But he had disappeared off without a word. He was getting married in just a few short weeks, his life moving on seamlessly from grungy teen to pretentious student to a man with responsibilities, just the way it was supposed to. Just as hers was supposed to have done.
Gael was like a dog with a bone. ‘Let me get this straight: you didn’t date at all? Since you were eighteen you have been single?’
How could she explain it? It all sounded so drab and dreary—and in many ways it had been. Those first few years when she earned so little, the long nights in alone while Faith slept, studying for her Open University degree, the ever-widening chasm between herself and her school friends until the day she realised she had no one to confide in. Too young for the mums at the school gates and the other secretaries at her law firm, too old at heart and shackled by responsibilities for the few girls around her age she managed to meet.
And then there was the rest: the lack of money or time to take care of herself and the slow dawning realisation she had lost any sense of style or joy in clothes and hair. It was hard when she had no budget to indulge herself and little time or talent to make the most of what she could afford. But there had been other things that compensated—watching Faith star in her school play, taking her ice skating at Somerset House, organising sleepovers and pamper evenings and home-made pizza parties for her sister and her friends and seeing her sister shine with happiness. Surely that was worth any sacrifice?
‘No, I dated. A little. But I didn’t like to stay out late, even when Faith was older and no one could stay over, it didn’t seem right. And so the few relationships I had never really went anywhere. It’s really no big deal.’
‘Okay,’ but she could hear the scepticism. Hope didn’t blame him. How could she fool him when she had forgotten how to fool herself? ‘Come on.’
Gael took her arm and turned her down a path on their left, his walk determined and his eyes gleaming with a devilish glint she instinctively both distrusted and yearned for. ‘Where are we going?’
He stopped in front of a red and yellow brick hexagon and grinned at her. ‘When’s the last time you rode on a carousel, Hope?’
Was he mad? He must be mad. Hope stared over at the huge carousel. It was like a step back in time, wooden horses, their mouths fixed open, heads always thrown up in ecstasy, their painted manes blowing in a non-existent breeze as the circular structure turned to the sound of a stately polka. ‘I don’t know when I last rode on one,’ she said and that was true. She couldn’t pinpoint the date but she knew it was before Faith was born. Before she had elected to opt out of family life. She vividly remembered standing by the side of a carousel in the park as her parents took her laughing baby sister on one. She had refused to accompany them, had said it was too babyish. Instead she had stood by the side feeling left out and unloved, hating them for respecting her word and not forcing her to ride.
‘You’ll always be able to answer that question from now on. The eighteenth of August, you can say confidently. In New York, around...’ He squinted at his wrist. ‘Around two-forty in the afternoon.’
‘No, I can say the eighteenth of August is the day some crazy person tried to persuade me to go on one and I walked away.’ She swivelled, ready to turn away, only to be arrested by a hand closing gently around her wrist. She glared at Gael scornfully. ‘What, you’re going to force me to go on?’
‘No, of course not.’ He sounded bemused and who could blame him? She was acting crazy. But she could still see them, the two forty-somethings cradling their precious toddler tight while their oldest child stood forgotten by the exit.
Only she hadn’t been forgotten. They had waved every time they passed by, every time. No matter that she hadn’t waved back once. Hope swallowed, the lump in her throat as painful as it was sudden. Why hadn’t she waved?
Gael leaned in close, his fingers still loose around her wrist. His breath was faint on her neck but she could sense every nerve where it touched her, each one shocking her into awareness. ‘Doesn’t it look like fun?’
Maybe, maybe not. ‘I’ll look ridiculous.’
‘Will you? Do they? Look at them, Hope.’
Hope raised her eyes, her skin still tingling from his nearness, a traitorous urge to lean back into him gripping her. Stop it, she scolded herself. You’ve known him for what? Two days? And he’s already persuaded you to pose nude, holds your career in his rather nicely shaped hands and is trying to make a fool of you. There’s no need to help him by swooning into him.
But now he was so close she could smell him, a slight scent of linseed and citrus, not unpleasant but unusual. It was the same scent she had picked up in his studio. A working scent. He might be immaculately dressed in light grey trousers and a white linen shirt but the scent told her that this was a man who used his hands, a physical being. The knowledge shivered through her, heating as it travelled through her veins.
‘Hope?’
‘Yes, I’m looking at them.’ She wasn’t lying, she was managing somehow to push all thoughts about Gael O’Connor’s hands out of her mind and focus on the carousel, on the people riding it. Families, of course. The old pain pierced her heart at the sight; time never seemed to dull it, to ease it.
But it wasn’t just families riding; there were groups of older children, laughing hysterically, a couple of teens revelling in the irony of their childish behaviour. Couples, including a white-haired man, stately on his golden steed, smiling at the silver-haired woman next to him. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘They don’t look ridiculous. They look like they are having fun.’
‘Well, then,’ and before she could formulate any further response or process what was happening she was at the entrance of the building and Gael was handing over money in crisp dollar bills.
‘Go on, pick one,’ he urged and she complied, choosing a magnificent-looking bay with a black mane and a delicate high step. Gael swung himself onto the white horse next to hers while Hope self-consciously pulled her skirt down and held on to the pole tightly. He looked so at ease, as if he came here and did this every day, one hand carelessly looped round the pole, the other holding a small camera he had dug out of his jeans pocket.
‘Smile!’
‘What are you doing?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Practising my trade. Watch out, it’s about to go. Hold on tight!’
The organ music swelled around them as the carousel began to rotate and the horses moved, slowly at first, before picking up speed until it was whirling around and around. At first Hope clung on tightly, afraid she might fall as the world spun giddily past, but once she settled into the rhythm she relaxed her grip. Gael was right, it was fun. More than that, it was exhilarating, the breeze a welcome change on the hot, sticky day. Above the organ music she could hear laughter, children, adults and teens, all forgetting their cares for one brief whirl out of time. She risked a glance at Gael. He was leaning back, nonchalant and relaxed, like a cowboy in total control of his body; his balance, his hand was steady as he focussed the camera and snapped again and again, watching the world through a lens.
And then all too soon it was slowing, the walls slowly coming back into focus, the horse no longer galloping but walking staidly along as the music died down. She looked over at Gael and smiled shakily, unable to find the words to thank him. For a moment then she had been free. No one’s sister, no one’s PA, no expectations. Free.
‘Another go?’
‘No, thank you, one was enough. But it was fun. You were right.’
‘Remember that over the next two weeks and we’ll be fine.’ Gael dismounted in one graceful leap, holding a hand out so that Hope could try and slide down without her skirt riding up too far. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink at the Tavern on the Green and you can decide if you like it enough to shortlist it for the wedding drinks.’
‘Good idea.’ Damn, why hadn’t she tho
ught of that? Celebrating her sister’s wedding in such an iconic venue would certainly be memorable.
Hope stopped, suddenly shy, trying to find the right words to frame the question that had been dogging her thoughts since their conversation at the lake. ‘Gael, when will I be ready? To be painted?’
It wasn’t that she felt ready; she wasn’t sure she ever would be. But knowing that at some point it would happen, at some point she would have to keep her word, made it almost possible for her to relax.
Gael didn’t answer for a moment, just stared at her with that intense, soul-stripping look that left her feeling as if she had nowhere left to hide.
‘When you start living,’ he said and turned and walked away. Hope stood still, gaping at him.
‘I am ready,’ she wanted to yell. Or, ‘Then you’ll be waiting a long time.’ Because the truth was she was scared. Scared of what would happen, scared of who she was, scared of what might be unleashed if she ever dared to let go.
CHAPTER FIVE
HOPE STOOD IN her walk-in wardrobe and stared at the rack of carefully ironed clothes, fighting back almost overwhelming panic. Panic and, she had to admit, a tinge of anticipation. Every day for the last nine years had followed its own dreary predictable pattern and even here, in the vibrant Upper East Side, she had managed to re-establish a set routine before she’d worked out the best place to buy milk.
But not today. She had no idea what Gael had in store for her. He’d told her to be ready at ten a.m. and that he would call for her. Nothing else.
He’d mentioned risks. Allowing herself to live. Unlocking herself. Hope swallowed. She liked the sound of that, she really did. She just wasn’t sure whether it was possible, that if she stripped away the layers of self-sufficiency and efficiency and busyness there would be very much left.
‘Okay,’ she said aloud, the words steadying her. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’
Oh. She shouldn’t have even thought that because now, now she had opened up the floodgates, it turned out she could think of lots of worst things. Maybe he was going to suggest skydiving or bungee jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge—illegal but even Hope had heard the rumours and she bet Gael O’Connor didn’t give two figs for legality anyway. Or climbing up some skyscraper—or walking a tightrope between them. She inhaled shakily. No, she was pretty sure she could strike the last one off her list.
Or maybe when he said he wanted her to loosen up he was talking about her V card. He might be a member of one of those exclusive clubs where expensive call girls and even more expensive cigars and whisky were shared by men in ten-thousand-dollar suits. Possibly. She’d seen a TV show once where the detective went undercover in exactly that kind of club right here in New York City...
Or maybe he would want her to explore her own sexuality in a burlesque class or pole dancing or actually perform in some kind of club or...or no. Ten minutes would be nine minutes and fifty nine seconds longer than she needed to convince any stage manager that she most definitely didn’t have what it took. After all, how many four-year-olds were asked to leave baby ballet?
‘Stop thinking.’ Hope grabbed a pair of high-waisted orange shorts and a cream broderie-anglaise blouse and marched out of the wardrobe, throwing them onto the daybed, which doubled as a sofa and place to sleep. Living in a studio so compact it practically redefined the word had meant she needed to find new levels of neatness and organisation or resign herself to living surrounded by everything she had brought with her in disordered chaos. And that, obviously, would be intolerable.
Dressed, her hair brushed and tied back into a high ponytail, and her feet encased in a comfortable pair of cream and tan summer loafers, she should, she reflected, have felt better. That was what her new, eye-wateringly expensive wardrobe was supposed to do. Make her feel ready for anything. Make her feel like someone. Instead she felt all too often like a little girl playing dress up in the bold colours, designs and cuts. Maybe she should get changed...
Right on cue, as if Gael knew the exact moment she was feeling the most insecure, the buzzer went. No doorman here, no lift or fancy hallway. Just a buzzer and several flights of stairs.
Not that the four flights of stairs seemed to faze him. He was annoyingly cool when she opened the door, his breathing regular, not a damp patch to be seen on the grey short-sleeved shirt he’d teamed with a pair of well-cut black jeans. His clothes gave no clue to the day’s activities although she could probably rule out the gentleman’s club. Her eyes met his and, as she took in the lurking laughter, all the calm, welcoming words she had prepared and practised fell away.
‘Do you want to get going?’
He took a step forward until he was standing just inside her threshold. ‘Are you in a hurry? It’s usually considered polite to invite a guest in. Or is there something you don’t want me to see?’
As if. Her life was an open book. A very dull book, which had been left to gather dust on the library shelf, a little like her. ‘Not at all. I just thought you might want to get started. Ah, come in. Although you are. In.’
How had he done that? Eased himself in through the door and past her so smoothly she had barely noticed. She should add magician to his list of talents.
Come on, Hope, get some control. ‘Tea?’ When in doubt revert to a good national stereotype.
‘Iced?’
‘No, the normal kind. I have Earl Grey, normal, Darjeeling and peppermint.’
His mouth quirked. ‘Seriously?’
‘Er...yes. I found this little shop which sells imported British goods and I stocked up...’ Stop talking right now, Hope. But her mouth didn’t get the message. ‘Tea and pickle, sandwich pickle, not gherkins. And real chocolate, no offence. There’s many things the US does better, like coffee and cheesecake, but I would give my firstborn for a really mature cheddar cheese and pickle sandwich followed by a proper chocolate bar.’
Just in case he had any doubt she was socially awkward she was spelling it out for him loud and clear. She hadn’t always been this way; if only she could turn the clocks back nine years—although if it was a choice between getting her confidence back or her parents there was no contest. She’d happily be awkward for ever.
Mercifully Gael didn’t pursue the conversation. He stood in the middle of the room, dominating all the space in the tiny studio. ‘Nice address.’
‘Location is everything. Apparently it makes up for the lack of actual space—at least that’s what Maddison says. It’s her apartment,’ she explained as his eyebrows shot up in query. ‘We swapped homes when we swapped jobs.’ Not that Maddison was currently occupying either Hope’s home or her job; instead she was cosied up in the home of Hope’s old boss, Kit Buchanan, planning a future together. Hope had worked with Kit for three years and he had never stepped even a centimetre over the professional line but barely a couple of months with Maddison and he had given up his job and was planning a whole new life with the American. Hope couldn’t help wondering how the job swap had turned Maddison’s life so radically upside down while hers was left untouched.
And look at Faith. Less than three months into her travels and she was engaged to the heir to a multimillion-dollar fortune, which was an awful lot more than most people managed on a gap year. What had Hope done in the city that never slept? Tried a few new bagel flavours and experimented with her coffee order. Hold the front page.
Maybe today wasn’t going to be so horrendous after all. Whatever Gael had planned at least it would be new. Maybe this was all for the best—what was the point in bemoaning the dullness of her life if she didn’t grasp this chance to shake things up a little?
Gael strolled over to the window in just four long strides. ‘I like it. Nice light.’ The apartment didn’t compare with his, of course, but thanks to the gorgeous bay window the light did flood in, bathing the white room with an amber glow. The window op
ened far enough for Hope to climb out onto the fire escape so she could perch on the iron staircase, cup of tea in one hand, book in the other, soaking up the sunshine.
‘It does for me. I don’t need much space.’ Which was a good thing. A tiny table and solitary chair sat in the bay of the window, the daybed occupied the one spare wall lying opposite the beautiful and incongruously large fireplace. The kitchen area—two cupboards and a two-ring stove—took up the corner by the apartment door and a second door to its right led into the walk-in closet equipped with rails and drawers, which opened directly into the diminutive but surprisingly well appointed bathroom. Two people in the studio would be cosy, three a crowd, but this was the first time Hope had shared the space with anyone else. Unless she counted the Skype conversations with her sister.
Loneliness slammed into her, almost knocking the breath out of her.
Gael’s mouth quirked into a knowing smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t. More used to accommodating others than demanding space, aren’t you?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being able to live simply. What do I need? For today? A coat? Different shoes?’ She wasn’t going to ask what they were doing, show any curiosity, but she wasn’t above digging for a clue.
Gael turned and looked her over slowly and deliberately. It was an objective look, similar to the way he’d looked at her when he asked to paint her, as if she were an object, not a living, breathing person and certainly not as if she was a woman or in any way desirable. And yet her nerves smouldered under his gaze as if the long-buried embers remembered what it felt like to blaze free.
Unveiling the Bridesmaid Page 6
