The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  Fern had done what Celeste could not. She’d thrown a drink in Natalie’s face and called her a whore. It was as if Fern knew the truth when she couldn’t have. Gabe had whisked his dripping lover away, and Celeste had shuttled Fern home, her mind spinning, reeling, racing. It was a miracle they hadn’t crashed. When she returned, the party guests had been dispatched. Gabe was still delivering his girlfriend to the bus. Violet was alone.

  “You can’t date that girl,” Celeste said, her voice wavering. “Promise me you won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just can’t.”

  “You sound like a dictator. You sound like dad.”

  Celeste had been close to tears when she spat: “I am nothing like your father.”

  Somehow, it had come out. In her desperation to keep Violet away from the toxic, troubled Natalie, Celeste had told her daughter about her father’s affair. Violet’s face, when she learned the truth, still haunted Celeste; the pain, the hate and betrayal twisting her innocent features. If Celeste could do it all over again, she would not have told Violet. She would not have let her daughter run to her car and race into the city. But Celeste couldn’t have known what would happen.

  She couldn’t have known that Violet would drive directly to Natalie’s apartment, prepared to confront her. When Natalie didn’t answer the buzzer, didn’t respond to Violet’s text, the athletic girl had shimmied up the fire escape and climbed through the studio’s window. She had been looking for validation that her mother’s accusations were true, and she found it. There, on Natalie’s pillow, Violet saw her father’s tie. It was a William Morris design, purchased from the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s gift shop by Violet, when she was sixteen. It had been a Father’s Day gift, lovingly selected. And he had left it at his lover’s apartment like it meant nothing.

  Celeste could not have known that this evidence would send her daughter into a spiral of booze, drugs, and rage. She could never have guessed that Violet would reconnect with her old friends that night, the spoiled entitled kids who had round-the-clock parties with alcohol and cocaine and handguns tossed casually into drawers. Violet had gone on a bender, drinking and doing drugs, not sleeping for more than twenty-four hours. And then, the next night, still high, messed-up, and angry, she had texted her father.

  Hey. R U at the apartment?

  So breezy, so casual. Gabe had responded.

  I’m at a jazz club on 89th. What’s up?

  Nothing. Staying with friends tonite. Might come by tomorrow.

  OK

  The conversation had raised no red flags when the police examined Gabe’s phone. With the multitude of venomous missives from Natalie, Gabe’s daughter just “checking in” had seemed innocuous. But it was the call that woke Celeste from a fitful sleep at 1:13 A.M., that was damning.

  “Mom . . .” Her daughter’s voice was small, trembling, broken. “I’ve done something terrible.”

  Somehow, Celeste had remained calm, instructing her daughter to return to her friend’s party, to wipe down the gun she had liberated from a bedside table, and put it back. She’d told Violet to take a shower, to try to get some sleep, to act like everything was normal. The revelers were all wasted; they didn’t keep track of the guests’ comings and goings. Violet could slip seamlessly back into the debauchery, her alibi set. And then, Celeste formulated her plan.

  The weight of the memory pressed on her chest and she took a deep breath. Oleg, alerted by the sound, met her eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, smiling at her friend, her confidant, her accomplice. “Thank you.”

  Framing Natalie Murphy for Gabe Turnmill’s murder had seemed the best solution. As a former defense attorney, Celeste knew the system, knew how investigations worked. With Natalie’s harassing calls and threats on Gabe’s phone, she would be the logical suspect. But Celeste also knew that physical evidence would need to be planted, and it would take her over two hours to reach the scene of the crime. So she had called the only person she could trust, the only person who might be able to help her.

  She hadn’t been sure that Oleg would cooperate; he seemed to pity Nat as a troubled, small-town girl caught up in a rich man’s web. But Celeste had convinced him. Natalie was sick, unstable, and, according to Oleg, armed. She needed help—medication, therapy, and lots of it. She would get it while incarcerated. And Violet had to be protected. She was an innocent child driven to commit a horrific crime by her father’s unforgivable behavior. Celeste could live without her husband; but she would not survive without her daughter.

  The fact that Gabe had asked Oleg to arrange a hit on Natalie Murphy (God, Celeste’s husband had no scruples) proved an unexpected advantage. Oleg had introduced Gabe to a “handler of problems,” a “hit man.” It was his cousin Max, the man with the light green eyes, the man who had beaten Cole Doberinsky at Gabe’s behest. Max had never intended to hurt Natalie. In fact, he had been following her that night to ensure her safety. Gabe wanted the girl dead, and Oleg wanted her protected. Max had trailed Nat to a bar and then to a nightclub. When he’d gotten the call from his cousin, he’d known what to do.

  Max had arranged to have a sedative slipped into Natalie’s drink. The girl was already heavily intoxicated. She would be comatose by the time she reached her Chelsea apartment. Max had followed her there, had played the concerned boyfriend for the indifferent cabbie’s sake. She had fallen out of the backseat, skinning her knees, hands, and chin. He’d picked Natalie up, retrieved her keys from her purse and helped the girl inside. She’d come to, slurring belligerently, but he’d gotten her inside, unceremoniously dumping her in the entryway. The pendant had conveniently fallen from her pocket, so he scooped it up. Then he rummaged through drawers, cupboards, and closets until he found the gun. Then he had left, caught the subway uptown to meet his cousin at the scene of the crime.

  Oleg had told Celeste to stay in the Hamptons to avoid incriminating herself, but she couldn’t. Her daughter had just shot her husband in the face. She couldn’t pop an Ambien and go back to sleep like everything was normal. Gabe had been shot outside a parking garage at Eighty-Eighth and Lex. Oleg had agreed to conceal the corpse in a stairwell, buying her some time. Celeste had hurriedly dressed, slipped out to her car, and driven through the night. She had to see Gabe’s lifeless body to believe he was dead. And she had to collect Violet, to take her home, sober her up, and coach her through what would come next.

  Celeste met Oleg and Max on East Eighty-Eighth Street, where her spouse lay in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the concrete stairwell. She didn’t need to see the damage the bullet had done to Gabe’s handsome features to know he was deceased. Her powerful, vigorous, arrogant husband was reduced to a pile of skin and bone, a bloody, lifeless rag doll. It was discombobulating to see a man, once so confident and robust, now so . . . dead.

  Max had tossed Natalie’s pendant (ironically, a goodbye gift from Gabe) onto the body in the alcove. And then, he’d prepared to hide Nat’s gun.

  “Wait,” Celeste had said. “I have something.”

  The T-shirt. She’d found it on the passenger seat floor of her husband’s Mercedes that Sunday morning. It was in a plastic bag from Celeste’s favorite specialty food shop. She’d grabbed it, afraid Gabe had forgotten some groceries in the car that might spoil. But it was Natalie’s red stained shirt and tiny bikini top. She’d put them in the trunk of her car (she hadn’t wanted Gabe to use them as an excuse to see Natalie again). Celeste had planned to dump the garments in a public trash can, but now, she was grateful she hadn’t. Retrieving the bag from her car, she handed the spattered shirt to Max. He wrapped Natalie’s gun in it and dropped the items into a nearby dumpster.

  The gun had been the greatest obstacle Celeste had had to contend with. Gabe had been killed by a nine-millimeter Glock. Natalie’s pistol was a Beretta. Luckily, Celeste had a friend in the NYPD crime lab. Manny Dosanjh was the firearms examiner. The two had grown c
lose when Celeste was a public defender, having lunch on occasion, even after-work drinks. Manny would have taken it further, had Celeste ever given him an opening, but she hadn’t. She’d been loyal to Gabe. Blindly loyal.

  Manny had never liked Gabe, had always found him superior and condescending. Even at their recent dinner party, he’d muttered, “You still deserve better,” when Celeste had hugged him goodbye.

  She knew that now.

  It had been a huge favor to ask, but she’d asked it. Manny, assuming it was Celeste who had pulled the trigger, whose life and freedom were at stake, had complied. He had doctored his report to say that Gabe had been killed by a nine-millimeter Beretta, the same gun owned by Natalie Murphy. The sugar baby would go down for her daddy’s murder. It was just. It was karma.

  But Celeste’s anger at Natalie Murphy had dissipated—time, distance, and guilt softening the hate, blurring its edges. When Oleg had made a stopover in France (Celeste had bought the driver and his cousin plane tickets to Europe; it was the least she could do), they’d spent several evenings talking over wine, soft cheese, and crusty bread. Oleg, so kind, so good-hearted, had conveyed Nat’s troubled childhood, her lack of a father figure, her alcohol abuse. So Celeste had flown back to New York and made her victim-impact statement. She’d set the girl free.

  And now, she had given Natalie the ultimate gift. The knowledge of her innocence.

  Oleg cleared his throat and then spoke. “How long will you stay, Celeste?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied honestly.

  “Will Violet be joining you?”

  “No. She’s studying. She’s applying to the Université Paris Descartes for the fall semester.”

  “She’s doing so much better. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Me, too.” Her daughter’s progress had given Celeste a new lease on life. She leaned forward then. “You don’t have to drive back tonight, do you?” Her pulse quickened, and she felt suddenly shy. “It’s so late. We could have a drink. And I have so many spare rooms. . . .”

  She didn’t want to be alone in the big farmhouse she’d shared with her husband and daughter, where they’d pretended to be perfect, happy, normal. And she wanted to spend more time with Oleg, to explore the intense bond they shared. The big man had been there for her like no one ever had. Could a romance blossom from a murder cover-up? From shared secrets and lies? She wasn’t sure, but she wanted to find out. And that made her hopeful.

  Gabe Turnmill had damaged them all: Celeste, Violet, and Natalie. But he had not destroyed them.

  “I can stay,” Oleg said, meeting her eyes in the mirror.

  “Great.” She smiled back. “I’m happy.”

  And, in that moment, despite it all, she was.

  Acknowledgments

  I have long been fascinated by sugar arrangements. I’d see young women out with much older men and wonder about the dynamics of their relationships. I remember being young and broke. How easy was it for these girls to slip into this lifestyle? How did it make them feel? And what were the myriad ways it could go wrong? I decided to write a novel about this world. I read articles and interviews. I watched some reality programs. Armed with this cursory knowledge, I began to write.

  A few weeks later, I had dinner with Felicia Quon and Nita Pronovost of Simon & Schuster Canada. They encouraged me to set up an online account on a sugar dating site, and to interview some real sugar babies. I was nervous, shy, downright terrified . . . but I did it. And the insights I gleaned were invaluable! I learned who gets into the sugar bowl and why. What they gain from it, and what they lose. I learned about the genuine side, the dark side, the kinky side. About the money and the lingo (salty and Splenda). Thank you to the sugar babies who were so open and honest with me. Thank you, Felicia and Nita, for pushing me to go deeper, and making this book much more authentic.

  Also, huge and heartfelt thanks to my passionate, cool, and wise editor, Jackie Cantor. To the inimitable Jennifer Bergstrom and her incredible team at Scout Press: Meagan Harris, Aimée Bell, Sara Quaranta, Jennifer Long, Liz Psaltis, Abby Zidle, Diana Velasquez, and all the salespeople, designers, and everyone behind the scenes.

  To my always supportive agent, Joe Veltre, and Tori Eskue, Hannah Vaughn and the team at Gersh.

  To the powerhouse team at S&S Canada: Nita, FQ, Catherine Whiteside, Adria Iwasutiak, Rita Silva, Rebecca Snodden, Sarah St. Pierre, Mackenzie Croft, Kevin Hanson and company.

  To Kirsty Noffke, Fiona Henderson, Michelle Swainson, Anthea Bariamis, and everyone at Simon & Schuster Australia, and the team at Simon & Schuster UK.

  To my friend Shawn Felker. Thank you for all the New York intel! You answered all my questioning phone calls and responded to all my confused texts. You have toured me around New York on numerous occasions, and without you, I wouldn’t love it so much.

  To all the librarians and booksellers, to all the bloggers, bookstagrammers, and Facebook book groups who do so much to spread the word about books. To name but a few: @Gareindeedreads, @Jenny_Oregan, @thepagesinbetween, @the_reading_beauty, @jordys.book.club, @Shereadswithcats, @read_read_repeat, @girlwellread, @one.chapteratatime, @givemeallthebooks, @Jennieshaw, @scaredstraightreads, @the_grateful_read @morethanthepages, @agalandherbook, @thegreeneyedreader, @brettlikesbooks, @fully.booked, @book.happy, @outofthebex, @reading.between.wines, @bibliotaph_bean, @deebibliophilia, @erinreadit, @booksandchinooks, @novelteahappyme, @jessicamap, @booksandlala, @jprglisa, @readingbetweenthe_wies, @readingwithsam, @downtogetthefiction, @sweet_books_o_mine, @lifeinlit, @wherethereadergrows, @offtheshelfofficial, @Libbeylazarus, @my_novelsque_life, @beauty_andthebook_, @drink.read.repeat @bookwormmommyof3, @CindyBokma, @readwithdogs, @booksonthebookshelf, @lalalifebookclub, @wrenn_bongo_and_books @katerocklitchick, @cluesandreviews, @nerdoutwithmybookout, @nerdoutwithmybookout, @meet_me_at_the_library, @jenspageturners.

  Also: A Novel Bee, Bookworms Anonymous, Chick Lit Central, Bitter Is the New Book Club, BluePoint Press, The Book Whisperer, Linda’s Book Obsession, Suzy Approved Book Reviews, The Book Whisperer, Frean Bean’s Book Trove, The Girly Book Club . . .

  If I failed to mention you by name, please know that I still appreciate you!

  To my author friends: We have such a kind and supportive community, and I’m so grateful for all the connections I’ve made.

  To my friends and family, who continue to support me by buying my books, spreading the word, shouting me out on social media, and coming to my launch parties (or even hosting them in the case of Amanda Ross and Neal McLennan!). You are all so appreciated.

  To John, Ethan, Tegan, and Ozzie. All my love.

  More from the Author

  Her Pretty Face

  The Party

  About the Author

  robyn harding is an internationally bestselling author whose novels include The Party and Her Pretty Face; she has also written and executive produced an independent film. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia, with her husband and two children.

  FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:

  Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Robyn-Harding

  SimonandSchuster.com

  ScoutPressBooks.com

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  ALSO BY ROBYN HARDING

  The Party

  Her Pretty Face

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&n
bsp; This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Robyn Harding

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  First Scout Press hardcover edition July 2019

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  Interior design by Jill Putorti

  Jacket design by Lisa Litwack

  Jacket photography © Getty Images; © Shutterstock

  Author photo by Tallulah

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Harding, Robyn, author.

  Title: The arrangement / Robyn Harding.

  Description: First Scout Press hardcover edition. | New York, NY: Scout Press, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018054476 (print) | LCCN 2018057215 (ebook) | ISBN 9781982110512 (ebook) | ISBN 9781982110499 (hardback) | ISBN 9781982110505 (trade paperback)