Flawless

by Tilly Bagshawe

  The morning after that party, he’d phoned Aidan from the car before he even got to his office and set the wheels of retribution in motion. That was over six months ago. Scarlett should have been dead in the water long before now.

  Brogan had never liked Aidan, but he was an excellent attorney. Crucially, he understood the concept of plausible deniability—the importance of keeping Brogan’s hands clean—and could usually be relied upon to do whatever was asked of him quietly, efficiently, and without sharing unnecessary and potentially damaging details of his working methods with his boss. It was unlike him to leave a task unfinished, as it seemed he had done with Scarlett and her Trade Fair campaign. But one mistake was one mistake too many.

  “I don’t care how you do it,” he said bluntly. “But I want Trade Fair to disappear. I want her to disappear. Do we understand each other?”

  “Of course.” Aidan did his best to sound confident. “Loud and clear.”

  After Brogan hung up, he took a deep breath and tried to clear his head. Outside the club a growing gaggle of wannabes had assembled, some of the girls dressed in little more than their underwear, but for once Aidan’s mind wasn’t in his pants. His career was on the line here, his entire relationship with Brogan at risk. He needed to think.

  He’d been too complacent about Scarlett; that was the problem. He’d considered her and her charity so small-fry that he’d delegated the task of scaring her off to his London underlings. Clearly that had been a mistake. It never occurred to him that such a slip of a girl might be as stubborn and determined as Brogan when it came to getting her own way.

  Well, if she wanted a fight, she’d get one. As far as Aidan was concerned, anyone who made him look bad with the boss deserved everything that was coming to them.

  Slipping the phone into his pocket, he headed gloomily back into the club.

  “Everything OK?” Carla’s pupils dilated wildly as she handed him his drink. She’d obviously taken advantage of his absence to shovel buckets of Colombia’s finest up her perfectly straight nose.

  “Not really,” said Aidan, sitting down heavily on the barstool. “But it will be. It will be.”

  Clicking his fingers imperiously for another drink, he repositioned her hand over his cock.

  “Now, where were we?”

  The next morning, across town in Park Avenue, Diana O’Donnell gazed mindlessly out the window of her penthouse apartment. It was a glorious day. The sun blazing down on Central Park was bright and dry, a welcome change from the cloying, humid summer weather that for weeks had had New Yorkers sweating in their cars and offices like melting Popsicles, deserting the city on the weekends in search of cooler breezes on the coast. Trees bright with blossom provided welcome shade for the shorts-and-T-shirt-clad multitude who had thronged to Manhattan’s only real green space to enjoy the heat wave, content to venture outside now that the sauna-like mugginess had passed.

  Briefly, Diana contemplated joining them. Perhaps it would do her good to get some fresh air? But ultimately, she decided against it. It was strange to feel on the one hand so desperately, achingly lonely and on the other so frightened of normal human contact. As a teenager, she’d thrived on the buzz of New York City, the daily banter with the hot-dog sellers and street vendors, the sense of community, of a unique, shared energy that made this greatest of cities feel so constantly, throbbingly alive.

  Of course, New York was still alive. It was she who had died, suffocated in the gilded cage of her marriage and the private hell of her battle to conceive a child, a battle that lately seemed to have sucked all the joy and excitement and beauty out of the world. It had gotten to the point where she no longer trusted herself to be around other people without bursting embarrassingly into tears.

  “Come on, Diana, get a grip,” she said out loud, walking over to the fawn suede B&B Italia couch and flicking on CNN. Perhaps some footage of the real tragedies unfolding in Iraq and Darfur and Somalia might help jolt her out of this ridiculous, relentless depression.

  When she’d first met Brogan, over fifteen years ago now, they’d both been such totally different people. She was a twenty-year-old art student from an old-money family, reveling in the freedom of living alone in the big city for the first time in her short, sheltered life. Never wildly ambitious, as least not in the traditional sense, she was passionate about her art and soon became an accepted part of the rich, bohemian set that hung around the cafés of the East Village, talking about Dali and disarmament, daringly eschewing their Republican parents’ politics. Very pretty in a neat, American, unexotic sort of way—had she been born a generation later she’d have been snapped up as a model for Abercrombie & Fitch or Tommy Hilfiger—she was never short of boyfriends but tended to go for the long-haired, idealistic types who liked to rant against Reagan and encouraged her to go Dutch on dinner.

  Then she met Brogan and stepped into a whole new world.

  At thirty-eight, almost two decades her senior, he’d blazed into Diana’s life like a comet of worldly self-assurance, as experienced and confident as she was innocent and naive. Already a multimillionaire and big noise in the diamond fraternity, as well as a renowned Manhattan playboy, he had the sort of charisma and presence normally associated with movie stars or certain rare types of politician. He was also, in Diana’s eyes at least, extremely good-looking, with his thick, dark hair and broad, powerful shoulders, the antithesis of all the weedy, earnest guys she’d dated in the past. Later, she would describe their first meeting, at a party at The Plaza, as the archetypal bolt of lightning. Until Brogan smiled at her, she’d never have guessed she could be so powerfully attracted to a rich, middle-aged, unapologetic Republican. But there it was. She was smitten.

  For his part, Brogan’s attraction to Diana was more thoughtful and considered, at least at first. He was pushing forty and ought to acquire a wife. Whomever he chose must be beautiful, naturally, young but not silly, reasonably educated, socially connected, and ideally independently wealthy. Diana Frampton ticked every box. She was also, he rapidly discovered, kindhearted, quick-witted, and funny. It wasn’t long before his feelings for her deepened, to the point where he felt quietly confident that they must now qualify as this much-talked-about “love,” an emotion that thus far in life had eluded him completely, but which he had gotten along perfectly well without.

  They married in a quiet, low-key ceremony on Nantucket, where Diana’s people had a summer home. Brogan loathed the island on sight—cutesy clapboard houses and khaki-wearing trust fund kids called Chipper were complete anathema to the boy who’d grown up semiferal, roaming the streets of Brooklyn. But it didn’t matter much. After the honeymoon (St. Bart’s) he brought her back to the city and set about controlling every aspect of their married life as closely and ruthlessly and he has always had his businesses.

  With no close family or even real close friends of his own—his parents had broken up when he was eight, and he’d rarely seen either of them since his teens—Brogan lacked what the shrinks he despised would have referred to as a blueprint for marriage. He loved Diana in the same way that he loved his vintage wine collection or his wardrobe full of exquisitely tailored Savile Row suits. Like them, he treated her with care and respect, protected her fiercely from anyone who threatened to take her from him, and considered his husbandly duties done. She had beautiful homes all over the world, free rein with his credit card, and access to the best designers, beauticians, and hair people in the world. What more could a woman want?

  It never occurred to him to be faithful. He considered it contrary to the male nature, an unnecessary and unnatural restriction of his freedoms. But he did all he could to insulate Diana from his mistresses, compartmentalizing his business, social, and married lives as thoroughly as a CIA double agent. To this day, Brogan believed that if only he were able to give her the child she craved, his wife’s life would be happy, fulfilled, and complete. The idea that Diana might want more than simply material and maternal comforts—that she might want
intimacy and trust with the man who shared her life and her bed—was one that he’d never grasped, despite her repeated attempts to explain it to him.

  An image of a weeping refugee child calling hopelessly for his mother filled the screen. Aware of the tears starting to prick her own eyes, Diana changed channels. Everybody Loves Raymond was on, one of her favorite shows, and she soon found herself smiling, lost in the bickering domestic banter between Ray and Deborah. She was so engrossed it took a few moments to register that the intercom buzzer from the lobby was going off.

  “Who is it, Rico?” she asked the doorman, getting up to answer it but still keeping half an eye on the TV. “If it’s a delivery, you can sign; I’ll tell Mr. O’Donnell I OK’d it.”

  “Ees no delivery, Mrs. O’Donnell. Ees a friend of your ’usband. ’E says he has something very valuable, for your ’usband, and he must speak to you in person. Very important business.”

  Diana frowned. In all her years with Brogan he had never once invited a business associate to the apartment, never mind authorized them to discuss anything “very important” with her.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line, followed by some muffled talking. Eventually Rico’s voice came back on.

  “Meester Vincent Van and Go,” he said seriously.

  Diana giggled. Who was this clown? “Do you mean van Gogh? Is that what he said his name was?”

  “Yes, yes,” the doorman seemed pleased. “He say you know hees work very well. Mr. Vincent.”

  “All right,” said Diana, well and truly intrigued by now. “You can send Mr. Vincent up.”

  A minute later she heard the elevator whooshing to a halt and its occupant emerging onto the landing. Before he had a chance to knock, she’d opened the door.

  “Mr. van Gogh, I presume?”

  Danny Meyer grinned, his whole face seeming to open up and burst with life, like a freshly cut grapefruit. “At your service. May I come in?”

  Diana hesitated.

  “It’s a bit late for that now, don’cha think?” said Danny. “If you thought I was a murderer you shouldn’t ’ave buzzed me up. Besides, look at me. I’ve got nowhere to hide my ax.”

  He spread his arms and legs, like someone waiting to be frisked by airport security. In a tightly cut cream linen suit, open-necked shirt, and sandals, he looked more like a dapper war correspondent than a crazed killer. Diana relaxed.

  “Hold on,” she said, cocking her head to one side and examining him more closely. “Don’t I know you from somewhere? I’m sure I recognize your face.”

  “Danny Meyer,” he said, shaking her hand. “We’ve never met—unless you count our eyes meeting across a crowded Tiffany store in the depths of winter.”

  “Ah yes, of course, Tiffany’s,” she said, nodding. “You were there with your brother, right?”

  “Never mind my brother,” said Danny hastily. “Just remember, I was the handsome one. Look, can I come in? I’ve got something I’d like to show you.”

  Following her into the apartment—fucking hell it was palatial; the couch alone was bigger than his place—he admired her pert bottom in simply cut Gap jeans and the way her clean hair hung loose to her smooth, brown shoulders. He’d half expected her to be Chaneled up to the eyeballs but was glad to see she preferred the casual look at home.

  “Is this something to do with my husband?” she asked, leaving him standing in the living room while she wandered into the kitchen. “Would you like some coffee, by the way?”

  “No, and no thanks,” Danny called back. “But I’ll have tea if you’ve got some. Only if it’s made with boiling water, though, in a pot. And only if it’s actually tea and not some soy orange leaf bullshit. Otherwise I’m fine.”

  Diana reemerged, smiling, and sat on the couch, gesturing for him to do the same. “Maria will do her best. You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  It was so long since she’d been alone in the company of another man, or even another person, that she was surprised by how easy and enjoyable she found it to talk to him. There was something warm and reassuring about Danny that put her immediately at ease, despite the oddness of the circumstances.

  “So come on,” she said brightly. “What’s all this about? Ridiculous pseudonyms, claiming you have business with my husband.”

  “I wanted to see you,” Danny blurted out. “I wasn’t sure I’d get access, so I made up a bit of a story. Everyone told me Brogan guards this place like Fort Knox.”

  Diana smiled wryly. “He doesn’t need to. You’d be surprised how few people call on us. But you still haven’t said what it was you wanted to see me about.”

  Aware he was blushing, and wishing for the thousandth time he shared Jake’s cool insouciance when it came to beautiful women, Danny fumbled in his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small but infinitely delicate baguette diamond ring.

  “I’m in the diamond business,” he said.

  “Like Brogan…” mumbled Diana idly, turning the band over between her fingers.

  “Well, sort of. I’m much smaller fry,” said Danny truthfully. “Mostly I deal in cut stones, but every now and then a finished piece comes my way that I try to find a home for. Ever since I got my hands on this one”—he swallowed nervously—“I’ve been thinking of you. I can’t explain it really. I just thought it was perfect. For you.”

  Diana held the ring up to the light. The setting was antique, she guessed nineteen thirties, and very simple: a white gold rope twist with the baguette glistening above it like a fifty-seven-faceted snowflake. No doubt about it, it was a work of art, and very much to her own, understated taste. It was also the exact opposite of anything Brogan would buy for her.

  Turning back to Danny, she looked at him quizzically.

  “You came here to sell diamond jewelry? To me?”

  “I know,” he blushed again, “I’ve lost my marbles, haven’t I? You’ve probably got a million bucks’ worth of ice in your dresser drawer already.”

  “Several million,” said Diana matter-of-factly.

  “Of course you have,” mumbled Danny. What the fuck had possessed him to come here on such a ridiculous errand? Just because his dreams had been haunted by images of Diana’s sad, radiant face ever since the night of the Tiffany party; because he hadn’t been able to make love to other girls without fantasies of her naked body creeping into his consciousness; that was no reason to show up at the woman’s home like a stalker with a ring so cheap her husband might use it to tip a waiter. She must think him a right deranged prick. “Look, sorry, it was stupid of me,” he said, reaching for the ring. “Another piece of bling is the last thing you need.”

  “No, no,” said Diana vehemently, snatching it back. “I love it. I want it, I really do. How much?”

  “Er…” Nonplussed, Danny struggled to think of a figure. He’d love to have made a grand romantic gesture and given it to her outright, but he couldn’t afford to, not this month. He was already carrying Jake as it was. “Ten?”

  “Ten thousand?” Diana laughed. “Don’t be silly; it’s worth far more than that and you know it. Believe me”—she gestured to the master paintings and priceless artifacts strewn round the apartment like so much Z Gallerie trash—“I’m the last person you should be underselling to. I’ll give you fifteen for it, and even that’s a bargain.”

  Danny smiled. “I see you know your diamonds, Mrs. O’Donnell.”

  Diana shrugged. “After fifteen years of marriage to Brogan, I ought to.”

  “I’ll tell you what.” Taking the ring from her, Danny slipped it back into its royal-blue velvet box. “I’ll let you have it for fifteen grand, on one condition.”

  “A condition?” Diana laughed. “Two minutes ago you wanted to sell it for ten!”

  “Have dinner with me tonight,” said Danny.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dinner. That’s the condition. Have dinner with me tonight. I’ll bring the ring, and
we can close the deal over a civilized bottle of Guigal.”

  All at once the laugh died on Diana’s lips and the playful sparkle left her eyes, replaced with the same dull, aching stare he remembered so vividly from the Tiffany party.

  “I can’t,” she said quietly.

  “Why not?”

  His voice was gentle and encouraging, but still it took her an age to answer.

  “Brogan,” she said eventually. “He wouldn’t like it.”

  “So don’t tell him,” said Danny. He made it sound so simple, so unthreatening. “Anyway, he’s traveling, isn’t he?”

  “Yeees,” said Diana tentatively, not thinking to wonder how Danny knew this piece of information. “But—”

  “Great,” said Danny. “We’ll go somewhere quiet, a little local bistro I know where the food’s good and no one’ll bother us.” Seeing the anxiety etched on her face, he took a leap of faith and rested one hand lightly on her denim-clad knee. “Sweetheart, it’s only dinner. I’m not gonna jump on you, I promise. Much as I might like to.”

  Diana hesitated. He was right, of course. How had she, an intelligent, rational woman in her midthirties, reached a point where she was too frightened even to leave the apartment for a simple dinner, just because Brogan was away? She’d become scared of her own shadow these days.

  “All right,” she said, letting out a deep, long-held breath. “Fine, I’ll do it. I’ll have dinner with you.”

  Only after Danny had left the apartment did the folly of what she had agreed to really hit home. She, Diana O’Donnell, was going on a dinner date with another man, an attractive, flirtatious man. She must be out of her mind! Brogan routinely had her followed when she went out alone. Even if he didn’t do that this time, what if he called home and no one answered? She’d have to come up with a cover story for where she was—she never went out alone—but her mind had gone a complete, panicked blank.