Unsticky

by Sarah Manning

  ‘They’re for sale, of course,’ Vaughn said, standing next to her so that, out of the corner of her eye, Grace could see his bemused smile.

  ‘Does it bother you to have to sell them after you’ve spent so many years collecting them?’ Grace asked, thinking of the time she’d had to eBay most of her vintage dresses because her former landlord was threatening to take her to the small claims court. It had been like a death in the family. ‘It must be horrible to get attached to some pictures, then have to pack ’em up and ship ’em off.’

  ‘If I had that attitude I’d be destitute,’ Vaughn laughed. ‘I don’t get attached to pictures. I foresee their potential, collect them discreetly so that I don’t drive up the price, and sell them several years later for a lot more than I originally paid. Liking them really doesn’t come into it.’

  ‘You must like some of them,’ Grace protested, following him back into the reception area and up a sweeping flight of stairs. Did he live above the shop? Should she try out a really tasteless joke about coming up to see his etchings? Probably not.

  They arrived at the second floor just as Grace was starting to fight for every breath. Her flip-flops slapped against the parquet as Vaughn ushered her into a minimalist sitting room: all white leather seating and black walls. There was a Bauhausy desk to one side with a sleek little laptop perched on it. ‘This is my office,’ he said, rifling through some papers. ‘Sit down.’

  Grace chose one of the high-sided, cubed armchairs and sank down on it. She felt as if she was being swallowed whole.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘May I have some water? Still, if you’ve got it,’ she added, forestalling yet another question.

  Grace watched Vaughn get a big blue bottle of Ty Nant out of a fridge, along with two glasses. Keeping glasses in a fridge was just the kind of effortlessly stylish thing that impressed the hell out of her. Sometimes Grace wished that she wasn’t so shallow.

  When she was clutching the glass in her sweaty hand and hoping it wouldn’t slip to the floor, Vaughn sat down on the sofa opposite her and placed some papers down on the long, low table between them. ‘I need to discuss something with you but before I do, I’d like you to sign a non-disclosure agreement,’ he said reasonably. So reasonably that Grace was already nodding her head before her rusty internal alarm system blared into life.

  ‘Why? You know, I half-wondered if you were going to offer me a job, but—’

  ‘Grace, I know this all seems very cloak and dagger but you have to sign an NDA before I explain anything else.’

  ‘Why do I need to sign anything?’ Grace suddenly had a horrible suspicion that maybe this, all of it, was some elaborate sting operation by a big financial conglomerate that had bought all her outstanding debts. She dismissed the thought. There was no way she could owe that much money. She tentatively pulled the two sheets of paper closer and flicked her eyes over dry legalese. ‘The only bit I understand is my own name!’

  Vaughn muttered something under his breath, but when he turned to her, it was with a disarming smile, despite the little tic twitching by his left ear. Grace watched it in fascination. ‘There’s really nothing to worry about. Just a confidential proposition.’

  ‘You could just ask me not to tell anyone,’ she suggested, wrinkling her brow at all the henceforths and indemnifications.

  The tic in Vaughn’s cheek picked up speed. It looked painful. He thrust a pen at her. ‘Just sign it. Now.’

  It wasn’t a tone of voice that Grace was brave enough to argue with. She put down her glass on a little side table and signed on the dotted line that was neatly marked with a cross, then handed the agreement back to Vaughn.

  Vaughn studied it intently, possibly to check her penmanship. She wasn’t too sure and he didn’t seem in a hurry to fill her in about, well, anything.

  ‘So, what did you . . . ?’

  ‘You’re very pretty.’ He breathed hard and steepled his fingers together.

  ‘Well, thanks . . .’

  ‘You’re well-educated, you have a good layperson’s knowledge of the art world,’ he continued listing her plus points, though it was going to be a very short list so he might get to the point soon. ‘Though it occurs to me that you may be back with your ex.’

  She’d barely thought about Liam at all in the last fortnight. ‘God - as if!’

  ‘And you’re not involved with anyone else?’ he asked, tapping his fingers nervously against his knees.

  ‘Well, no,’ she said slowly. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, and actually this is all slightly inappropriate after New York, and—’

  ‘It’s not,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s not at all because I’d very much like you to be my mistress.’

  Grace stared at him in disbelief. Her mouth opened to let out a few wheezy gasps.

  ‘That was a little forceful, wasn’t it?’ Vaughn smiled, like he was trying to put Grace at ease. She didn’t return the smile but stared at him without blinking. ‘I’d really like to spend more time with you on an exclusive basis.’

  ‘Huh? What? Like, you want me to be your girlfriend?’

  Vaughn shook his head. ‘Not exactly. Do you remember in New York that I told you I looked after young artists? Spotted their potential, nurtured their talent? Well, that’s what I’d like to do with you.’

  ‘But I’m not an artist.’ Grace picked at a hangnail on her thumb, then gave in to the urge to stick it in her mouth and nibble. And if she was biting her nails, then she was still herself, still the same old Grace. And the same old Grace didn’t sit in fancy offices in Mayfair as a wealthy art dealer asked her if she fancied being his mistress. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about going into partnership together,’ Vaughn said softly, as if the impatient, sarcastic man she’d met before had just been an illusion. ‘What I’m proposing would be almost like a business agreement.’

  ‘Christ! You think I’m a tart!’ Grace spluttered indignantly. ‘I’m not some kind of rent-a-skank, thank you very much.’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ Vaughn said, and he sounded so offended at the idea that Grace was mollified - just a little. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well. I’d like to take you to all sorts of places - Art Basel in Miami, the Art Cologne show, the Tokyo Design Festa . . . I’d introduce you to interesting people, give you new experiences and I’d have someone to talk to at some very dry functions. On a more practical note, once a month I give a dinner-party with a very exclusive guest-list and you’d act as my hostess, provide some colour while I discuss business. I do my biggest deals at these dinners.’

  He could dress it up any way he wanted to, but he’d said ‘mistress’. That was what he’d started with and that was where Grace was still stuck. Yes, the travel sounded wonderful - there might be a private jet involved and she’d always wanted to go on one of them - but she’d been brought up to be a nice girl, and just thinking of exactly how she was brought up gave Grace a mental picture of her grandmother’s horrified face.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No.’ This time it was definite. ‘I can’t.’

  Vaughn gave an elegant, ophidian shrug. ‘I realise that I’d be taking up a lot of your time, so of course there’d be a monthly retainer and a clothing and grooming allowance.’ He was purposely misunderstanding her and as diversions went, it was effective, but the mention of allowances made the whole tart scenario loom large again.

  ‘I’m going,’ Grace said as she struggled to get out of the depths of the chair. ‘I’m sure you could find a discreet escort agency that—’

  ‘I was thinking five thousand pounds a month - and what? - an additional two thousand pounds for the clothing allowance,’ Vaughn said before Grace could even get fully upright.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ She sat down again, or rather collapsed heavily back into the chair. ‘That’s a lot of money. That’s way too much money.’

  ‘Not for someone like me,’ Vaughn said
smoothly.

  ‘Well, it is for someone like me.’ Grace hunched forward, elbows on her knees, and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Just how rich are you anyway?’

  ‘Well, I could provide five years of accounts but this isn’t about the money, Grace. It’s about you and me and what we can do for each other.’

  She could hear Vaughn getting up, walking over to her, but it was still a shock when he squatted down so he could take one of her limp hands. ‘I can see that this has all been rather discombobulating. ’

  Grace wished that he’d stick to words of two syllables or less, as she tried to think. £5,000. £5,000! She could start paying off her most outstanding debts. Like her TopShop store card or the consolidated loan she’d taken out to pay off her creditors although she’d never got round to making any of the payments. Or the new credit-card debts she’d incurred in the meantime. Or even the months of back-rent she owed so she wouldn’t have to live in fear that one day, she’d come home from work to find all her belongings in the front garden because her landlady would no longer accept IOUs . . .

  ‘You’re very quiet, Grace,’ Vaughn prompted, and he reached up to touch her, maybe stroke her cheek or push back the hair that was falling into her face, but she shied away from him and he blinked rapidly before he could check himself.

  Grace squinted at him. ‘So that evening in New York - was that meant to be a dry run?’ And if she sounded pissed off, then good. ‘Did I get a black mark or a gold star?’

  ‘It was more of an informal interview,’ Vaughn said carefully. ‘And you don’t have to be embarrassed about what happened. I was very flattered and it clarified a few grey areas.’

  Grace stared at him. ‘Well, that would probably fall into the category of apologising and you told me that I shouldn’t do that.’

  Vaughn dipped his head in acknowledgement but didn’t fight back with the acid-dripping sarcasm that she was sure he’d have had all good to go. The urge to giggle and to check the plant in the corner for a hidden camera was hard to avoid. Somebody was Punking her - they had to be.

  ‘This is not fucking happening,’ she said quietly. ‘I know what you think. You think because I was up for it in New York that I’m easy, but I’m not. You kissed me first! And then you made me feel like a complete . . .’ She’d been planning to say ‘twat’ but at the last second improvised with ‘idiot’.

  ‘That wasn’t my intention. It was just . . . well, don’t you think you’re worth something more than a one-night stand?’ Vaughn stood up in one easy movement and toed a little leather footstool nearer so he could sit on it, his shirtsleeve brushing her leg.

  And yes, Grace did think she was worth something more than that, but it didn’t really make much difference. ‘Well, yeah, but—’

  ‘Do you remember how we first met? You were crying your eyes out in the middle of Liberty’s. I saw him, Grace.’ Vaughn paused to shake his head as if the memory of Liam was causing him all sorts of inner turmoil. ‘Why are you wasting your time with pitiful losers who don’t appreciate how special you are?’

  Grace felt compelled to stick up for Liam, and by definition, herself. ‘Oh, come on, he’s not that bad. I mean, it was good at the start and then . . . He’s just, like . . . he . . .’

  ‘He was trying to crush your spirit,’ Vaughn supplied, as if it was an undeniable fact. ‘Men like that haven’t got the intelligence or the imagination to appreciate how extraordinary and vibrant you are. You deserve so much more than that, Grace, and I can give it to you.’

  Vaughn’s voice was low and urgent, his eyes bright with fervour as he sold a shiny, new version of Grace to the current model who was leaning forward eagerly so she didn’t miss a single word. He didn’t just want to get in her pants, he seemed to actually want the whole package, which was a first. It was also insanely flattering because he was rich and successful and attractive, and for some inexplicable reason he wanted her.

  Grace couldn’t think of anything vibrant and extraordinary to add. ‘Well, so we’d date then or something?’

  ‘It’s a partnership, an agreement with a contract - say for a six-month period . . .’

  It had been much better when he’d been playing to her strengths. Now panic flared up again. ‘I’m not signing anything else!’ Grace burst out, white-knuckled hands clutching the sides of the chair because she might bolt at any moment. ‘This is not how you do things. It’s so calculated and it’s cold. You’d be paying me - and last time I checked, that was prostitution.’

  ‘Sshhh.’ He placed a finger on her mouth and it was only to get her to shut up but it made Grace shiver because there was a connection between them. It was why she was here, after all. ‘It’s better this way with clear-cut boundaries, so we both know exactly where we stand. Aren’t you tired of constantly stumbling about in the dark?’

  Vaughn couldn’t know that she felt as if she’d spent all her life blindfolded, hands stretched out in front of her to feel where she was going. Nobody knew that, but his eyes were boring into hers, not judging but as if maybe Vaughn knew how that felt too.

  ‘I can’t think. Honestly, my head feels like it’s about to explode,’ Grace said weakly. ‘None of what you’re saying is making any sense.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here to say that we get along,’ Vaughn explained patiently, as if she was purposely not getting a clue. ‘There’s absolutely no reason why we can’t enjoy each other’s company and let things run their natural course. You certainly didn’t find me that repugnant in New York.’

  Vaughn wasn’t repugnant. There were men who made Grace’s flesh want to crawl off her bones, like Ron from the postroom who always smelled of mouldy cheese and never took his eyes off her tits. Or even Alfie, the drummer in Liam’s band, who was textbook good looking but had really small feet and chewed with his mouth open.

  The leather seat was sticking to the backs of her thighs and Grace hoped that when she stood up again there wouldn’t be any embarrassing noises. She leaned over and picked up the glass of water because there was so much to process that speaking would finish her off altogether.

  Vaughn was watching her keenly and, even though it was very immature, Grace angled her upper body away from him so she could stare at a picture on the wall that looked like splattered guts.

  There was a firm grip on her chin, so she had no choice but to turn her head and look right into those big, blue eyes. She’d never got such a close look at them before with the benefit of really good lighting. There were little flecks of gold breaking up the blue, and near to the pupil, they were almost navy. ‘I don’t know why you want me to be your m-mistress.’ Grace stumbled over the word. ‘I’m nothing special. And six months is a long time. You’ll be sick of me after three, I guarantee it.’

  ‘We could take the six months under advisement,’ Vaughn offered, and Grace had the feeling that that was all he’d be willing to concede. ‘I happen to think you’re a very singular young woman. You won’t bore me, for one thing.’

  ‘Yay me,’ Grace said solemnly, as the hand that had been on her chin brushed back her hair in a way that could be misconstrued as tender.

  ‘Your roots are coming through,’ Vaughn murmured, his fingers tensing as they smoothed over her crown. ‘So, why don’t I take you out for dinner and we can discuss this in more detail. What are you in the mood for?’

  Grace had almost been lulled into calm by the rhythmic movement of Vaughn’s fingers in her hair. Almost. But now she imagined two hours of sitting across from Vaughn in another expensive restaurant where she’d feel ill at ease and vulnerable enough that she’d probably let him talk her around. She’d let herself be persuaded that it was all right for him to pay to sleep with her. And it wasn’t. It so wasn’t.

  ‘Will you please move so I can get up?’ Grace clung to the arm of the chair as she hauled herself to her feet. ‘This is, like, really fucked up.’

  Vaughn didn’t seem that perturbed by the hysteria Grace was transm
itting like some high-frequency bat sonar. ‘Grace, you’re overreacting. I understand that, but there’s no need. It all makes perfect sense if you look at it logically. Would you like a week to think about it?’

  Grace was already halfway to the door but she whirled around, in a flutter of angry polka dots. ‘What makes you think that a week is going to be enough time for me to agree to this insane and actually really humiliating proposal?’

  Vaughn looked surprised that she was dumb enough to ask. ‘Because you haven’t said no.’

  She nearly broke her neck running down two flights of stairs in her flip-flops and for one awful moment, Grace thought she was going to have to go back to Vaughn’s office and ask for his help because she couldn’t figure out how to open the front door, but finally she was free and pelting down the street, not even caring if Vaughn was watching from his office window.

  Grace was still out of breath as she sat on the top deck of the 134 and placed a steadying hand over her frantically beating heart. She’d done the right thing though, she thought. She did actually have a strong moral code, which was news to her, though it had never really been put to the test before. She stared out at Camden High Street, which was far more her speed than Mayfair. She was charity shops and picking up a ready meal from Sainsbury’s Local. She was drinking until two in the morning in pubs with sticky floors and really good jukeboxes, then stopping to get a bag of chips on the way home.