by Karen Swan
But things were different now, for he hadn’t simply let things continue to drift with Lucy, he had actively made a life decision whilst Chloe slept on the other side of the bed. So what did he possibly think he could say to explain this time? Did he really believe he could make things better between them, that they could be friends at least? No, she had broken the loop at last and freed herself from him. She had had to leave the country to do it, but she had done it.
She stepped back behind a tree, watching him as he sat on the steps in the lamplight, his elbows on his knees, his phone in his hands. Every time a car passed, or a couple approached, he looked up, that familiar bright-eyed expression on his face. There was no way past him without going past him. He was making himself unavoidable and she realized she had been wrong when she’d told Alexander New York was plenty far away from him. It wasn’t.
In her bag, her phone rang and she pulled it out, keeping her eyes on Tom all the while. She didn’t trust him not to steal a march on her, behind this tree.
‘Yes?’ she asked distractedly, her voice a half-whisper as she watched him sigh heavily, weary now. He had had a long day – a transatlantic flight, full day at the office with Jack, drinks after work . . . He must be tired, wondering why she was not home at just gone midnight, who she was with . . .
‘Chloe?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Pelham.’
She sank against the tree and closed her eyes. ‘Hey, how are you?’
‘On a bit of a sticky wicket, since you ask. I’m in a suite at the Carlyle – or rather I was—’
He was in New York? The man was like a grasshopper. In his sixties and on a plane more often than most men changed their socks.
‘—Only, I had thought perhaps I ought to stop beating about the bush and take a more . . . direct approach.’
Chloe frowned, not quite sure what he was trying to tell her.
‘Nothing else has worked, you see? And I thought maybe she wanted me to be more . . . forthright, more manly.’
Uh-oh. Chloe winced, bracing herself for what was coming.
‘So I took the liberty of letting myself into her room after we had parted ways for the evening.’
‘. . . And she didn’t appreciate that?’
‘I’ll say. She took exception to my “presumption”, as she put it, and threw me out. So now I’m in the corridor. In my birthday suit. Without a key.’ He sounded like he was about to burst into tears. ‘I didn’t quite think it through properly, you see.’
Chloe watched Tom as he undid and retied the lace on his shoe. He was a brogues kind of guy.
‘Pelham, don’t worry, I can sort this. I’m just getting in a cab now,’ she said, raising her arm as she saw a taxi with its light on coming down the street. ‘I’ll be with you in five. Just stay where you are. Don’t move.’ She couldn’t have a peer of the realm caught in such a compromising position – the press would be as bad for them as for him. She rang off just as the cab pulled alongside her. ‘East 76th,’ she said, jumping in and slamming the door shut.
The windows were open and she suddenly heard her name.
‘Chloe!’ Tom called, getting to his feet and running after her. ‘Chloe, wait!’
She saw the driver’s eyes slide over to the rear-view mirror, taking in the sight of the floppy-haired Englishman chasing them down the street. ‘Drive on,’ she said to the driver, not looking back. ‘The Carlyle, please.’
Chapter Nine
Provence
Elodie walked quickly through the market, the extra-wide brim of her straw hat obscuring almost all of her face as she kept her gaze firmly on the cobbles. Sandalled feet passed by her small field of vision, the chequered cloths of the stalls fluttering lightly in the breeze, the scent of lavender and roses threading through the air as she moved with purpose, with intent, off the main avenue and into the smaller backstreets. The shadows on the ground were sharply defined and she walked in and out of them with blinkered haste, never stopping to browse the window displays or pop into one of the many boutiques, oblivious to the gazes that snagged on her and followed her narrow retreating back as though somehow knowing she was set apart from them.
The building was nondescript, tall and narrow with smoky lemon walls and peeling powder-blue shutters, blending perfectly with its neighbours on the strip, the brass plaque beside the door rubbed almost smooth with age.
She walked on tiptoes up the stone steps and turned into the reception area on the right. The receptionist – new; he deliberately kept them on a short rotation – looked up as she walked over the terracotta tiles towards her, past the yucca plant whose leaves were thick with dust. Standing by the desk, she saw three pairs of feet, already parked – one in Havaianas, one in brown suede lace-ups, the other in faded red leather Avarcas sandals.
‘Le médecin, ten-thirty,’ she said in her quiet voice.
The receptionist checked on her screen. ‘Thank you, madame. If you would like to take a seat?’
Elodie sat in the chair she always chose – the hard-backed ladder chair in the corner, furthest from the door and windows, her head down so that the hat brim flopped, revealing only her jaw and mouth. Ignoring the magazines on the coffee table, the small TV mounted on the wall, the messages on her phone, she crossed her legs and waited, only the fast swing of the action betraying her restlessness.
It was another eight minutes before the door opened and she looked up – showing a partial view of her face for the first time – as the nurse came out.
‘The doctor will see you now,’ the nurse said after a pause, looking straight at Elodie.
Elodie rose, the motion fluid and self-contained, and she walked in silence across the reception area to the consulting room. She closed the door behind her and the doctor looked up from his desk, pen still in his hand as he finished writing his notes. His dark curls had grown longer since their last meeting, and were verging on the unruly, his skin more tanned as summer hotted up.
‘Elodie.’
Slowly, she reached up and removed the hat, her dark hair falling forwards to frame her face as though protectively. Too late.
The pen fell from his fingers, his mouth going slack at the sight of her. ‘My God, what has he done?’
Chapter Ten
New York
Chloe traced the hopscotch lines on the ground with her foot while Elle grappled behind the curtain. ‘Are you in yet?’
‘. . . Almost!’ Elle panted, an elbow suddenly punching the fabric out, followed by the sound of a zip being pulled and a deep groan. ‘Yes!’ The curtain flew back and Elle struck a model pose with an exaggerated hip pop and a pout on her lips. ‘Whaddya think?’
‘Wow!’ Chloe said, startled by the newly dramatic zigzag silhouette of a woman whose Amazonian height already turned every head.
‘I know, right?’ Elle agreed, stalking out, one hand on her hip and turning to look back at herself in the mirror. Chloe looked at their reflections, thinking how incongruous they looked together – Elle towering over her, ebony skin gleaming in the midday sun, hair pulled back into an Afro-bun today, her curves shoehorned into a tiny strapless red polka-dotted ruched dress that had probably last been worn to someone’s prom in 1984; and then her, pale-faced and looking drawn with remnants of yesterday’s mascara still smudging the skin around her eyes, and practically invisible in a black vest, slides and cutoffs. Chloe licked her index finger and tried rubbing away the remains of mascara again.
‘Can you sit in it?’ she asked.
‘Don’t need to sit,’ Elle said dismissively. ‘I can walk in it and I can . . .’ She took a shallow laboured breath. ‘I can breathe. Just.’
‘You should totally get it,’ Chloe said, sipping on her juice, head tipped to the side as Elle struck pose after pose. ‘You look incredible. I couldn’t get those angles with a protractor and ruler.’
‘But where will I wear it?’ Elle pouted, even though they both knew without a shadow of a doubt that Elle would be g
etting it regardless.
Chloe considered for a moment. ‘Come to the private view of the Basquiat exhibition on Monday. I’ll get you in.’
‘Yeah?’ Elle’s eyes lit up. ‘This’ll be perfect.’ She struck another pose before looking at Chloe. ‘What will you be wearing?’
‘Nothing as fabulous as that. It’s work for me, remember.’
‘It doesn’t mean you have to dress like a nun,’ Elle said, jogging her with her elbow as she sashayed back into the precarious cubicle and started getting changed again. ‘And it’s time to stop living like one too, by the way. Did you ring that guy whose number I gave you?’
Chloe winced. She’d been hoping Elle would have forgotten about that. ‘No.’
‘No?’
‘Not yet I mean.’
The curtain whisked back, Elle looking indignant and not at all concerned to be flashing her underwear to the rest of the flea-market shoppers. ‘Chlo! Why not?’
‘Because it’s not the right time.’
‘Bullshit. When is it ever not the right time to hook up with a hot guy?’
‘There’s too much else going on. Work’s mental – I’ve just had the week from hell trying to pick up Poppy’s clients, get to know them, keep them happy.’
Elle, who had been about to disappear behind the curtain, stalled, regarding her with suspicious eyes. ‘And? There’s something else.’
‘No there isn’t.’
‘Yes there is. There was an “and” hanging in the air there, I heard it.’
Chloe bit her lip. Elle was like a bloodhound, always able to pick up a scent. ‘And Tom’s come over.’
‘Shut the front door!’
‘I wish I could. But he was sitting on my steps last night so I couldn’t even get to my door.’
‘The freaking nerve of the guy! What did you do?’
Chloe shrugged. ‘Ended up staying at the Carlyle. One of my clients was there so I had to pop over anyway; I know the concierge there really well so I lied and said I’d lost my house keys and they just gave me a room.’
Elle arched an eyebrow, looking indignant and impressed all at once. She clicked her fingers. ‘Just like that?’
Chloe shrugged. ‘Our client bases completely overlap. They scratch my back, I scratch theirs.’
‘Jeez, I am so in the wrong industry,’ Elle tutted, pulling the curtain back.
Chloe turned away, walking along the hopscotch lines again, her gaze lifting up and out to all the other stalls set up in the school playground; overhead the High Line meandered in gentle curves, voices drifting like smoke in the air above them.
Browsing here on a Saturday morning had become one of her favourite things to do since moving to the city; she liked the bustle, the slow shuffle, the thrill of hunting for unspecified treasures. Unfortunately the minuscule size of her apartment meant she couldn’t indulge as much as she’d like. The weekly market was known for its vintage furniture stocks but one Moroccan pouffe would pretty much cover the only spare floor space available; jewellery and old books were admissible however and she loved rifling through the antique French linens that were neatly folded and piled in stacked towers on the trestles. There was something so appealing to her about the old smells, timeworn textures and faded colours to be found there. It was so different to what she encountered during the week, where everything was shiny and new, perfect and box-fresh: supercars and 800 thread counts, four-figure flower arrangements and diamond chandeliers, where consumption was king and what you had defined what you were. But this market, appearing as if by magic in this Chelsea elementary school playground every Saturday morning, brought her back to herself, cherishing the individual, the lost, the unique. It was her New York Portobello.
‘So what are you gonna do?’ Elle called.
Chloe turned back, retracing her steps, one hand resting on an old analogue black-and-white TV set which was sitting on an Ercol table, beside a rack of vintage fur coats. ‘Same as I have been doing – blank him.’
‘But he’s here now. He’s come all the way here. You can’t avoid him now, you’re in the same city, same country again. And even you can’t stay at the Carlyle every night.’
‘Nah, I won’t need to, this isn’t about me. He’s only come over because of what’s happened with Poppy.’
‘Oh, come on, you don’t believe that!’ Elle scoffed.
‘Actually I do. I’ve been giving it some thought and if this was really about me, he’d have come over before now. I’ve been here five months, Elle. This is a team morale-boosting session, he told me. And I believe him.’
‘Yeah, so that’s why he was sitting on your steps last night.’
‘Two birds, one stone. Trust me, he’s always been one for efficiency. But he’s a fast learner too and I’ve made it perfectly clear I have absolutely no intention of speaking to him.’ She studied her nails, wondering if she should go for a manicure after this. ‘He won’t bother me again,’ she mumbled.
Elle sighed, stepping out of the cubicle, the dress draped over one arm as she came over and squeezed Chloe with the other. ‘Neither one of us believes that. I don’t care what you say, you’ll have to talk about it with him at some point, you know you will. You can’t go out with someone for four and a half years and break up without either one of you ever saying a single word about it. I mean, that is fucked up, sister.’
‘Well, he managed to get engaged to someone else without ever saying a word about that, so . . .’ Chloe said tartly.
Elle’s dark eyes were large and round and shining with concern. ‘He’s come here to win you back, and we both know it.’
‘No.’ Chloe’s brisk tone shut the topic down immediately. Or rather, it was intended to—
‘He’s had time to think, that’s what it is. He’s realized what he’s lost now, that’s the thing,’ Elle said with a wise expression.
‘Oh my God, not you too! I am not a cow that’s left the barn.’
‘A cow?’ Elle asked, looking lost.
‘Oh—’ Chloe checked herself. ‘Nothing. It was just something Alexander said the other day.’
‘Alexander?’ Elle arched an eyebrow, instantly forgetting Tom. ‘And who, pray tell, is he?’
‘Cool it. Alexander Subocheva. He’s one of my clients now.’
Elle’s pink-glossed mouth dropped open. ‘You’re looking after Alexander freaking Subocheva?’ she gasped.
‘Sssshh!’ Chloe said, pressing a finger to her lips and checking no one had overheard. ‘It’s not public knowledge.’
‘Shit, you have hit the big time, baby! It’s all glamour, glamour, glamour from here. He’s like . . . a billionaire!’
‘Yes. He’s also still a flesh and blood person, not so very different from you and me.’
‘Except when you cut him, he bleeds gold.’
Chloe chuckled, shaking her head as Elle reached in her purse for a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the stall owner, who – barely looking up from her phone, a cigarette stuck to her lower lip – stuffed the dress in a brown paper bag and almost shoved it back at her. Elle’s mouth pursed into a perfect, unimpressed pout, looking back first at the woman, then at Chloe. ‘See what I’m sayin’? Alexander Subocheva doesn’t have to put up with this shit.’
They wandered in easy silence for a while, peering at old coral necklaces and onyx ashtrays, wool naval overcoats and 1920s feathered headbands.
‘What do you think?’ Chloe smiled, flipping open a black marabou fan and fluttering it in front of her face, eyes lowered coquettishly.
‘Oh la la, Lady Marmalade,’ Elle smiled, picking up a smaller white one beside it and copying her, beginning to sing with a low smoky purr. Chloe laughed, performing a sort of dance alongside her, their wrists twirling, feathers shimmying as they tried to open and close the fans in a single snapping movement. ‘Huh, harder than it looks,’ Elle said, wrestling with hers.
Chloe, her nose tickled by the feathers, sneezed four times in quick succession. ‘Hmm, may
be not,’ she said, replacing the fan on the counter and giving the stall owner an apologetic smile.
A girl walked past them, eating a falafel wrap.
‘Ohmigod, that smells so good,’ Elle groaned, her nose in the air and almost trailing after her.
‘Shall we get something to eat?’ Chloe asked, knowing Elle was just about to realize she was absolutely starving.
‘Hell, yeah. Where are you thinking?’
‘Actually, I’ve got an idea,’ Chloe smiled. She led the way out of the flea market and back onto the street. In the couple of hours it had taken them to slope around the market, Chelsea had hit peak weekend mode – the pavements were crowded with couples ambling hand in hand, young families pushing babies in strollers, runners pounding the streets with tied-back hair, earbud wires dangling and iPhones strapped to their arms.
‘I know a place you’re going to love,’ she said, leading the way through the crowds. ‘I came here with a client earlier in the week. I’d never have known about it otherwise.’
Elle pulled a face. ‘It doesn’t have a fancy dress code, does it? I know what kind of place you go to with your clients and, trust me – I’m not dressed for it.’
‘And I am?’ Chloe grinned, indicating her bare legs and tatty shorts to Elle as they walked briskly, shopping bags swinging as they dodged and wove round the crowds. The street food market was only six blocks away and when they arrived, the crowds were already thick.