Falling for Grace

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “You look amazing today,” I comment.

  She hands me my coffee. “Thanks.” A delicate blush colours her cheeks.

  I take a sip, eyeing her suspiciously. “You haven’t dressed up like this for work before. What gives?”

  Her colour deepens. “I don’t know. I just wanted a change, I suppose.”

  I arch my eyebrows in response.

  “No, really,” she protests. “I like to dress up every now and then. For no other reason than for myself.”

  I shoot her a wry smile. “Taylor, you work at a tennis club. You wear sportswear to work every day, not micro-minis and vertigo-inducing heels.”

  She tries to suppress a grin. Fails. “Okay. Remember that guy, the one I told you about ages ago?” she gushes.

  “The one you’ve been secretly in love with forever?”

  “Um, yeah. That one.” Her face glows with excitement. “He’s back.”

  Taylor fell for one of the tennis pros at her club years ago and, although she worshipped regularly at his altar, he barely knew she existed. She never told me who he was, saying she was too embarrassed.

  “That’s so great. Are you going to ask him out?”

  “God, no!” She’s thoroughly shocked by my suggestion, her fists clenching at her sides.

  “Why not? Look at you, not only are you an awesome person, you look pretty darn good in that getup today. How could any guy not say yes to you?”

  She shakes her head, sits down on a kitchen stool. “I don’t know. I want to, but… what if he says no?”

  “What if he says yes?” I counter, slotting some bread into the toaster.

  “Oh, god.” She buries her head in her hands for a moment then looks up at me. “No. I don’t want to think about it.” Her voice is firm. “What are you up to today?”

  Nice change of subject. I take it. “I’m meeting someone about a possible job.”

  Laura put Jessica Banks and I in touch and we’ve agreed to meet today. She told me she was snowed under with work and needed an assistant who knows her stuff, like, yesterday.

  “Cool. Doing what?”

  “Assistant Stylist.” My excitement builds at the thought. “The woman I’m meeting runs a personal styling business and apparently things are going so well she needs one.”

  The idea of working for a woman who screwed my sister over in the men department isn’t exactly appealing, but I need a job, and a girl can’t be too picky when she’s been out of any regular work for over a month. Rents don’t pay themselves.

  “What’s her business called?”

  “Estil.” I shrug. “Some European name, something to do with fashion.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Jessica something, right? I think she writes a column in Capital Woman.” Taylor grabs a copy of the magazine from the coffee table and flicks through the pages until she finds it. “Yeah, that’s right. She does the fashion spread too. See?” She plonks the magazine on the bench in front of me.

  I sip my coffee as I glance over the column, reading a couple of paragraphs. Despite my loyalty to Brooke, I chuckle to myself. She offers fashion advice with a touch of humour and her photo shows a cute and happy brunette with an open, pretty face.

  Tiffany saunters into the room, dressed in a towel and nothing else, mascara smudged below her eyes, her hair a veritable bird’s nest. “Just here for supplies.”

  “Hey, Tiff,” I say, amused by her dishevelled appearance. “Big night?”

  We watch as she grabs a couple of bananas, a box of cereal, and a carton of milk. “Bowls,” she mutters to herself, reaching up into the cupboard while balancing the supplies and keeping her towel in place.

  I’m impressed by her quite remarkable dexterity.

  “Two bowls, huh? You had a good night, then?” Taylor asks, smiling.

  Tiffany’s expansive grin answers her question. “Oh, yeah.” She opens the fridge door, grabs the can of whipped cream. “Almost forgot the most important bit.”

  I roll my eyes as Taylor laughs. “Thank goodness I’m going to work and don’t have to imagine what you’re doing with that.” She gestures to the can, pulling a face. “I’ve got to get going. I guess I don’t need to tell you to have fun.”

  Taylor walks down the hall to her bedroom, leaving Tiffany and me in the kitchen.

  “When are you and Rangi going to realise you’re made for each other?” I ask.

  “Rangi?” Tiffany looks confused.

  “Yeah, the guy currently lounging naked in your bed?”

  “Oh, it’s not—” she begins only to stop when a tall, tanned, blonde athletic-looking man walks into the kitchen, wearing only a pair of boxers.

  So, not Rangi then.

  Despite the sleepy look in his eyes, he could be an advertisement for Calvin Klein underwear.

  I do a double take, rooted to the spot. I blink, barely believing my eyes. Scott Wright? Tiffany’s sleeping with Scott Wright?

  I watch as he rubs his eyes, breaking into a broad grin when he notices he has an audience. He saunters over to Tiffany and grabs her around the waist. “Did you get it?” He spies the cream in her hand. “Good girl.”

  He pulls her into him and nuzzles her neck. Tiffany responds by throwing her head back and letting out a soft groan.

  All we need now is soft, cheesy music in the background, a towel to drop to the floor and we’ll have a fully-fledged porno right here in the kitchen.

  “Come on, big boy,” Tiffany says, passing him the cream and the bananas. “Let’s go.”

  I watch as they wander back towards Tiffany’s room.

  “Hello, Scott.” I cross my arms as I shoot him a steely gaze.

  He stops in his tracks, turns and faces me. “Ah… Grace? Is that you?”

  Tiffany looks annoyed. “You two know each other?”

  “Sure,” Scott responds, walking back towards me. “I used to date Gracie’s sister.”

  “You sure did.”

  Talk about worlds colliding! This is the guy who cheated on Brooke with Jessica Banks, the very woman I’m due to meet about a job today. You wouldn’t read about it.

  “It’s great to see you. You’re looking good. How’s Brooke? Does she… ah… talk about me?”

  “Great and no.” I glare at him.

  I watch as he tries to match my responses to his questions. He bears more than a passing resemblance to a toddler trying to do calculus. The thought makes me want to snigger.

  Scott’s qualities were always his good looks and charm. His intelligence? Well, let’s just say he’s about as sharp as a beach ball.

  Eventually he gives up and simply grins at me. “Good, great to hear it.”

  “She and Logan are fantastic. Did you know she’s pregnant? And happy? So, so happy.”

  “She’s pregnant?” His voice takes on a definite helium balloon quality all of a sudden.

  I’m enjoying this.

  “Yes. She’s due in a month. And Logan, the father, is so wonderful. The type of guy she should have been with all along.”

  His mouth forms a thin line. “Okay, I get it. You’re pissed at me. I messed up with Brooke.”

  “You sure did.” I smile my fakest smile.

  After a beat, I decide to let him off the hook. It’s ancient history, after all.

  “What are you doing in Wellington? I thought you were somewhere up north.”

  I notice Tiffany tapping her foot with impatience.

  “I’m living back here now, actually.” He shifts his weight. “Back coaching at the club. It’s great, real great.”

  Scott left Wellington some time ago to follow his dream of setting up a tennis resort in Northland, the tip of the North Island. Working back at the Capital City Club must mean his dreams fell through.

  Gee, that’s too bad.

  “Grace.” Tiffany shoots me an irritated look.

  “You’d better get going, Scott. Looks like Cruella De Vil wants you to skin some puppies.” I nod at Tiffany.

  “He
y, I’m not into any of that animal stuff,” he protests.

  I guess he’s not a fan of 101 Dalmations.

  I shake my head. “Good to know, Scott. Good to know.”

  “See ya later,” Scott says to me as he beats a retreat to Tiffany’s bedroom.

  Much later, with any luck.

  I glance at my watch. Knowing what’s about to happen in Tiffany’s room, I’m more than happy to be heading out the door, far, far away from Scott and his can of cream.

  Chapter 5

  JESSICA BANKS AND I have been talking for forty-five minutes, sitting in a café at a table overlooking Wellington’s deep blue, sparkling harbour. Despite my earlier determination not to like her, I’ve fallen for her easy manner and natural charm.

  I’m so disloyal.

  “You sound absolutely perfect for this position, Grace. When can you start?”

  “Wow. Really?” I can’t quite believe my luck.

  Jessica sits back in her chair, smiling. “Really. And believe me, you’re doing me the favour here. I’m run off my feet with Estil clients, my columns, not to mention I’ve committed to a series of appearances on Wake Up New Zealand’s style segment. You know, the morning television programme?”

  I nod.

  “I guess it’s a nice problem to have, but I so need you!”

  “Thanks, I’d love to work with you, Jessica.” My grin is so broad my face might crack.

  A job as a stylist’s assistant! This is going to be fun.

  “Call me Jess. All my friends do.” She smiles again. “How about another coffee? I know it’s no good for you but I am addicted to Wellington’s coffee, aren’t you?”

  A woman after my own heart. “Yes, please. But you have to let me get it.”

  “Nonsense. You’re my employee now. It’s in the rules: I buy the coffee.”

  Another cup, some chocolate chip muffins, much discussion, and even more laughter later I have a bunch of appointments scheduled for the coming weeks.

  “Now take this.” She passes me two receipts: one for three suits from an upmarket menswear store in the city, the other for two dresses from Wellington’s ritziest department store. “Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Go to these stores and collect the clothes. They’re held under Estil. Tomorrow morning at nine you need to go to the Royal Hotel and deliver these to a man checked in under the name of Rick Deckard.”

  “All right. Do I just hand them over to this Rick Deckard guy, or what?”

  She smiles. “They’re a couple, man and woman. You’ll need to wait while they try them on, make sure they’re a good fit and they’re happy with them. I’ve already met with them both and they’ve chosen these, so it should be fairly straightforward for you.”

  I put the receipt into my bag and check the time. “Great. I’ll need to get going. I’m in the WOW show again tonight and need to get there early.”

  “Oh, of course. I love the Wearable Arts but have been so busy lately I couldn’t make it. What is the time, anyway?”

  “It’s twelve thirty.”

  “Oh, I have to go. My husband will be waiting.” She stands up and I follow suit. “Husband. I like saying that.” Her face breaks into a pretty smile.

  I grin. “Newly-weds?”

  “Yes. We got married in summer.” Her eyes mist over momentarily. Extending her hand, she adds, “I think this is going to work out beautifully, Grace. Thank you so much and welcome to Estil.”

  * * *

  By some wonderful stroke of luck, I manage to find a car park close to the fashion stores I need to collect the clothes from.

  “Here you are,” the camper-than-a-row-of-tents sales assistant says gravely as he hands over a suit bag.

  He’s probably about fifty-five and is dressed in a three-piece suit, complete with a pink paisley bow tie, a pair of red-rimmed square glasses and enough gel in his thinning hair to glue a door shut—permanently.

  “They’re all in there. All three beautiful examples of the way a man should dress.”

  “Right. Ah, thanks—” I glance at his name badge “—Eduardo.”

  I extend my hand to grab hold of the suit bag and he whips it back out of my grasp, giving me a shock.

  “Hold them here, not here.” He indicates the correct holding system, his tone suggesting I’m some sort of idiot.

  “Of course.” I nod, trying to look like a competent suit bag holder—whatever that looks like.

  He hands me the clothes and I hold them in the indicated spot.

  His face perceptively relaxes. “Good. Now are you transporting them in a vehicle?”

  “Yes. I am transporting them in a vehicle.” I try not to smile.

  Oblivious to my amusement he continues, “Place them like so on the back seat, then hang them on the hook. Under no circumstances do it the other way around.”

  “All right. I’ll do that. Thank you very much for the tip.”

  Satisfied I understand the correct way in which to transport these ‘beautiful examples of the way a man should dress,’ he nods at me.

  I take it to be a dismissal and leave the store.

  My next stop is Wellington’s swankiest department store, just a stone’s throw away.

  “Are these for you?” the sales assistant in the women’s department asks breathlessly.

  There are two beautiful evening dresses hanging on a rack behind her. Both are exquisite.

  “No, they’re for a client,” I reply, enjoying the air of mystery. The fact I have no idea who they’re for—Rick Deckard’s wife?—is absolutely beside the point.

  “Amazing,” she replies, impressed. She pulls out a long suit bag with the store’s logo emblazoned across it and carefully places the dresses inside.

  “I bet she loves them,” she adds, more than a little in love with them herself.

  “Thanks. I’m sure she will.”

  Once I have all the clothes safely deposited in the back seat of my car—having placed them ‘like so’ before hanging them on the hook - Eduardo would be thrilled—I walk around to the driver’s door. I notice a woman watching me from the other side of the street. I look at her for a moment, trying to work out whether I know her.

  She looks about my age, perhaps younger, and it’s obvious to anyone she’s watching me. She’s dressed entirely in black, dark glasses obscuring her eyes. Despite the disguise she appears familiar, but I can’t pinpoint who she might be.

  I wave and smile at her. She immediately darts behind a pillar, banging her bag into the side of the building with an audible thud in her haste to get away.

  Weird.

  Why would anyone be watching me?

  Then it dawns on me: my fall at the Wearable Arts! The media has found out who I am and they’re following me. Not that she exactly looks like a member of the paparazzi. They’re all grubby older men who don’t give two hoots about anyone’s privacy, aren’t they?

  I bet they wouldn’t know how to hold suit bags correctly.

  Maybe that’s their ploy these days? They send in people you’d never expect to be paps and Bam! you’re in the papers.

  With no further sign of her I get into my car and drive home.

  Ten minutes later I walk into my apartment, clutching the suit bags. Tiffany is lounging on the sofa, doing something on her phone, and Taylor is in the kitchen, clanking dishes.

  “I think I’m being followed,” I announce to the room.

  Without taking her eyes from the screen, Tiffany replies, “No, that’s just Taylor. She lives here too you know, although you’d be forgiven for not noticing her.”

  “Oh, very funny,” Taylor bites back with venom as she slams a mug onto the kitchen bench, shocking us both. “You’re such a female dog, Tiffany.”

  Taylor might have been brought up on a farm but she prides herself on not resorting to swear words, even in times of stress.

  We both look at her, wide-eyed. Taylor is the sweetest, gentlest person in the world and s
uch an attack is totally out of character—despite the fact she’s right.

  “Whoa, calm down there, sister,” Tiffany replies. “It was just a joke.”

  “I’m not your sister,” she replies through gritted teeth. “And you know, maybe sometimes it’s not just a joke. I’m a person too. I have feelings too. You can’t just stomp all over me and expect me to keep on smiling. Sometimes I get pushed. Sometimes it’s all too much and I… I—”

  “Snap?” Tiffany offers, amused.

  “Snap. That’s right.” She points at Tiffany. “And you’d better make sure you’re not in my way when it happens.”

  We watch, agog as she stomps out of the room and down the corridor, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  I place the suit bags carefully over one of the kitchen stools. “What was that all about?”

  Tiffany shrugs, returning her attention to her phone, a grin spreading across her face as she types. “Search me. Maybe she’s on the rag?”

  At the risk of sounding like my mother, I say, “You have a truly lovely way with words, Tiffany.” I sit down next to her. “I’m serious though, Tiff. About being followed.”

  “Hang on.” She pulls her top up and takes a photo of her bra. “There. That’ll keep him interested.”

  I look away. “I did not need to see that.”

  Her phone beeps, no doubt from her grateful sexting recipient. She types something else then puts her phone down. “Okay, you’ve got me. Tell me what happened.”

  “I was getting into my car on Willis Street when I spotted this woman on the other side of the road, watching me.”

  “And?”

  “And it was totally bizarre.”

  “Probably just a tourist. A cruise ship was in today. I saw gaggles of tubbies in sensible walk shorts and sneakers today, snapping photos around town.” She pulls a face, shuddering.

  I think for a moment. “I guess she could have been a tourist. But she did one weird thing: when I waved at her she ducked behind a pillar.”