The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  His mind flitted to the last time he’d been with her in that double bed pressed against the window in the cramped studio. She’d made them screwdrivers and they’d frolicked between the sheets like tipsy teenagers. Natalie had been fun and refreshing, had made him feel young, sexy, and invincible. He hated that it had to end this way, but she wouldn’t suffer. Quick and painless. He’d been adamant about that. A stab of regret constricted his heart muscle.

  But this was her fault, he reminded himself. Natalie had broken their arrangement, had come after his daughter, his family. She was crazy and drunk and could not be reasoned with. An overhead sign announced the exit that would take him to the Bronx Zoo. If he took it, he would be sealing Natalie’s fate. And his. If he drove on, he’d be allowing Natalie to destroy his family, his reputation, his life.

  He took the exit.

  43

  * * *

  The High Line

  Nat waited all day for Gabe to contact her. She tidied the apartment a bit, gathering the empty take-out containers and placing the empty vodka and wine bottles near the door to be taken out to the recycling bins. But she was too distracted, too lacking in motivation to do a thorough clean. The footprint was still on her bed, though she’d slept on top of it. It was faint, but it was there. The only evidence she had that Cole Doberinsky had invaded her space.

  Her mom had e-mailed her confirming that Cole was MIA once again. “That doesn’t mean he’s in New York,” Allana said, “but be extra careful, just in case.”

  Cole was in New York; Nat could feel his presence. She may have lied to Gabe about the necklace going missing, but she had not lied about her fear and unease. Cole was still obsessed, still angry. Once Gabe knew that Cole had resurfaced and was practically stalking Nat, he would protect her. He would keep her safe.

  To kill time, she went to the liquor store and replaced her empty bottle of vodka and bought some Scotch for Gabe. She’d invite him over for a drink before dinner, or a nightcap after. Either one would lead to sex; she knew that. The fact that he still wanted her was made abundantly clear in Violet’s bedroom, and later, in his car at the bus stop. The attraction between them could not be denied, no matter how difficult their circumstances.

  When she still hadn’t heard from him at three, she sent him a text.

  Where r u?

  He didn’t respond.

  She tamped down the panic building in her chest and made herself a drink. Just one, but a strong one to settle her nerves, and climbed into the shower. She had a head full of lather when she heard her phone ping, alerting her to a new message. Reaching out to grab the device next to the sink, she read Gabe’s missive.

  Sorry. Got held up. How about a walk on the High Line?

  The suggestion was sweet and romantic, something a real couple would do. A real couple who needed to talk things through. She dried her hands on the towel hanging on the back of the door and responded.

  Come over for a drink first?

  He replied instantly.

  We can walk up to Hell’s Kitchen, grab one there.

  He didn’t want to be alone with her. He couldn’t resist her. It was both flattering and concerning. If they were rekindling things, why did he want to resist her? But they needed to talk, to discuss a way to move forward in their relationship. If they fell into bed together, it would distract them from that necessary task. She texted back.

  Meet at the stairs on 20th in an hour

  * * *

  It was almost seven, still humid and warm, as Nat walked down her street toward the High Line. The elevated pathway with its perennials, grasses, and shrubs was popular with both tourists and locals for scenic strolls. Nat, in a floral spring dress, the diamond pendant glinting at her throat, felt optimistic about this reunion with Gabe. The scene in Sagaponack had been truly fucked-up, but it was behind them. She had done what was necessary to get Gabe to talk to her, to see her, to remedy things. As she neared their rendezvous point she stopped, remembering that her necklace had supposedly been stolen. Releasing the clasp, she removed the jewelry and dropped it into her skirt pocket.

  Gabe was waiting at the bottom of the steep stairwell, as agreed. He was wearing a ball cap and aviator sunglasses. The accessories made him look young and cool. She couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t tell if he was watching her approach, but as she got closer, his lips softened into a smile.

  “You look pretty,” he said, and she heard the warmth in his voice.

  “You look good, too. I like the shades.”

  “I didn’t sleep well last night,” he said, by way of explanation.

  “Neither did I.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, neither one expressing the thoughts that had kept them awake. Nat had, technically, passed out drunk. But if she hadn’t, she’d have been thinking about Gabe and how they could fix things. She’d have thought about Cole and the break-in and what he planned to do to her. She’d have thought about Violet and how the girl felt about her.

  “Shall we go up?” Gabe gestured toward the stairs. Nat climbed up first, feeling her lover on her heels. His presence behind her was both familiar and new, comfortable and awkward. So much had happened in the two weeks since Gabe had ended it but being with him still felt right.

  When they reached the reclaimed rail line, they strolled uptown in silence. The path was busy on such a pleasant evening, but the other guests were ensconced in their own conversations, or enraptured by the view of the Hudson, the art installations, the late-spring greenery. Nat didn’t know how to start the conversation they needed to have. With their sudden breakup? With Violet? With Nat’s arrival at Gabe’s Hamptons home? But her partner spoke first.

  “So someone broke into your apartment.”

  “Yes,” she said, grateful for his interest. He still cared about her, still wanted to protect her. “It has to be Cole. The footprint looks about his size. He’s not in Blaine. And the necklace is gone.”

  “Nothing else was taken?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t misplace it? Have you looked everywhere?”

  “Yes,” she said, guilt making her voice shake. “I looked everywhere.”

  “And the footprint,” he said calmly. “Have you had any guests who might have put it there?”

  “I haven’t had any guests,” she cried, “not since you.” It sounded shrill and desperate, but she was offended by the suggestion. “Only my friends Keltie and Ivan from art school, but that was weeks ago.”

  “Could Ivan have stepped on the bed?” Gabe’s voice was calm, regulated. He was in lawyer mode.

  “No.” But her friends’ last visit drifted into her mind. She remembered them drinking, playing music, dancing around the studio. It felt like years ago that she had been so light, so carefree. Could Ivan have jumped on the bed during their dance session? When had she last washed her sheets? Household chores had fallen by the wayside since she’d been outed at school, since Gabe had dumped her. The glass of vodka she’d had was muddling her thoughts. Self-doubt was creeping through the fog. But she said, “He didn’t.”

  Gabe left it there, didn’t push the subject any further. They walked without talking until Nat took the opportunity to shift the conversation. “I need to explain. About Violet.”

  “You don’t need to explain,” he said, still lawyerly. “Just promise me you won’t see her again.”

  “I promise,” Nat said. “If that’s what it takes for us to get back together.”

  “It does.”

  They were the words she’d been pining for, the assurance she’d craved. But the delivery was monotone, perfunctory. It set her nerves on edge.

  “So we’re getting back together?” she clarified, glancing over at him as they moved steadily forward.

  “Yes,” he said, eyes concealed behind the reflective glasses. “But I have to go away for a while.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To France. For business.”
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  “I could come?” she bravely suggested. “I’m not working right now. I’ve never been to France. Or anywhere in Europe.”

  “I’d love that,” he said, and he almost sounded genuine. Almost. “But I’ll be working all the time. And Celeste’s sister and brother-in-law live there. They’ll want to spend time with me, so you’d be left on your own.”

  “But I’ll be left on my own here,” she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. “I want to be with you.”

  “And you will be,” he said. “When I get back.”

  They’d reached the end of the High Line by then, and Nat was relieved. The vodka was wearing off, leaving her feeling antsy and wound-up. Gabe had promised a drink after their walk. She was sure more alcohol would ease the tension, smooth things over. They walked down the sloping ramp in heavy silence, continued along Thirty-Fourth Street.

  “Shall we get a drink somewhere?” she suggested, glancing over at him. She wanted to sit facing him, wanted him to remove his glasses. He wouldn’t be so glib with her then, when there was eye contact.

  “I wish I could,” he said, moving past the Hudson Yards subway station, “but I’ve got an early flight tomorrow. I have to pack.”

  “A quick one then? Or I could come to your place and help you get ready.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He was blowing her off, trying to get rid of her. She stopped walking.

  “What’s going on, Gabe?”

  “Nothing.” He gave her arm a conciliatory squeeze, but it felt cool, impersonal. “When I get back from my trip, we’ll be together.”

  “But you can’t give me an hour of your time now?”

  She saw the tension in his jaw, and she knew his eyes, behind his glasses, would be like ice. “This is an important business trip and I need to focus,” he said, condescension dripping from his voice. “You know my business and my family come first. That hasn’t changed.”

  Suddenly, it became clear. He wasn’t reconciling with her; he was buying time. There was no business trip to France. Gabe just wanted a couple of weeks to strategize a way to tell Celeste and Violet about the affair. Or, more likely, he’d make up a story, label Nat a crazy, obsessive stalker, portray himself as completely innocent. He might cop to a one-night stand gone wrong, might even admit to the financial arrangement, lamenting his lonely life in the city. But he would convince his wife and daughter that he was the victim, that Natalie was dangerous, the enemy. And maybe she was?

  “Fine”—she forced a smile that made her face want to crack—“we’ll be together when you get back.”

  “I’m glad you understand.” Relief softened his tone. “I’m going to walk up to Tenth and grab a cab.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll try to text, but I’ve got a packed schedule.”

  “I’d love to hear from you, if you have time.”

  “Goodbye, Natalie.”

  “Bye.”

  He leaned in and gave her a chaste kiss on the lips. For the first time, she felt no pull, no desire, nothing but animosity, nothing but the sting of betrayal. He turned and left her then, walking toward bustling Tenth Avenue. She watched him stride away, her heart pounding in her chest, her throat, her ears. And then she called after him.

  “You don’t mind if I hang out with Violet for the next couple of weeks, do you?”

  The words halted him. He whirled around. “What?”

  She closed the distance between them. “Once we’re together, I’ll stop. But . . . I’ll be all alone here. I don’t really have any friends, and I really like your daughter.” Her words were pointed. “I like her a lot.”

  His handsome face darkened with rage. “You fucking cunt,” he growled. “Stay away from Violet or I’ll . . .”

  “Or you’ll what?”

  “I’ll kill you,” he said quietly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

  “You’re going to kill me?” she repeated, her voice loud and shrill. “You’re threatening my life right now?” Passersby were glancing over, alerted to the dramatic scene. What did they see? A distinguished older man vibrating with anger. A girl in a floral dress shrieking at him like an angry shrew. Did Nat look unstable? Insane? She felt it. Her self-control was slipping away, her last shred of decorum dissipating. But she was too full of rage and hate to stop.

  “Fuck you, Gabe!” she spat, the momentum of her outburst building. “I’m not going away. Violet wants me, and she hates you. I’ll take your family away from you! I’ll bring you to your fucking knees!”

  Gabe’s face was pale and bloodless. The loathing in his eyes was obscured by his glasses, but she could feel it coming off him, tangible waves of hate. For a moment, she thought he would grab her by the throat and choke her to death right there in broad daylight. But he didn’t. He just turned to go.

  She caught his wrist, her nails digging into his flesh. It felt good to hurt him. “Don’t you fucking walk away from me,” she growled.

  But Gabe didn’t flinch, though she could feel his skin breaking under her talons. He wrenched his arm from her grasp and quickly but calmly walked away.

  “I hate you!” she screamed after him, her composure abandoning her completely. Tears and snot streamed down her face, spit flew from her lips. She was a monster, a horrid, frothing, monster. But still . . . she couldn’t stop. “I’ll destroy you, you selfish prick! I’ll fucking kill you!”

  He kept walking, never turning back, like he was impervious to her words. But she knew how to hurt him. Her hands were shaking so hard she feared she’d drop her phone on the sidewalk. But somehow, she managed to send the text to Violet.

  I miss you. Want to hang out soon?

  Violet would, of course. The girl was infatuated with Nat, wanted to date her, wanted to build something with her. And now, Nat wanted that, too. She would unblock the younger girl from her phone. When she responded, Nat would arrange to see her, to kiss her, to make love to her. In the end, it would be a disaster. Violet would be crushed; Celeste would be pained. But Gabe would be totally and utterly destroyed. And bringing him down was all that mattered now.

  44

  * * *

  Smooth Jazz

  Jesus Christ. The bitch was even crazier than Gabe had thought. At his rendezvous at the zoo, he’d told the man to handle the situation in the next week or so. But her outburst, her threats, her obvious mental illness changed everything. Natalie had to be disposed of now, before she had a chance to talk to Violet, before she could contact Celeste. When he’d put several blocks between himself and the outraged girl, he dug his cell from his pocket.

  “Take care of it,” he growled into the phone. “Tonight. I’ll give you an extra five grand.”

  He hadn’t wanted to pay more, but the matter needed to be expedited. And the guy, the handler, was a professional; money was his language. The man was going to break into Natalie’s apartment and be waiting when the girl came home. She was small and weak. She’d probably be drunk (she was always drunk lately). The man would take her out easily, take her phone, her laptop, and any other evidence of Gabe’s existence. Another break-in gone wrong. And that would be the end. Gabe would likely never even hear about it.

  He couldn’t go home to his apartment or downtown to his office. He couldn’t go anywhere where Natalie might find him. When he’d spotted her standing by his pool with his daughter, he had felt panic and fear. But this was different—more visceral, even mortal. She had threatened to kill him, and he believed she would. The girl was a deranged alcoholic consumed by rage. If she got her hands on a weapon, she would murder him in a second.

  After a few more blocks, his heart rate began to slow, and his head began to clear. He’d been overwrought, panicking. Natalie wasn’t going to try to murder him. She didn’t have a gun or a knife. And she was just a kid. An angry, obsessive kid, but that was because she loved him, because she wanted him back. Killing him would negate the possibility of a reunion. Sticking out his arm, he hailed a cab and instructed the driv
er to take him to his apartment uptown. As he sat in the back, he checked his phone. There was a text from his wife.

  Have you heard from Violet? She’s not answering my texts.

  Of course, he hadn’t. Despite his recent efforts, his daughter was still cool and distant with him. She wouldn’t reach out in her time of romantic turmoil. He wrote back to his wife.

  No.

  Celeste’s response was instant.

  Should I call Sonja’s mother? Make sure Violet’s okay?

  Celeste was overreacting, as usual. She was too protective of their daughter, overly doting, even cloying. No wonder Violet was such a mess, always upset or pissed off about something. But he had to soothe his wife.

  She’s with her friends. She probably has her phone off. She’ll be fine.

  He sensed the relief in Celeste’s reply.

  You’re probably right. If you hear from her, let me know.

  The cab pulled up on Park and Gabe paid the driver. The door was opened by his obsequious doorman. “Good evening, Mr. Turnmill.”

  “No guests,” Gabe instructed curtly, hurrying through the lobby to the waiting elevator.

  In his apartment, he poured two fingers of Scotch and swallowed it without ice. The alcohol burned in his chest, made his eyes water, but soon, he felt its relaxing effect. He fixed another drink, with ice this time, and sat on the sofa. Flicking on the TV, he roamed through the channels, but he was still antsy, still on edge. He kept hearing noises, muting the volume, moving to the door to listen intently. Logically, he knew he was safe. Natalie wouldn’t get past the doorman. But the gatekeeper could be tricked, manipulated, paid off.