Also, I still hadn’t told Greg about my change in circumstances, and I could feel the web of lies growing bigger, more tangled. I’d had to tell him the MacBook and iPad were both on loan from Marianne’s office, for instance.
As I got back to work, reading through the price list of the chrome bathroom fixtures I hoped Blake was going to love, I tried to ignore the suspicion that there must be some other side to Blake Matthews …
Who are you?
What’s behind that final locked door?
§
“But it’s been so long since we’ve seen you,” Mom cooed on the phone that same afternoon, once more using her favorite guilt trip in an attempt to get me to come and visit.
“I’ll be home soon enough,” I sighed, trying to stay as vague as possible. After all, I’d learnt that if I even hinted at a date, she’d hold me to it.
“So how’s work?” she continued.
“It’s crazy busy … but good,” I replied, wanting nothing more than to tell her about all the many details of my exciting new job. I wanted to prove to her that I was actually a success now, and show her that I really could make it out here in the big city, but I just knew it would lead to endless questions and worrying (“But how can you be sure he’s genuine?”, “What kind of job stability do you really have now?” Etc.).
So the best plan was just to keep it vague.
I figured I’d tell her all about Blake once things were a little more settled: when I’d had my first paycheck, for instance.
“Where are you at the moment, honey?” she asked. “It sounds rather noisy.”
“Oh, I’m just out of the office picking up some coffee for Marianne,” I said.
It was scary how easy it was becoming to lie to everyone around me.
“And how’s Greg getting on?” she continued. “Your father would just love to have a catch up with him at some point, you know …”
I’d always thought it was weird just how much my dad liked Greg — weren’t fathers supposed to hate their daughter’s first boyfriend? But Dad was always asking after him, and the feeling seemed to be mutual.
I knew that Greg kind of idealized my family life in general, perhaps because it was something he’d never really had himself. Greg’s dad took off when he was three years old, so he didn’t really remember him. And after his dad left, his mom had to work three jobs just to put food on the table for him and his brothers. He was no longer in touch with his two brothers now, either. One was in prison, the other a deadbeat and heading the same way. But Greg was smart. He’d stayed in school and won a scholarship to Savannah. The scholarship covered his tuition, but he still had to take on a part-time job to get by.
I admired this so much about him. Life had been tough for Greg, but he’d never given up. He was determined to one day run his own business.
He was always asking my pop questions about the running of the car dealership, and forever dropping hints to me that he would love something like that for us too; a small family-run business in a sleepy little town like Glenbrook Falls.
I guess I always found it uncomfortable just how willing and open Greg was with me about his hopes and dreams, maybe because in comparison I was such a closed book.
A locked door.
I don’t know why that was, exactly. But deep down, part of me suspected it was because I didn’t even truly know what I wanted yet …
“Listen, I’d really better go,” I cut in. “Marianne won’t wait!”
“Of course, sweetie,” Mom replied. “Well, do get Greg to give us a call one night.”
“Will do,” I said. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too. Be good ...”
§
The lunch meeting with Blake came around before I knew it. That Tuesday morning, I felt an unexpected fluttering of nerves as I decided on the very first outfit I’d picked out in Opening Ceremony — the sheer shirt and leather pants. I couldn’t wait for Blake to see me in it.
As I headed out of the apartment, I felt totally on display, as if there were a million secret eyes watching my every move, taking in the clearly visible contours of my body.
We’d arranged to meet at one, at Milk & Honey, a cool new restaurant near Blake’s office. I’d heard about this place before — it was supposed to be almost impossible to get a reservation. They served Lebanese food, and because of this place it was the hot new dining trend right now.
I had my brand new iPad tucked away in my brand new Anya Hindmarch bag, loaded up with all my preliminary notes, sketches, thoughts and mood boards. I just hoped I was on the right track; it was so hard to tell when I had so little to go on.
I arrived outside the restaurant, taking a quick final glance at myself in the glass doors before stepping inside, my heart thudding, my stomach fluttering with butterflies. This time I was the first to arrive, and just like before, when I told the Maître d’ that I was here to meet Mr Matthews, I noticed a subtle shift in his behavior, from that of condescending and snooty to fawning and deferential.
“Oh yes, of course, madam,” he said, leading me over to a small table in the farthest corner of the packed restaurant. “This way.”
I took my seat and waited for Blake to arrive, letting my gaze drift around the room. There was a table of men in well-tailored suits, looking serious and then all suddenly laughing and clapping each other on the back over some joke or other, and next to them sat an immaculately-dressed couple, sipping their soup in a frosty silence, while on the other side of me, a power lunch was obviously in full swing, two female executives talking triumphantly, mile-a-minute, about some hot shot deal they’d just closed.
This time, I didn’t have to hide my bag beneath the table in embarrassment. And I could tell my outfit was getting some approving glances from some of the other women in the room, too.
I guessed I must be a part of this world now, but yet I still got that familiar sense of being out of my depth — of being a silly little girl playing ‘dress up’, hiding out in the mysterious world of grown-ups.
“I’m late,” Blake said, busting me out of my trance. “My eleven o’ clock overran. It was very dull, I can assure you.”
I smiled up at him. This was the first time I’d seen him in more formal attire: a deep navy suit – it was a perfect fit, I couldn’t imagine how much it must have cost – and beneath the suit, a crisp white shirt but no tie, the collar open, exposing his rich tanned skin beneath. I felt another small flutter, but this one definitely wasn’t from nerves. He’d shaved too, his skin looking so impossibly smooth and radiant, and as he dropped into his chair just a few feet away from me, I caught that subtle but heady scent of his cologne.
Keep it together, Jessica.
This is business, remember.
“I’m starving,” he said, picking up a menu and casting a glance over it. “You mind if we eat first, then get down to business?”
“Sure,” I said, “I’m hungry too.”
Look at me, you bastard, not the God-damn menu.
I followed Blake’s cue, picking up the heavy, leather-bound menu and casting a hesitant glance over the abundant list of exotic-sounding dishes.
“I’d recommend the mishmishyia, if you’re still deciding,” Blake offered, without looking up from his menu. “It’s very good here.”
I decided to keep it to myself that I’d never even heard of mishmi-what-did-he-say before, so wouldn’t know whether it tasted good or like crap, and instead I just smiled and nodded.
“Sounds good.”
When the waiter came to take our order, before I could even open my mouth to speak, Blake said, “We’ll both have the mishmishyia, and what do you say to a glass of the 2009 Borgogne rouge, Jessica? It’s a great vintage.”
“Uh, sure,” I blushed, yielding once more to his will.
I’d never had a guy order for me in a restaurant before. I called myself a feminist, so I thought that kind of thing was old fashioned, but I had to admit that it felt good, exciting even, to
give myself up to him like that, to follow his orders, even though I was normally so in control …
§
“You were right,” I said, gently laying my cutlery down on my empty plate. “That was really good.”
I felt a little tingly from the glass of red wine. That was really good too – I rarely drank wine but whenever Greg and I went out for dinner, we only ever ordered the cheapest bottle on the menu. I’d thought that was wine, but this – this was something different. Rich yet subtle, with a rainbow of competing flavors and notes; I could finally understood what got those magazine drink critics I usually shook my head at waxing so lyrical!
We’d not talked much yet, and he’d hardly even looked up at me. I was trying to work out how to drop my new look into the conversation, to pluck up the courage to say thank you, when Blake once again seemed to read my mind.
“I see you’ve taken advantage of the expense account,” he said with an expression I couldn’t quite fathom.
Is that approval?
Or something else?
And I felt his eyes taking in my sheer shirt, my bra so visible beneath.
“It looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” I replied, unable to keep my cheeks from burning.
“You’ve got a good body,” he continued, matter-of-factly, just as I was taking a sip of wine, and it was all I could do to stop myself from spitting it out over myself.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, you’ve got a good body,” he repeated coldly, “from what I’ve seen of it so far. I’m sorry, do you find that offensive?”
“Not offensive, exactly,” I explained, “just a little, um, forward, perhaps?”
At this he sighed and shook his head, more to himself than to me. He eased back in his chair, looked lazily around the restaurant, which was now thinning out, the lunchtime rush nearing its end, and then fixed his cold steely gaze on me once more. “Jessica, I didn’t get where I am by holding back. You understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded, but the truth was, I didn’t quite understand.
“What can I say?” he continued. “I’m an admirer of the female form. I think it’s pretty much a perfect design and clothes should compliment that. Yours do. Congratulations.”
I was still somewhat taken aback: in all my twenty-two years on this planet, I don’t think anyone had quite talked to me in that way before, and I wasn’t sure quite what to make of it.
“Well … thanks, I guess,” I practically whispered, my breathing a little short now. And I found myself shifting uncomfortably in my chair, as if to escape Blake’s painfully direct gaze, uncrossing and recrossing my legs, unable to ignore the subtle but insistent little throb that had begun, right at the center of me …
“Anyway,” he said, “let’s get to it. What have you got?”
I pulled the iPad from my bag and opened up the portfolio before passing it across the table to Blake.
He took the tablet from me and sat back in his chair, his face fixed and serious as he scrolled slowly through my many pages of preliminary designs, sketches, ideas, all the while betraying nothing of his thoughts. For a moment I thought I saw his dark brow flicker in dislike but really, it was impossible to tell.
The moment seemed to take forever, the background noise fading away as Blake stared down at my designs with a ruthless intensity.
Then, finally, he looked up, his face cold and humorless. “Is that it?” he said quietly and I felt pierced by a cold spear of shock.
He doesn’t like them.
It’s obvious.
I’ve messed up, big time.
“I, um … well, I …” I began, but really, I didn’t know what I was about to say. “Yes,” I concluded eventually, deciding that excuses or explanations just wouldn’t fly. “Yes. That’s it. That’s everything.”
He scrolled back through the images a second time, almost as if he was doing it on purpose, dragging out the awkward silence for maximum effect, letting me stew, before he finally spoke again.
“These ideas are good,” he said finally. “But I’m not looking for good. I’m looking for perfection. These just aren’t quite right. They’re not … me.”
At this, I felt the first jolt of anger.
I’d worked damn hard on those ideas, and if they weren’t ‘him’ then that was because it was still hard to know who he really was!
I mean, what did he think I was, some kind of freaking mind reader?!
“Well,” I said, keeping my rising anger as much under my control as I was able, making sure to keep my voice slow and steady and even, “perhaps that’s because I don’t really know very much about you … You’re rather … how can I put this … mysterious?”
At this, an odd, sly smile spread across his face.
“Oh, am I?” he said, again nodding to himself. “Okay, perhaps you have a point. You want to know something about me?”
“Yes,” I said, genuinely. “I really do …”
He paused for a second, as if deciding whether or not to go through with his threat, then reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and pulled out a small, jet-black business card, clipped at the corners to resemble the shape of an old-fashioned cinema ticket, almost flinging it at me.
“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up off the table, examining the expensive finish, just a simple silver address embossed into one side, and the words ADMIT ONE in a beautiful, elegant typeface on the other.
“I host a party, last Friday of the month. Come down. It’s exclusive. Bring your boyfriend, too.”
And with that he flicked a second ticket at me.
“Thanks,” I murmured, slipping the tickets into my bag with a shaky hand.
“I hope to see you there,” Blake said quietly. The more I got to know this complicated man, the harder I found him to read, but I could swear there was an oddly suggestive tone to his voice.
All of a sudden he was lifting himself to his feet, running a hand through his thick shiny hair, preparing to leave.
I was trying to keep myself together, but my face must have given me away and he looked down at me, as if disappointed, as if I was some schoolgirl, causing a scene.
“Jessica,” he sighed. “I’m not leaving because I’m mad at you. I need to get back to the office.”
Embarrassed, I turned my face away, busying myself by fishing my wallet from my bag.
He sighed once more.
“Put that away. This is on my tab.”
And with that he was gone. I watched his tall, athletic frame as he walked out through the restaurant.
You well and truly screwed that up, didn’t you?
CHAPTER SEVEN
That Friday afternoon in Workshop, I felt my attention straying. I’d made little headway all week since my frustrating lunch with Blake. I looked uneasily around the busy coffee house, before opening my purse and slipping out one of the sleek black tickets Blake had flung at me.
ADMIT ONE.
The party was tonight, and if I was going, it certainly wasn’t with Greg. His shift at the bar didn’t finish till 3 a.m., and anyway, he’d never been one for partying, even back in college.
I opened a new Ghat window to Fallon on my MacBook.
“You there?” I typed.
“As always,” she replied almost instantaneously.
“What are your plans for tonight?”
“We’re playing Pete’s Candy Store at 11. Why? U finally coming? ;-)”
I flicked the ticket in my fingers, feeling the expensive, silky matte-finish of its paper.
“Maybe,” I replied.
§
“Have fun tonight,” Greg said, kissing me tenderly at the door before he left for his shift at the bar.
I kissed him back hard, part of me wishing that for once he’d just throw caution to the wind, push me up against the wall, tug my skirt around my hips and thrust his hand roughly between my legs. But instead, after a moment, he pulled away, a sweet, simple smile on his f
ace. “I’ll see you in bed,” he said, just as he always did, and then he was gone, leaving me alone once more in the apartment.
I strode over to the floor length mirror, again hearing Blake’s words from yesterday:
You’ve got a good body. From what I’ve seen of it so far.
I’d never had anyone say anything so direct to me before, especially not about my body. After all, Greg was the only guy I’d ever really been particularly intimate with, and while I knew that he found me attractive, he was more of the gruff, silent type.
No, this felt different — and to be honest, I was kind of enjoying the thought of my body actually turning Blake on, being that ‘perfect design’ he’d mentioned.
And what exactly does he mean by ‘so far’?
I stood in front of my wardrobe, looking in at all my clothes, the vintage finds, the polka-dot dresses I liked to wear on the weekends, then all my old work clothes, the dowdy pencil skirts and blouses that I’d once been so proud of – and that I was now intending to take to Goodwill at the next available opportunity, then at my new clothes. I was seriously falling in love with all my beautiful new outfits, but there was one in particular that I hadn’t dared to wear yet.
It was a tight black Hervé Léger bandage dress, coupled with a pair of skyscraper-high Louboutins.
Fallon had practically begged me to get them; it’d always been a fantasy of hers to get a pair.
I’d protested, of course – wondering when I’d even need to wear something like this during my work with Blake, but she’d insisted that there would be ‘client dinners’ and so forth. And she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.
As I got dressed, I realized there was no way I’d be able to wear a bra with this dress. Not that I needed one anyway, but still. It felt kind of strange, like I was already half-naked ...
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