Keep Your Eyes on Me

by Sam Blake

  Lily had looked pensive for a minute, then said, ‘You know, the rumours that you’re worried about wrecking your business could be just as damaging for your husband. Being a pilot is a huge responsibility. If there was any doubt about his judgement, about his trustworthiness, he could wind up losing his job. And if he lost his job, wouldn’t he lose memberships of his clubs? And he’s used to a big income. That would be a bit of a shock too. I wonder what his girlfriend would think of him then.’

  Lily had a point. A very good point.

  And that had started a whole different conversation.

  Which had given them both a lot to think about.

  Chapter 6

  THE SUN WAS STRONG on the back of Lily’s neck as she left The Fenton Hotel and headed down Broadway for No. 42’s new corporate headquarters in the Flatiron District.

  Looking in the bathroom mirror that morning, bright lights reflecting off the antique marble washstand and utilitarian white tiles as she’d put on her make-up, Lily had shivered in anticipation at the thought of her interview. Interview seemed the wrong word, somehow – a ‘chat’ was how they’d phrased it. Reading between the lines, there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the running for the job. Lily still couldn’t believe it was happening. She’d put her hair up, winding it into a lacy silver clip she’d made as her very first project at Central Saint Martins. She felt it had always brought her luck. It had got her that first A grade and set her on an incredible path. She’d worn it for every exam and had been wearing it the day the email from No. 42 had arrived. Whatever happened with Jack and the shop, she needed to do her absolute best in this interview, and she wasn’t taking any chances.

  New York at the end of September was warmer than London and the heat was soothing after the tumult of the past twenty-four hours. The receptionist in The Fenton had said it was about a ten-minute walk to No. 42’s headquarters and that the doorman would get her a cab. But Lily had shaken her head: it was a beautiful day and she’d enjoy the walk; she had a lot of thinking to do.

  Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she headed south on Broadway. But as soon as she reached the intersection, Lily knew her grandpa was with her and that everything was going to go just fine. Around the bottom of the road sign was a flowerbed planted with ornamental cabbages. She’d almost laughed out loud. What were the chances?

  Utterly ridiculous plants, somehow neither flowers nor vegetables, their beautiful frilled leaves always reminded Lily of the layers of Victorian petticoats. The colours were fading now, but one of her favourite botanical etchings was of ornamental kale – as her grandpa had always reminded her the cabbages were called. The artist had communicated the solidity and reliability of them, with the contrasting whimsy of so many frilled leaves but no flowers. She’d loved it from the moment she’d found it in a stack of auction odds and ends at the back of the shop, had discovered that in the language of flowers, cabbages represented profit and ambition. So what more fitting place for them than the cross sections of Manhattan?

  She smiled as she turned the corner. Her final-year collection, the one that had brought her to the attention of No. 42, had been based on that print, on the glorious shapes and colours of cabbages. She’d created buttons and then a necklace of interlocking cabbage heads. Not that anyone saw them as cabbages now, in their abstract form, just their beautiful shapes. And her ambition.

  *

  The interview went past in a blur.

  When can you start? The words rang in Lily’s ears as she signed out of the building and walked through the revolving door onto the street, the contrast between the silence of the office lobby and the roar of West 23rd a further shock.

  Marianne Omotoso, the intimidatingly elegant ebony-skinned design director, had shown her into a palatial office with floor to ceiling windows on the twelfth floor. Lily guessed she was South African from her accent. Three men, one Latino and two Asian, all in dark perfectly tailored suits, were already seated on two pure white leather couches facing a low glass table. As Lily had stepped through the door she had an overwhelming feeling of light and glass and No. 42’s signature lilac, and had felt for a moment like she’d been beamed up into an imperial spaceship.

  They’d been full of questions but had loved all of her designs, had researched her to an almost intimidating degree. They’d asked her about her inspiration, about her father’s Hatton Garden shop and about her grandfather’s shop. That was what had tipped it, she’d quickly realised – very few students had her knowledge and experience of raw stones, her interest in antiques and her design skills. When she hadn’t been hanging out minding her grandpa’s shop, copying beautiful Victorian botanical etchings into her notebook, she’d spent her Saturdays and holidays upstairs in the tiny workshop in Hatton Garden. Her father had worked downstairs in the showroom, but his partner was a goldsmith with a passion for asscher cut stones who ran the repair and restoration side of the business. Lily still shared his workshop and had had her own bench and tools beside his for as long as she could remember.

  Omotoso had been all smiles as she’d shown Lily back to the ‘elevator’, telling her to go to Fifth Avenue, to wander around their flagship shop. But Lily had been too distracted to do that right away; she was still in shock. The interview, chat, whatever it was, had been brilliant from start to finish; it was like they’d already decided to offer her the job before she’d even walked in the door. Well, she’d sort of guessed that from the email, from them inviting her over, but still …

  Outside on the pavement, Lily was floating. So much seemed to be happening so fast. She wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of the autumn sunshine or the good news or the jet lag, but a moment later she caught the scent of coffee and, tuning into her surroundings, found herself looking in the window of a coffee shop. Coffee was exactly what she needed right now. A bucket of it.

  She pushed open the door and the delicious smell got stronger, helped bring her floaty head back to the here and now. There was a queue, but it moved fast, the banter between the staff and the obviously regular customers an entertainment all of its own. It was exactly how she imagined a coffee shop in New York would be. If her head hadn’t already been full, Lily knew she would have spent ages just people-watching, looking at the fashion, listening to the chatter, absorbing the atmosphere.

  Looking up at the blackboard over the counter, she ordered a latte. If Jack had been there he’d have ordered a ‘nitro on draft’ just to find out what the heck it was. For a moment a shadow passed across her heart. Jack’s inability to resist temptation was at the root of his gambling, Lily was sure. He said it had only been one game, but she knew what he was like.

  She’d left him the keys and told him not to leave the flat until she got back. She just needed to know that he was safe, that he wouldn’t do anything stupid or get into a row with Croxley until she’d got back and had had a moment to work out what they should do next.

  She’d got onto the plane with absolutely no clue how to get the shop back, how to salvage Jack’s life from the mess he’d got into, but now, well, things had changed.

  Her coffee in hand, Lily turned around to find a spot at the counter in the window had just become free. Setting her cardboard cup down on the polished brass shelf, she pulled out her phone, looking at the time. London was still six hours behind, and with all the problems Jack had had sleeping recently, she didn’t want to risk waking him. And breaking the news that she’d got the job, now, after everything that had happened, would leave them both with mixed emotions. But she was absolutely bursting to tell someone. Bursting. Thank goodness she’d agreed to meet Vittoria for lunch.

  Vittoria.

  Now, in the broad light of day, their conversation seemed slightly fantastical, but that was the genius of the idea.

  It was fantastical, and brilliant, and most of all safe.

  And the only people who would get hurt were the people who were well overdue their comeuppance. Lily could hardly believe what Vittoria had told her about her
husband. It sounded like Marcus Devine had a lot in common with Edward Croxley.

  Lily knew she was normally Miss Sensible, the one who worked out exactly how everyone would get home before she even planned a night out with her girlfriends, but Croxley had changed the rules. He’d turned Jack’s life on its head, he’d pushed him literally to the edge, and Lily couldn’t stand by and watch Jack destroyed, not while she had breath in her. Jack might be older than her, but she’d looked after him as they grew up, making sure he changed his socks and that he ate properly; she’d been the one who had spotted his depression, who had persuaded him to go to the doctor. Their grandfather had been wonderful, but growing up without their parents they’d developed a bond that was stronger than blood. And if Edward Croxley picked a fight with Jack, he picked it with her too.

  Lily sipped her coffee. It had been Vittoria’s idea, really, but would she still be as keen when they met for lunch, after she’d slept on it? Lily hoped so. Right now, she really didn’t have any other options, and she knew for sure she couldn’t take on Edward Croxley on her own.

  Lily’s phone picked up the free Wi-Fi in the coffee shop, and she searched for Vittoria Devine’s name.

  The very first series of links that came up were about the break-in.

  Lily felt the hairs standing up on the back of her neck as she read the Irish newspaper reports. Someone coming into your bedroom, into your private space, at night when you were in bed had to be terrifying. And if that man was armed? Vittoria had been half-frozen with shock but she’d had the presence of mind to hit the panic button on the alarm.

  Lily went cold. What if he’d panicked and shot her there and then? It didn’t say if it was a silent alarm. Lily was quite sure she would have been a basket case if it had happened to her.

  Lily clicked through to another newspaper report. The Sunday tabloids had been full of speculation – a man from Northern Ireland had been seen in the area in previous days, a well-known hitman. Perhaps she was jumping to conclusions, but Lily couldn’t help wondering if Vittoria’s husband had had a hand in the man getting into the house. Was getting rid of her easier than a messy and public divorce that would have the tabloids hopping for weeks? If his girlfriend was a well-known actress, they’d just love the scandal. Had her husband hired him to kill her?

  One article mentioned that it might have had something to do with a previous burglary when some valuable paintings had been stolen.

  From the number of press stories, Lily could see that Vittoria and her husband were obviously a celebrity couple in Ireland, and his mother had been a well-known actress. Perhaps that’s where he got his ability to string multiple women along – his behaviour had to rely on a level of deception worthy of the stage. Lily’s heart ached for Vittoria – as if the break-in wasn’t stressful enough, she’d found out about her husband’s love child. It was the stuff of nightmares. Lily knew there were very few women who would come out of that experience mentally unscathed.

  The Internet had thrown up pages of search results. One was a property piece in the Irish Times about Marcus, the pilot, and Vittoria, the former ballerina, developing his family home, adding a dance studio and a pool in the extensive gardens. The photo showed a magnificent house, Alcantara, overlooking the sea, its roof tiled a surprising bright green. How was that even news? Lily shook her head. She could see how Vittoria must feel totally exposed by her husband’s affairs: the papers seemed to be happy to print anything about the two of them; what would happen if they got hold of something really juicy?

  Lily pushed her glasses up her nose and clicked through to Vittoria’s company website, The Devine Practice, all calming shades of cream and soft turquoise. Sipping her coffee, Lily did an image search, looking for a picture of Vittoria and her husband. It came up quickly and Lily could immediately see why Marcus Devine was popular with women. He had chiselled good looks, ice-blue eyes and greying, slightly curly hair in a trendy cut with just the right amount falling casually over his face. In the photo he was wearing a dark-grey roll-neck sweater and jacket at an event where everyone else seemed to be wearing a shirt and tie. Vittoria was standing just behind him in a figure-hugging red off-the-shoulder dress, her dark hair swept up. She looked stunning.

  Scrolling on, Lily looked for more photographs of Marcus Devine. There were plenty. He seemed to be the poster boy for TransGlobal Airways. Lots of pictures of him in uniform, his hat under his arm, striding across the runway to a waiting plane, sitting in the cockpit. At film premieres and nightclubs. He was obviously a party animal. Many of the same faces appeared with him – a lot of blondes. The next photo was Marcus sailing, standing at the wheel of a large yacht.

  Suddenly conscious that she could be sucked down an Internet rabbit hole, Lily checked the time. She needed to find out more about Marcus Devine, but that could wait; right now she had to get going. Lily was quite sure Vittoria was checking her out too. They’d had an instant connection, but one thing was for sure: they needed to be able to trust each other if this was going to work.

  Their conversation had been a long and interesting one. Vittoria had listened to her and then, as they had got more comfortable, discovering how much they had in common, she had told her more about her own problems, about her husband’s affairs. The first time Vittoria had realised what was really happening, she’d made it her business to find out exactly who he was seeing and when. Her words came back to Lily as a squad car roared past outside, sirens blaring.

  ‘Knowing who the women were put me back in control. I found out everything about them. People are so careless online – they put out so much information, it’s easy to build a picture.’ Vittoria had shaken her head ruefully. ‘It wasn’t hard to check his personal email either – he’s not very original with passwords.’ Vittoria had smiled but her eyes were cold. ‘He’s been quite busy, but you know, he always came back to me at the end of the day. Part of me always knew they didn’t mean anything.’

  As Vittoria had sipped her champagne, Lily had waited with bated breath for her to continue. ‘The women must get sucked in with his empty promises, the expensive gifts; he can be very convincing. This handsome man swoops into their lives with his jet-set lifestyle and lavishes attention on them. I can see how it happens. What they don’t know is that, invariably, he loses interest. I’m sure they all think they’re going to be the next Mrs Devine and are left devastated. I was pretty devastated after the first one, but now? Now I know it’s about him, not them. About him wanting it all. He’s like a child.’ Lily could see how anxious Vittoria was. She kept playing with her glass, lining the foot of it up on the tray table and staring at the golden liquid inside, the bubbles rising to the surface in a constant stream. ‘Soon after we were married we were out at some reception and Aidan, one of his best friends, joked that he was the most selfish man on the planet. I didn’t realise it then, but he was right. So right … I should have realised sooner.’ She raised her eyebrows and did a half-eye-roll like she was joking, but Lily could see she was bleeding inside.

  ‘But you stayed. After everything, you’re still with him?’

  Vittoria had shrugged. ‘He’s away a lot, I’m busy with my practice, so we don’t have to see each other very often. I love my house … I did love him. Once.’

  On the way from JFK to her hotel, Lily had sat back in the cab watching the sparkling lights of Manhattan flash past, thinking about meeting Vittoria, about how strange life was. Vittoria could help her and she could help Vittoria.

  And Lily needed all the help she could get.

  Finishing her coffee Lily put the cardboard cup in the bin. She corrected herself mentally, smiling, pretty sure she’d need to get used to calling it a trashcan.

  Everything Vittoria had told her was true – not that Lily had doubted her for a minute, but her grandpa had always said due diligence was vital in any partnership arrangement, and what Vittoria had suggested on the flight last night would change both their lives.

  Back on the street, L
ily hurried on. Around her New York continued to hum. The broad pavement wasn’t too busy yet, although the traffic was constant. Across the road Lily could see a parking lot with cars stacked four high in some sort of fairground-esque contraption. Only in New York would they come up with a solution like that to a parking problem.

  But New York seemed to be a city for solutions.

  Lily put out her hand for a cab.

  Chapter 7

  EDWARD CROXLEY. Vittoria pushed her hair behind her ear and typed his name into her browser search bar. It was mid-morning but she’d only just woken up. After a long bath last night and several more gin and tonics, she had gone to bed and slept so deeply she’d completely forgotten where she was when she’d woken up. For the first time in weeks she felt really rested, and when she’d fully surfaced from sleep, and she’d worked out that she was in New York, in The Calvert Vaux Hotel, she’d remembered the flight and relief had swept over her.

  When she’d got on the plane, part of her had been wondering if knowing the details of what Marcus had been up to this time had actually helped or was just eating her up inside. Hiring the detective had seemed such a good idea, but then it had turned out that he was incredibly good at his job.

  A bit too good.

  His notes on where Marcus had been during his last few trips to London had been detailed right down to the colour of his tie – and the flowing bohemian dresses and coat that she had worn.

  What he’d ordered for lunch. And what she’d ordered.

  And how on one occasion Marcus had gone from the hotel in Covent Garden, where they’d been at a secluded table for two, to Heathrow. And Stephanie Carson had gone in a different direction entirely. The detective had decided to follow her for a bit and wound up outside Queen Charlotte’s and Chelsea Hospital. One of the oldest maternity hospitals in the city. But she hadn’t been carrying flowers or picked up a gift on the way. She had had, in fact, a very small handbag. Chanel apparently. She’d been an hour inside, and then he’d followed her back to Notting Hill, to a house that on further checks had proven to be hers.