“I love you, too.”
Now, alone in the bed, she stretched languidly, reminiscing about the things she had done to Gabe until he had regained control—as a man of his stature should—and taken over. Forcefully. Masterfully. The shower was running, and Nat considered slipping under the rain showerhead with Gabe, but he had to get to work. She had to get to school. And after the intensity of last night, she wasn’t sure how much Gabe would have left in the tank. She didn’t want to push it with a man his age. Instead, she climbed out of bed, slipping into Gabe’s button-down shirt tossed hastily on the floor. Barefoot, she padded to the sleek marble kitchen and the built-in coffeemaker. How did this thing work again? She selected from the digital screen, made herself a double shot.
Coffee in hand, she strolled to the living room, waiting for her lover to emerge. She needed to shower away the night’s passion before school. She’d had the foresight to pack some clothes, art supplies, and textbooks so she could go straight to Gramercy Park from the Upper East Side. Perhaps Gabe’s driver, Oleg, could drop her off on the way to the financial district? She felt a flutter of anxiety at the thought of her classmates seeing her exit the impressive town car. What would they think? She didn’t care. There was no need to be ashamed of this relationship, not anymore.
Walking through the apartment, she moved to the window that looked out over Park Avenue. It was 6:10 A.M., according to the coffee machine. The street was quiet, dim, damp from overnight rain. The occasional car whisked past, cabs mostly, their tires inaudible from this height. The scene was dreamlike, a fantasy: the multimillion-dollar apartment, the tony address, the powerful man in the shower. And, at the window, the small-town girl with the messy past. Nat was incongruous with her surroundings, but she was strangely comfortable here. She let herself try it on, and she liked it. It felt right.
The shower turned off, and she moved back toward the kitchen. Having mastered the high-tech coffee machine, she could bring her boyfriend a cappuccino. But as she was passing the flat-screen TV perched on a lacquered black table, something caught her eye. Behind the device was a stack of picture frames, facedown, their velvet backs and stands just visible. Had Gabe hidden these photographs away from her view? Her pulse quickened.
Before she could think better of it, she reached for the top frame, turned it over. It was a high school photo, a girl in a black top, with dark hair and flawless skin. Her face was free of makeup, but her beauty emanated from the photograph like phosphorescence. Printed at the bottom of the photo was:
VIOLET TURNMILL
SENIOR CLASS
THE FAIRHAVEN SCHOOL
This was the daughter Gabe had mentioned.
Nat stared at the girl, dismissing the uncomfortable feeling tickling her belly. Violet’s natural look and septum piercing were in keeping with her anti–foie gras, pro-chickpea stance. The name of the school was not familiar—why would it be? Nat had gone to a public school, knew nothing about the world of elite private education, of Ivy League prep. But Violet’s must have been an artsy school, fostering free expression and creativity. Nat had expected a school uniform, had envisioned a preppy blonde with her father’s blue eyes.
Hurriedly, Nat reached for the next photo. It featured Violet, Gabe, and a striking black woman with full, natural curls. She was clearly Violet’s mother; their resemblance was evident. Why did Gabe keep a framed photo of his ex in his apartment? Nat’s heart was pounding, her stomach fluttering as she turned over the next frame. Gabe and the same stunning woman—younger, even more beautiful—with baby Violet.
Nat knew that not all divorces were filled with hate and ugliness like that of her parents. Gabe would have kept good relations with his ex for the sake of his daughter. He would have displayed these photos for the same reason. But the sick feeling in her gut was creeping its way into Nat’s throat. Was it jealousy? Envy? Nat wasn’t sure of the difference, but she felt insecure, threatened, possessive as she stared at the two females.
The ex-wife had secured her place as the mother of Gabe’s only child. They had shared something once, but it was over now. It was the girl who elicited the most powerful response in Nat. Without any effort, this young woman was number one in her father’s life, would be always. Nat’s status was tenuous, ephemeral. Would she trade the intimacy she shared with Gabe for the effortless security that Violet Turnmill enjoyed? The knowledge that she was a permanent fixture, that her role in her father’s life was untouchable? If she could get rid of Violet Turnmill and take her place, would she?
Nat brushed away the rhetorical question. She had not been born into luxury or privilege, but she was here, on Park Avenue, naked beneath Gabe’s shirt. Her lover cared enough about her feelings to hide these photos from her view. He cared enough about her well-being to deal with Cole. She heard the creak of the bedroom door. Gabe would emerge soon. Hurriedly, she returned the photos to their spot behind the TV.
Gabe entered the living room dressed in a smart navy suit, his damp hair curling up at the collar. His eyes were slightly red from lack of sleep, but he looked handsome, young, fresh. “Morning.” He kissed her lips like it was normal for her to be there, like he enjoyed her presence.
“Cappuccino?” she asked. “I’ve figured out your state-of-the-art coffeemaker.”
“Sure,” he said, playfully smacking her butt as she headed to the kitchen. “I could get used to having you around.”
Nat could get used to it, too.
27
* * *
The Sex Trade
That Saturday, Nat spent the day on campus with Ivan and Keltie. They were working on a collage project that was due on Monday. Ava, the fourth member of their team, was gone, and they had to make up the shortfall. Afterward, they’d gone for a couple of cheap beers (okay, four cheap beers), at a dive bar on Second. Nat had been happy to pick up the tab. Keltie and Ivan had half-heartedly objected, but in the end, they were too grateful to grill her about her finances. They had to have noticed the shift in Nat’s circumstances, her new clothes, her highlighted hair, her pricey leather bag, her newfound generosity . . .
Now, she was on the train, heading back to Brooklyn. She was tired, a little drunk, but content. While she missed Gabe on weekends, she appreciated the time to focus on school and her friends. And she understood his need to spend time with his daughter. Violet . . . that pretty girl with smooth brown skin and luminous eyes; the strong resemblance to her mother, so sophisticated, almost regal. Nat’s mood was shifting to a darker place as she thought about those hidden photographs. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the images of that woman. That girl.
Exiting the train at Jefferson, she hustled through the darkened streets. The neighborhood was safe—fairly safe—but this was not Park Avenue. She allowed herself to imagine going home to Gabe’s apartment . . . to Gabe. They could open a bottle of wine, order some food, and then climb into his deep bathtub together. But it was the weekend. Violet would be with her father.
If Natalie’s arrangement was going to turn into something more valid, more permanent, she would have to build a relationship with Gabe’s daughter. It would not be easy. They were too close in age, too disparate in upbringing. And Nat knew the tribulations that came with having a stepparent; being one wouldn’t be any easier.
Suddenly, an incredulous bubble of laughter erupted from within her. How could she think of herself as a stepparent? She was twenty-one years old! Her potential stepdaughter was eighteen! Were her feelings for Gabe really so strong that she would consider it?
The man. The apartment. The life. What would she be willing to do . . . ?
Turning onto her street, she saw the warm glow of lights from within the building. As always, she experienced the queasy feeling that prefaced an encounter with Mara and Toni. She would head to her room and hide out there until the girls went to bed. Only then would she emerge to pee, to have a snack, to brush the beer scunge from her teeth.
As soon as Nat stepped into the entryway, she f
elt the aggressive energy. Something was about to go down here, something pivotal. It so rattled her that she considered slipping back into the night, heading to a coffee shop or an all-night diner. But avoidance was pointless. And impossible. Because Mara and Toni had materialized before her.
“Can we talk to you?” Toni’s voice was indignant but timorous. Nat could see the anxiety in her dark eyes.
“Okay.” To her surprise, Nat sounded calm, even casual, despite her racing pulse.
“You might want to sit down for this,” Mara said, pointing to the sofa.
But Nat shook her head. “I’ll stand.”
The roommates exchanged a quick look before Toni said, “We need you to move out.”
“Why?” Nat was not surprised, but she was not going down easy. “I’ve paid my rent and my bills. You can’t kick me out for no reason.”
“We know about your lifestyle,” Mara snapped, a gleeful light dancing in her eyes. “And we’re not comfortable with it.”
“What lifestyle?” But Nat’s face was turning red, belying her guilt.
Toni’s voice was almost sad. “We know that you’re an escort, Nat.”
“No, I’m not!” She sounded offended, incredulous, but shame and humiliation burned her face.
“We’re not stupid,” Mara retorted. “We’ve seen you dressed up, getting into that big black car. Some nights you don’t even come home.”
Toni elaborated. “A month ago, you couldn’t afford rent. Now, you’ve got money for new clothes and fancy bags . . . and trips to Vermont.”
“We saw your Instagram,” Mara said, struggling to hide her enjoyment of this moment. “Cute little inn you stayed at.”
Why had Nat posted that photo? She’d been showing off, and now she would pay for her arrogance.
“What you do with your life is up to you,” Toni remarked, “but we don’t want to be around it.”
Mara went in for the kill. “We don’t feel safe living with someone who’s in the sex trade.”
“I’m not in the sex trade!” Nat cried. “I’m not doing anything wrong or dangerous.”
“Really?” Toni barked. “Then why do you have a gun?”
“How did you—?”
But Mara cut Nat off. “We packed up your shit and we found it.”
“I can explain. . . .”
But she couldn’t. How could she explain that Gabe’s driver, his hired muscle, had given her the gun because he cared about her safety? That Oleg had become her friend and confidant, their bond developing as he delivered her, like a precious package, to his employer? And how could she explain what she had with Gabe Turnmill? That she slept peacefully in Gabe’s Egyptian cotton sheets; that she knew how to work his high-end coffee machine; that she felt like she was home when she spent the night in his Upper East Side apartment. They wouldn’t believe her if she told them that it wasn’t about the money, she only accepted it to make him happy. Gabe liked to spoil her, and he wanted to ensure she was comfortable. So she said nothing.
“Even if you make a lot of money,” Toni said softly, “you’re still selling yourself.” Then she turned on her heel and left the room. Nat felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her chest as she watched her go.
“You can arrange to have someone pick up the boxes in the next few days,” Mara said, her tone triumphant. “But you need to leave now.”
“It’s eleven o’clock at night. Where am I supposed to go?”
“You’ve got money. Get a hotel,” Mara said, “Or I’m sure one of your clients will take you in.”
Rage filled Nat’s chest, made her throat burn and her eyes sting. She wanted to tell Mara that her judgment and condescension were anti-feminist, that women should support each other’s choices, even if they were controversial. But like all the people who had sneered and whispered when Nat and Gabe entered a restaurant or a bar, Mara was disgusted. And her roommate held all the power. There was nothing Nat could do but leave. Where would she go? Keltie and Ivan both lived in double rooms on campus and could not accommodate her. Ava was gone.
There was only one option.
28
* * *
The Real Estate Agent
The call came in at 11:20 P.M.: Nathan. Gabe wouldn’t have answered it, but Celeste had gone to bed early. She’d been tired lately, napping in the afternoons, abandoning him at ten for the comfort of their king-size bed. Violet was out; not at a party or a club like a normal teen. She was at a meeting to organize a protest outside a Jersey meatpacking plant (he’d seen the MEAT IS MURDER placard in the hallway). Since he was alone in the family room with his glass of Scotch, he decided to answer. Natalie was not the type of girl to call for no reason.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she began, “but my roommates threw me out.”
“Why?”
“They know about us,” she said quietly. “They think I’m a hooker.”
Which made Gabe a john. “Where are you?”
There was panic in her voice when she said, “I’m at an all-night diner. I have nowhere to go.”
“Can you go to a hotel tonight?”
“My credit card is maxed out. I might have enough for a hostel.”
He couldn’t let his sugar baby slum it in a hostel. It would degrade them both. “Get an Uber and go to my place. I’ll call the doorman and tell him to let you in.”
“Where are you?”
He thought about Melody, the crazy paralegal. She’d turned up at his Hamptons house with her fake brief and nearly destroyed him. “My daughter and I went away for the weekend,” he fibbed. “But you’re welcome to stay at my place for a couple of days.”
“Thank you so much.”
“On Monday, I’ll make some calls. We’ll find you somewhere to live.”
After he hung up, he finished his Scotch, thinking about Natalie alone in his apartment. He liked the image in his mind, the pretty brunette naked under one of his work shirts, or maybe in his robe. In reality, Natalie would likely be wearing her own clothes, but this was his fantasy; he chose the wardrobe. Tinkling the ice in his glass, he allowed himself to imagine himself there with her, even living there with her.
It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Violet was growing up, was going to college (or to fucking Honduras). It was not uncommon for couples to split once the kids left home. The gray divorce, they called it. No one would be shocked; no one would be to blame. Everyone would put it down to living separate lives. He could keep Natalie on the down-low until sufficient time had passed and it was socially acceptable to introduce his new girlfriend. There would be whispers about her age, comments about an affair, a midlife crisis, but he wasn’t the only guy he knew to turn into a cliché.
It was the Scotch muddling his thoughts. He barely knew Natalie. And while she was sexy, attractive, charming, she would never fit into his world. His friends and colleagues might grudgingly accept her, but Violet would lose her mind. And, as an attorney, he knew all too well what he would lose if he divorced Celeste.
Under New York’s equitable distribution system, his wife would make out like a bandit. She’d been a decent earner when they married but had devoted the last six years to her health, their daughter, and their home. Gabe would get brownie points for sticking by her through her illness, but at the end of the day, Celeste would get half. Half of what she knew about, half of what she and her lawyers would be able to find, but still . . . half.
And Celeste had always been a personal and professional asset. At the firm, the partners and their wives adored her. She was accomplished in her own right but happy to play hostess to his friends and clients, always remembering their names, asking after their children, charming them. She kept their home beautiful and immaculate, organized their social calendar, had wrangled their rebellious daughter. And Celeste legitimized him. She’d been a public defender, a crusader for justice. No one would suspect her husband of being less than squeaky clean. And he had stood by her while she battled cancer. He wasn’t afraid to
use that anecdote when he needed to.
But Celeste had sexually forsaken him in the last few years. She went to bed, alone, at ten o’clock. She’d let herself go, gaining weight, eschewing makeup as if to repel his romantic interest. During the week, there was physical distance between them; on weekends, it was emotional. Gabe had always filled that void with young, attractive women who did not pose a threat to his marriage. But there was something different about Natalie Murphy.
He’d been stupid and reckless, had let her get under his skin. Natalie should never have spent the night with him at his apartment; it was too intimate, too much like a real relationship. The girl knew her way around his place, knew how to make cappuccinos, for Christ’s sake. And that night, when she’d told him she loved him, he should never have said it back. They’d been drinking; they were in the throes of passion. He didn’t really mean it . . . but then, he didn’t not mean it, either. Jesus . . . He’d created a problem.
He would set boundaries with Natalie, and he would stay with Celeste. For now, anyway. He’d always been comfortable compartmentalizing his life: the woman in the country, and the girl in the city. He glanced at his watch. The girl in the city would be on the subway now. In about forty-five minutes, she’d arrive at his luxurious building. Setting down his empty glass, he called his doorman.
After that, he called his real estate agent friend, Calvin. The younger man owed him a favor—or ten—after Gabe had helped him salvage the sale of a Midtown building to Chinese billionaires that had turned ugly. After ensuring his strictest confidence, Gabe instructed him to find something small, rent-stabilized, if possible, in the West Village or Chelsea. Natalie would be fairly close to campus, and not too far (and not too close) to his Upper East Side home. He could stop by her place on his way home from work, if he felt like it. She could ride the subway uptown to be with him. And at the end of the night, he could send her home.
The Arrangement Page 13