by Karen Swan
He stared back at her. ‘And if I do that, you’ll speak to Haven?’
‘Sure,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m going to be seeing her for dinner tonight anyway.’
He spread his hands, palms up, on the table as he gave her an incredulous look. ‘And you’ve just made me beg?’
‘I can only ask her. There’s no guarantee she’ll say yes. It’s not like we’re friends.’
‘But you’re having dinner—?’
‘Yes, just us and the other nine Hotties I shot for Black Dot.’
‘Oh,’ he shrugged. ‘Oh wait, is that the one Sam’s going to?’ Liam pointed his fork at her questioningly. ‘At the Waldorf Astoria?’
Lee felt her stomach clench at the sudden mention of his name. ‘Yes. He’ll be there.’
‘You know, I had no idea you and he even knew each other,’ he said, looking over at her interestedly. ‘I couldn’t believe it when he said you’d photographed him. I’d brought him to your gallery party just so that I could introduce him to you. Do you remember I told you about his book and that mad marketing campaign?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Why didn’t you say you knew him?’
‘Well, I didn’t know he was the guy you were talking about at the time,’ she said in a tight voice.
‘He’s a good man, Sam,’ Liam said, having another drink of wine, his glass almost empty. ‘We were at uni together.’
‘Yes, you said.’
‘Both on the skating team. He was the prodigy, really into it. The rest of us were just trying to keep up.’
‘Were you close?’
‘Yeah, we were pretty tight for a while. I mean, we’re totally different – he’s a bit of a dark horse, quite quiet, understated, plays it cool . . .’ He winked at her. ‘But the women go mad for him. He was my partner in crime for a while.’
‘Really?’ Lee felt a stab of alarm. ‘I didn’t . . . I didn’t get that.’
‘No?’ Liam considered it for a moment. ‘Well, I guess he’s not really your type.’
Lee’s fork hovered mid-air, her heart racing into a gallop. ‘You don’t think so?’
‘Well, don’t get me wrong. He’s always had a thing for blondes, but you like the rough and ready sort, the treat-’em-mean guys, and energetically you’re just . . . on different paths.’
‘Energetically?’
‘Yeah, you know – you’ve seen his book; he’s all peace and kindness and you’re . . .’ He ran out of words. ‘You.’
She stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, you’re . . . you’re like . . . warry.’
‘Warry? That’s not even a word.’
‘You know what I mean, though. Combative. Aggressive, but in a good way.’ He frowned. ‘Or do I mean assertive? You don’t suffer fools. Or romantics. You like a good battle to get your teeth into. You’re never happier than when you’re in a conflict.’
She stared back at him. ‘That’s what you think of me?’
Liam chuckled. ‘Lee, it’s no diss. I stand in awe of you, trust me. Where most people have walls, you’ve got barbed wire. Nobody is going to get close to you. A guy like Sam wouldn’t even know where to start.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘It is unacceptable that you look better in a suit than I do,’ Bart muttered, pulling on his cuffs as they walked towards the bar’s steel door. It still had the three-armed entry wheel from when this had actually been a bank vault and her heart was pounding as hard as if she was staging a break-in. The adrenaline was pumping and she had to fight the urge to turn on her ridiculous heels and high-tail it out of here.
‘You didn’t see the dress I nearly wore,’ she murmured, checking her jacket was correctly positioned. Her ivory crepe blouse was plunging, with two neck ties dangling loose and providing minimal coverage should she twist slightly too far.
Bart arched an eyebrow. ‘Hot?’
‘Hotter than hell.’
His eyes widened. ‘So why didn’t you wear it then? This is the Hot List dinner.’
‘Yes, but I’m not on that list.’ She winked at him with a levity she didn’t feel. ‘We’re just staff, darling.’
They were running late; Mila had been apoplectic with her when she’d answered the door in her tux and there’d been a lot of explaining (lying) to do. Lee had given her the exact same spiel – it wasn’t ‘appropriate’ for her to dress as the femme fatale; tonight wasn’t about her – but the truth was, she needed a suit that doubled as armour. Sam’s yawning silence had left her in knots at the prospect of seeing him again tonight. With every passing day, every slow-turning hour that he didn’t call, he steadily filled the spaces in her mind; he was all she could think about now that it was becoming clear he had turned and walked away from her again – not like the first time, when he’d wanted more, but precisely because now he didn’t. He’d seen what lay at the heart of her; he’d glimpsed the ugliness and fear that hid beneath her tough, assertive demeanour and it had been enough. He didn’t want her.
And it wasn’t like she wanted to want him. This messy complication was exactly what she always tried so hard to avoid. She just had to get through tonight with some semblance of dignity.
Bart put his hand on the door and looked at her. ‘Ready?’
Her pulse spiked again. ‘Sure. Let’s get this over with and then we can get out of this hellhole,’ she quipped, sounding a lot more dry than she felt. It was what she and Cunningham always used to say to each other on assignment. Black humour definitely had its place.
Bart chuckled as he pushed the door open and they walked in, the babble of conversation rushing over them like warm water. Lee took in the cosy, rich interior in blinked snapshots – russet-toned rugs; low-slung, high-backed cream chairs; caramel-coloured wooden floors; intimate, flattering lighting. Almost every table was taken, women in silks and men in baratheas enjoying pre-show aperitifs before they went on to the opera or ballet or theatre; hotel guests relaxing before dinner. With the high prices the hotel charged, everybody had to be a somebody just to be here, but it was the group standing by the bar that was grabbing attention, discreet glances flittering on their stardust-sprinkled faces, as light and fleeting as butterflies.
She saw Alexander Visser, the acclaimed director being hailed as the ‘new Tarantino’, talking with Honor Mbeke, the Estee Lauder cover girl being called the ‘new Naomi’, and Armin de Vries, the rising politician and young father lauded as Trudeau’s successor. Beside them, in a languid grouping, was Matt (she’d completely forgotten he’d be here too), engaged in a lively conversation with Virgil Van Den Berg (the ‘new Ronaldo’), Martine Van Dijk (the ‘new Ellen’), Ricky Lazell (the ‘new Ed Sheeran’) and Claudia Prins (the ‘new Sylvie Guillem’). Haven, she saw, was standing slightly apart from them with her manager, her phone in her hand and looking as awkward as teenagers do; she had to be eight years younger than the next youngest person here and, with her nose ring and dressed in a to-her-knees T-shirt and hi-tops, looked like she should be clubbing. Not for the first time, Lee wondered how the hell she was supposed to propose Liam’s request without compromising her own professional integrity. She and Haven didn’t know each other anything like well enough to be calling in favours.
In spite of her best intentions, Lee scanned the room for Sam. She just wanted to know where he was – so she could avoid it. She found him in the far corner. He had his back to her, his head nodding slightly as he listened to something Rubens Dekker, the editor, was saying; a diminutive, sharply dressed blonde woman Lee didn’t recognize stood to his right. Had he brought a date?
‘What’ll it be?’ Bart asked her, placing a hand lightly on her arm, bringing her attention back to him.
‘Huh? Oh . . . let’s make it an Old Fashioned.’ She looked at Sam again; he and the blonde were laughing. ‘I’ll go over to Haven. She looks a bit isolated,’ she murmured.
‘Sure, I’ll bring it over.’
‘Bart!’ She heard his name
being called in happy exclamation behind her as he moved through the starry crowd – everyone loved him, for his jokes, his easy-going manner, his love of a gossipy story – heads turning as they looked for her too.
‘Hey,’ Lee said brightly, going over to Haven and her manager. She kissed them both on the cheeks. ‘How are you? I’m so glad you could make it. I thought I saw something earlier that said you were touring?’
‘Don’t mention the war,’ Andrik, her manager, grimaced.
‘Oh no,’ Lee frowned. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Backing singer troubles.’
Haven looked up from her phone. ‘They dumped me for Lily Savant.’
Lee had vaguely heard the name. ‘No way.’
‘I can’t go on without them, I just can’t,’ Haven said firmly, looking back at her manager as though he was about to push her on stage this very minute.
Andrik put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Of course, I completely understand.’ He looked back at Lee. ‘I keep telling Haven, she is the talent. She is the one filling the stadia, not them. She doesn’t need anyone on that stage but her. But . . .’ He gave a hopeless shrug.
‘Can’t you just get other backing singers?’ Lee asked.
‘It’s triggered a more general crisis of confidence, hasn’t it?’ Andrik asked his protégée, patting her shoulder lightly, before casting Lee a weary look.
Haven stared straight at her. ‘The girls have been with me since I got my first contract. They’re my sisters. I know it’s only my name on the records and all the publicity is about me, but my entire experience in this industry has been as part of a team. It was me and them together, that’s how I saw it. We were a family on that stage.’ Her bottom lip trembled. ‘And now they’ve just left me.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ Lee said sympathetically. ‘That sounds very upsetting.’
‘We’ll work it out,’ Andrik sighed, sounding endlessly patient. ‘We’ve postponed tomorrow’s event and rescheduled for end of January . . .’
Tomorrow? Lee tipped her head interestedly. Surely it couldn’t be that easy, could it? She gave a small, sympathetic smile, knowing this was her opportunity to suggest Liam’s ‘alternative’ arrangement – it would be something else off her mind, if nothing else – but a tinkle of laughter and Sam’s name uttered in exclamation across the room made her smile and mind freeze.
‘. . . It’s just a bump in the road,’ Andrik said in a reassuring voice. ‘It’s more important we focus on getting Haven’s confidence back. We’re in this for the long haul, after all. Got to keep our girl feeling safe and happy.’
Lee nodded in agreement. ‘So are you excited about seeing the shots?’
‘We can’t wait, can we?’ Andrik said, looking at Haven again encouragingly.
‘Yeah,’ Haven nodded, but there was a slight shrug too; a truculent element of ‘whatever’.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing what they’ve gone with myself,’ Lee said.
‘Oh? Don’t you know?’ Andrik sounded surprised.
‘No. I send them my edit, but after that it’s up to them what they choose to run with. They have to see how the images work together in the entirety of the feature – the flow, the energy, whether it’s cohesive or more differentiated.’
‘I hadn’t realized.’
‘Yeah, I’m excited. It’s never quite what I think it’ll be.’
‘How long have you been doing this gig for now?’ Andrik asked.
‘This is my fifth year. Last year we did it in colour, but I liked the black and whites this time – it’s edgier, moodier. Everyone’s personality seems more distinct somehow when you strip away the colours—’
‘Here you go,’ Bart said, intruding with her cocktail.
‘Ooh,’ she said, taking it appreciatively. ‘Haven, Andrik, you remember Bart?’
‘Of course,’ Andrik said, fist-bumping him. ‘We stuffed ourselves stupid on those pastries you brought in.’
Bart grinned. ‘I remember! They’re good, right?’
Lee glanced around the room, her eyes treacherously finding Sam again. He was still in conversation with the editor and the blonde, his back to her. Did he even know she was here? Would he care?
She let her eyes travel over the sweep of his shoulders. He was wearing a charcoal-grey velvet dinner jacket, black trousers and an open-necked shirt, his hair seeming wavier and more raffish than the last time she’d seen him.
When he had just kissed her and cycled away. Hadn’t looked back. Hadn’t called.
She didn’t blame him. He had realized she was more trouble than she was worth; he’d seen just how broken she really was. Why would he want to hang around for that? He understood now that it was all an act, this – making small talk in a five-star hotel bar, sympathizing over first-world problems like losing backing singers, when she had spent ten years in hotels with bombed-out windows and entire floors missing. He understood that no one came out of that as the same person they’d gone in. No one escaped unscathed. Bad dreams were the least of it.
‘Haven, hi!’
Lee looked back to find Matt sauntering over; his hair had grown back so that it looked like a very fine buzz-cut, highlighting the sharpness of his bone structure. He was looking fine in a midnight-blue dinner suit and wing-collar shirt, also no tie.
She tensed as he came and stood beside her, his physicality somehow dwarfing her, his shadow claiming her.
‘I was hoping we’d meet. I’m a huge fan of yours.’ He grinned at Haven, looking dazzling and clearly expecting that the teen sensation knew who he was too.
But she looked back at him blankly. ‘Sorry—?’
‘Apologies, my manners,’ Lee stepped in quickly, already able to see how this was going to go. There were egos to manage tonight. ‘Haven, this is Matteo Hofhuis. He was the lead in Liar Liar, on Netflix.’
‘Oh. Sorry, I don’t watch TV.’
Lee cringed. ‘It’s good, I think you’d like it,’ she lied; she hadn’t seen it either. ‘Word is he’s been shortlisted by Barbara Broccoli as the new Bond. Can you confirm or deny this, Matt?’ she asked jokily, having to make eye contact.
‘I can only confirm that I will deny anything I’m asked on the matter,’ he replied wittily, looking very pleased with himself. And her. They both knew she’d saved his blushes. ‘And how are you, Lee? You’re looking sensational tonight,’ he said, grabbing his opportunity and kissing her on both cheeks, placing his hands on her waist, before leaning back to drink her in. ‘Only Lee could make a suit look that sexy,’ he proclaimed to the group.
‘As I said, he’s a good actor,’ Lee smiled, brushing off the compliment and seeing how Bart’s eyes were glinting with sheer delight at this very friendly reunion. Matt’s arm had pointedly remained around her waist for several seconds longer than it needed to.
‘It’s a really eclectic bunch they’ve pulled together,’ Andrik said, his gaze bumping over the crowd. ‘That’s Virgil Van Den Berg, isn’t it? He’s just on fire at the moment.’
‘I know, I was just talking to him,’ Matt exclaimed. ‘Did you see his goal against Eindhoven last weekend?’ He gave an impressed laugh. ‘Insane.’
Lee felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see the hotel concierge smiling back at her. ‘They’re ready for you in the Maurer Room now, if you’d like to make your way through?’
Already? ‘Oh right, sure, thanks.’ This was what came of arriving late. She looked back at the others. ‘I’d better say hi to the boss before we sit down. I’ll catch up with you upstairs.’ So what if he was talking still to Sam? She might be freelance, but 60 per cent of her work was for his magazine – she had to network.
‘Sure.’ Matt’s eyes lingered on her as she walked over towards the man responsible for signing her pay cheques, and the other one responsible for her disrupted sleep patterns.
‘Hi,’ she said brightly, interrupting their flow and coming to stand beside Sam. It was a defiant gesture, to show him she wasn’t co
wed by his rejection, and he seemed startled by her sudden proximity, tensing in exactly the same way she just had with Matt. Did he feel the same antipathy, then? She fixed the smile on her lips. ‘I thought I’d better come and say hello before we sit down to eat. Apparently they’re ready for us upstairs.’
‘Lee, great to see you,’ Rubens said, leaning across to kiss her. ‘You look impossibly chic as ever. The whole androgyny thing looks great on you.’
‘Thanks, Rubens.’ She looked at Sam – direct, quick, no hesitation, back on her game. ‘Hi-Sam-how-are-you?’ she asked with a faux cheeriness, as though he wasn’t the man who’d helped her to stand in a cafe, who’d kissed her on her doorstep in her pyjamas three days earlier, who’d walked out of her house rather than get in her bed.
‘Lee.’ They air-kissed politely.
Politely. She felt the new distance between them, a contraction in her stomach as their eyes fleetingly met – but she couldn’t read him. He was an enigma to her.
She turned to the blonde. ‘I’m Lee. I don’t think we’ve met?’
‘Hi Lee, I’m Veronika,’ the girl replied as they shook hands; she was slender as a reed in a strapless ivory crepe midi column dress. She couldn’t be more than twenty-three but she had the cool, steady composure that young women have when they believe the world to be at their feet. ‘I’m Rubens’ new PA.’
‘Ah right, yes, we’ve spoken on the phone.’
‘Yes, I think so.’
There was a little pause; the power dynamic was completely tipped in Lee’s favour, and yet Veronika’s youth, beauty, flaxen blondeness, the way Sam had spent this entire early part of the evening talking to her . . . Lee adjusted her glasses.
‘Lee, before I forget, my congratulations on the launch of your new exhibition the other week. I’m sorry I couldn’t get there. I was in New York. I understand it was a triumph?’ Rubens said.
‘Well, it seemed to generate a conversation on the issue, which of course was always the point.’
‘I saw the party shots, we’re giving over a page to it. It looked great. Just like this – but wilder.’ He chuckled.