by Karen Swan
‘You only got back an hour ago and we’ve got that first aid refresher course at five. I was assuming we would be partners. You’re the only one I’d let give me mouth-to-mouth.’ His eyes slid over to Tom’s office. ‘Well, one of two.’
Chloe giggled, combing her fingers through her hair lightly, lifting it at the roots. ‘I wish I could stay; clearly nothing would be lovelier than an hour of CPR with you, but needs must, I’m afraid. I’m meeting Helen Fletcher to sign the paperwork on the Andermatt deal. She’s been getting the legals to give a final sign-off; Quintessentially have been hot and heavy on their case so I want this thing put to bed.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’ he sighed, sinking his head into a hand, his elbows spread on the desk. ‘I’ve spent most of my afternoon bowing and scraping trying to get access to the Royal Collection at Buck House.’
‘The palace?’ she frowned. ‘But why?’
‘Got a client heading over to London next week and he’s made it his life ambition to see each and every one of Vermeer’s remaining thirty-six paintings.’
‘Niche.’
‘Yeah – and two of them belong to your beloved monarch.’
‘Ah.’ She was struggling to open the tin lid on the lip-gloss pot.
He looked at her hopefully. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any ins with the royal household?’
She thought for a moment, dabbing two fingertips of gloss onto her lips. ‘Actually, I do know the President of the Royal Academy; he’ll have connections with the Royal Collection. Leave it with me, I’ll put a call in,’ she said. She checked her hair and smoothed her brows with a wetted finger. She considered the pull-bow on her blouse. Did it look a bit uptight? She gave it a tug and the black chiffon ends flopped prettily against her cream jacket. Much better. She didn’t look quite so much like she was going into a planning meeting now. Her gaze flicked back towards Tom again, in the mirror. His eyes were on her and she felt herself swell with happiness. She straightened up. ‘Well, enjoy the course.’
‘Where are you going for this meeting anyway?’ Xan asked suspiciously, taking in her ‘undone’ look and flushed cheeks, spinning on his chair as she began to walk round the desks.
‘The Howard.’
His eyes widened. ‘Oh! So when you say “sign the paperwork”, what you actually mean is “drink cocktails in the Blond bar”.’
‘Do I?’ she giggled.
‘Yeah. That would explain this new . . . vibe you’re working.’
‘Vibe? Me?’ she mocked, barely able to meet his gaze.
‘Hmm.’ He looked across to Tom’s office again and Chloe wondered whether Xan had caught him staring. But she could hardly turn around to check. ‘Isn’t the Howard where Tom’s staying?’ he asked in a sly voice. He had a super-sleuth’s nose for conspiracy and deception.
‘Is it?’ she asked innocently, taking the opportunity to turn and look over for him. ‘Well, he’s not there now,’ she shrugged, indicating that he was on the phone in his office. ‘Toodlepip, chum.’
‘Toodlewhat who?’ he cried in sudden excitement, forgetting all about Tom and running after her as she sashayed over to the lifts. ‘Is that your cockney slang thing again?’
There were distinct disadvantages to trying to conduct a secret liaison when you were on ‘how’s your wife?’ terms with the concierges of every luxury hotel in the city, Chloe mused, sitting in the Blond bar at the 11 Howard and pretending to Instagram. She had been here for an hour already, her meeting with Helen having been wound up in twenty minutes, the time it took them to sign, sip a watermelon mojito and shoot the breeze on the Basquiat retrospective happening that night – for which Chloe had been only too happy to put her name on the door.
Part of her wished she could have gone home to get changed into something more alluring than this cream suit, but then again, a tryst with her ex hadn’t exactly been on the cards when she’d been getting dressed that morning and there wasn’t time to pop back to the apartment now; Tom had a dinner booked in with Jack and one of their investors at nine, not to mention she needed to show her face at the Basquiat, so their time together was already bookended as it was.
She sat back against the velvet sofa, the second watermelon mojito chilling her palm as she finally had the time to wallow in the afternoon’s events; it had been like a dream, all those things he’d said . . . She had made them up for him a million times during the last five months but she’d never thought she’d ever hear him say them, that they could actually be true.
She checked the time on her phone again – six twenty-five – and sighed. Time was taunting her in its lead boots; he’d said he’d be back here by seven, that would give them two hours if he agreed to be fashionably late for his dinner date. She thought he could probably be persuaded . . .
She finished her drink and stared at the glass, debating a third. Butterflies had taken wing in her stomach and her skin felt tingly, her eyes alight. She was restless, getting ahead of herself. Another drink might take the edge off, slow her down a bit . . . ?
She walked up to the bar. ‘Another mojito, please,’ she said, setting down the empty glass.
‘Sure,’ the bartender said, immediately setting to the task.
She leant against the counter and glanced around the space; it was already buzzing, filling up quickly, although not yet peak time, groups of friends were huddling on the teal banquettes, hesitant dates making conversation in the armchairs. The walls were golden-ridged like tide-rippled sand; an uplit wheat-coloured curtain hung from ceiling to floor; heavily foxed mirrors, not so much reflecting the light as absorbing it, creating a moody, mercurial vibe. Everything felt urban, sophisticated, seductive . . . Like her.
‘One watermelon mojito,’ the bartender said a few minutes later, setting it on a mat. She turned, making to head back to her original spot but it had been taken by another group. Oh.
Her hand reached instead for the bar stool beside her. She could always sit here and wait.
But then an idea came to her.
‘Hey, I’ll take this up to my room, that’s okay, isn’t it?’ she asked the bartender.
‘Sure. Which room are you in? I’ll have it added to your account.’
‘One forty-six. Elliott.’
‘Done,’ he nodded.
She took the drink with a smile, a swing in her hip and a glint in her eye as she walked through the bar. She could have taken the lifts but she was, to all intents and purposes, still a Londoner – she’d walk everywhere – and she climbed the industrial spiral staircase, plotting all the while.
This was good, better than waiting for him to collect her. He liked surprises. She recalled he had particularly liked coming over to her flat one evening to find her cooking his favourite dinner, naked but for an apron. ‘In case of hot splashes,’ she’d laughed as he’d spun her round to whisk it straight off.
She stepped onto the carpeted corridor, her eyes scanning the signs for which direction to take, her free hand already in her bag and rummaging for the key card he had given her earlier. He had anticipated the same problem with knowing the concierges as she had.
She sipped the drink as she went, feeling sexy and dangerous. Her! Chloe Marston, a badass for once.
Somewhere in the background she heard a door open, a woman’s voice drift down the corridor like a sea mist. It was soft. ‘. . . have to do it again sometime.’ Another tryst. This hotel was made for lovers.
Where was the key? She knew she had put it in the side zip pocket of her bag. With a sigh, she stopped walking and checked the bag properly: mints, a Sudoku puzzle book, her phone, lip gloss, two hundred receipts (or so it seemed), a pen . . . Goddammit. There was nowhere to put her glass, so she crouched to set it down on the carpet, grateful that she was wearing heels for once; it meant she could balance more easily.
‘Absolutely. I’ll make it worth your while—’
Chloe’s head whipped up at the man’s voice, just in time to see a sleek brunette step back from the doorway. No.
No. Her? Why was she here? . . . Without hesitation, without time even to stand, Chloe rolled into the deep doorway immediately to her left, grabbing her bag and pulling it in after her. Her legs were an ungainly tangle, knees up to her chin, her blouse twisted, her mouth hanging open in shock, eyes as wide as if she’d been throttled and she knew that someone, somewhere, would be watching this on a security camera, witnessing her drama unfold.
‘—Call me. Day, night – there’s never a wrong time—’
The man’s voice again. It rattled her bones, made her world quake – because an English accent in New York City was as conspicuous as a red rose in the snow and she knew exactly to whom it belonged.
‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,’ the woman purred, her voice coming closer to Chloe now. She was on the move.
Too late Chloe caught sight of her drink still sitting, conspicuously, in the middle of the corridor: a single watermelon mojito left on the carpet, ready to be inadvertently kicked by some passer-by. Serena would see it, though, she noticed these things; she would see it and come over here and how would Chloe explain why she was huddled in a ball at the foot of a stranger’s door, just down the corridor from Tom’s room?
She scrunched her eyes shut, wanting to press rewind and go back to just a few minutes earlier, when she’d been feeling sexy and uninhibited and free and happy. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. She was back in that cab on Bond Street again, watching her life pause then buckle, crushed by external forces bigger than her. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to punch him, to kick her. Instead she lay huddled like a street rat, listening to Serena’s velvet padded footsteps on the carpet draw closer and waiting to be stripped of her pride too. She could already anticipate Serena’s superior look of glee as she came upon her, balled up, trying to hide . . .
Only – the footsteps stopped and the ‘ding’ of an elevator halfway up the corridor was followed a moment later by the slide of doors. Chloe frowned, her breath held as she heard her colleague’s stilettos tap on the aluminium plate floor as she walked in. A few seconds passed – possibly a lifetime – and then the doors closed again, taking Serena away and with her, Chloe’s hope, her trust, her future.
For a moment, she was grateful for this one small mercy that she hadn’t been seen; her pride had been preserved if nothing else. Rolling onto her knees, she waited as a hushed silence prevailed again, nothing moving in the hotel corridor, and, on the surface, everything went back to how it had seemed just a few moments earlier: her wish had been granted and Tom was in that room down there, waiting for her.
Only it hadn’t been her he’d been waiting for; he’d told her he wouldn’t be back here till seven. She was simply second in line – again – and everything he had said on the street had been lies. There wasn’t a word of truth in it. How could there be?
She didn’t know how long she sat there, on her knees, her heart beating in her chest like a boxer’s glove against a punchbag, but eventually it occurred to her to move. Slowly, holding the walls, she pushed herself back to standing and stood there, trembling, in the middle of the doorway as the questions continued to rush at her like stinging bees – how long had it been going on with Serena? Were there others?
Part of her wanted to storm his room and beat the hell out of him, to hurt him with her fists the way he’d hurt her with his kisses. But the tears streamed silently down her cheeks because she knew the answers didn’t matter. Nothing he could say now would undo what she had just seen. It was actions, not words, that she trusted and she had been an idiot to expect her fate would be any different to the woman’s who had gone before her; he had cheated on Lucy with her (or was it the other way round?) so of course he would cheat on her with someone else. That was what he did. It was who he was. What was the famous quote? When you marry the mistress, you create a job vacancy? And it had been uttered by a man who could well have been one of their clients, no less. A billionaire, one for whom the normal rules didn’t apply. Hadn’t Rosalind said to her at the hospital that money corrupts? Well, Tom had bought his own hype. He had spent so much time catering to the whims of the rich, the vain, the shallow, the obsessed, submerging himself in a world of ever more extravagant displays of indulgence, that it had become the only thing he knew. It was his new normal to value things over people, money over experiences. No, there was no point in discussing anything with him. Asking for answers. She had seen all she needed, to know what kind of life she would have with a man like him.
Slowly, moving as though the floor might tip, she began walking back the way she had come, her foot kicking over the drink which she had forgotten was still sitting there, incongruous on the carpet. She knew she ought to stop and pick it up; someone could tread on it and smash it, someone could get hurt.
But she continued walking. That someone wouldn’t be her.
The reception had barely been going an hour but already it was kicking off, the space crowded, revellers hanging around outside on the street. It was more like a club opening than an art exhibition – music pumped from the sound system, waiters moved with practised ease, somehow managing to keep their loaded trays away from the flinging elbows and flipped-back hair that made navigation so precarious. Perhaps it was the perfect sunset outside, or the mix of guests; maybe the playlist or the cocktails, but whatever the ‘it’ factor was, this party had it.
Elle was already there and looking sensational in her flea-market dress. People kept staring, their eyes drawn to her in the middle of the room as she laughed and swayed provocatively to the music, a head taller than everyone else, even most of the men. Chloe on the other hand had done exactly what she’d promised she wouldn’t do and turned up dressed nun-like in her suit after all. Although she wasn’t sure nuns drank whisky straight from the bottle.
She watched the action from her secret vantage point, taking in every whispered aside and seductive smile. Life – love – was going on without her, continuing as though nothing untoward had happened. What did any of them care that her world had fallen apart again? That all her months of careful plans and brave resolutions had been undone by him in less than a week?
A trickle of sweat wriggled down her spine – it was another steamy, airless night – and she pulled at her jacket angrily, forcing it open and sending the button flying off. She watched it land on its side and wheel around in ever decreasing circles, finally toppling over; if she had gone home after the meeting after all, she would have changed and at least she would be standing here, looking good, looking a part of things like everyone else, like Elle. And that button would have stayed sewn on to the jacket.
She took another surreptitious slug of the bottle, pressing her hand to the back of her mouth, eyes closed for a moment as the room pulsed around her and she kept the tears held back. No one could see her here; she wasn’t even sure why she’d come, only that she couldn’t bear – didn’t dare – go home. He would go looking for her there again, she knew he would. He was probably there right now, guarding the steps, wanting to know why she’d stood him up at the hotel.
‘So this is where you’re hiding out.’
She opened her eyes, looking back in astonishment at the bearded ruggedness of Joe Lincoln’s handsome face. She’d forgotten she’d invited him.
‘J-Joe!’ she stammered, trying to force a smile. ‘You made it.’
‘I’ve done three fly-bys of this place trying to find you.’
Carefully, keeping her left shoulder behind the corner of the false wall, she reached her left arm back and replaced the whisky bottle on the waiters’ supplies table. ‘Yeah? Oh, well, I was just taking a quick rest. These things can get pretty . . . hectic.’
He nodded but she sensed a knowingness to the movement. Had he seen her knocking back the whisky? ‘It’s a great party,’ he shouted over the music.
‘I know, right?’ she shouted back, having to bite down on the impulse to quote back to him his protestations that perks such as this held no interest for him. ‘This is
what we do. Wherever you want to go, we’ll get you in.’
His eyes narrowed fractionally, though she wasn’t sure whether it was at her flat tone or her continuing refusal to believe that he wasn’t impressed by this. ‘Thanks for asking me. It’s a great exhibition.’ He gestured vaguely towards the wall, some of the canvases marked with red dots.
‘Great!’ she said, grabbing a passing waiter who was carrying a tray of espresso martinis – they were the drink of the summer. ‘D’you want one?’
He handed one to her, took another for himself and they both dispatched them quickly. ‘So – have you been here long?’
‘Just got here,’ she lied.
‘But you’ve come on from somewhere?’
It was less a question than a statement of fact. Could he tell she was drunk? His eyes were on the loose ties of her blouse which were pulling the silk fabric down and exposing some skin. She wondered if she looked as undone as she felt. ‘Yeah, I guess you could say that. You?’
‘Just got here.’
‘Don’t tell me, you were pulling another shift at Chimichanga.’ She laughed, a little too loudly.
‘Exactly,’ he deadpanned.
‘That was the funniest thing seeing you there. I nearly died of shock.’ She slapped her hand across her chest.
‘How do you think I felt?’ His eyes glittered – almost; he had a sense of humour that was so dry as to be desiccated. She found it both unnerving and attractive.
‘It’s my new favourite place. I’d eat there every day if I could.’
‘What’s stopping you then?’
She sighed. ‘Work commitments. Not all our clients are as . . . flexible as you.’
She looked up at him through the dim light and whisky haze, remembering the flash of attraction – the sense of another world opening up – that had zipped between them that Saturday at the food market. She felt flickers of it again now, like a static that crackled, sometimes reaching her, other times falling short. Her chest tightened, anxiety a flare that shot through her. ‘My friend thinks you’re gorgeous, by the way. She’s the reason I invited you to come.’ The words came out in a jumble, falling across one another like toppled dominoes. She didn’t know why she’d said it, only that she felt gripped by a sense of panic. Oh God, how drunk was she? She tried to remember what she’d had to drink – three mojitos at the hotel, twenty minutes of whisky-swigging here, now a martini . . . Pretty drunk then.