She met me at the door already wearing her coat over a knee-length black dress.
“I’m ready,” she said, almost pushing me backwards.
“Nah, I’ve brought something for you to wear,” I said, handing her the garment bag I’d been carrying and slipping past her. “Nice place you’ve got. I thought there’d be moose heads or something seeing as you’re from Minnesota.”
She stood in the doorway staring at me. “Moose heads?”
“You know, all huntin’, shootin’, fishin’. I’m glad you don’t—I think animal heads look best on animals.”
“Are you trying to insult me or does it just come naturally?”
My smile slipped as I experienced a brief and uncharacteristic loss of confidence.
“No. I’ve never been to Minnesota.”
She continued to stare at me, her expression tightening with irritation.
“Uh, well, do you want to try it on?” I asked, pointing at the garment bag and hoping I could distract her from whatever had annoyed her.
“I’m already dressed,” she snapped. “I’m a grown woman who can choose her own clothes and I’m ready to go. Now.”
“Yeah and you’re gorgeous, but please try it,” I begged. “I borrowed it special like from Stella and I know you’ll look amazing.”
Her face twisted like she was sucking on a lemon.
“You brought me an outfit that you borrowed from a woman named Stella?”
I licked my lips, realizing that didn’t sound quite right.
“Stella McCartney,” I said quickly. “The designer. She’s a mate of mine. It’s from her new collection.”
Grace blinked, then looked down. “Oh,” she said faintly.
“Will you try it?” I asked hopefully.
“I usually wear a black cocktail dress.”
“Nah. Boring. Try this—I promise you’ll look amazing.”
She nodded her head jerkily then headed to her bedroom. I really wanted to follow her but our date hadn’t had the smoothest start so I just wandered around her living room looking at her photographs and generally checking out the lay of the land.
It didn’t take long bearing in mind that this was Manhattan and a shoebox cost the price of a five-bedroom detached starter castle back home in Derby.
I sprawled on the mocha-colored sofa while I was waiting, leafing through a copy of American Journal of Comparative Law—a thrilling read it ain’t.
I snapped a quick selfie that showed my Windsor knot tie and added it to my IG story, right after the undies shot I’d taken as I was getting ready. My followers loved it and I loved my hundred-thousand plus followers. Sponsorship was up which meant more dog biscuits for the kids and more pennies in the bank for me.
Then Gracie swayed into the living room looking fookin’ fabulous but with an uncertain expression. Stella had loaned me a silver lamé halter-neck jumpsuit that turned Gracie from hot to knockout.
“A jumpsuit?” she said, her voice wavering. “I don’t know … I usually wear a dress at office functions…”
“Nah. They already know that you wear the pants in your office—may as well show them and look fook hot while you’re doing it.”
“I’m too skinny,” she whispered. “All legs and arms. Like … like a stick insect.”
“Nah, more like a Whippet. I like Whippets.”
“Gee, thanks,” she snorted, sounding like Gracie again. “Can’t I at least be a Greyhound?”
“Too short.”
“Thank you, Vincent!” she snapped, her eyes flashing.
There was my girl!
“We’ll look fook hot together,” I grinned at her.
“You’ll do, I suppose,” she said haughtily, trying to hide a smile.
“Nah, you think I’m a scorcher, I can tell. You think I’m a solid ten, probably an eleven.”
“No, you’re more an equine nine.”
“Eh? You think I’m a horse? Nah, luv, just hung like a horse—dick like a donkey, me.”
“I don’t care if you’re a Shetland pony or a Shire horse,” she hissed. “I’m not interested!”
She totally was.
Grace
The jumpsuit was gorgeous and the material felt amazingly luxurious, almost decadent against my bare skin. There was no room for a bra, not that I had much to fill even an AA-cup. One (very ex) boyfriend had described my chest as two fried eggs on a plate. What a charmer.
But this jumpsuit made me feel incredibly sexy. The halter neck covered my front, but left my back bare then clung to my waist, the fabric draping softly against my legs and shimmering like molten silver.
I knew very little about fashion, but even I could tell that the cut and design was sensational.
I’d always played it safe when it came to clothes. In some ways that was part and parcel of being a corporate lawyer—a fitted gray, navy or black suit, and a token color in the shirt or shoes, with very little variation. But this! This was different.
I swung from confidence to concern as the taxi drew inexorably closer to the bar in the Village that Kryll Group had rented for the evening.
“Don’t mention your IG account,” I admonished Vince, “especially not your Fans Only page, and definitely don’t show anyone photos of yourself in tighty whiteys.”
He leaned in to me, his cologne clinging to his lightly tanned skin. “You’ve been peeking.”
“You’re my client,” I said coldly. “I need to know the drivel you put on your social media.”
That was probably a little ruder than necessary, but Vince just winked at me and sat back with a satisfied smile. He was irritatingly difficult to annoy.
“Can I show the photo of me in nothing but my Canine Crusader t-shirt and a smile?”
“No.”
“What about the new S&M leisure wear that I’ve been modelling?”
“No!”
“How about those studded diamanté thongs I was gifted by that designer?”
“No, no, no!”
“Spoilsport.”
“And don’t swear,” I said seriously. “The F-bomb is off limits. So is ‘shite’, ‘tits’, ‘knockers’, ‘boobs’, ‘dick/dickhead’ and ‘cock’. Do you think you can manage that for an entire evening?”
“Taken under advisement, Counselor,” he said, grabbing my hand and kissing it.
I pulled away quickly. “This isn’t a date,” I said severely.
He just smiled.
Every time I tried to keep my professional distance, he seemed to slip a little closer. It was annoying. And worrying. But mostly annoying.
As the taxi pulled up outside the bar, Vince surprised me by paying the fare.
“Can you afford it?” I asked. “I wasn’t expecting you to…”
“I can be a gentleman,” he said, then held the door open for me.
Stumped, I stumbled out into the icy street, and Vince held my arm to steady me.
“I’m sure you can,” I lied, “but you told me you haven’t got any money.”
“I got a new sponsorship deal,” he said with a faint smile. “S&M weekend wear. The photos are on my Fans Only site, but I’ll show you. Just say the word. I have free samples, too.”
“Oh,” I said faintly. “Right. Thank you, but no.”
An amused smile brightened his expression and I wasn’t sure if he was teasing me or not. Probably not.
I took a deep breath as we entered the dimly-lit bar, arm in arm.
I hated events like this. At work, I had a role and a purpose and was too busy to worry what anyone thought of me. I was very good at my job, fair to my assistants and polite to everyone. At functions like this, I felt like I was freefalling. I never knew what to say or do. I hated just latching onto a group, but equally I hated circling the room hoping to find a conversation to join. I felt awkward, ill at ease, judged. I was liked, but I wasn’t popular. And I was one of only a handful of other women who were also trying to make partner. Competition was fierce. I competed by being
the best at my job. But I was savvy enough to know that was rarely enough. Partners were expected to be expert networkers. I sucked at that.
I glanced at Vince who was pulling faces at himself in one of the highly polished entrance pillars and checking his teeth.
“Oh, God, I’ll never make partner,” I mumbled, feeling my heart begin to race.
“You alright, Gracie?” Vince asked, turning towards me. “You look as though you’re about to be invited to a colonic irrigation party.”
“Do they have those in LA?” I asked distractedly.
He laughed as we checked our coats and snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to me. “I’m glad I moved to the east coast—Lala land is full of nutters.”
“We have enough crazies of our own.”
“Yeah? No wonder I fit right in.”
I was vaguely aware that he was teasing me, but my mouth had gone dry as people started to turn and stare at us.
“How do you want me to introduce you?” I whispered. “As my client or…”
He dropped his voice half an octave and did a passable Sean Connery impersonation, complete with raised eyebrow. “My name is Azzo, Vince Azzo and I’m fookin’ irresistible to women and dogs. Cheers!”
I choked on my champagne as Vince gave his trademark megawatt smile.
Then he bent towards me.
“Relax, Gracie. It’s going to be fine.”
I didn’t like using alcohol as a social prop, but I downed that glass of champagne faster than a pie-eating champion at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Then I saw Melissa, one of my assistants, with her long-term boyfriend, Neil, propping up the bar, as usual. She smiled and waved me over, which instantly made me feel better.
“Hi, Mel, Neil! How are you? This is my … friend and client Vincent Azzo.”
“Oh Em Gee! I know who you are! You’re the Canine Crusader!” she said, giving him a sloppy grin, and I wondered how long she’d been here.
“And you’re the wonderful Mel,” he smiled, taking her hand and kissing the back of it like some latter day prince.
He shook hands with Neil who was eyeing him warily, then turned the full blast of his variable charms on Mel.
“Thank you for all your help,” he said sincerely. “Gracie told me that you worked all the hours helping me out. I really appreciate it.” He smiled down at her. “And the dogs appreciate it, too. You must be an animal-lover. All the best people are.”
She blushed to the roots of her hennaed hair, and then she spent the next five minutes telling him all about the pet rabbits she’d kept as a child.
Vince gave her his complete attention, fixing his dark blue eyes on her intently, listening to every word with utter sincerity, and absolutely charming her.
There wasn’t a single inappropriate remark or F-bomb to be heard. I started to relax. Maybe this evening wouldn’t be so bad after all.
We were joined by Gary and Penny, my other two assistants, both with their husbands, and Vince worked his magic on them, as well; thanking them, showing his appreciation, telling them more about the fashion show he was organizing, explaining about the funding the shelters needed. I could see adoration shining in their eyes. They were already #TeamVince.
Mel sidled up to me. “He is so nice! I always assume good looking guys are assholes, but you can’t say that about him.”
Oh, yes you can.
But I didn’t say that to her. She looked completely smitten and a little dazed. Then she seemed to notice me properly.
“Grace, your outfit is wow!” she said, her eyes widening. “You look … great!”
I smiled, but did she have to sound so surprised?
“Thank you, Mel. I …”
We were interrupted by Carl McCray calling and waving at me imperiously from the other side of the room.
“You’d better go,” Mel said knowingly.
“Thanks,” I sighed.
I took Vince’s arm and eased him out of the circle of his new fan club.
“We’re going to meet my boss and several of the senior partners, so behave. I mean it! This is my job.”
“Chill, Faith,” he said with a wink.
“It’s Grace!” I hissed at him.
“That’s what I said.”
By then, we’d reached the partners, and it was too late. My life flashed before my eyes and I mentally ran through a re-write of my CV when I had to start looking for a new job.
“Ms. Cooper. Or perhaps we can dispense with formalities tonight, Grace. Good to see you. You’ve met my wife Simone.”
“Yes, of course, hello again. And let me introduce you to my client, Vincent Azzo.”
At the sound of his name, Vince turned on his smile, and I had the impression that he was summing up Carl and Simone McCray in that one quick glance. Then he shook hands with all the partners. It was like watching a giraffe with a herd of buffalo—he was so different from our world.
“Of course!” said Carl with a broad smile. “The Canine Crusader. Welcome to our little soirée.”
I wanted to cringe; Carl sounded so pretentious. Maybe he’d described the office party as a ‘soirée’ to impress Vince, or because Vince was British, and British accents always sound classy.
“Thank you for the invitation,” said Vince. “I really appreciate that Kryll Group are right behind my campaign. It’s good to know that influential corporations are helping to spotlight the misery of homeless dogs and pets.”
For half a second, Carl looked completely taken aback then puffed out his chest, trying to stand as tall as Vince, and failing.
“Yes, indeed. We at Kryll Group pride ourselves on our community service.”
That was the first I’d heard of it.
Vince nodded and looked at Carl seriously. “And I’m opening up sponsorship opportunities for the Canine Crusader fashion show…”
“Is that Stella McCartney?” Simone interrupted suddenly, eyeing my jumpsuit.
I was a little surprised as she’d never spoken to me in seven years of working here and seven years of meeting her at office events.
“Yes, it is. From her new collection.”
She sniffed and turned away. Then one of the other senior partners congratulated me on the Rogers & Cranston merger. It was a perfect opportunity for me to network, but I was only half listening, afraid of what Vince might say when left to his own devices.
Simone asked him about living in Milan and working for Armani, and he regaled her with gossipy stories of mishaps behind the scenes and what the maestro was really like. He’d also spent time in Rome and Florence, and had even walked up every one of the 295 steps of the Leaning Tower of Pisa at night.
Fascinating factoid: the tower has 296 steps, or 294, because the seventh floor has two fewer steps on the north-facing staircase.
When he spoke in what sounded like fluent Italian, Simone lapped it up and ten minutes later, Carl and the senior partners had pledged $25,000 to Vince’s event. I could only stare at him in awe. How did he get to be so smooth? Where was the goofy, accident-prone guy that I knew and sort of hated?
Eventually, our group broke up and headed to the buffet table.
Carl walked away looking very pleased with himself, and Simone cast several backward glances at Vince. He passed me another glass of champagne and winked at me.
“Why aren’t you like that all of the time?” I blurted out.
Vince didn’t even pretend that he didn’t know what I was talking about.
“Because it’s fookin’ fake,” he said seriously. “I can brown nose and kiss arse for a good cause. Just because I’m good at it, doesn’t mean I like it.”
“And you can speak Italian!”
“Not really.”
“But I heard you speaking to Simone!”
Vince eyed me with amusement.
“I learned a few phrases for pulling birds, that’s all. I just told Simone that her backside was as beautiful as a pig in muck. It sounds better
in Italian.”
I shut my eyes. “You didn’t! Oh my God, what if she’d understood you?”
Vince laughed, “It was a compliment.”
I huffed angrily then sighed.
“You were amazing,” I admitted. “Honestly, I’ve never known Carl to pledge that sort of money before.”
Vince shrugged. “Maybe he’s a dog-lover.”
He took my arm as we wandered through the bar and inspected the buffet—the usual fare plus mini vegan shroom-burgers as a nod to Vince.
He stuffed a whole one in his mouth then reached for another.
“Tastes like crap,” he said cheerfully, coming close to spraying me with crumbs.
I took a step back, faintly disgusted with his eating habits. I wondered if he did it on purpose.
We sat at an empty table as Vince wolfed down several of the bite-sized amuse-bouche, as Carl McCray insisted on describing them. Vince pulled a face with every enormous mouthful and I got the impression that they weren’t amusing his big bouche very much.
“Oh, gee, sorry to bother you but can I have your autograph, pl— ?”
I glanced at up at one of the junior members of staff, then watched in complete horror as Vince stood up so quickly, his head clocked her under the jaw, and the poor girl staggered around looking dazed.
“Oh, gosh! Are you alright?!”
I rushed toward her and we grabbed an arm each as she tottered about, then Vince brought a chair for her and a class of water.
“Sorry about that, luv,” he said. “When I come up, I come up fast.”
Then he winked at me.
“Noted,” I deadpanned.
He didn’t get much chance to eat after that because it seemed like everyone wanted to meet him, and the girl he’d nearly knocked out sat next to him, her eyes glassy with champagne and a mild concussion.
Vince lit up the room and behaved like everyone was his new best friend; he made them laugh, he made them want to spend time with him. They barely said ‘good morning’ to me and I’d worked with them for seven years. How did he do it? Well, no one could accuse Vince of being shy. Not like me. I hid behind my suits and smarts. I wasn’t a networker and I envied his ease in his own skin.
I was good at my job; Vince was great at being Vince.
After we’d made a complete circuit of the room, I’d had three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach and I was feeling ashamed of feeling sorry for myself. Vince had done a good thing here; it wasn’t his fault that people liked him more than me. Did that make it my fault?
The World According to Vince - A romantic comedy (Gym or Chocolate Book 2) Page 6
