by Catie Murphy
Nestled in white tissue paper lay a sharp-shouldered, plunge-lapeled golden suit that caught the light even without moving. The thinnest of rich russet lines between golden stripes gave the gold incredible depth. Gaping, Megan lifted it from the box, knowing before she did so that it would be her size, and proven right as the jacket unfolded a little to show that it would fall past her hips to midthigh. Slacks lay beneath the jacket, the russet brown dominant with thin gold highlights. Megan worked her jaw, trying to speak, but couldn’t manage anything more than squeaks.
Orla flipped the slacks back and revealed a pair of three-inch gold heels buried in the box beneath them. “Are yis sure you don’t want a rich girlfriend?”
“How . . . how? How is . . . how? When did you talk to her? Wh . . .” Megan gave up and simply stood there gaping at the coat in her hands.
“Around half eleven, I’d say. She’s had somebody on this all day. Jaysus, look at that fabric, that’s got to cost more than the company makes in a year. D’you think that’s real gold?”
“I hope not!” Megan’s voice broke on the three words. “I can’t—I can’t wear this! I can’t accept this!”
“Well, no one else can either,” Orla said pragmatically. “That’s been made for you alone, my girl, and Carmen de la Fuente is now paying us four grand an hour for you to wear it.”
“But that’s insane!”
“That’s rich people. Go on, go get changed.”
“There’s no shirt!”
“I’d say yer wan sees that as a feature. I’ll pop over to Boots and get you some of those stick-on plastic bra things. D’yis suppose she wants cleavage or clavicle?”
“Orla!”
“Clavicle it is.” Orla left the office, cackling, and Megan was still standing there, the jacket in her hands, when she returned. “Go on with yis! Go on now!”
“Orla, I can’t! I can’t!”
“Of course yis can. Don’t make me strip you down myself, chicken.” Orla tossed the sticky bra package at her, and Megan nearly dropped the jacket trying to catch it. They both hissed in alarm, and Megan, somehow defeated by the near miss, went to change clothes.
* * *
Wolf whistles might have been easier to deal with than the awed silence that met Megan when she went out to collect the limo. People who hadn’t been at work twenty minutes earlier were there, standing in a respectful, jaw-dropped line, and Megan, feeling perfectly balanced on a line between absurd and awesome, started to grin. “What’re you all gawking at?”
“Damn, Megan,” somebody said, and as if it unleashed the floodgates, a buzz of laughing excitement washed over her. Tymon had brought his camera—his real camera, not his phone—parked the limo against the brightest white outdoor wall of the garage, and for about twenty minutes he ran around treating Megan like a supermodel. She laughed helplessly and flirted with the camera, kicking up her heels and doing her best sultry looks, until Cillian, who’d missed all the setup, walked in for a shift and tripped over his own feet. “Holy Methuselah on a bicycle, are we doing a pinup calendar this year or something? Megan, you look deadly!”
Megan, laughing, climbed off the limo’s hood and straightened her jacket. “No calendar. Just driving Carmen tonight.”
Cillian’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “That’s not all she wants you to be doing tonight,” he predicted.
“Cillian!”
He spread his hands. “I’m just saying. Look, don’t forget us when you’re all Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, okay?”
“I don’t think there’s much chance,” Megan said dryly. “Carmen’s going to be totally unimpressed when she finds out I can’t drive in three-inch heels.”
“Naw, mate, that’s where the sexy lady driving barefoot shot comes in, in the film.”
“Oh, there’s a movie now?”
“It’s the life you were born to lead. Embrace it.”
Forty minutes later, Megan stood beside the limo as a small, private business jet rolled to a stop precisely alongside her. She’d gone past feeling ridiculous—it helped that she knew she looked amazing—but her breastbone was cold, something no one ever mentioned when talking about wearing high fashion. And for someone who disliked having her nails done, she did wish she’d known about the open-toed, high-heeled sandals, because she felt very slightly undressed, as if having toenails to match her fingernails would have completed the look.
The jet door hissed open, and Carmen de la Fuente swanned out, paused at the top of the airstairs, and shrieked so loudly that the whole airfield seemed to pause and look her way. “Megaaan! Megaaan you wore it, Megaaan you look fabulous!” She came down the steps in a blur of brightly colored silks and glittering boots to air-kiss Megan’s cheeks before gesturing imperiously for her to turn, showing off the ensemble. “The color is perfect for you! I knew it would be! You are perfection!”
“You shouldn’t have, Miss de la Fuente, but thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“You are beautiful! Girls! Girls! Is Megaaan not beautiful?” Even when Carmen wasn’t shrieking Megan’s name, she stretched the a out in a way that—despite the woman’s flaws—Megan rather liked. Megahn, as if she was flirting with just the use of a very soft a.
Three extraordinary women, all with varying levels of petulance on their flawless faces, emerged from the plane and minced down the airstairs to rake Megan with scathing eyes. They all towered over Carmen, who was small and brown and curvy, with pixie-short black hair that made her brown eyes look enormous. She had a type that could easily be summarized as exactly her opposite, which was why Megan didn’t really think the wealthy young Spaniard was actually into her. Finally, one of the women—an icy-pale Nordic blonde an entire foot taller than Megan—relented with the admission of, “Very beautiful. I could never wear that color so well.” She gave Megan a knee-weakening smile, and scooted elegantly into the limo when Megan opened the door.
Only as the other women stepped in did Megan realize there was a suspicious theme to their outfits. The Nordic blonde wore light, sparkling blue; a rangy black woman’s gown was delicate leaf-green, and an almost-translucent white woman with gobs of curling red hair wore teal green with bits of gold knotwork in the very short hem. Carmen’s silk was red and fluttery, and Megan, suddenly suspicious, looked down at herself. “Um, Miss de la Fuente? Am I . . . Belle?”
Carmen screamed again, making Megan’s ears ring. “I knew it! I knew you would understand, Megahn! You see, girls? I told you she would understand!” She pointed to each of the women in order, imperiously caroling, “Elsa, Tiana, Merida,” before pointing at Megan, “and Belle! And now you must come to my party, Megan, for you understand!”
“Oh, gosh, I—couldn’t!”
“But you must! I will not have all the princesses if you do not come! You may bring the Beast,” Carmen said with a dismissive sniff. “But he must be handsome, Megan, or I cannot bear it.” She stepped into the car, leaving Megan to close the door and murmur, “. . . but I had plans . . .” Shaking her head, walking back to the limo’s driver door, she took her phone from her pocket—the expensive, gold-threaded slacks had pockets, for which all of Carmen’s transgressions could be forgiven—and called Detective Bourke. “Um, hi. About that pint . . . do you own a tux?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Paul Bourke did, in fact, own a tuxedo. Not just a tuxedo either, but the same kind of slim-cut suit he favored, with a flawlessly fitted waistcoat in—of all things—muted gold that happened to match Megan’s bold suit beautifully, down to the subtle brown-and-gold striping in the wide tie tucking into it. Patent leather dress shoes were shiny enough to reflect the dockside strip lights, and as he walked up to her, Megan said, “You own that?” incredulously.
Bourke, equally astonished, said, “You own that?” in return, and for a few seconds they simply stood there admiring each other with small, approving gestures and amazed smiles. Then Megan giggled.
“I didn’t own this a couple of hours ago. It was a—I don
’t even know what it was. A gift or a bribe, or maybe just showering some noblesse oblige on the little people, I don’t know. I drive Carmen de la Fuente sometimes, do you know her?”
“No, but I’d say she’s the one percent.” Bourke rocked back on his heels to look up at Carmen’s yacht, towering over them at the dockside.
“I think she might be the one percent of the one percent,” Megan admitted. “She’s having a princess party and decided I should be—”
“Belle?” Paul smiled at Megan’s surprise. “She’s the only one who wears gold. Not gold pantsuits, but—wait. Does that mean I’m the Beast?”
“I suppose it would be better if this—” Megan touched the lapel of his tuxedo jacket lightly—”was very, very dark blue, but you’ve got the gold highlights, so we’ll call it good.”
“I’m flattered. Why on earth didn’t you invite Jelena?” Bourke offered his arm, and Megan tucked her hand into it as they walked up the gangplank.
“You and I already had plans for tonight, so it didn’t even cross my mind. I’m apparently bad at dating.”
Bourke’s pale eyebrows lifted. “I hate to agree, but I think you might be.”
Megan made a face, then breathed, “Holy moly” as they stepped onto the yacht’s . . . she didn’t even know what it was called, besides a deck. Prow, maybe, at the front of the ship. The deck gleamed, polished wood catching the final pinks and blues of sunset and turning fiery under the brilliant tones. The ship’s white sides bounced the light around even more, casting flattering glows on people in phenomenally expensive clothes, and even more expensive jewelry, who circulated with drinks in their hands and smiles on their lips.
“Wait,” Bourke said, “stop.” He dipped his hand inside his jacket pocket and withdrew his phone, then pointed with it at the ship’s railing. Megan tossed her hair and went to lean, with her best sultry supermodel look, against the railing, with the sunset and the ship glamorous all around her. After a minute of taking pictures, Paul put his phone away, but Megan said, “Uh-uh, my turn,” and took a bunch of photos of him, and then a ton of selfies of them both grinning like idiots. Fortunately, other people were doing the same, although Megan murmured, “I don’t think we’re acting as cool and collected as we’re supposed to” when she finally put her own phone away.
“I think I can live with that. Can I send one of these to Niamh?”
“Oh, God, send all of them!” Megan cackled and peered up at the next tier of the ship as he did so. A third deck rose above that, too, and she caught glimpses of what she imagined was the most exclusive group on the ship, on the very top deck. The princess theme was in full display, ranging from outfits that would have made cos-players weep with envy to decidedly interpretive costumes that Megan couldn’t identify. Suits ranged from tuxedos all the way to full-blown prince outerwear, and Megan seized Paul’s arm, trying not to point too obviously at a ginger man she was pretty certain was an actual prince. “Deadly,” he said without interest, and turned Megan in the other direction, “but look at her.”
He indicated an older woman, her hair an elaborate crown of braided buns and a tunic gown of understated blue, with a starburst neckline and a square cutaway front that revealed a lighter-weight undergown. Megan’s eyes filled with tears and, like a beauty queen, she flapped her hands at her face. “I can’t cry, it’ll ruin this makeup. Oh, but she looks just like her, that’s perfect. Oh my God. What do ordinary people like us do at a party like this, squirm around the edges and gawk?”
“Sounds good to me.” Bourke nabbed a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and gestured for Megan to choose a path through the crowd. “I’ve never been on a yacht. Let’s explore. What’d you text me about?”
“Oh, God. I talked to Niamh this afternoon.”
“Oh?” Paul brightened. “I haven’t talked to her for a few days. How’s she doing? How’s her shoot going?”
“Really well, I guess. She’s having fun.” They stepped through polarized glass doors into a living area done in cream leather and walnut wood, all of it polished to a gleam. Huge windows were open to the night air, cooling the room and giving a glimpse of the other boats, and Malahide village, sparkling in the background. The lights were either recessed or chandeliers, which somehow struck Megan as absurdly funny. She choked back a giggle, and Bourke grinned.
“We’re a couple of culchies, aren’t we?”
“We are so,” she agreed, and dropped her voice to say, “Look how beautiful everyone is. It’s like they’re not real.” And then, as if it was a natural segue—and it kind of was—she added, “How are things with you and Niamh anyway?”
“Same as you and Jelena, I think. Casual. She’s amazing.” Bourke sounded momentarily awestruck. “I knew she was savage on stage and a relentless social justice warrior, so I thought she might be fierce all the time like. She’s gas, though.” He tipped his head like he might add a caveat, and Megan said, “But?”
“But she belongs in a crowd like this one, and I’m a homebody. It could be that would work out, having a lad to come home to, but I can’t see myself dropping a case to fly off and do the red carpet with her, you know? And I don’t think she would expect me to, but it’s hard to have a relationship if you’re not there to celebrate the highs and the lows together.”
“Who knows, though. You might go do one of those events and discover you love it.”
Bourke grimaced broadly. “And then her private life wouldn’t be private at all. It’s tricky.”
“I hope you’ll figure it out.” They had, by that time, edged their way down the living room, past women wearing more expensive perfume than Megan had ever smelled, and a group of young men with the best haircuts she’d ever seen. “I feel like I’m the ‘normal person’ extra on a film set. You know, the one girl at the prom who’s dumpy, to give the scene veracity?”
“Are you sure you’ve seen yourself in that outfit? I know what you mean, though. This is a nice tux, but I think it costs less than some of these lads’ shoelaces. There’s the stairs. Do you think we need a secret password or a speakeasy knock to get up them?”
“Probably.” Megan tapped out a pattern with her fingernails as they mounted stairs that, although constrained by the limitations of the ship, still managed to sweep dramatically in an upward curve. No one challenged them, although a dapper man with grey at his temples did give Bourke an extremely appreciative smile as they passed each other. Megan elbowed Paul cheerfully. “Want a sugar daddy?”
“If I were even the smallest wee bit bisexual, I would step up for that, but I’ve long since come to the conclusion that I am, in fact, depressingly straight.”
Megan laughed. “‘Depressingly’?”
“Ah, it’s always struck me as a bit limiting, you know? Only being attracted to the one gender? I can admire a handsome lad on an aesthetic level, but I have no desire at all to do anything about it.”
“I’ve never had that problem,” Megan said cheerfully. “Anyway—oh, gosh.” They’d bypassed the yacht’s second floor entirely, emerging on the highest, smallest deck, where Carmen and an actual bevy of princesses were backlit by deep blue streaks in the sky and the promise of moonlight on Malahide Bay. “Oh my gosh, this is beautiful. But maybe we’d better get back downstairs before—”
“Megaaan! Megan, there you are, my Beauty and her Beast?” Carmen’s shrill voice, and then Carmen herself, burst out of the crowd to embrace Megan and look Paul up and down with a critical eye. “Yes, very handsome, if this is the type you like. You must meet the other princesses, Megan, you have met our ice queen and frog princess already, but here is a fierce warrior and my darling sleepy beauty and—” Princesses, all taller than Megan and most taller than Paul, surrounded them, caroling greetings and admiring Megan’s suit. In the midst of it, feeling crowded, Megan turned away to get a breath of air, and collided face-first with a glittering purple seashell bra.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry—” She looked up to meet the mermaid�
�s eyes and found an astonished Saoirse MacDonald blinking back down at her.
* * *
“M–Megan?” Saoirse sounded as disconcerted as Megan felt. “Megan Malone?”
“Yes? I mean, yes! Saoirse? Holy—you look amazing. I’m sorry about—you know—being in your boobs—” At forty-one years and one month of age, Megan thought she should probably be able to get through a surprise encounter without fumbling it like a teenager, but there were simply moments in life when her adult persona shriveled up and left an awkward, easily amused thirteen-year-old in its place. The only saving grace in this painful truth was the knowledge that virtually every other adult she knew suffered the same problem. People didn’t really grow up as much as she’d thought they did when she was a kid. Or even when she was Saoirse’s age, midtwenties and still knowing it all. “Saoirse, what are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here? You look deadly.”
Megan made a feeble hand wave in Carmen’s direction. “I’m her driver. She dressed me.”
“I think she dressed all of us.” Saoirse pressed her lips together, the skin around them turning very white. “Da met her years ago and made her laugh, so she invites him to these things. Invited,” she said in a strained voice. “She thought I should come along tonight even though . . .” She shook her head rapidly, then looked beyond Megan, saw Paul, and paled further. “Is that the detective on Da’s case? What’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“It is, but we’re—I was supposed to go out for a pint with him tonight, but Ms. de la Fuente invited me to this, so I invited Paul. It’s nothing to do with the case.”
Bourke stepped up to offer his hand. “Ms. MacDonald. Paul Bourke. Not Detective tonight.”
“Wouldn’t you always be, though?” Saoirse shook his hand and glanced around. “Not that you’d want to be with this crowd. Da played a gentleman’s game, so he could be seen with the likes of these, but only as a poor relation like. A curiosity. A trained monkey like.”
