The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  When Violet turned right on Fifth Avenue and crossed toward the park, her destination became evident. The Met. Nat loved the Met, had visited numerous times. Thanks to its donation policy for New York residents, she had been a regular attendee even when she was broke. Experience informed her that she could easily lose Violet inside the massive building, the multitude of exhibits, the sea of weekend visitors. The pretty girl was ascending the steps now, moving toward the doors. Nat scurried up after her.

  Violet moved directly to the express entry for members and patrons. Of course she had a membership; the Turnmills were wealthy, cultured, sophisticated. As Nat waited in the short residents’ line, she kept her eyes trained on Violet’s dark hair. She could not lose her now.

  Inside the gallery, it took Nat a moment to locate her mark. Gabe’s daughter was moving through the main hallway, headed for the stairwell. She seemed to have a destination in mind, wasn’t distracted by any of the other exhibits. Nat trailed behind her until Violet reached the second floor and took a left, entering the impressionists gallery. The pretty girl passed by the paintings on the walls—the Manets, the Monets, the Pissarros—without a glance. Finally, she stopped in front of a sculpture in bronze.

  It was The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer by Edgar Degas. Nat knew it well. She had studied it at school, visited it often. It was a personal favorite—this simple girl, a street urchin turned ballerina—immortalized by a great man. With a deep breath, Nat moved closer, stopping just a couple of feet from Gabe’s daughter. Nat’s eyes were fixed on the almost life-size sculpture, but all her attention was focused on the beautiful dark-haired girl beside her.

  They were close enough that Nat feared Violet would hear her pounding heart, would sense her taut, nervous energy. But Gabe’s only child was enraptured by the statue before her and didn’t even notice Nat. She had to say something, to connect with Violet in some way. It was a need, a compulsion. Keeping her voice calm and steady, Nat spoke.

  “It wouldn’t happen today, would it?”

  Violet glanced over, surprised to be addressed by a stranger. “What wouldn’t?”

  “A grown man spending hour upon hour sketching and sculpting a pubescent girl.” Nat kept her eyes on the bronze statue. “It would be considered perverted.”

  “Uh . . . because it would be perverted,” Violet snorted.

  “Degas wanted to depict commoners, the real people of France,” Nat continued. “Most artists of the time only featured idealized body types. Heroes or goddesses.”

  “Hmm. . . .” The girl sounded dismissive. Nat upped her game.

  “When Degas first displayed this sculpture, critics were really cruel. They said the dancer looked like a monkey, that her face was obviously of low character.”

  Violet looked at her then. “Are you an artist?”

  Nat met her light brown eyes, smiled. “I’m an art student. You?”

  “No.” She turned back to the statue. “I just like her. My dad used to bring me here when I was a kid.”

  At the casual mention of Violet’s father, Nat felt her stomach twist. But she maintained her cool. “And now you come alone?”

  “Yeah,” the girl said dismissively. “My dad’s busy.”

  But he’s spending more time with you. Because you’re having emotional problems.

  Instead, Nat said, “My dad would never bring me here. He lives in Vegas, for one. And he’d have no idea who Degas was. He’d think he was a rapper. Or maybe a boxer.”

  Violet chuckled. “Dads suck. Like most men.”

  “They sure do.” They were silent for a beat, and then Nat filled the void. “The little dancer’s father died when she was young. Her mother was a laundress. One of her sisters became a prostitute.”

  Violet said, “You know a lot about her.”

  “I did a project.” Nat smiled. “It’s all on Wikipedia.”

  “I’ll have to read up on her.”

  “Now you don’t need to.”

  Violet smiled, and their eyes connected for a moment. Nat felt an odd sort of pull. She couldn’t let Violet go, not now. Before she could chicken out, she said, “I’m going to get a coffee in the café. Want to join me?”

  Violet Turnmill’s brow crinkled ever so slightly. Was she suspicious? Surprised that a stranger would ask her out for coffee after a two-minute conversation?

  And then the younger girl shrugged. “Sure. I could use a coffee.”

  35

  * * *

  The Return

  The week after Gabe ended his arrangement with Natalie had been hell. He’d returned to Sagaponack, working from home to be close to his wife and daughter. Violet seemed perplexed by his presence, but he explained that he had a light caseload, so he wanted to spend some time with his “favorite girls.” She’d looked at him as if he were speaking Farsi. It would take time to worm his way back into his daughter’s affections, but he would get there.

  All the while, his phone nearly exploded with angst and vitriol. Natalie’s texts veered from pleading to raging, with all stops in between. Locked in the master bathroom, he listened to the voice messages begging him to reconsider, negotiating with him to redefine their relationship, threatening to tell his daughter, to destroy him, kill him even. (He could tell Natalie was drunk.) The girl was a fucking lunatic.

  He thought about Emily and the other sugar babies who had so gracefully accepted his payoffs. But he’d known Natalie was different. He’d been drawn to her passion, her authenticity, her lack of sophistication. And the girl had loved him, truly loved him. He should have known she would not go easily.

  But then, abruptly, the harassment stopped.

  He’d been right to ignore her overtures. Natalie had come to her senses, realized he wasn’t going to engage. She’d probably moved on, replaced him with a new sugar daddy. Gabe could relax now, focus on Violet. He no longer had to worry about Natalie showing up at his apartment or his office; about her approaching his daughter. Thank god. It was truly fucked-up that his relief was peppered with disappointment.

  Pressing the puree button on the blender, he watched the kale, bananas, blueberries, and chia seeds turn into a pleasing green mush. He needed to keep his energy up, his mind sharp, his focus on his family. It was Sunday; he would go to the gym and then get a massage. Violet had gone into the city for the weekend, but she’d be back for their usual Sunday dinner. And he would be waiting.

  Celeste walked into the kitchen then. “Want a smoothie?” he asked. She needed the cancer-fighting antioxidants. His wife was the picture of health since her disease had gone into remission, and he had a vested interest in keeping her that way. Violet couldn’t handle another crisis.

  “Yes, please.” His wife perched on a barstool and accepted the green concoction. As she brought it to her lips, he leaned in, his elbows on the counter.

  “We need to talk to Violet tonight. About Honduras.”

  Celeste set down the glass. “She’s really excited about it.”

  “Well, she can’t go,” he stated. “She’s too fragile. She’s too unstable.”

  “She’s eighteen, Gabe. We can’t forbid it.”

  “We can, and we will,” he snapped, righting himself. “I’m not letting my daughter travel to a fucking third-world country while she’s cutting and burning her arms and legs.”

  His wife flinched slightly in the face of his anger. But then she sighed. “You’re right . . . But we can’t tell her now. It’s almost her graduation. We’re hosting the pool party.”

  “After that then,” Gabe said. “We’ll tell her she can go to Honduras when she’s more stable and more mature.” He took a drink of his smoothie. “When she’s finished her degree.”

  Celeste’s eyes narrowed slightly. Was Gabe really using Violet’s mental-health issues to push her into college? He was, but he wasn’t about to admit it to his wife. If she called him on it, he was ready. He would inform her that he was in charge now; he had to be, because Celeste had failed as a mother. S
he was too soft, too indulgent, too weak. Their daughter was a disaster: moody, fragile, directionless. . . . And it was all Celeste’s fault.

  But his partner simply said, “Okay.” She knew better than to take him on. Celeste took her smoothie and padded out of the room.

  Gabe downed the rest of his drink and felt a surge of power, of confidence. It wasn’t the superfoods coursing through his system; it was the knowledge that he was doing the right thing. It had been a mistake to let Natalie distract him from his pivotal role in his child’s life. His own parents had been exhausted and distracted, working themselves into early graves. Gabe had survived their neglect, even thrived because of it. But Violet was different. She was sensitive and emotional. She needed her father’s attention, his affection, and his guidance. He was here now, present and engaged. Placing the glass in the sink, he grabbed his car keys and headed to the garage.

  Daddy was back. And soon, the little girl he’d adored would be back, too.

  36

  * * *

  The Invitation

  Nat sipped a glass of vodka and Coke as she stared at the pretty face filling her computer screen. Violet Turnmill. It had been four days since their introduction at the Met. Nat had spent most of those four days sifting through the younger girl’s photos on social media. They’d followed each other on Snapchat and Instagram shortly after their coffee date, had friended each other on Facebook, too. Gabe wasn’t on any of these juvenile platforms, wouldn’t know that his ex-lover and his daughter had struck up a friendship. Possibly even more than a friendship.

  Nat had not set out to flirt with Violet, but she couldn’t ignore the way the younger girl had looked at her, couldn’t deny their chemistry. She knew that Violet was pansexual (as stated in her social media profiles), and she’d seen her kiss the fair-haired girl. Nat was straight, had never even experimented with a female. But there was something about Violet . . . familiar yet strange. Exotic. Fascinating. Nat took a sip of vodka and looked at a photo of Violet lying by a stunning pool with a menagerie of her unconventional friends. The girl was gorgeous in her bikini, her natural beauty undiminished, even magnified by her unassuming aspect. Nat felt a confounding mixture of attraction, jealousy, and loathing. She drank more vodka.

  Their coffee date in The Met’s café had been illuminating. Painfully, horribly illuminating. Nat had been nervous, almost trembling from the proximity to Gabe Turnmill’s only child. He would kill her if he knew she had approached his daughter, but Nat didn’t care. She had to get to know Violet, had to make that connection. Somehow, despite her inner turmoil, Nat had affected an outward appearance of calm.

  “Did you grow up in New York?” Nat had casually asked, when they were seated, sipping cappuccinos.

  “Mostly. My parents bought a weekend house in Sagaponack when I was little. Eventually, my mom and I moved out there full-time.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It’s a beautiful house. But the Hamptons are boring.” She brought her coffee cup to her lips. “Rich. White. Traditional. Where did you grow up?”

  “Small town in the Pacific Northwest.”

  “I thought you said your dad lived in Vegas?”

  “He does. I was ten when my parents split.” Nat’s voice was tight as she asked, “How old were you?”

  “They’re still together,” Violet said. “My dad works in the city, but he comes home to my mom and me every weekend.”

  Nat absorbed this news without a visible reaction, but inside, her intestines roiled with betrayal. Gabe was married. He had a wife. Everything he’d told her had been a fucking lie.

  “He’s a workaholic,” Violet continued. “He drives all the way home and then spends the entire weekend on his laptop. My mom forces us to have a family meal on Sundays, but she’s the only one who enjoys it.”

  “He sounds like an asshole.”

  “He’s a corporate lawyer.” Violet spat out the words, like she was saying pedophile. “We don’t have the same principles. I mean, I have principles. He doesn’t.”

  No, he doesn’t.

  “You know how you can idolize someone and then you find out who they really are?” Violet’s voice had turned tremulous. “My father cares about money and success and power. That’s it.”

  Nat’s voice was husky. “And your mom?”

  “She’s a good person. She had cancer a few years ago, but she’s okay now.” Violet’s eyes were misty. “We’ve had our issues . . . I was pretty wild when I was younger. But she’s always stood by me. She always supports me.”

  Nat held it together until she got home from the museum, and then she came apart. Hot tears of shame and hatred and guilt poured down her face, sending a sharp pain searing through her head. She’d been deceived, used, played, and the thought made her want to vomit. Gabe had lied to her. Why?

  But she knew why.

  If Gabe had told her he was married, she would never have gone out with him. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She would have gone for the first drink, the pay-per-meet, and then she would have walked away. She wouldn’t have fallen for him, wouldn’t have convinced herself that they had something real. And that’s what Gabe Turnmill needed: blind devotion. He got off on it. His enormous ego could only be fed by pure adoration. It didn’t matter to him that Nat’s heart was broken, that his lie had upended her life. He had charmed her, played her, and then dropped her when he got tired of her.

  He was a narcissist. A sociopath. A monster. So why did she still miss him? Why did she still love him?

  She had to let it go and move on. She had to figure out a way to pay her rent or give up the studio and apply for student housing. She needed to stop day-drinking, had to find a job. But here she was, drunk at two in the afternoon, sifting through Violet Turnmill’s Facebook photos, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gabe in the background. Since the girls’ museum encounter, they had been texting regularly—friendly chatter, flirtatious banter. Nat knew she shouldn’t encourage Violet’s interest, should cut off the friendship before it went any further. But she couldn’t. The connection to Gabe, however sick and wrong, was irresistible.

  Nat’s phone vibrated then. It would be her mom; no one else cared about her. Maternal instinct had alerted Allana that all was not well in her distant daughter’s life.

  Are you okay? Haven’t heard from you in ages. . . .

  But Nat had not responded to her mother’s texts. What could she say?

  I’m not so good. My sugar daddy broke up with me and I just found out he was married all along. I won’t be able to afford rent in the fall, but instead of finding a job, I spend my days staring at online photos of his pansexual daughter, who has a crush on me. How’s the weather?

  But when she retrieved her phone from between the couch cushions, she found a text from Violet.

  My parents are having a graduation pool party for me. Want to come?

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t walk into the home that Gabe shared with his wife and daughter and hang out by the pool like she was just another one of Violet’s friends. She couldn’t meet Violet’s mother, Gabe’s wife, and act like she hadn’t been having a passionate affair with the woman’s husband for months. She couldn’t pretend to meet Gabe for the first time, watch him blanch with shock, then squirm with guilt and regret and fear. Or could she?

  Her phone pinged again.

  My friend Mark is coming from the city. He can pick you up.

  And then another text:

  You can stay for the weekend if you want. My parents’ house has plenty of room.

  Sipping her vodka, Nat pictured herself sleeping in the Turnmills’ luxuriant Hamptons home while just down the hall, Gabe lay wide awake next to his wife. He’d be too angry, stressed, and terrified to sleep. Would he come to her? Slip into the guest bedroom and make love to her under his own roof? Or would he sneak down the hallway and press a pillow to her face as she slept? To her surprise, Nat realized she didn’t care. Either way, she would be close to him.

&nb
sp; Violet texted again.

  If you don’t want to, I get it. It probably sounds really juvenile to you.

  But my mom is letting us have some drinks. And our pool is beautiful.

  I’d really like it if you came, but only if you want to.

  Draining her glass and placing it heavily on the coffee table, Nat put the poor girl out of her misery.

  Hi Violet. I’d love to come to your party

  37

  * * *

  The Encounter

  Gabe’s wife had insisted on having thirty of Violet’s friends over to celebrate her graduation. Their daughter had refused to participate in a traditional prom, labeling it heteronormative, classist, and a Hollywood-constructed experience. Celeste had reasonably felt that the milestone should be marked by some sort of occasion, so she had suggested the pool party. Surprisingly, Violet had agreed.

  They had hired a caterer, allowing Gabe and his wife to relax in the family room with a drink, popping out on occasion to ensure the kids were playing nicely. Well, Celeste popped out on occasion. Gabe stayed on the sectional sofa, sipping his Scotch and reading a biography of John Adams. He didn’t know his daughter’s friends, and he didn’t want to. These schlubby kids with their colorful hair, prominent tattoos, and hideous piercings were a phase that she would soon outgrow.

  His wife strolled into the family room then, carrying a glass of iced lemon water. Gabe looked up from his book.

  “How’s it going out there?”

  She nestled into the sofa beside him. “I think Violet’s having some issues with her girlfriend.”