Once the bath was full of water that was a few degrees too hot for comfort, Grace carefully lowered herself into the tub and sat there, knees hugged to her chest and a slight ache between her legs. She knew she’d never be able to forgive Liam for this. Which was a strange but effective way to move forward.
And in some ways, a grudge fuck with Liam simpled things up. There was no way she should feel this dirty and used and have nothing to show for it but a dark, throbbing bruise in the wrong season for polo necks.
Vaughn had been right - she was worth so much more than this.
Once she was scrubbed clean, Grace dug out her emergency credit card, unsullied in its never-been-used splendour, from where she’d wedged it down the back of the fridge. Then she headed for Oxford Street.
Grace hadn’t shopped like this in months. She started at Liberty’s and worked her way down to Marble Arch, not even bothering to stop in Primark or New Look because ten-pound dresses couldn’t soothe the hurt inside. She didn’t look at the price tags or try anything on, just snatched up something satin in her favourite shade of emerald green, which slithered between her fingers. Grabbed a pair of shoes with that buttery leather smell that always made her feel high. A necklace here, a Balenciaga bag there.
Grace didn’t want to know how much she’d spent and actually she didn’t really care. She just wanted to fill up the gaping chasm inside her with pretty things. Grace always told herself that these occasional shopping binges, which only happened in the most dire of circumstances, didn’t matter too much in the grand scheme of all her many debts. She’d still owe thousands and thousands of pounds anyway just from not being able to live on what she earned at
Skirt
, so what difference did a few more thousand make to Mr Visa or Mr Mastercard? Though it was odd that she’d chosen an out-of-control shopping habit for her emotional disorder when her grandparents were the poster OAPs for frugality.
Seams were let out, hems were taken down, and when an item of clothing was deemed beyond repair, her grandmother would cut it up and find fifty different uses for it. The stale end of the loaf became bread and butter pudding. They saved on petrol and walked any distance that was less than three miles. These were lessons that had been drummed into Grace from the age of eight, but they obviously hadn’t stuck, she thought as she collapsed on to one of the stone benches outside Selfridges, the fancy ribbon handles on all the stiff cardboard bags cutting into her hands. She sat there for several minutes staring at the welts criss-crossing her palms, then pulled out her phone.
Vaughn answered just as Grace hoped it would roll over to voicemail.
‘It’s Grace,’ she said flatly.
‘Oh, I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever hear from you again.’ She could hear the caution carved into each syllable. ‘Is it yes or no?’
That was the only thing she liked about him right now. He wasn’t into bullshit; he just got straight to the point.
‘I need to ask you some stuff. About, like, this arrangement,’ she ground out and she could practically
hear
him arching an eyebrow.
‘Now? Over the phone?’
‘Yup.’ Flippancy seemed like the best way to go. As if this was the kind of conversation she’d had a million times and in her experience over the phone was just peachy, thanks for asking.
‘I don’t th—Where are you? You sound as if you’re at a football match.’
Grace paused as a bus vibrated noisily behind her. ‘Oxford Street,’ she admitted unwillingly because she knew, in a freakish sixth-sense sort of way, exactly what Vaughn was going to say next.
‘Perfect. I’m finishing some work at the office. Come straight over.’
Which was reasonable and made sense, if she didn’t have a skanky bruise on her neck and the net worth of several Third World nations in her bags. ‘Well, now’s really not a good time,’ she prevaricated. ‘I have stuff to do.’
‘What’s that? I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’ He
so
could. ‘Just be a good girl and come over.’
‘But I’m not a good girl,’ Grace said, bristling angrily. ‘Isn’t that the whole point?’
‘I’ll see you in the next half-hour,’ Vaughn said crisply, then he had the fucking nerve to hang up on her.
Half an hour and well, seven minutes later, Grace was standing in front of the gallery and looking down doubtfully at the black clam-diggers and sleeveless pin-tucked blouse, which had officially gone ‘missing’ on a shoot and never been returned to the press office. Then she adjusted the scarf she’d just bought and knotted round her neck, choker-style, to make sure it was still covering the bite.
She couldn’t put off pressing the door buzzer any longer. ‘It’s me, Grace,’ she said, when Vaughn’s disembodied voice floated through the speaker.
There was an awful ‘push me/pull me’ as she tried to open the door in the allotted time but there was no sign of Vaughn, so Grace stashed her bags behind the reception desk and took a few deep breaths.
‘There you are,’ said a voice behind her and Grace turned around, face flaring up as if she’d been caught stealing from the till rather than foofing up the limp strands of her hair. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’
Grace’s hand was already creeping up to make sure that the scarf was secure but she forced it down and feigned an indifferent shrug. ‘Slow-moving tourists,’ was all the explanation she could come up with. She hoped Vaughn would stay on the half-landing and she’d stay cowering behind the desk and launch into her speech but he was already tripping down the last flight of stairs.
He was wearing dark blue jeans and a faded green T-shirt with a disintegrating logo on it that Grace couldn’t identify but didn’t want to get caught staring. So she concentrated on his feet, even though the Camper shoes were another tiny mind fuck. Vaughn did casual Sundays? Who knew?
Not that it made him less intimidating but maybe Vaughn realised that Grace was seconds away from a major freak-out because he stood a few feet away and gestured at the stairs.
‘It’s almost as hot as New York. I’ve been working on the roof terrace - the view’s quite incredible.’ He was talking too much, giving Grace too much explanation - could he be as nervous as she was? ‘Shall we go up there?’
Grace nodded and followed Vaughn up the stairs. On the second floor he paused. ‘Does this merit a glass of champagne?’
‘God, no! I’m still recovering from last night,’ she amended at a less shrieky volume, fingers worrying at the edge of the scarf again. ‘Actually, I’ve given up alcohol. I’m taking the pledge tomorrow.’
And that was the right note because Vaughn smiled ever so slightly. ‘I’ve come to the same decision many times but it never lasts more than twenty-four hours. Do you want a cold drink?’
Grace really wanted a mug of builder’s tea brewed so strong that she’d need a hand-whisk to stir it, but she couldn’t imagine Vaughn boiling up a kettle and dunking tea bags. ‘Diet Coke, if you’ve got it.’
‘The terrace is through those French doors at the end of the corridor.’ Vaughn tipped his head in the general direction before disappearing to find her a can of caffeiney goodness.
The terrace was perfect. A little rooftop oasis of cool and calm; a water feature trickling away in defiance of the hosepipe ban, gravel crunching under Grace’s ballet flats as she picked her way through succulent green plants, their leaves brushing against her legs until she came to a spindly and delicate wrought-iron table with chairs gathered around it.
Grace stared out over the rooftops and chimney stacks. There were little patches of green here and there, other gardens in the skies, and if she really craned her neck, she could just make out the tops of the plane trees edging Hyde Park. She’d only ever seen the park from eye-level, never from this high up, and - without the hordes of tourists and the danger of being mown down by skateboarders and overexcited small children - it was peaceful. Almost calming. And a timely lesson that money could buy you anything: even a better view.
‘It’s so beautiful up here,’ she said, because she could hear Vaughn’s footsteps behind her. ‘Like a secret little camp or something.’
‘Well, it’s wonderful on days like this but it doesn’t get much use, I’m afraid,’ Vaughn said shortly, setting two glasses down on the table. He pulled out one of the chairs so Grace could sit down, and the tight, binding feeling was back in her stomach. She took a quick gulp of the Coke to rinse the metallic taste out of her mouth, while Vaughn watched her closely. ‘OK, what would you like to ask me?’ He looked intrigued, as if she was going to ask him if he had a dungeon or if he wanted to dress her up as a French maid before he fucked her. Not even close.
‘Are you married?’
There was a moment’s startled silence, before he cleared his throat. ‘Divorced. For quite a while now.’
That was just the warm-up question; the ones after that were harder, especially when Grace felt as if she was having to fight for every breath. She swallowed nervously and turned her head to gaze at a water feature. ‘See, I was thinking about the terms of the agreement, that we could . . . that you could . . .’ She trailed off, not exactly sure how to phrase it, and shrugged helplessly.
‘That I could what?’ Vaughn prompted, and Grace didn’t think she’d ever heard him sound that gentle. It helped a little.
‘Couldn’t I just help you with your parties and be your hostess and that would be it?’ She looked up to see Vaughn frowning, though surely he had to understand what she was saying. ‘That we wouldn’t, y’know, have sex. It would just be like a part-time hostess job.’
She looked down at her hands, which she was clasping tightly so she wouldn’t start wringing them, and waited for Vaughn’s reply. She didn’t have to wait very long.
‘No, that doesn’t work for me,’ he said simply. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Grace, but surely you’re here because you wanted to have sex with me.’
Grace had been heating up steadily and now she was sure that she was so red she could be seen from outer space. ‘Yes, but . . . I did, but that was before you started talking about agreements - and I was really, really drunk that night!’ Her voice was straining higher and higher and she took another gulp of Diet Coke and nearly choked on it. All the while, Vaughn watched her as if she was some kind of science experiment and it made Grace resentful enough that she found her second wind. ‘What I’m trying to say is, this whole sex thing: I just don’t know that I could do
it
without being in love.’
‘Oh, do you only fuck people you’re in love with?’ Vaughn asked tartly, and actually the snark was easier to handle, familiar territory. ‘That’s novel.’
‘No, but there’s usually an emotional involvement . . .’ Grace tailed off again because she was tying herself up in knots. Usually there
was
an emotional involvement, but sometimes it was just because it was easier than saying no and she didn’t want to be on her own.
‘Interesting as it is watching you have a crisis of conscience, I need a decision,’ Vaughn said sharply, and if Grace thought he’d be charming and persuasive to get her on side then obviously she was wrong. ‘In the next five minutes, otherwise I’ll rescind the offer. Would you like me to set my watch?’
‘No! I can’t think properly. You could at least try to see this from my point of view.’
‘Well, I’m trying, but your point of view is a little cloudy,’ Vaughn murmured. He made a big show of looking at his watch. ‘Four minutes now . . .’
‘Jesus!’ Vaughn hadn’t said anything about her having to squirm under his relentless gaze so Grace stumbled to her feet and crunched over the gravel until she was looking down at Hyde Park again and trying to herd her scattered thoughts. She could go back the way she’d come in so she was at ground level, chugging along at the same old pace. Or she could stay up on the roof where even the air seemed purer.
And really, she would have slept with Vaughn in New York. So if she just remembered that and also remembered that the money wasn’t for the sex but for being Vaughn’s hostess, then it immediately became less shady. Because sleeping with your boss wasn’t that bad on the wrong scale: loads of women did that. Or married for money. In fact, all the
Skirt
fashion department had rich husbands. Kiki was married to a hedge fund manager and he was really plug ugly so it wasn’t like Kiki had been knocked off her Jimmy Choos by his good looks. And Posy and Lily had rich dads. Grace frowned as she suddenly realised that practically every woman she knew was being bank-rolled by a man in some way. Well, except her grandmother who would have fifty fits if she ever knew what she—