by Susan Arden
“So good.” I sucked a point on his shoulder and closed my eyes, caught in the moment of being in bed and wrapped in his arms where I felt every beat of his heart against my skin.
* * *
I dressed after Graham left. His instructions were simple: study the thick media binder he’d given me about the upcoming charity event and acquire all the necessary items required to accompany him. Marie would be here at nine sharp to help with the buying spree—but I gathered the studying of Who’s Who would be my own endeavor. He’d kissed me, telling me to enjoy my morning, and deposited my own set of house keys, the security code for the front door, and a new cell phone, already programmed and ready.
One goal: to enjoy myself. Not so easy with Mr. Filbert downstairs, and the cleaning crew moving from room to room. Doing what? Dusting? Nothing could be amiss since yesterday.
Outside, the day was climbing into the nineties, and instead of fretting about the far-off future when I returned to Miami, it was easier to get lost in the here and now or, especially, Friday night. I believed my therapist would’ve termed this one as projection or denial…it didn’t matter. The question was simple. What should I wear when the woman who’d been assigned to assist me was an upper echelon fashionista and I closely resembled someone returning from a deserted island?
Graham suggested going for a look of elegance as long as it went hand-in-hand with basic colors and basic lines. That was all well and good advice for what to buy, but it didn’t help pull together a look to go shopping.
I dressed in a blue pleated skirt, white blouse, and ballet flats, stowing my wild hair in a twisted knot secured with hairpins. I wore minimal makeup—just mascara, eyeliner, and a coat of lip gloss. I stared back at the mirror, conflicted about my upcoming meeting with someone whose relationship with Graham I still questioned. I wearily walked downstairs, avoiding the staff milling about, and headed into the living room.
The doorbell rang, and I swung about abruptly, almost bumping into Mr. Filbert. “I’ll get it,” I said.
“Very good, Miss,” he responded in an old-fashioned British accent. I liked Filbert, as Graham referred to him, with his bushy eyebrows and bristling red hair. He wore a white shirt, dark apron, and dark trousers. The scents emanating from the kitchen were making me drool already. He was the first man I knew besides Luke who could fully handle himself in the kitchen. I found the dynamic between my sister and Luke’s cooking styles mildly entertaining. Luke came at cooking like it was a sport while my sister kept it either pragmatically simple or artistically detailed. But an academy-educated butler, like Filbert…Well, that’d be a horse of a different flavor.
I opened the heavy door with too much force and shoved my shoulder against the edge to stop it from slamming within the doorframe. A petite woman leaned up against the entryway wall, smoking a cigarette. She wore punk-styled clothing—black from head to toe that contrasted starkly with her translucent, almost blue skin. She was pierced in several places and glanced at me over the top of her sunglasses. I stared back at a pair of kohl-rimmed bloodshot eyes.
I wondered who she was and if she was here by mistake. In Miami, people came to the door to sell everything from soap to magazines, and I was prepared to say, “Let me go get my bag.” I waited for the sales pitch to begin.
“Eliza Hillwood, I presume,” she stated in perfect Brit English as she tossed her cigarette out onto the sidewalk.
“Yes?” I stared back, before my brain switched on. Oh. My. Lord. What a mistake I’d just sidestepped. Quickly, I recovered and replied, “And you’re Marie. Come in. Let me grab my purse.” I’d expected a Chanel suit and a French accent, not the leather, chains, and motorcycle boots that stomped in after me.
“Ham told me you wanted to see the sights? I have a car outside.”
Did she just say ham? Graham. I did a mental eye roll. “Ham? Is that a nickname?”
“From when we were kids.”
“Oh, you two go way back.” I couldn’t help that I snapped my head up. Graham never mentioned they were childhood friends. “He told me to go get some clothes and be prepared to deal with the press. I feel as though it’s a total waste of time, considering the press sound more like a pack of cannibals. Not that I would actually know.”
She laughed, sauntering forward. “You speak your mind. That’s good, especially in this city.”
“Because it’s so packed?”
“No. Because most people are full of shite.”
Filbert entered the living room. “Good morning. Would you care for something to eat or drink, Miss Alluete?”
“Bert, stop trying to fatten me up. Thank you, but I’m fine.”
I collected my purse, surprised by how Marie spoke with Mr. Filbert. Everyone’s name was subject to subtraction around her. Would I become Liz or Ize?
“I’m certain your mother doesn’t agree,” Mr. Filbert returned in a pleasant tone.
“Ah, but she’s not here. Is she?” Marie bracketed her hands on either side of her tiny hips as though preparing for a standoff.
“She’s but a phone call away.” Give it to the British butler to have a comeback as Marie’s eyes widened.
“I’ll have something later. I promise.” Marie mockingly crossed her heart. “You know I don’t do mornings.”
“Humph.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll have something ready when you return. Miss Hillwood, may I interest you in something before you go?”
“No, I’m still full from breakfast.”
Mr. Filbert nodded to me then glared at Marie. “I know where you live.”
“I’m scared,” she retorted, grinning and looking over to me. “He’s all courtesy and manners, but don’t be fooled. He has a black belt in nagging.”
“Don’t forget my harassing ability.” He smiled over at Marie before leaving. She sat perched on the arm of the sofa, popping a piece of chewing gum into her mouth and crumpling the wrapper before tossing it into a bowl on the cocktail table. She winked at me. “Gotta give the cleaning crew something to do tomorrow.” She zipped up the messenger bag she draped diagonally across her middle.
“Where are we going first?” I asked. What would Graham think if I came home decked out in a punk outfit such as hers? At first, I had the distinct impression he envisioned me finding conservative clothes. But after last night and then now with Marie, perhaps underground fashions might very much appeal to him.
“We’re off to Fashiontech. It’s a type of high fashion consignment shop, but the clothing isn’t sold. Ever borrowed a few dresses?”
“Sure. From friends.” I stopped, midstride. If sales were frowned upon by Graham, what would borrowing clothes rate? My rear-end still stung from last night. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“How else will we know what you like, and which designers work with your taste and figure?”
“I imagine stores with salespeople, and if something doesn’t fit, the staff gets you the right size. It requires a hell of lot of patience and shouldn’t be done except a few times each year.”
“Aw. I see my work is cut out for me. Good. I like a challenge.” Her jaw clenched for a second as she gave me a once over as though she were sizing me up.
“I don’t mean to be difficult,” I replied.
“This isn’t standard shopping. Put aside all you’ve done before in finding a dress. Where you’re going Friday, you’ll need extreme wear—it goes beyond a regular gown. We need to figure out what look gets it with you. If we enter into a designer’s den of inequity, they’ll promise you the moon. Talk your head off and charm you stupid. That’s why so many people end up looking like a mismatched gypsy traipsing down the carpet and right onto the worst dressed list. That won’t be you—not on my watch. We’ll stop at the Fashiontech and see what styles you like and what actually looks good. Then, we’ll go visit some of the most obnoxious people you’ll ever want to meet. Lucky for us, fashion week in Paris was months ago. Things have slowed, so some of them will be nice to a f
resh face.”
“Will I have a gown by Friday?”
“By Friday? Are you speaking a month from now?”
I slumped, and the feeling of my stomach bottoming out took hold of my entire focus for a second. “Not exactly. I need to be dressed to go by the end of week. Remember?” I inhaled, already certain I’d missed the mark on my one and only task.
“Don’t worry. I was only joking. Somewhat. We’re pressed for time on this mission so we’ll have to do the off-the-rack and alterations. And if that fails, we can always stop by my place if we don’t find something worthy of the media’s admiration.”
“Err. That won’t be necessary. I’m sure we can find something. How hard is a gown to scrounge up in this town?” I couldn’t imagine the type of clothing she’d own would be media ready and how me para-shopping in her closet would sit with Graham.
Until she fixed me with a stare and one of her pierced brows raised. “Plenty. I’ve walked the carpet and gotten rug burns.”
“Excuse me? Did you just say rug burn?” Did she mean the hard sex type of rug burns?
“Not that kind.” She did a slow head shake. “From having gotten tripped by one of those idiot journalists. All it takes is one fall from grace and a girl remembers. Forever.” She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Trust me. I know all the tricks. Why do you think Ham called me?”
Trust me. Does everyone say that? I studied and noted her clothing and accessories weren’t cheap. I spied a Rolex watch swinging on her wrist, loose and relaxed, along with a bevy of other bracelets. I wasn’t a diamond expert, but those rocks in her ears, if they were genuine, were worth a pretty penny. I cringed at my narrow-mindedness. I was sure if Marie and Ham were childhood friends, her background was just as stellar as his. From my mini-trolling online search of Graham, I’d uncovered—not hard, thank you, Wikipedia—he came from money. Just as he’d relayed to me, his parents were divorced. His mother had been a concert guitarist from Spain and she’d passed away two years ago. His father was from Scotland, a big name in commercial construction in Europe, and remarried.
Filbert was acquainted with her mother, ergo Marie must as well be one of the beautiful people.
I hoped she wasn’t put off by my so-not-slick comment before. “And you’re sure all of this is necessary? I thought I wanted to look good for Graham. He’s pretty picky. And I see a ton of foreseeable problematic issues if a consignment shop is where I’m starting out.”
“Don’t turn your pretty little nose up just yet.”
“I’m not. Never mind. If this doesn’t work out, there will be other moments. Right? I mean, I’m walking this carpet, but who will really care about me? I’m not the icon. Surely, anyone standing next to Graham isn’t in the limelight unless they’re equally famous. Let’s just call a spade a spade. On the scheme of things, I doubt I rank as getting noticed.”
“I don’t agree. Or better yet. Ham won’t. Think on that before you swath yourself in the idea you aren’t going to get photographed and can saunter on by the press as if you’re invisible. You will be on their radar. I guarantee it.”
“Fine.” I held up my palms. “Truce.” No wonder women spoke about shopping like it really was an accomplishment. Note to self. Call Carmen for advice. She’d know some places to explore in New York for clothing.
“Just remember this one point: photographs are eternal. Bad press stinks. Besides, it’s not about dressing up for Ham. For him, or any man, it’s about how you undress. Don’t ever confuse the two. From Fashiontech, we’ll hit the lingerie stores: La Perla and Agent Provocateur. You’ll have what you need for Friday, or I imagine it’s both our heads.”
Hours flew by filled with stores, and rack upon rack of clothing. Fashiontech was located in Midtown surrounded by small cafes, fashion houses, and opposite Et Al, a trendy restaurant I was instructed to visit by Carmen. We ended up with several shopping bags and boxes that filled the trunk of Marie’s car. She claimed to have struck pay dirt at Fashiontech by finding two evening gowns that fit me perfectly. Sure, they were on loan, but they were originals and without needing alterations—two facts Marie must have whisper-yelled twenty times today. With all our fashion finds safely stowed, I felt less apprehensive about Friday. My heart still hammered at the thought of having to tell Graham the dresses were loaners, but I’d deal with that bridge later.
My favorite purchase was a pair of heels. A pair of metallic sandals. Truly, a pair of four-inch stiletto works of art. And then there was the lingerie. Even my mouth watered going into the stores. Row after decadent row of ultra-feminine, eye-popping creations. I was now the owner of one absolutely amazing lace garter set in a pink champagne shade of luscious, decked with bows and crisscrossing ties at the back. And there were two baby doll nightgowns from La Perla and several sets of lingerie; I had more undergarments than outerwear.
More importantly, by the end of the shopping excursion, I’d come to find out Marie was not a person to inspire jealousy. She was the opposite in every respect. The mystery of her and Graham’s friendship was solved and left me feeling as though I’d been given a private view into the inner world of Graham Gordon. He had to have known she’d talk. It was her personality to say whatever came to mind.
She’d come to know Graham from Christian her brother, a man whose life had ended ten years ago in a traffic accident in France. Graham and Christian had been close but something was still amiss in what I knew so far about this tragedy. All I could tell was Christian’s death had cemented her friendship with Graham. I didn’t ask, but from what I gathered, Marie wasn’t into men. Not that she was into women, either. She was into herself. Not ego-wise, but something dark and something sad, and I felt drawn to her.
She didn’t seem interested in anything other than doing her job, which was to educate me about New York and equip me for my role. She understood that I was Graham’s live-in lover, but either didn’t know about the full details of our arrangement or pretended not to. She treated me as though this was business as usual, and she was very comfortable in his life. She was a complete enigma given her style, familiarity with him, and her confidence in overcoming all the obstacles he made me believe were important factors to consider regarding the press. I had to give it to Marie and Graham; they didn’t lack a sense of purpose, drive, or self-assurance. If this was what being part of the beautiful people imparted…I think I wanted in.
She stopped in the underground parking below the brownstone. “I’ve done my duty but have to ask. Do you really believe you’re going to remain untouched by the press?”
“Okay, they might point and shout a few times. But not go off the deep end. The press isn’t going to be interested in me with so many others around. They have to decide whom to target to make it worth their while.” I shrugged. “A yoga teacher from Miami. Come on.”
“I disagree.” She traced her finger over the top of the steering wheel as though considering her thoughts. “You have a far more interesting history than a lot of these idiots whose claim to fame is a family fortune. You’ll meet your share, and then we can exchange notes.”
I laughed uncomfortably, not wanting to believe Marie knew—really knew—my history. Nobody besides Laura, Luke, my best friends, and my therapist knew. Graham knew a tiny portion. “Just because I’m not a trust fund princess doesn’t make me interesting.”
“Eliza, that’s not what I’m talking about. Far from it.”
I froze, the smile plastered in place on my face. “What exactly are you talking about?”
She inhaled and picked up her cup of coffee. “I know your mother abandoned you.”
“A small-time tragedy doesn’t sell papers. Adoption happens all the time.” I pushed an errant strand of my hair behind my ear. I wasn’t going to start discussing my past, and forget talking about my stepfather. “I’m not the first person in New York to grow up without knowing my real parents.”
“Unless there’s an active wound. The press will dig. Can you take the he
at?”
“There’s nothing to find.” I held her gaze.
“Okay. Suit yourself. But know, sometimes the media is downright evil. They make crap up all the time. Better to give those tossers a bone, than let them sniff out…the story that will sell.”
“What about you?” I asked, wanting to redirect her attention away from me.
“You really haven’t done much homework on Ham, have you?”
“I’m not into cyberstalking.”
“Why am I not surprised? Look, the press knows Graham and I go way back with no romantic ties. Listen and learn: a platonic female relation ranks lower than family pet, which as you know he doesn’t have. Yet.”
Her eyes flickered over to me, a small curve pushing up her lips before she rapidly erased any sign of its existence. She pressed the screen on her cell phone. “Bert, have someone from the crew come down and help with the packages.”
I shook my head, taking hold of her arm. “No. I can manage.”
Marie’s brows drew together as she lowered her gaze to my hand. I released my fingers. Something about my touch rattled her. She ignored my request, hanging up the phone. “Do you want to make Graham angry? You’re not legless, Eliza so I won’t pretend any longer with you…I know he likes you, and that means you must fit into his way of doing things. But I can see that’s difficult, isn’t it?”
“Not exactly. No. I’m pretty flexible.”
“Pretty. Yes. You are—in some untamed version. Yoga teacher, so flexible makes sense. But that’s not the whole deal, darling.” She pressed her lips together. “You’re not like his other…interests. They were easy to bend; each understood what was expected. They were experienced in this type of lifestyle.”
Did she mean rich and famous or being dominated? Or both? “And what do you see with me?”
She smiled. “A pain in his arse.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I met Marie at the front door each day, and each time she arrived in a style that didn’t resemble the day before. If anyone was a human chameleon, it was this woman. She’d gone from punk to prep to pin-up girl, and today must have been deemed casual Thursday. She sauntered into the living room decked out in a Red Nose T-shirt, white Chuck Taylors, jeans, and carrying yet another stuffed shopping bag. I had to admit, with Graham gone so much, she filled in the gap where more than likely I’d be spiraling.
