“Isn’t that the point? For us, I mean?”
“Yes.” He sighed dramatically. “But I grieve for the art.”
“We can go to others.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “When all this is over, when it’s all back to normal…”
I looked out the window at the stone walls of the transept blurring past us. “Can we really put the cat back in the bag, though? You’re the savior of Wall Street now, which pretty much counts as the entire known universe in this town. And there’s your ridiculously photogenic face.” I reached for his hand. “You’re like a perfect storm.”
He frowned and turned his own gaze out the window, as uncomfortable with that reality as I was. The past few weeks had taken on a surreal quality. I’d woken up the morning after Julian’s return from the Sterling Bates negotiations to find my lover was a hero. There, in that roomful of bankers, he’d stepped forward to keep the house of cards from tumbling down. With Southfield essentially dissolved, he’d committed almost the entirety of his personal equity capital to a new firm that would establish and operate auctions for the illiquid securities dragging the Sterling Bates balance sheet into bankruptcy; then he persuaded—browbeat, cajoled, whatever—others to do the same. In exchange, he’d demanded the resignation of key Sterling Bates executives, a selloff and reorganization of the bank’s various divisions to raise capital, and the implementation of new and rigorous risk-management protocols.
Of course, it had taken days for Julian’s role in the whole debacle to trickle out; it began as a whisper, from those who’d been in the meetings, and the legend had grown almost by itself, an open secret in the notoriously gossipy financial community. Even now, there had been no feature in The Wall Street Journal, no interview on CNBC. But everyone knew.
Why? I’d demanded. Why take command like that, bring attention to yourself? Your cover could be blown, just like that.
Because it had to be done, he’d answered simply.
Because, in Julian’s world, that was what people did. They stepped forward. They did their duty, without excuses. They made the necessary sacrifice.
I looked at him now, at his clean pensive profile, cast in blue shadow by the fading late-afternoon light, and all my tension dissolved. I reached out and placed my hand on his opposite cheek, and turned his face toward mine. “Julian,” I said, “darling,” and his eyes widened, because I hardly ever used endearments. “Forget what I said before. I’m honored to be your arm candy.”
His smile spread slowly, warm and intimate and mine alone. “Sweetheart, the honor is all mine.”
The car burst free of the park and crossed Central Park West onto Sixty-seventh Street. “By the by,” he said, his tone a bit forced, “you’ll see Geoff Warwick and his wife there tonight.”
“Oh,” I said. “Can’t we just avoid them?”
“I’m afraid not. We have seats in the same box.”
“We’re going to be sitting in the same box?”
“I’ve shared it for years with him. I know it’s awkward, darling, but I’m sure we can all manage to be civil. For Carla’s sake, if nothing else.”
“Since when have you been so careful of Carla’s feelings?” I said. Geoff I despised, of course, but Carla was even worse, in her way. She’d no doubt treat me with exactly the kind of falsely enthusiastic familiarity I hated most.
“Darling, be generous.” His hand worked its way into mine.
“I’m just not good at that kind of thing. Social niceties. Being friendly with someone you don’t like.”
“Think of it as a game,” he said. “I’ve told him to make himself civil.”
I returned the pressure of his fingers. “I don’t know why he never liked me. I mean, I’m a nice enough person, aren’t I?”
“It’s not you,” he said. “He’s a good man; he’s just protective of me. Always was. Considered me a credulous chap in school, always too willing to make new friends. More or less appointed himself my watchdog.” I glanced at him sharply; his voice had taken on a strained note.
“Look,” I said, “I know it’s unfair to you. I’ll try to be good, I promise. After all, it’s kind of bitten him back, hasn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Because.” I leaned over to kiss him. “Without that book, I might never have lured you in.”
He returned my kiss. “I daresay we would have managed eventually. But here we are.” He pulled his mouth away, brushed my lips with his thumb. “Are you ready?”
I glanced outside. Red carpet. Photographers. What had happened to my life? “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath, “let’s get it done.”
“I’ll be right here beside you.”
The car door swung open, and a minor explosion of flashbulbs hit my eyes. I stepped out of the car as gracefully as I could, taking the driver’s hand for balance. Eric appeared imposingly at my left side, and Julian at the other an instant later. I felt his fingers slip around mine and smiled serenely. Back straight. Shoulders back.
We walked along slowly, striking an obliging pose when a photographer screamed at us, trying to look gracious and relaxed. No one asked us for an impromptu interview, thank goodness; that had happened at a movie premiere last week and I’d stood there like an idiot while Julian dazzled the reporter, some heavily made-up girl from E! who probably didn’t know a hedge fund from a hedge trimmer. Again, it was his good looks that had snagged her attention. She’d probably thought he was actually in the movie. Michelle, practically bouncing in her seat, had shown me the YouTube clip the next day:
Manhattan power couple Julian Laurence and Kate Wilson showed up at the Purgatory premiere in New York City and showed Hollywood A-listers a thing or two about glamour! The billionaire hedge fund manager, credited by many with a leading role in the well-publicized rescue of mega-bank Sterling Bates earlier this month, showed off his beautiful investment-banker fiancée to the delighted crowd, and had this to say about the film’s controversial subject matter: [cue eloquent rubbish from Julian, who hadn’t even known what the movie was about]. And note to Hollywood stylists: those stunning diamonds around Kate’s neck weren’t on loan from Harry Winston! Laurence reportedly gave her the two-million-dollar necklace as an engagement present. Lucky Kate!
And there I stood at Julian’s side, looking like a stunned deer (What do you mean? You’re totally gorgeous! exclaimed loyal Michelle), while he flashed his lady slayer into the cameras and kissed my hand, to an explosion of paparazzi flashbulbs. That picture had made it into an obscure corner of Us Weekly a few days later.
We made it through Lincoln Plaza and into the lobby of the opera house, where Julian snagged me a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I was about to take a long drink, and stopped myself just in time. “Thanks.” I wet my lips gingerly.
“You were magnificent,” he said, next to my ear. “Come along, let’s find our seats.”
We weren’t in the center box—this being Manhattan, there were plenty of men far richer even than Julian—but not far from it. When we ducked inside, though, I found myself wishing we’d waited longer in the shifting power crowd: Geoff Warwick sat in a red velvet chair, arms folded, glancing up at my entrance with his usual contempt. His wife was missing; instead, a young man sat with him, studying the program.
Julian stopped dead. “Geoff,” he said, after an endless second or two, “good evening. Arthur? What brings you here?”
Both men stood up. I took a deep breath. “Geoff. I’m so pleased to see you. Where’s Carla?”
“Stomach flu. Good evening,” he said reluctantly, shaking my offered hand.
The other man smiled with great warmth. “I’m to fill in for her tonight,” he said. I shot a lightning glance at Julian. The newcomer spoke with an unmistakable English accent. “Hello, Julian,” he went on, shaking Julian’s hand.
“Arthur,” Julian said, in a carefully controlled voice, “how are you? Darling, this is Arthur Haverton, our client relations manager. Arthur, my fiancée, K
ate Wilson.”
Arthur smiled at me, with much more warmth than Geoff Warwick. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Wilson,” he said. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
I smiled back. He was a bit above my height, dark haired, vaguely handsome, vaguely recognizable. “Please,” I said, shaking his hand, “it’s Kate. I’m sorry, have we met before? You look so familiar.”
Silence fell with an almost audible plop! into the center of the box. I looked back at Julian with a questioning expression.
Julian cleared his throat. “Arthur has been a good friend of mine since childhood.”
I saw, distantly, that the chandelier outside the box was rising, that the house lights were dimming. It all took place with agonizing slowness, as though the whole world had slipped into a lower gear somehow.
“Oh,” I said. “I see.” I looked again at Mr. Haverton and knew exactly where I’d seen that face before: in a sepia photograph, with a straw boater clasping his head.
Haverton. Hamilton.
“You must be Florence’s brother,” I went on. “I’m so honored to meet you, Mr. Haverton. Julian speaks of you so fondly.” I felt intuitively the slow relaxing of Julian’s body next to me; his hand slipped behind my back, supporting me.
“You must call me Arthur,” Florence Hamilton’s brother told me. “I hope very much to have the pleasure of your friendship.”
“Of course,” I said. “Of course.”
A few more people entered the box, laughing uproariously, stumbling around in search of their chairs. “I should think it’s time to take our seats,” Julian said. His eyes rested heavily on Geoff Warwick, who shrugged and sat down again.
Julian took my hand and led me to our chairs at the front of the box. We sat down in the near darkness, and I withdrew my hand and put it in my lap, atop my program.
“DON’T BE ANGRY,” HE SAID QUIETLY. “I hadn’t any idea he’d be here. Warwick invited him deliberately. Stomach flu, my aunt Fanny.”
We were standing together in a far corner of the Belmont Room, the Opera Guild patrons’ lounge, where the heavy hitters congregated during intermission. Geoff had triumphantly dragged Arthur Haverton—Hamilton—to the bar, leaving Julian alone to face my wrath.
“You should have told me about him,” I said, equally low. “You should have trusted me.”
“I do trust you, Kate. Of course I do. I didn’t want to cause you any pain, that’s all. I…”
“Florence’s brother. Living right here in Manhattan. One of you. Tell me, were you planning on introducing us at all?” I kept my voice even, determined not to make a public scene. “Ever? Or just hoping we’d never run into each other?”
“I was planning on it, eventually. It was a difficult subject to introduce.”
“So you let Geoff ambush me. Did you see the look on his face? Triumphant.”
“I’m sorry for that.” He tried to fix me with his eyes. “Darling, have some champagne. Try to relax.”
“I am perfectly relaxed. And I’ll stick with water, thanks.” I put the glass to my lips. Around us, the giddy chorus of chatter rose and fell; a trill of laughter carried across the room, too amusing for words.
“Thank you,” he said, after a moment. “Thank you for behaving so beautifully. You’re an angel. You were perfectly gracious, far more than any of us deserved.”
“I thought Arthur took it well.”
“Well, he’d had the chance to prepare. Darling, I was wrong. I ought to have told you long ago.”
“You seem to think you can just protect me from everything. That I need to be cosseted and… and kept from things, like a child. I mean, what else are you hiding from me? What else?”
He looked at me a long time, and was just opening his mouth to reply when Paul Banner slapped his back from behind.
“Laurence!” he bellowed, spilling a few drops of Scotch from the glass in his other hand. “You asshole, you! Savior of Wall Street, huh?”
“Mr. Banner.” Julian shifted to stand by my side. “What a pleasure. You know Miss Wilson, of course. My fiancée.” He said it with emphasis, and his hand slipped into mine. I let it stay this time.
“Katie!” Banner leaned forward to plant a kiss on my cheek, only just missing my mouth when I turned my head away at the last instant. “Of course I know Katie! Talk about a dark fucking horse, huh? Little did we know what you had up your sleeve last Christmas! Hey, we always said we’d give you the opportunity of lifetime at Sterling Bates! Huh?”
“Well, except when you fired me, of course.”
“Yeah.” His face fell into contrite lines. “Sorry about that. That fucking bitch Alicia had us convinced—don’t know how—but I see you landed on your feet, anyway!” He looked between the two of us.
Julian spoke coldly. “I consider the good fortune to be entirely on my side.”
I turned to Julian. “Honey, I think I see someone I know over there. Why don’t you two have a little chat and catch up? I’ll see you back at the box in a bit.” I lifted his hand and gave it a tiny kiss, just for Banner’s benefit, and then pulled away to drift off to the bar.
“Holy shit, she’s turned into a knockout, huh?” I heard Banner roar drunkenly behind me.
I spotted Geoff and Arthur, pulled up to the bar like horses at the trough, and sidled in between them. “Hello, gentlemen,” I said. “Julian’s busy with his networking again. Tell me, Arthur, how did you like the first act?”
“Oh, I’ve always adored La Fleming,” he said, with enthusiasm. “I saw her several years ago in the new Figaro production. She had us all in her palm. Magnificent.”
“And you, Geoff?” I looked at Warwick. “Traviata fan?”
He took a long drink of what looked like whiskey before answering. “You know, to be honest, Kate,” he drawled, “I just come to these things for the spectacle.”
22.
We didn’t arrive home until nearly one o’clock. After the gala performance had come the gala dinner, and it had gone on and on with endless speeches and mutual congratulating until I wanted to stand up and scream. The only thing keeping me at the table was the knowledge that if I left to get a breath of air, Julian would follow me. And I wasn’t quite ready for that yet.
Instead, I chatted with Arthur Hamilton, mostly about Julian. “Oh, he was always getting up to something,” Arthur said, smiling. “He was particularly useful during house parties; his parents held a great many of them, and he engineered pranks of quite astonishing complexity. My sister was always his willing accomplice, of course.”
“And his parents?” I asked. “I often think of them. How they must have missed him.”
He took off his glasses and squinted at me thoughtfully while he wiped them clean. “I understand they took his departure for New York very hard,” he replied with care. “A better man and woman I’ve never known.”
“I’m so sorry. I imagine you miss your own family, as well.”
“More than I can say. My sister… but of course you’ve heard about her. An extraordinary woman. Her spirit, her dash, her relentless originality. That finely tuned moral pitch I admired so deeply. And her virtue, of course: nothing like the sort of vulgar woman one finds today, endemic even—or perhaps especially—among the better classes, in every obscene bar and restaurant across the city. How I miss her.” He finished on a sigh.
Had he meant to be cruel? His expression was artless, reminiscent. “I expect so,” I said at last. “So much has changed. Yours was a different time.”
“You can’t imagine how different it was. The concept of honor meant something then; one’s word meant something. There was a permanence to things, a kind of sweet immutability. Now it’s all quite blown to pieces, of course, this handsome little civilization we’d built for ourselves. Quite beyond recall. Beyond redemption, I should say.” He tossed back the last of his Scotch, in a way that made me think he did it often. “Ah! Dancing at last. May I have the honor, Kate?”
“Of course.” I rose and
danced with him, and then Julian claimed me and we danced silently until, at last, I looked up into his furrowed face and said: “Would you please take me home, now?”
He nodded, sent off a quick message to the driver, and in a few minutes Eric was bustling us into the rear seat for the voiceless drive back to Julian’s townhouse.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I said, when we walked into the entrance hall.
Julian turned to the bodyguard. “Eric, that’s all for tonight, thanks.”
I led him up the stairs to our room, listening to his heavy tread behind me as we climbed the steps. Once inside, he closed the door behind us and regarded me with a wary expression.
“Okay,” I said. “We need to talk. I mean, you really can’t go on like this.”
“Like what, exactly?”
“This obsessive secrecy of yours! Not letting me know Arthur Hamilton is alive and well? I’m not a child, Julian. I can handle things. I handled you, for God’s sake!”
“Darling,” he said, “you can’t deny that every time the subject of Flora comes up, you turn into a virago of raging jealousy…”
“Oh please! That’s a massive exaggeration!”
“It’s like walking on eggshells…”
“No, it’s not! Okay, I’m a bit insecure about it, but you’re historically linked with her, for God’s sake! Open any book on war poetry and there you are, mooning over her!”
“The devil take that poem,” he hissed.
I drove on. “Julian and Florence, the great tragic First World War romance. I’m amazed they haven’t made a freaking movie about it! Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”
“It shouldn’t be. You know the truth.”
“Well, I’m sorry, it is annoying. But I’m not raging with jealousy, I’m not, and it’s just unfair to say I am!” I narrowed my eyes. “In fact, it’s projecting, because you’re the one who would probably pull a shotgun on the poor schmuck who took my virginity. If I even dared to tell you his name!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He tugged his bow tie apart with a single ruthless wrench. “I’d bloody well settle the matter with my bare hands.”
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