“Yes, but only if you want to.”
She smiles. “Grace, she’s your sister. Of course, I want to meet her.”
I smile, relieved. “Good. I’ll set it up then. And, Mum? You’re the best. I don’t think I would be as understanding as you,” I say, a note of admiration in my voice.
“Well, honey, the way I see things is you either accept what you can’t change and make the most of it, or spend your life bitter and unhappy. I choose acceptance.”
Chapter 20
WITH SAM STILL IN Australia for the next few days I buckle down to work, picking up anything Jess can’t manage. This evening she’s asked me to run a personal styling appointment with a group of women. I’ve done one of these evenings for Estil before. It’s fashion, fun and wine—quite possibly the ultimate female fantasy.
I arrive at the client’s house at the allotted time and ring the doorbell. I smile as I hear the music and laughter coming from inside. Women know how to have fun together.
The door is answered by a woman in her late-thirties, a glass of wine in her hand. She’s wearing a black sequined mini dress that does very little for her figure.
“Hi there. I’m Grace from Estil. Are you Janet?”
“Yes, hello! We’ve been waiting for you. Come in. The girls are in the living room.”
“Sure, thanks,” I reply, lugging my bags through the hallway. I’m met with a chorus of greetings from five more women of similar age. Like Janet they’re all wearing glamorous cocktail outfits, clearly dressed for the occasion—some more successfully than others.
“You ladies look amazing. I love that you’ve all dressed up,” I comment, grinning at them all. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun.”
Janet shoves a glass of wine in my hand. “Cheers,” she says, clinking my glass.
I don’t drink while I’m working so I put the glass down on a nearby table and get my personal styling paraphernalia organised to begin the session.
“Ladies? Let’s begin.”
I launch into my spiel about how every woman should know how to look her best, what the different body types are, how to identify your perfect colour palette—the fundamentals of personal styling.
The women listen, sipping their wine, laughing and chatting as we go. They’re a friendly bunch and I get right into the swing of the evening.
I ask for a volunteer to stand up with me so I can do a demonstration. A larger woman puts her hand up. She’s wearing a bright red strappy dress that’s straining so hard at the seams it looks likely to blow at any moment.
“I’ll do it. Watch and learn, ladies, watch and learn.” She pushes herself out of her chair and comes and stands up next to me to cheers from her friends.
As I point out the types of clothes suitable for her body shape, I notice the woman watching me closely. Too closely. She’s barely taking in what I’m saying.
I’m holding a colour palette up to her face to show her which colours suit her when her face changes.
“Oh, I know who you are now,” she says in excitement. “I couldn’t place you for a moment but I’ve worked it out now.” She turns to her friends. “She’s the one who slept with that movie star! The one from the papers. What was his name?”
“No, she’s not,” another one of the women retorts. “That woman was much sluttier looking than Grace,” she announces. In a quieter tone she adds, “I heard she makes a habit of sleeping with famous men. Not that I’m one to gossip, of course. But you do hear these things.”
“She looked like a total bitch, if you ask me. Not like Vanessa Hudson. Did you see the latest photos of them in New Zealand Woman? The article said she might be pregnant. They are so adorable together,” another woman adds.
Pregnant? My throat seizes up; I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
I shrink into my dress, wishing I could dash out the door, up the street and home to the safety of my apartment. Instead I spy the glass of wine Janet gave me.
I grab it and take a large slug. Then another.
The woman in the bright red dress continues to eye me. “It was you, wasn’t it? You fell off the stage at the Wearable Arts.”
I choke, cough, try to catch my breath. This is all becoming too much. I look wildly around the room. I’ve got to get out of here. Now.
I take a large step back and catch my heel on the edge of the coffee table. As if in slow motion I lose my balance, teeter on my heels, grabbing at the air with my hands, sloshing what remains of the wine out of my glass.
Eventually, after feeling like I’m suspended in time, I topple over altogether, landing with a sickening thud on the floor.
“Oh, yeah. That’s definitely her.”
I do a mental tally: legs, fine; arms, fine: body, fine if slightly bruised. Ego: utterly slaughtered.
I look up from the floor at the sea of faces, all watching me closely, surprise written across their faces. No one comes to my aid.
I want to scream out, “We’re in love! Sam’s relationship with Vanessa is a sham!” Instead I clam up, haunted by the person I supposedly am, the person touted by the media. The person they think I am.
I push myself up off the floor until I’m standing unsteadily, wincing as a shot of pain hits my left ankle. I adjust my clothing.
I look from one woman to the next, all of them still watching me closely. They’re probably wondering what I’ll do next.
I take a few deep breaths, square my shoulders, muster what dignity I have left—which is not a whole lot.
“I’m here as a stylist, representing Estil,” I begin. There’s a distinct tremor to my voice. “If you want to gossip, I can’t stop you. But I’m here to do a job.”
I purse my lips, challenging them with my glare.
Janet’s the first to speak. “Come on. It’s just a bit of fun. Get over it.”
“Fun?” I spit. “Is that what you call it?”
I seethe with anger. I want to defend myself, to wipe the self-satisfied look off the faces of these women who think humiliating me for their salacious entertainment is ‘fun’.
Instead I make a decision. “I don’t have to stay here for this.”
My heart racing, I begin to gather up my things, hobbling on my left foot as shoots of pain travel up my leg.
“All right. If that’s what you want,” Janet says.
“I’ll make sure you get your money back.” With trembling hands, I stuff clothes and accessories into my bag.
God, I can’t get out of there fast enough.
Janet holds the front door open and I limp out. As the door closes behind me I’m shocked to find that an infinitesimally small part of me wishes I’d never met Sam.
* * *
With a shaking hand, I knock on Jessica’s door. She’s going to fire me for this, I just know it. Having photos of me kissing Sam plastered all over the media was one thing, storming out of an Estil event is quite another.
I’ve driven around and around deciding what to do. Although it feels right to tell Jessica straight away, I’m as nervous as hell.
A light goes on in the hallway. I can see a dark shape inside approaching me.
The door opens. “Hi Grace,” Ben says. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, his hair messy. “It’s a bit late, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Ben. But I really need to see Jessica.”
“Sure,” he says, opening the door wider. “Come in. I’ll go get her.”
I hobble inside as he walks back down the hall towards their bedroom. I wait in the hallway, my arms wrapped around my body, my tummy tying in knots.
Jessica appears a moment later, looking bleary eyed, a dressing gown wrapped hastily around her.
“Hi, Grace. Is everything okay?”
“Did I wake you? What am I saying, of course I did. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.” I turn and put my hand on the doorknob.
“It’s fine,” she replies, too nice to say ‘hell, yes you did wake me’. “What’s going on?”
> My hand still on the doorknob, I turn back to her. “I . . . I need to tell you something. Before you hear it from someone else.”
“Go on.”
I swallow. “I . . . ah . . . there was an incident at the event tonight. I ended up leaving before it was over.”
“You did? Why?” she asks in surprise.
I expel a breath, take my hand off the doorknob. There’s no escaping now.
“Some of the women said some things and—” I stop, reconsider. “You know what? It doesn’t matter what they said or why it happened. What matters is I felt like I had to leave so I did. I know walking out on an appointment is not professional. I’ve come here to hand in my notice.”
“Your notice?” Jessica asks, clearly not expecting me to do this. She extends a hand towards me. “Let’s go and sit down, shall we? It feels weird to do this in the hallway.”
“Okay.”
Like a lamb to the slaughter I follow her, limping, into the living room where she flicks on a lamp before sitting down in a large, high-backed chair. I follow suit, sitting opposite her.
“Did you hurt yourself?” she asks.
“Yeah, I, ah . . . twisted my ankle. It’ll be fine.”
“We’ll get you an icepack for it. Do you want tea?”
“No, thanks.”
“Seriously. Ben’s good at tea. Have some.” She smiles at me and, although it’s short lived, I relax from a ten to a nine-point-nine.
“I am, you know. How about a cup of chamomile?” Ben offers from the kitchen.
“Sure, thanks,’ I reply.
“Now, tell me all about it,’ Jessica says as we sit down in the living room, the icepack in place.
Despite my initial reservations, I relay the whole story about the woman in the red dress, the other women’s comments, my humiliating fall, and my decision to bolt.
She shakes her head. “That sounds just awful. And Janet seemed so nice on the phone.”
“Oh, I’m sure she is.” Why am I defending this woman?
Ben delivers our tea. He gives Jessica a kiss on the head. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I won’t.” She smiles.
“’Night, Grace.”
“Night. Thanks for the tea.”
We both wait as he leaves the room.
Jessica lets out a breath. “That TV appearance of yours has been a two-edged sword, hasn’t it? Tough for you, but great for the business. Well,” she adds, “until tonight.”
I let out a bitter laugh as I think about how my life has been turned on its head. “It’s only had one edge for me.”
“I bet.”
The look of sympathy in her eyes brings tears to mine.
“Look, Grace. This can’t happen again. Estil has a good reputation as a professional styling company. I can’t let you compromise that.”
I nod grimly. “I know. That’s why I’m quitting. You deserve better than me, better than I can give you.”
“I understand how you feel.”
I nod, accepting my fate.
“But I don’t want you to quit,” she adds.
I look up at her face in surprise. “You don’t?” I hear the crack in my voice.
She smiles, shaking her head. “No, I don’t. Grace, I need you. You’re good at your job and we’re snowed under. You leaving now would be a disaster for Estil.”
Barely believing my ears, I protest, “But . . . what about me walking out on the appointment tonight? It wasn’t exactly my best moment.”
“No, you’re right about that. And it can’t happen again.”
“No.” I hang my head.
I remind myself for the hundredth time that this is temporary and that Sam is worth it.
Jessica yawns.
“I should let you get back to bed. You need your rest.”
She places her hand on her belly. “Yep. I’m brewing something big in here. I think it’s going to be a brutish boy.”
I laugh. “Maybe. And, thanks, Jess.”
She walks me to the door. “Go home, things will seem so much better in the morning.”
I hope with all my heart she’s right.
* * *
“What are you doing?” Taylor asks, shooting me an odd look.
I’m sitting at the table, my ankle strapped up, resting on a stool. My laptop’s blank screen is open in front of me as I drum my fingers on the table.
“I’m trying to decide something.”
“What?” She pours a glass of water and comes to sit next to me.
I look at her for a long moment. “Whether I see what they’re saying about Sam.”
“You mean what’s in the media about him? I thought you decided not to read anything.”
“I did.” I shake my head. “I don’t know. The thing is, someone said something last night about Sam and Vanessa and I felt like the whole world knows what my boyfriend is doing and I don’t. Shouldn’t I at least see what I’m up against?”
Taylor looks uncertain. “I guess. Won’t it upset you though?”
“I’m already upset!” I bark.
She recoils from me.
“Sorry. I’m a bit on edge today.”
“I can tell. Look, it’s up to you. Do it if you want to but remember, you can’t un-see stuff.”
Before I have the chance to change my mind I type Sam’s name into my browser.
It pulls up thirty-nine point two million results. Thirty-nine point two!
I read the headline at the top of the results page.
Is Vanessa expecting?
The blood drains out of my face. With trembling fingers, I click on the link, scan the page. There’s an image of Vanessa looking marginally plump around the middle thanks to the cut of her dress.
As a stylist, I want to advise her against wearing that dress again.
As Sam’s girlfriend, I want to scream and scream until I can’t scream anymore.
I return to the results page and scroll down to the next headline.
Vanessa and Grace face off
I blink at the screen. We did what?
Like a moth to a flame I can’t help but click on the link to read more. Apparently, we have ‘faced off’ over Sam as well as over fashion. The website paired ‘who wore it best’ type shots of Vanessa and me in similar looking outfits.
Needless to say, the ethereal beauty of Vanessa Hudson wins every time.
I run my hand over my face. How did they even get these photos of me? I mean, it’s not like I attend red carpet events on a regular basis—or any basis for that matter.
Tears well in my eyes. It’s bullying, that’s what it is. And I’m not sure how much more of it I can take.
Taylor snaps my laptop shut, missing my fingers by a whisker. Startled, I leap back in my seat, pulling my hands protectively into my body.
“You don’t need to read that drivel. It’s not going to do you any good.”
“People believe this stuff,” I protest.
“You know the truth. That’s all that matters.”
I sniff. “I guess. It’s just… it’s so unfair.”
She passes me a box of tissues. I take one and wipe my eyes and blow my nose.
“You’re totally right. It is unfair, Grace. You knew what you were getting in to though, didn’t you?”
I shrug. “Sort of. Sam explained we’d have to sneak around, pretend we’re not together. At first it was fine, like it was our special secret, you know?”
I smile through my wet tears, remembering our first night together in his hotel room in Wellington, our incredible weekend away at the beach when we professed our love for one another.
She nods. “And now?”
I sigh. “Now it feels almost unreal. Especially when he’s not here. It’s almost like our relationship is . . . make believe.”
“That must be so weird. At least I’m single and I know I’m single.”
I smile at her. It doesn’t reach my eyes. Taylor’s right, I knew what I was getting myself int
o.
So why can’t I shake this feeling?
Chapter 21
“I CAN’T TELL YOU how good it is to see you again.” Sam grins at me as Jimmy drives us from the airport back into the city.
I lean in and kiss him on the mouth, taking in his wonderful ‘Sam’ aroma.
“I’ve missed you so much. It’s so good to have you back. I’ve decided four days apart is far too long.”
His laugh is low, sensual. “I couldn’t agree more.”
We kiss again. Sam runs his hand up my thigh, under my dress. My body responds in an instant.
And I forget my doubts. This is what matters. Forget the media, mean women, journalists wanting a story. It’s Sam and me. Nothing else.
“We need to get to my hotel room. Fast,” he murmurs against my mouth.
After working ourselves into something of a frenzy in the back of the car, we take our usual route through the kitchens and up to the same suite he was in last time on the eleventh floor.
Closing the door to his suite behind us he turns to face me, a sexy smile on his gorgeous face.
I arch an eyebrow, taking in the growing bulge in his pants. “You’re definitely happy to see me.”
He approaches me, unbuckling his belt. “Let me show you just how much.”
Sometime later, we lie together, intertwining fingers, talking.
I relay the story about the horrible Estil evening.
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Sam says.
“It sucked. But I have you here now, so it’s all been worth it.”
He kisses me. “Good.”
We lie together in companionable, easy silence for a while.
“Sam, is it—?” I stop myself, nervous.
“What?”
“Is it too early for you to meet my family?”
He pushes himself up onto one elbow, looking down into my eyes. “You want me to meet your family?”
“Yes, well, that is if you want to. It’s totally up to you, of course,” I bumble.
A grin spreads across his face. “I would love to.”
I let out a relieved breath and pull him in for a kiss. “They’re going to adore you.”
That evening, Jimmy drives us to my parents’ house in Northland. Sitting in the back next to Sam, I’m a cocktail of emotions: excited, happy, proud, and a big old box of nerves.
Falling for Grace Page 20