The Arrangement

by Robyn Harding

  It was his third affair (fidelity was not the norm in his circles) that had gone wrong. Melody, an attractive paralegal at the firm, had been emotionally unstable. She’d grown needy and demanding, texting him constantly, calling him at all hours, professing her love. Once, she’d even shown up at the house in the Hamptons under the auspices of delivering a brief. Thankfully, Celeste hadn’t cottoned on, but Gabe had promptly ended the relationship. Melody had cried, threatened to harm herself, to tell his wife. The girl couldn’t have known how close she had come to disappearing. Gabe was capable of anything to protect his wife, his daughter, and his good name. He had people who took care of problems like Melody. In the end, he’d offered the paralegal a payoff and a new job at a Midtown firm. She had accepted. Lucky for her.

  Sometimes, though, at the oddest times, Gabe felt like Melody was watching him. It was paranoia; it had been years since he’d dismissed the woman from his life. But occasionally, he’d feel a prickle at the back of his neck, a frisson running up his spine, and he would sense that Melody was nearby, observing. He had yet to clap eyes on her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t out there, waiting for an opportunity to destroy him. Gabe knew how to take care of himself. He traveled with protection. But the Melody affair had taught him a powerful lesson.

  The website was the answer. It was used by several of his colleagues who, like Gabe, lived alone in the city all week while their families resided in Southampton, Amagansett, or Montauk. These girls—these sugar babies—did not cause problems. He was up front about the parameters of the relationship; no strings, though he classified himself as divorced in his profile. It was cleaner, simpler, and he attracted more women that way. (He didn’t wear a ring, never had, claiming it irritated his finger.) But this girl, Natalie, was not going to fall in love with him, threaten his marriage, or harm his impeccable reputation. Dating rich men was her job, a way to cover the rent, to eat in nice restaurants, to buy designer clothes. The girls he’d found on the site had given Gabe the attention, the adoration, the sex he needed. And then, when he grew tired of them, they conveniently disappeared.

  The long black Lincoln pulled up in front of a brick warehouse converted into a row of bistros, shops, and bars. “We’re here, sir.” It was his driver, Oleg, a big man, square of shoulder and jaw. He was an immigrant from Moldova, providing service, discretion, and sometimes muscle, for a bargain price.

  “Stay in the area. I’ll text you when I’m wrapping things up.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  As Gabe climbed out of the back seat, he thought about the girl he was about to meet. Her photograph had grabbed him instantly. Her cascade of dark hair, her pale skin, the glossy bow of her mouth. And her body in that tight black dress . . . He felt a flicker of excitement as he entered the rustic wine bar, the manager snapping to attention, recognizing a powerful, wealthy customer on sight. Gabe demanded a quiet table near the back, and his host dutifully complied.

  Following the portly maître d’ through the buzzing establishment, Gabe felt the familiar weight of eyes on him. People were drawn to his confidence, his authority, his presence. He was a somebody, they could tell just by looking at him. Gabe was the kind of man who could walk into a crowded bar, insist on the best table, and somehow, it would materialize. And, when a beautiful woman, thirty years his junior joined him, no one would bat an eye.

  He felt no guilt about his marital status as he handed the manager his coat and sent him off to fetch a drink. Both he and his wife were satisfied with their paper marriage. Celeste wanted for nothing; Gabe made sure of that. She had a beautiful home, a spacious property, domestic support. Her days were filled with yoga and pottery classes, massages and nutritional consults. Celeste took care of herself and their daughter. That’s all she had the energy for; there was none left for Gabe. And yet, he stayed, even though she had abandoned him: emotionally, physically, sexually. He was an attractive, virile man, who had stood by his wife, in sickness and in health. He deserved a fucking medal. And he deserved the sexy young woman who was about to enter the bar.

  He deserved Natalie.

  9

  * * *

  The Drink

  Natalie’s gloved hand gripped the railing as she descended the front steps to her Uber. To calm her nerves, she’d had a coffee mug full of vodka and Sprite while she’d straightened her hair. Then, when she was applying her makeup, she’d had another one to steady her hand. The drinks, her nerves, and the pair of high-heeled boots she’d donned for the occasion, were a dangerous combination.

  Thankfully, she made it to the idling Toyota Camry without incident and climbed into the back seat. She couldn’t afford the Uber, but she couldn’t afford to show up late for this meeting, either. What was the protocol for a sugar date gone wrong? Was money deducted for tardiness? For not laughing at his jokes? For showing up tipsy? God, she hoped not. As the youthful driver shuttled her to her destination, she opened the dating app on her phone and read up on Angeldaddy.

  He had messaged her his real first name: Gabriel. Like the angel. His username was clever. Gabriel’s age was fifty-five. How old was her dad? In his late forties, but he looked older. When she’d last seen Andrew Murphy, a life of depression, cigarettes, and booze was already taking its toll. Rich people could pay for private chefs, personal trainers, even plastic surgery. But Angeldaddy would not be handsome. If he was, he wouldn’t have to pay five hundred bucks for a date. Nat was prepared for the worst in the looks department.

  She hadn’t asked Gabe to send a picture before their rendezvous because his appearance was not relevant. Neither was the fact that he enjoyed good Scotch, a good workout, and a good movie. This was a glass of wine. This was five hundred dollars. This was a means to an end.

  The Uber pulled up in front of a brick warehouse conversion just as she was beginning to feel woozy from staring at her phone while in motion. The bar was very cool, very hip, very intimidating; a place she would never have set foot in under normal circumstances. Tumbling out of the car, Nat moved toward the wine bar, checking the time on her phone. She was a little late. She was a little carsick. And she was a little drunk. But she was here. With a fortifying breath, she pushed open the glass door.

  The bar was warm and cozy, with wide plank floors, brick walls, heavy wood tables. As soon as she entered, the manager, a stocky guy in a starched white shirt and jeans, greeted her.

  “Are you meeting a gentleman here?”

  Did he know? Was he judging her? She felt compelled to explain: I’m not a prostitute. I have debts and bills. It’s just one drink. Instead, she said, “Uh . . . yeah.”

  “Right this way.”

  Obediently, she followed him, ignoring the tiny voice in her head that told her to turn around, to leave, to not look back. It was her conscience, reminding her that she was about to sell herself. Ava and the website could spin it, make it sound like a business deal, a mutually beneficial transaction, but at her core, Nat knew this was glamorized prostitution. You don’t have to do this, the little voice said, but she did. If she backed out of this date, she wouldn’t be able to repay Mara and Toni. She’d be evicted. She wouldn’t have the money for the deposit on a new apartment. She’d have to drop out of school, go back home, work at the Greek restaurant again. She’d be a failure, a laughingstock. She instructed her conscience to shut the fuck up.

  They were headed toward the back, toward a man seated at a secluded table, an amber drink in his hand. This could not be Gabriel. Instead of the wizened ogre she’d been expecting, this man had a full head of gray hair, a strong jawline, a dashing dark suit. He looked up and smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his lips revealing a glimpse of square white teeth. As he stood to greet her, there was no denying he was an attractive man. Old, but attractive.

  “Hi, Natalie,” he said, leaning in and kissing her cheek. It would have been presumptuous in any situation but this one.

  “Hi, Gabriel.”

  “Call me Gabe,” he said. She d
idn’t suggest the diminutive Nat. She liked the way he said her full name: Natalie. It sounded like music.

  Their attentive host took Nat’s ratty coat, revealing the black peasant top and tight black jeans she was wearing. If she’d had more time to prepare, she’d have borrowed a dress from Ava. But this was the best she could do on such short notice. Gabe didn’t seem to mind. His eyes drifted over her appreciatively as the bar manager pulled out her chair and she sat.

  “Something to drink?” the manager asked.

  Nat was already drunk. She should order a water, a diet Coke, or a Shirley Temple. But instead, she gestured toward Gabriel’s drink—Scotch? His profile said he liked a good Scotch. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  With a nod, the server left them alone.

  “You like a rusty nail?”

  So that’s what it was. She’d never had one, but she played along. “I do.”

  “Not too strong for you?”

  “I can handle my liquor.” She sounded flirtatious, even suggestive. Gabe smiled, his eyes crinkling again.

  “Tell me about yourself, Natalie.”

  Ava had warned her to protect her privacy, not to reveal the details of her current life. Nat heeded the advice.

  “I’m from Blaine. In Washington State. Have you been there?”

  “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Of course not. Why would you? It’s small. And boring. That’s why I left.”

  He lifted his drink, and the ice cubes tinkled. “I’ve been to Seattle, though. And Vancouver.”

  “Close enough.”

  “It’s a beautiful area. The ocean and the mountains . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you ski?”

  “No. I don’t really like the cold.”

  God, small talk with an old guy was painful. How did Ava do it with so many men? Nat’s eyes flitted around the bar, chock-full of sophisticated, attractive patrons: couples, friends, a promising first date, perhaps. She and Gabe were the only awkward, mismatched pair there. Nat felt a cold gaze on her, and she turned to see a woman a few tables over. She was in her thirties, an attractive brunette dining with her husband (evident by their matching wedding bands). The woman was sneering at Nat, her judgment and hostility overt. This stranger knew what was going on here, and it disgusted her. A shameful heat crept into Nat’s cheeks.

  Thankfully, her drink arrived then. She took a large swallow. Oh, Jesus! She coughed and spluttered, the whiskey burning her esophagus.

  Gabe slid a glass of water toward her. “You okay?” His voice was concerned, but she could see the amusement dancing in his blue eyes.

  “Fine,” she croaked, guzzling the water.

  “I thought you could handle your liquor,” he teased.

  “I can.” Her voice was hoarse. “I just need to get warmed up.”

  He smiled at her. “You’re cute.”

  She looked up and met his gaze. It was intense, searing . . . and not as creepy as she had anticipated. Something stirred in her . . . not quite attraction, but, perhaps, a slight infatuation. This powerful man, in his expensive suit, with his fancy watch, was looking at her with such interest, almost fascination. Nat forgot about that woman’s disgusted stare and allowed herself to feel flattered. Her cheeks were pink again, but not from shame: from the Scotch and the attention.

  “Where did you grow up?” she asked, taking another sip of her drink.

  “I’m from a small town, too,” Gabe said, surprising her. As he told her about his humble beginnings in Michigan, she felt an affinity for him. They were not so different after all, both small-town people with big dreams. Except Gabe was rich and old; Nat was poor and young.

  As Gabe talked about the lacrosse career that got him to Princeton, she heard the muted ring of a cell phone. Of course, this man was a big deal. He was busy and important and would get phone calls at all hours. But Gabe wasn’t moving to answer it; he was too polite, too charming. He halted his story.

  “Do you want to get that?”

  It was her phone ringing, deep in the belly of her oversize pleather purse.

  “I’m so sorry,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and rummaging through it. “No one ever phones me.” She extracted the device and looked at the call display: Mom.

  “Just my mom,” she said, powering off the appliance. “I’ll call her later.”

  “Are you sure? It could be important.”

  “It won’t be.” She sipped her strong drink. “My little brother probably got offered an internship at NASA. Or my sister made the Olympic swim team . . . even though they’re only five and seven.”

  He chuckled. “I take it your siblings are overachievers.”

  “Half siblings,” she corrected him. “My mom remarried. Oliver and Astrid are the perfect, smart, blond kids she always wanted.”

  “You’re not close to your family?”

  “I don’t really fit with them.” She drank some more. “My mom and her new family look like one of those TV commercials where everyone is gorgeous and happy and playing Frisbee at a picnic. And then you find out it’s an ad for herpes medication or something.”

  His chuckle egged her on.

  “So obviously they’re relieved I live on the other side of the country,” she quipped. “You know, because I’m not a savant, or an elite athlete. And I have brown hair.”

  Gabe was laughing now, and she felt a little thrill. This rich, distinguished lawyer thought she was cute. And funny. And maybe she kind of was?

  “Surely, that’s not true,” he said, amusement dancing in his eyes. “They must miss you.”

  Nat thought about the night Cole had broken into their home. The fear, the panic, the anger. Her mother had forgiven her, but Derek hadn’t. While he never articulated his resentment, he blamed her, it was clear. He’d nearly beaten an innocent kid to death. He was distant, cold, aloof. They were all better off without her.

  “They don’t,” she said.

  The restaurant manager reappeared then. (Apparently, Gabe was a VIP and could not be served by a mere waiter.) “Another drink?” the man suggested.

  Gabe smiled at her. Those teeth. Those crinkly eyes. “What do you think, Natalie?”

  She looked down at her glass, surprisingly close to empty. She was drunk, but pleasantly so. The booze made her feel warm and confident. Her date made her feel special. She’d planned to spend an hour with this man, get the money, and go home. But there was no rule against enjoying herself just a little. Glancing toward her sneering, judgmental neighbor, Nat found the dark-haired woman engrossed in her meal, the debauchery a few tables over, forgotten. Nat turned back to her date.

  “Why not?”

  10

  * * *

  The Morning After

  As soon as Nat opened her eyes, a swell of regret engulfed her. Through the pounding in her temples, the date came back to her in snippets. Gabe’s white teeth. His intense blue eyes on her. She’d been telling him stories, making him laugh. Stories about what? Blaine. Perfect little Oliver and Astrid. But the end of the night was blank. How had she gotten home? Had she called an Uber? Hopped in a cab? If she couldn’t remember that, what else was she forgetting?

  A wave of nausea washed over her—from the alcohol, from shame, from self-loathing. How had she fucked this up? It was supposed to be one drink, one hour, five hundred dollars. Instead, she’d gotten blackout drunk and ruined everything. A slip of a memory flashed through her mind. She was stumbling out of the bar, strong hands on her elbow, on the small of her back. Did those hands belong to Gabe? Or the bar manager? One of them must have dumped her into a taxi.

  Rolling over, she was able to reach her purse, nestled among the clutter of clothes, books, and pencils on her floor. Dragging it toward her, she fished for her phone, found it. She checked the time: 12:14 P.M. Opening her e-mail, she found no Uber receipt. So a taxi must have brought her home. Had Gabe paid for it? Or had she paid for it out of the money he’d given her? If
he’d given her any money. She’d been drunk, messy, babbling . . . Even she didn’t think she deserved remuneration.

  As she dug for her wallet, she heard a knock at the front door. Nat didn’t get up. It was a Saturday, so Mara and Toni were likely home, studying, cleaning, alphabetizing the cereal cupboard. And it wouldn’t be for her, anyway. Nat’s friends from school didn’t live in the area. Miguel hated her and would not be dropping by. She recognized the quick, thumping footsteps of Toni, hurrying to answer the insistent knock.

  Retrieving her battered canvas wallet, she opened it and peered inside. Three ones and a five. Disappointment crushed her chest. Why hadn’t she gotten the money up front, like Ava had suggested? A successful date would have paid off her debt to her roommates. A couple more dates would have lined her bank account. But she didn’t even have enough class to be a fucking sugar baby. She flopped back down on the bed. Tears of self-recrimination slipped from her eyes, ran down her temples, wet her hair.

  “Natalie!” It was Mara’s voice, shrill, irritated. As usual.

  She dried her eyes with the bottom of her T-shirt and got up. She was too tired, too hungover to feel anything but resignation as she wrapped her robe around her and stumbled to the kitchen.

  Her roommates were standing by the counter, arms folded, faces stern. Toni was in scrubs—either coming from or going to a practicum shift; Mara was in workout gear, her red hair piled on top of her head, making her resemble a woodpecker. Nat smelled spices, lemon grass, coconut, before she even spotted the brown paper bags full of Thai food.

  “Ummm . . .” It was Toni, her hands migrating to her hips, “we’re just wondering how you can afford to order a feast of Thai food when you owe us money?”

  “I didn’t order any Thai food.”

  “Really?” Mara said. “I’m not quite finished with my master’s, but I think I can read your name right here on the bag.”