replies, knowing a sales pitch when she hears one.
“Can we shelve judgy Rebecca for two secs, babe?”
“Fine,” Rebecca huffs, shutting her laptop lid and doing her best to school her skeptical brow into something less judgy for the benefit of her friend.
Keeley smiles, apparently satisfied, and swings around to Rebecca’s side of the desk. She taps her phone screen and pulls up photos of an almost clinically picturesque resort situated beside a crystal blue ocean.
“Six days and six sexy, sexy nights at an all-inclusive, adults-only five-star resort.” Keeley shows her photos of couples at a spa, practicing yoga, riding horses along the beach, drinking and dining together. "Annnnnd therewillbelotsofothercouplestheretominglewith!”
Her noble attempt to withhold judgment snaps. “Keeley, you know how I feel about forced fun.” It comes out more petulantly than Rebecca intended.
“It’s optional! Nothing is forced! You can stay in the room and fuck all day if that’s what strikes your fancy. Actually, I bet some of those other couples would be open to swinging—”
“Why do you want me to do this so badly? Are you getting a commission or something?”
“No, of course not. It’s free! No strings at all! Except for a few Insta stories…each day…A feed post. Or two! And honestly, if you just send me the videos, I can edit them into the TikToks they want—”
“This is a PR thing,” Rebecca states, frowning. Keeley nods sheepishly. “Keeley, this sounds right up your street, so why aren’t you and Roy—”
“We absolutely would, babe, but we’re taking Phoebe up to Blackgang Chine, which is really more for Roy than her, but don’t tell him I told you that. Please think about it. Imagine Matthijs’ eyes falling out of his face when he sees that banging body of yours in a bikini! And if that isn’t enough motivation, think of all the fucking money we’ll get from a shiny new sponsorship contract.”
Rebecca stares at Keeley, eyes narrowed, as she considers the offer.
Keeley tipped her hand. A trip to Blackgang Chine of all places could easily be rescheduled. Keeley isn’t Sassy; she doesn’t tend to ask Rebecca point blank if something is wrong, particularly when it comes to Rebecca’s romantic life. But, it dawns on Rebecca, she clearly suspects that something is.
And she’s right to. Rebecca suspects it, too.
It’s been just over a year since that fateful day at Heathrow. A year should feel significant, shouldn’t it? For fuck sake, a year into dating Rupert he’d flown her to Paris on his private jet and proposed. Though a proposal is absolutely out of the question, this could be the solution to a problem she’s not even entirely sure exists.
Six days is twice as long as the longest stretch of days they’ve spent together. The possibility is both exciting and terrifying, perhaps one of those things more than the other.
But a proper holiday sounded like a fucking treat. Her last was an ill-fated trip to Mallorca just after her divorce, which she would hardly qualify as a relaxing experience.
So if something is wrong, surely an entire week together will sort it right out. By the time she returns, she’ll be laughing at herself for getting worked up over nothing.
“Alright,” she decides. Keeley releases a boiling kettle squeal right into Rebecca’s ear. “This had better secure us that sponsorship.”
And maybe I’ll feel more secure, too, she thinks grimly.
Rebecca puts on a sundress to pick up Matthijs from the airport even though it’s a bleak London morning and a few degrees too chilly to be wearing one. If he asks, she’ll tell him that she’s simply getting in the spirit for their upcoming tropical holiday. Which isn’t a lie. But neither is it the whole truth.
She feels like there’s a pin-sized hole in their relationship only she can’t figure out where the water’s getting in. So she’s surprising him at the airport in a sundress. And if that’s because she’s trying to hearken back to those early days when things felt simpler then that’s nobody’s business but her own.
She’s standing in the arrivals lobby with a greasy Gregg’s sausage roll packet pinched between two fingers since he once told her they were now his second favorite thing about England. Every time he had a bit of extra time in London between flights, he went out of his way to get one.
Fortunately, they have the mutual benefit of towering over most people, so they don’t have trouble finding one another in a crowd. When he spots her, he doesn’t dramatically stop in his tracks or anything, but his forehead wrinkles in surprise and he cuts his way through the bustling crowd to reach her.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says evenly, giving her a chaste kiss on the lips. He doesn’t comment on the dress.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Rebecca replies, smiling, unsure why she feels a bit shy. “I got you this.” She holds up the packet.
“Oh,” he says, a bit slow to smile as he reluctantly takes the bag, “Thank you.”
Rebecca suppresses her frown, twisting it into a smile instead. She hooks her arm through his and leads him towards the car park.
“A whole extra day together. Anything special you’d like to do?”
“Sleep,” he yawns.
Rebecca had thought that went without saying considering it’s barely past seven in the morning and he’d been on an overnight flight, but apparently not.
“Right. You must be exhausted. Let’s get you to bed then, hm?”
Halfway back to her house, he still hasn’t touched the sausage roll. Rebecca frowns. It’s certainly gone cold by now. “Not hungry?” she asks, perplexed because she’s never known him not to be.
“Ah,” he says, crinkling the corner of the packet between two fingers, “My doctor told me my cholesterol was too high, and, you know, with my family history...” He waves a hand in lieu of further explanation.
She doesn’t. She doesn’t know. Not about his cholesterol nor his family history. Rebecca saws the pad of her thumb over the cuticle of her middle finger again and again, racking her brain for a memory of when he had told her any of this because surely if she remembers a passing remark to a Gregg’s sausage roll, she would certainly remember important information about his health and his family, wouldn’t she?
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay. Do you want it?”
She feels a little ill now, so she says, “No, I’m alright.”
So he sets the packet in the cupholder between them and the sight of it haunts her peripheral vision the rest of the drive.
Rebecca sighs when they get caught in morning traffic less than twenty minutes away from her house.
“Like I told you before, you don’t need to come pick me up. There’s a reliable train, and you’re a very busy woman. This can hardly be a good use of your time.”
He doesn’t say it cruelly or critically, not like Rupert would’ve done, just in his straightforward, Dutch way. There's no telling if he’s just trying to be nice and spare her from something most people would think of as a chore or if he’s being genuine; he is from Amsterdam after all and he’s never owned a car in his life. But she doesn’t know. She really doesn’t fucking know.
“I really don’t mind,” she says, smiling and loosening her grip around the steering wheel and dropping her shoulders because perhaps he read more irritation in her sigh than she actually felt. “Extra time with you is never a waste, even if it’s in traffic.”
She expects a bit of bickering, a back and forth until one of them relents, but he just stays silent.
As soon as the front door clicks shut behind them, Rebecca bands her arms around his neck and pulls him into a languid, passionate kiss. Or at least she tries to; his jaw is stiff, resistant, so she opens her eyes and finds herself staring right back into the cool blue of his.
“Is everything alright?” she asks, cupping his face and running her thumb along his stubble.
“Ja. I think I just need a shower and some rest.”
Rebecca smooths her hands along the lapels of his pilot jacket, looking up at him through her lashes. “Want some company?”
Matthijs takes her hands and presses a stilted kiss to her knuckles before he drops them. “Next time, okay?”
“Okay.” Rebecca buries her disappointment beneath a smile. He leaves her there, dejected in the foyer. She remembers to call up after him, “If you’ve got anything you need washed before we leave tomorrow, just put it in my hamper. Mina will be in this morning.”
“I can wash my own clothes,” he calls back.
The comment smarts.
So many of Rupert’s critiques of Rebecca were rooted in his own insecurity and fragile ego. It isn’t like that with Matthijs. Or at least, she doesn’t think so. Though she doesn’t know the intimate details of his finances, it’s clear that he’s more comfortable than his modest lifestyle suggests. There’s no indication he feels emasculated when Rebecca foots the bill for their meals and hotels or lavishes gifts upon his daughter or charters a private jet to visit him.
But it’s comments like this that betray what he really thinks.
It had been endearing at first. When he discovered she not only employed a private chef, but asked him specifically to prepare her microwaveable meals for the sake of convenience, he told her he wished he could be around more to make sure she had a properly home cooked meal waiting for her each night.
But a few months later, her toilet had gone on the fritz. Matthijs asked her to shut off the water so he could fix it and she looked at him like he had five heads. There had been something unkind about his subsequent laughter.
Then, a couple months ago, she was his date to a wedding in Amsterdam.
During the reception, he was a few drinks deep while holding court for his friends when he rattled off a list of things she didn’t do for herself or didn’t know how to do. For the rest of the night, they all exclusively referred to her as Koningin, practically sneering when they said it. Rebecca had no qualms with being teased by her friends, but she had only just met these people. The nickname wasn’t affectionate, it was an indictment, coming to the verdict that she was nothing but a spoiled, entitled, and incompetent brat.
She remembered Ted’s words in the Crown & Anchor all those years ago: they judged everything, and they judged everyone. Who I was had nothing to do with it.
Matthijs didn’t notice that she was fuming. She considered talking to him about it, but he was drunk and this was a wedding and Rebecca wasn’t going to pick a fucking fight. By the next morning, she had convinced herself she had taken it all far too personally, just her Rupert trauma acting up and not worth mentioning.
So fine. Whatever. He can do his own fucking laundry if that’s what suits him. It’s not as though Rebecca never does her own laundry. She knows how to do laundry.
Rebecca wanders into the kitchen, loudly sucking air in through her nostrils and letting it eke out slowly through pursed lips. Unfortunately, it’s too early for her to soothe her growing irritation with some pinot gris, so she sets about making tea instead, wishing, as she often had over the past year, that she had Ted’s biscuits to go with it.
While Matthijs sleeps, she works. It’s Saturday during the off-season, so nobody is at the office and she isn’t receiving five emails for every one she sends. In fact, she doesn’t receive a single response. Unusual considering most of her colleagues are as addicted to work as she is. Perhaps everyone at Richmond is committed to her truly taking this leave.
Hours pass. Mina comes and goes. Matthijs continues to sleep. By late afternoon, her inbox is clear of unread emails. Except for one from Higgins she’s been ignoring for over a week now with the subject line: Possible Women’s Squad Managers.
That can wait until she gets back.
“Is something on your mind?” Rebecca asks between bites of porridge.
Rationally, she knows he’s probably just groggy. They both agreed it had been a mistake to let him sleep all day yesterday since it hadn’t helped at all with his jet lag.
Perhaps irrationally, the silence seems strained to her. She feels the heaviness of his gaze on her when she’s not looking at him, but every time she tries to catch him at it, he’s looking anywhere but her, so she convinces herself she’s making it up.
“It’s silly,” he drawls, his words still thick with sleep.
“What is?” Rebecca asks.
Matthijs shrugs, taking a long sip of coffee before he answers, “I…uh…Get a bit nervous about planes when I’m not the one flying.”
Rebecca cracks a smile. It must mean something that he trusted her with this little shred of vulnerability.
“That isn’t silly,” Rebecca says, reassuring. She reaches for his hand, and she swears she feels just the slightest flinch when she makes contact. Schooling her expression, she continues, “From one control freak to another, it makes perfect sense to me.”
There’s the barest flicker of a smile on his impassive face. She has this sinking feeling that she’s done something wrong, though she hasn’t the foggiest what it could be.
Rebecca opens her mouth, about to ask him, but she snaps it shut before any words fall out. Her therapist had called this the shrapnel, bits of her abusive marriage that had lodged themselves in her brain. Whenever you’re unsure if what you’re feeling is unfounded or not, look for the evidence.
Last month, she cancelled her visit to Amsterdam on account of a terrible fever. Keeley had all but placed her under house arrest with enough drugs to run a meth lab and soup to feed a small army. Matthijs, of course, had been perfectly understanding. Over the past couple of weeks, their relationship hadn’t been a priority for her because she was working like a lunatic to make sure he got her undivided attention on their holiday. She profusely apologized for this every time they did manage to speak, and he had never indicated he was upset. Since he arrived, he’s been reserved, but surely that’s just because he’s exhausted.
So there. She’s just being irrational.
Rebecca sets her mug down, coyly avoiding eye contact. “Just look at it this way. You won’t be busy piloting, so that means you can participate in…other activities. Like, for instance, earning your membership in the Mile High Club.”
“The what?”
“How is it possible that you are a pilot and you don’t know what the Mile High Club is?” she asks, half certain that he’s having her on.
“Are you making fun of me?” he asks, sounding almost wounded.
“What? Of course not! I thought you might’ve been joking.” Matthijs juts his bottom lip out and shakes his head. “It’s…Just a term for people who have fucked on a plane,” she says, pointing her index finger upwards.
“Ah. In that case, I am already a part of this club.”
“Really?” Rebecca gasps, resting her chin on the heel of her palm. “Tell me every sordid detail.”
But his expression turns cold.
“Oh,” Rebecca exhales, leaning back on her stool. “Your ex?”
“Ja.”
“Do you…want to talk about it?”
Matthijs’ cool eyes linger on Rebecca for an unnervingly long time before he answers, “No.”
Aside from what she learned that very first night they met, Matthijs has never really opened up to her about Jelka’s mother. Back then, he seemed like the hurt had scarred over, but she’s not so sure now.
“What about you, Rebecca? Are you in this club?”
“Yes,” Rebecca answers, grimacing.
“And do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
They don’t renew their Mile High Club membership on the jet.
Over 24 hours since they reunited, which is the first time she’s seen him in over two months, and they haven’t even gotten close to having sex. They’ve hardly so much as kissed.
Soon enough they’ll be swept up by passion and romance, she’s sure of it. The sun and the sand and the alcohol will shake them both out of whatever strange funk this is and she’ll just be able to fucking enjoy herself. That’s all she really wants. That’s all this relationship with Matthijs was ever supposed to be, so why is it causing her so much stress?
Rebecca offers Matthijs a sedative for his nerves even though it’s only a five hour flight. That saboteur in her head tells her he accepts it because he’s just trying to avoid her.
But for what reason? demands the rational part of her.
You fucked up, insists the other, meaner, but more truthful part, you always fuck it up. It’s just who you are.
The resort is even more gorgeous in person. Thank fuck.
When they emerge from their car, they’re immediately set upon by resort employees who lift their cases from the boot—Rebecca’s hard shell suitcase approximately three times the size of Matthijs’ far more sensible one—and roll them into the lobby.
Waiting at the entrance is a woman in a crisp cream linen suit who exclaims, “Bienvenida, Ms. Welton!” as she extends her hand. Rebecca takes it robotically, reeling from the unexpected greeting, but she gathers herself when the woman introduces herself as the Vice President of Marketing from the resort's parent company.
Rebecca clicks into business mode, giving the woman, Ona, a warm smile as she expresses her gratitude for the invitation.
“There will be a welcome reception for all the couples here at the lobby bar at seven. You will be there, sí?”
Ugh.
“Of course,” Rebecca says with an enthusiasm she does not feel. “Muchas gracias.”
Ona presses a business card into Rebecca’s hand and departs after pressing a kiss to each of Rebecca’s cheeks.
With a sigh, Rebecca digs her phone out of her handbag and opens the camera app. In the frame, she sees Matthijs, facing away from her, apparently watching the golden sun on its slow fall into the sea. Rebecca shifts the lens to the left so he’s no longer in the frame, and she snaps the photo.
Good enough, she thinks.
Trading my Louboutins for sandals this week 💜
Brow quirked in irritation, she adds the insipid mandatory hashtags to the post before she uploads it.
Within seconds, her phone dings with a text from Keeley:
Great start BUT this isn’t an advertisement for a solo girlboss relaxation retreat!!!
Rebecca rolls her eyes. She replies:
What do you suggest I do then?
Keeley responds:
Get a pic of two very fancy expensive looking drinks and add a cheeky caption that implies you’re going to get ploughed tonight
This is what Keeley referred to as a ‘soft launch.’ Subtle suggestions that she’s in a relationship without actually confirming that she is. A full year and somehow she had managed to keep Matthijs completely under the radar and frankly she likes it that way. It’s no different than how she felt with Sam when he wanted to go public, and thank Christ she had listened to her instincts back then. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around what had possessed her to sleep with someone who was barely more than a teenager and also her employee, but there was no point revisiting that particular lapse in judgment right now.
No, the real problem is if their relationship is public, the inevitable break-up will be, too.
Break-up?
Inevitable break-up?
Where the fuck did that—
“Allow me to escort you to your villa, Mr. and Mrs. Welton.”
Neither Rebecca nor Matthijs laugh at this mistake, nor do they correct it. They just sheepishly follow the concierge, listening to him point out the restaurants, the spa, the various pools, the path to the beach. Rebecca is grateful for the excuse to avert her gaze.
It’s a bit of a hike to their villa, but the remoteness is part of its romantic appeal, they’re told. The employee’s description drips with all the words rich people love to hear: elite, exclusive, luxury. Rebecca wonders how hard Matthijs is working not to roll his eyes. If he had planned this trip, they would be staying in a microscopic sailboat or perhaps a beachside bungalow one might generously call a shack. He probably hasn’t even told his friends that his Koningin had spirited him away on an all expenses paid holiday.
Oh, shut up, Rebecca. She doesn’t want to be the type of person who gets annoyed at her…whatever he is to her…for things he hasn’t even done.
The villa is perfectly lovely. It has a gorgeous view of the ocean from the edge of the infinity pool, an Olympic-sized bathtub, and a ludicrously fluffy bed she yearns to crawl into. Hmmm…
Their two suitcases are on the floor at the foot of the bed. Struck by an idea, Rebecca takes a quick photo of the bed and just a teasing snippet of the two suitcases.
Have I got plans for you 😜
Like clockwork, a message from Keeley appears.
That’s the spirit!!!
Little does Keeley or her hundreds of thousands of followers know that at this rate, those plans include sleep and nothing else.
Some of the indeterminable tension between them melts away when Rebecca steps out of the bathroom in her evening outfit.
“You look beautiful,” Matthijs says, eyes sweeping over her strappy red dress. She knows her tits look incredible thanks to the corset top, and the loose skirt that flows down to her mid-calf makes it feel breezy and comfortable in the sticky heat.
“You look rather dapper yourself,” Rebecca says sincerely. She’s never seen him dressed like this—a short-sleeve button-down covered in blue macaws and palm trees with a pair of khaki shorts.
Matthijs kisses her for the first time since they stood in her foyer yesterday. His lips linger on hers for a long moment, but the kiss doesn’t deepen or light a fire in her belly. It almost feels…clinical. Like a test of some kind.
But before she can think any more about it, he pulls away and offers his arm. “Shall we?”
They arrive at the reception just past fashionably late, Matthijs’ hand loosely around Rebecca’s wrist as he cuts a swath through the throng of couples to reach the bar.
The drink special chosen for the reception is a Pornstar Martini. Rebecca isn’t sure if this is meant to be scintillating or an ironic nod to the widely shared belief that these retreats were traditionally attended by couples trapped in sexless marriages hoping to reignite their spark.
Funny how Rebecca’s own relationship is starting to feel like that.
Rebecca makes eye contact with Ona from across the room and raises her glass towards her.
She leans in close to Matthijs’s ears and loudly whispers, “I’ve got to get a photo of our drinks for social media.”
The rims of their martini glasses kiss with more passion than the two of them did in the villa.
No better mood-setter than sipping a pornstar martini with a special someone ☺️
Rebecca feels a shift in the air seconds before she hears a voice that makes her heart leap into her throat and her stomach drop into her arse.
“—ed Lasso, and I just can’t wait to playa in el sol.”
Surely this pornstar martini is spiked with something besides alcohol because there’s no fucking way.
Rebecca’s head whips around so fast her neck pops.
And there he is. A man she last laid eyes on through stinging, blurry tears at London Heathrow Airport and has barely heard from since.
“Ted?” she exhales, still paralyzed by disbelief.
There's no chance her voice cut through the din, but Ted's head turns to her like she screamed his name at the top of her lungs, his brown eyes wide in shock and the ghost of his friendly, awfully familiar smile on his lips.
And that’s when she sees someone else just past his shoulder. A golden haired someone she only met once in a different lifetime. A someone she hadn't thought much about since she had gotten six job offers lined up for her in London only for none of it to matter because Ted didn't want to stay. A someone she had advised Ted was his past, but apparently she was dead wrong.
Michelle follows the line of Ted’s horror struck gaze directly to Rebecca. To Rebecca’s great surprise, her face lights up in a broad smile and she waves enthusiastically. Michelle whispers something in Ted’s ear, then starts to push a stunned Ted through the crowd towards where Rebecca and Matthijs are standing. Rebecca forces herself to return the smile and the wave.
“Who is that?” Matthijs asks as they approach, his hand finding Rebecca's hip like he suddenly remembered they're a couple.
“My ex-gaffer,” Rebecca says through gritted teeth, “And his…ex-wife.”
Oh, she is going to kill Keeley.