She made some rapid mental calculations. A friend of a friend’s boyfriend was DJ-ing at a bar in Williamsburg, which meant no free food and one comped drink if she was lucky. ‘Well, maybe I could shift a couple of things around,’ she hedged, because she didn’t want to sound too eager.
‘Good. I’ll pick you up at eight,’ Vaughn said. ‘It would be helpful to know where you’re staying.’
Something was seriously wrong when Grace couldn’t muster a snappy comeback. ‘Soho Grand,’ she answered dully. ‘Y’know, I could just say thank you for the bag and then we wouldn’t have to—’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
Half an hour later when she was enjoying her enforced exile to the dressing room and silently contemplating the chipped polish on her big toe, she realised he hadn’t even waited for her to say yes.
Yesterday, the cut on Grace’s cheek had simply been an angry red mark, but during the night it had scabbed over nicely. The thing that made it the best wound in the history of work-related accidents was the look of horror on Kiki’s face the next morning as she stared at it in all its crusty glory.
‘I just wanted to thank you for all your hard work this week,’ she said carefully, both eyes fixed firmly on Grace as if she expected her to bolt at any loud noises. ‘You’ve really been a star.’
Kiki was never going to apologise - she just didn’t roll that way - but this was the closest she’d ever come and Grace was going to savour every last sweet second of it.
‘Just doing my job.’ Grace absent-mindedly reached up to prod at the cut with the tip of one finger and allowed herself one tiny, ouchladen shudder. Anything else would have been overkill. ‘So, what dresses do you want for the first shot?’
‘Why don’t we get Posy to do all the prep work and you can help me with the styling?’ Kiki suggested, as she patted Grace’s shoulder without visibly wincing. ‘And I want you out of here no later than five tonight. You deserve some time off.’
Grace had had many hours to whip herself into a state of near-hysteria about spending the evening with Vaughn. The sheer giddy thrill of wining and fine dining had slowly ebbed away to be replaced with white-knuckled terror at the thought of Vaughn staring at her and making sarcastic remark after sarcastic remark while she babbled and burbled. Finally at dawn o’clock, Grace had come to the happy conclusion that Kiki would have her slaving over a warm iron all day and most of the night too, and she’d have no choice but to leave Vaughn an apologetic message and bail on him. Because assignations with arrogant older men were one thing when they led to Marc Jacobs bags, but a dinner date was something else entirely - and who knew where
that
would lead. Nowhere good.
However, Kiki was as good as her word and as the studio clock edged towards five, Grace was frog-marched out of the door by an indignant Posy.
‘Kiki says you have to go now,’ she informed Grace sourly. ‘And I have to pack up all the returns. God, I wish she’d inflict GBH on me occasionally!’
Grace tried to keep the fear at bay as she swiped at her legs with a razor, while she lay up to her neck in Malin+Goetz’s Bergamot-scented bubbles. At least she was getting a night out in New York instead of returning clothes to designers’ ateliers until the only place that was open and that she could afford was the Duane Reade on Broadway where she’d buy a bag of Doritos and a jar of salsa dip for dinner. So why not get gussied up and have her first square meal in six days and get to see the bright lights of the big city in the company of an enigmatic and not-so-bad-looking man who probably didn’t even look at the prices on the menu? Why the hell not? And just like that, she was excited all over again.
Half an hour later, Grace stepped back to stare down her reflection in the mirror. Her dress for that evening was a raspberry chiffon number from Moschino Cheap & Chic, which she’d ‘borrowed’ from the rail of shoot clothes in her room. It was a demure, polite frock in theory. But there was something special about designer dresses that could silk purse even the most pig-like of ears. It rippled down Grace’s body, which hadn’t seen the inside of a gym for several months, skimmed politely over her tummy and clung gently to the curve of her hips in a way that was suggestive and promising. But not, repeat not, slutty.
Even the colour did wonders for her skin, transforming it from bedsheet white to the creamiest shade of porcelain. Or maybe it was just the lighting in the room. Her hair was already pinned up with a handful of sparkly clips so Grace concentrated on applying a sweep of liquid eyeliner and some lipgloss that was exactly two shades darker than the dress. If she wore anything brighter, then Vaughn was bound to get the wrong idea.
But ultimately this Grace was just a reflection in a mirror. In reality there was tit-tape sticking the bodice to her chest so Grace didn’t flash her Love Kylie bra at the wrong moment, while her feet were being crunched into a shape they weren’t meant to go by her peeptoe heels. It wasn’t very feminist, but Grace fervently believed that a girl had to suffer to look this good.
The phone suddenly rang and Grace’s stomach slam-dunked at the prospect of what might happen in the next few hours, but as long as she kept it light and frothy and managed not to say anything stupid, what could possibly go wrong? Grace scooped phone, lippy and purse into her vintage clutch bag and at precisely 8.01 p.m., the lift doors swooshed open and she stepped out into the lobby to find Vaughn waiting for her.
chapter six
Vaughn was a little taller and leaner and scarier than she remembered. Maybe it was the slim-cut charcoal suit and black shirt, which made him look grim and forbidding. Or maybe it was just the way he stared at her, head tilted, without saying a word.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ Grace said uncertainly as her eyes swept over Vaughn’s unsmiling face. Considering she’d been wearing Primark and tear stains the only time they’d met, maybe he didn’t recognise her.
‘I know it’s you,’ he murmured, stepping forward to graze her cheek with a barely-there brush of his lips. Grace took a hasty step back to get away from him and the faintly disconcerting scent of limes.
She was meant to be light and frothy, not skittish. Grace clasped her hands in front of her and gave him a cool smile, even as her heart thumped out a warning tattoo. ‘Do you want your contractually obligated drink first or do we have to be at this exhibition thingy soon?’
‘Drink first, exhibition thingy second,’ Vaughn decided, finally smiling as he spread his arms expansively. ‘So where are you taking me?’
Somewhere she could put the bill on her room tab and swear blind, even under the toughest interrogation, that he was a fashion PR. Grace pointed at the stark metal steps. ‘Hotel bar,’ she said firmly.
Vaughn’s hand was already curving around her elbow so he could guide her up the stairs as if she was a delicate flower of a girl who couldn’t walk unaided.
‘How did you get that cut on your cheek?’ he asked as they walked into the lounge.
Grace marched determinedly to the bar, ignoring the plump, cosy sofas and chairs in favour of hauling herself up on to one of the stools. ‘There was this whole thing with a box of costume jewellery,’ she said vaguely. ‘It looks worse than it is. What do you want to drink?’
It wasn’t so bad.
He
wasn’t quite so bad as they sipped vodka martinis, so dry that the first taste made Grace’s tongue recoil in horror. If she was light and frothy, then Vaughn had decided to be charming and urbane. They talked about the weather because they were English people abroad. Then they talked about New York. Vaughn mentioned an apartment with a view of the park and an ancient next-door neighbour who was one of the Kennedys and never went out without her sable coat, ‘even when it’s ninety degrees humidity like today’.
And Grace told him the thing she liked most about New York so far. Which had been her first glimpse as she drove along the BQE and looked over the water to see the tiny island of Manhattan, rising up from the Hudson like some mythical, enchanted forest of skyscrapers and neon.
Grace was just munching on the three olives she’d begged from the barman in a futile attempt to mop up some alcohol, when Vaughn slid gracefully off the stool. Not that he had far to slide.
‘Shall we?’ he said, taking her arm again and this time it didn’t feel so strange. Besides, men with good manners who held doors open for you and walked on the road side of the pavement were a dying breed.
There was one startling moment of damp heat as they stepped outside before Grace was nestled in the back of a sleek expensive car on soft leather seats with the air conditioning turned up so high that she could feel goosebumps hatch along her arms. Vaughn slid in next to her because he had a driver. An actual driver. In an actual uniform. Man, if the folks back home could see her now.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into her voice because she hadn’t entirely ruled out the human-trafficker idea.
‘Chelsea,’ Vaughn sighed. ‘I always end up in Chelsea in some poky little gallery drinking rancid white wine. Now, there are some things you need to know.’
He started to give her a rundown on his resumé. A gallery in London. A gallery in New York. Up-and-coming artists ‘nurtured and mentored’, as if they were little furry pets who’d been abandoned by their birth mothers and had to be bottle-fed by Vaughn. ‘They’re so needy,’ he complained. ‘Especially the older ones. The younger ones have business managers before they’ve even graduated.’
When he wasn’t hand-rearing artists, he bought and sold art for private clients and collectors, and advised several museums and national galleries. He obviously did it very well, if the chauffeur-driven car and the whimsical purchase of Marc Jacobs bags was anything to go by.
Grace cast her mind back to her Art History A-level, but all she could remember was the drone of Mr Mortimer’s voice as she’d ignored the words in her textbooks and looked at the pretty pictures. Vaughn must have noticed the rising panic she was giving off like white noise because he gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her fingers so briefly that when she looked down at his hand, it had already gone. ‘The whole world seems to know that I’m in acquisition mode at the moment so I need you to do one thing for me,’ he said calmly.
‘I won’t have to bid on anything, will I?’ Grace asked uncertainly.
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Vaughn said. ‘If I get cornered by the gallery owner or, God forbid, the artist and his agent, you have to rescue me. I’ll tap my chin and you can come rushing over and spirit me away.’
Actually, that sounded like fun. She could even use a foreign accent and play up the part of the spoiled girlfriend. ‘I can do that,’ Grace grinned, turning to him. ‘I give really good glare.’
‘You do,’ he agreed. ‘But when you smile properly, then you’re very beautiful.’
They were already nudging into 23rd Street so Grace didn’t have to reply. The car pulled up to the kerb and instead of scrambling out like she normally did, Grace waited for the driver to open her door and as she stepped out, Vaughn was there to take her arm again and carefully lead her up the six steps to the gallery entrance.
The second that they entered Blax Gallery, the excited hum of opening night became an expectant silence, as if someone had suddenly pressed a cosmic mute button. Grace looked up and saw a sea of curious faces, sliding right past her to fix on Vaughn.
‘Anyone would think they’d never seen an art dealer before,’ he muttered in her ear, his hand around her wrist as he strode into the room. ‘Let’s be daring and actually look at the art.’
‘Are you well known?’ Grace ventured, stepping around a rapier-thin blonde woman who was making absolutely no attempt to stop staring at Vaughn and get out of her way.
‘I’m very good at what I do,’ he said simply. ‘And that has its advantages and disadvantages.’ They were fighting through the jostling epicentre of the crowd now to get to one of the far walls so they could look at the pictures. Vaughn grabbed two glasses of wine from a waiter holding a tray aloft and handed one to her. ‘Remember if I make the signal, you’re to come and extract me,’ he warned her before he was swallowed up into the gaping maw of the throng, leaving Grace on her own and utterly out of her depth. There was only one way to get through this and it wasn’t sober.
Vaughn was right. The wine was gross. It left an oily aftertaste in Grace’s mouth as she squinted at the tiny pictures hanging on the wall. They were bigger than postage stamps; not as big as an iPod shuffle. With all the art groupies milling about and push, push, pushing because they were New Yorkers and it was their God-given right to annexe as much space as they could, it was hard to get a proper look. Grace even resorted to elbows when she was boxed in by two plastic-faced trophy wives screeching about the macrobiotic diet responsible for their size double zero figures.