Unveiling the Bridesmaid Read online

  ‘Sure. Let me just pay.’

  ‘Great, I’ll wait for you in the lobby.’ And just like that she was gone, walking tall and proud even in the heels she could barely balance in. His chest clenched painfully. He’d never met anyone like her before. Brave and determined and doing her best to cover up how lost she actually was. He’d spent so long with society queens obsessed with image, with money, with power that he had forgotten that there were women out there who played by a whole different set of rules.

  It didn’t take long for him to settle up and join her. Hope was standing absolutely still, lost in a world of her own, her dark eyes fixed on something he couldn’t see. Guilt twinged his conscience. ‘That was a brave thing you did in there.’

  ‘Was it?’ She looked at him pensively. ‘I don’t know. Letting go would be brave. Telling a room full of strangers? I don’t know if that’s enough.’

  ‘Who else could you tell?’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if I should let Faith know the truth. If she should know just what kind of person I really am, not worthy of her love and respect.’

  ‘Punish yourself more, you mean? What would that accomplish? Look at me, Hope.’ He took her chin gently in one hand, forcing it up so her eyes met his gaze. They were so sad, filled with a grief and regret he couldn’t imagine and all he wanted was to wipe the sadness out of them. ‘What matters is what you have done in the last nine years and that makes you more than worthy of her love and respect. Don’t make her feel that she wasn’t a responsibility you accepted joyfully but a burden that you took on through guilt. Think that she’s the reason you’ve spent the last nine years locked away from any kind of normal life. Honesty isn’t always the best policy, Hope.’

  ‘You think I should keep lying?’

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘Would you sacrifice everything for her?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Then that’s your truth. How you got to this point is just history. Goddammit, Hope, the girl lost one set of parents. Don’t threaten the bond she has with you as well.’ He knew all too well what it felt like to have that bond tossed aside as if it—and he—had meant nothing. ‘Come on, I’ll take you home.’

  But she didn’t move. ‘I thought we were going out afterwards. You said you knew the perfect place we could go to after the wedding dinner and we should try it out tonight.’

  ‘Haven’t you had enough excitement for one night?’ He knew he had. He wanted to get back to his studio and draw until all these inconvenient feelings disappeared. This sense of responsibility, of kinship. This stirring of attraction he was trying his damnedest to ignore. So her legs went on for ever, so a man could get lost in her eyes, so he never quite knew what she would say or do next, one minute opinionated and bossy and the next strikingly vulnerable. So he wanted to make everything that had ever gone wrong in her life better. None of this meant anything. Once he’d painted her all these unwanted thoughts and feeling and desires would disappear, poured into the painting where they belonged.

  Irritation flashed in her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me what I have or haven’t had, Gael O’Connor. You may have orchestrated tonight but I’ve been looking after myself for a long, long time. You promised me that I would loosen up and have some fun—well, right now I’m more tense that I think I’ve ever been so what I need is for you to keep your word and for you to show me a good time.’

  Her words were belligerent but the look in her eyes was anything but. She wanted to forget; he understood that all too well. He weighed up the consequences. He should put her in a cab and go somewhere where he could drink until every word she had said on stage was no longer seared into his brain. But common sense seemed less than desirable, everything seemed less than desirable while she stood there in a dress that barely skimmed her thighs, need radiating from her like a beacon. He swore under his breath. He was a fool—but at least he was aware of it. ‘Come on, then, what are you waiting for?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS A short walk to their destination but, after a swift assessing look at her feet, Gael flagged down a cab, tipping the driver well in advance to make up for the swift journey. It took less than five minutes before the car pulled up and Hope blinked as she took in their surroundings, unable to keep the surprise off her face as she looked around at the massive hotel they’d been dropped off by. As she turned she could see the bright lights of Times Square flashing brashly just a few metres away. ‘Every time you take me somewhere you surprise me,’ she said. ‘Art museums, funny little theatres and now a hotel?’

  ‘We’re not going into the hotel proper,’ he assured her and steered her past the darkened windows of the hotel to the bar tucked into the ground floor. ‘Just into here.’

  ‘Okay,’ but she wasn’t convinced as he opened the anonymous-looking door and stood aside to allow her to precede him inside. ‘It’s just this is a hotel bar and it’s not really the kind of thing I think Faith is wanting...’ She stopped as abruptly as if her volume had been turned down, her mouth still open as she slowly turned and surveyed the room. It was perfect.

  Wood panelled and lit with discreet low lights, the piano bar evoked a long-gone era. Hope half expected to see sharp-suited men propping up the bar, their fedoras pulled low and ravishing molls, all red lipsticks and bobs, on their arms.

  The long wooden bar took up most of the back wall, a dazzling array of drinks displayed on the beautifully carved shelves behind. A line of red-leather-topped stools invited weary drinkers to sit down and unload their cares into the ever open ears of the expert bartenders. Gael nodded towards a table, discreetly situated in the corner. ‘Cocktail?’

  Hope weighed up the consequences. A cocktail on top of all that wine? But the five minutes she had spent on stage had sobered her up more effectively than an ice-cold shower and she needed something to alleviate the buzz in her veins. ‘Yes. Please. I don’t mind what. I know, I’ll try one of the house specialities.’

  She took a seat, watching Gael as he ordered their drinks. He fitted in here, sleek and handsome with an edge that was undeniably attractive, probably because it was unknown, slightly dangerous. She looked away quickly, hoping he hadn’t caught her staring, as he joined her. ‘This place is awesome. It’s like the New York I hoped to find but haven’t yet, if that makes sense.’

  ‘It’s exactly like a film set,’ he agreed. ‘Piano and all. They’ll have a jazz band playing on the night of your sister’s wedding...’

  ‘So we can come here after the dinner? Oh, Gael, thank you. What a brilliant idea. Faith is going to be so happy. The only thing is it’s not that big and there will be fifteen of us. Can we reserve a table?’

  He nodded. ‘They don’t usually but I should be able to...’

  ‘Pull a few strings? I’ve noticed that. Hunter was right. You know everyone.’

  ‘That’s why he sent you to me.’

  ‘Yes. I could never have done this on my own, thank you.’

  ‘I’m not helping you out of the goodness of my heart,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Oh, I know, I owe you a debt.’ She did but she couldn’t begrudge him that, not now. Hope had seen a lot of weddings recently, mostly vicariously through photos shared on social media, far too cut off from her old social group to merit an invitation. They all varied in location, in expense, but the trend seemed to be for huge, extravagant, glitzy events. This small but very sweet wedding she and Gael were putting together in record time made the rest seem tawdry and cheap. It was, she realised with a jolt, the kind of wedding she would want for herself.

  The realisation slammed into her and she gripped the table. Would she ever have the opportunity to do this for herself? She wasn’t sure she’d know how to date any more, let alone fall in love—and suddenly it was dawning on her just how much she wanted to. Spending the last thre
e days with another human being, a very male human being, had been eye opening. She wasn’t entirely sure she always liked Gael; she certainly wasn’t comfortable around him. But he challenged her, pushed her, helped her. Attracted her.

  Yes. Attracted. Was that so wrong? She was twenty-seven, single, presumably with working parts. Attraction was normal. Only she was a beginner and she was pretty sure he was at super-advanced level. Far too much to handle for her first real crush in a decade. She should start slow. With a man who wore tweed and liked fossils.

  Thank goodness, here was her cocktail and it was time to stop thinking. With relief Hope took an incautious sip, eyes watering as the alcohol hit her throat. ‘Strong,’ she gasped.

  ‘They’re not known for their half measures. How are you?’

  ‘Choking on neat gin?’

  He raised an eyebrow and she sighed. ‘I feel like I’ve been for a ten-kilometre run or something. It’s exhausting baring your soul to complete strangers.’

  ‘I know.’

  It was obvious that he did. Either the alcohol or the knowledge he truly had seen everything she was emboldened her to push deeper. ‘What did you say? When you went up? You did go up, didn’t you? That’s how you know it’s what I needed.’ It had been, she realised. She’d needed to drain some of the poison from her soul.

  Gael didn’t answer at first, fingering the rim of his glass as he stared into the distance. Hope watched his capable-looking fingers as they caressed the glass in sure strokes and something sweet and dark clenched low inside her.

  ‘I first went there because I was looking for inspiration. My photos felt stale, uninspired. I had just been asked to shoot a series for Fabled about the next generation of Upper East Side, all unimaginatively dressed up as Gatsby and co. There they were, ten years younger than my friends and just as entitled, just as arrogant, nothing had changed. I came to the Truth night looking for hope. I didn’t expect to be getting up on stage and bearing my soul.’ His mouth twisted. ‘It could have been professional suicide. I know it’s supposed to be confidential but if a journalist had heard me confess how much I hated my work they could have destroyed me.’

  ‘Is that what you said?’

  ‘It’s not what I meant to say but near the end it hit me. I was miserable. I needed to change, get back to what I’d originally planned to do—paint.’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘I don’t know why but I wanted to tell them about the first time I went to Paris, about the effect the whole city had on me. I’d spent days in the Louvre and so when I went to the Musée d’Orsay I was a little punch-drunk.’

  ‘I can relate to that after this afternoon.’

  He grinned. ‘Not so punch-drunk that I mixed up Renoir and Degas.’ Hope pulled a face at him, absurdly pleased when he laughed. ‘Then I saw her, Olympia. I don’t know why she struck me the way she did. It wasn’t that I found the painting particularly sexy or shocking or anything. But her honesty hit me. I didn’t know that relationships could be that honest.’

  Hope set her drink down and stared. ‘But isn’t she a courtesan?’

  He nodded. ‘And she’s upfront about it. There’s no coyness, no pretence. “Here I am,” she says. “Take me or leave me but if you take there’s a price.” Everyone knows where they stand, no hard feelings.’

  Hope tried to put his words into a context she understood. ‘But a relationship, a real one, a lasting one, that’s based on honesty, surely.’

  ‘Is that what you believe?’

  Was it? She was doubting herself now. ‘It’s what I’d like to believe.’ That much she knew.

  ‘Exactly! You’ve been sold the fairy tale and you want to believe it’s true, but you and me, we live in the real world, we know how rare true honesty is.’

  ‘Hey, don’t drag me into your cynical gang of two! What happened to make you so anti love?’

  He smiled at that, slow and serious and dangerously sweet. ‘Oh, I believe in love. First love, love at first sight, passion, need. I just don’t believe in happy-ever-after. Or that love has anything to do with marriage. The marriages I see are based on something entirely different.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Power. Either one person holds all the power and the other is happy to concede it—that’s how the whole trophy-wife—or husband, in my father’s case, it can be equal opportunity—business works. One half pays, the other obeys. Once they stop being obedient, or they live past their shelf life, then they get replaced.’

  ‘In your crazy world of wife bonuses and prenups maybe, not in the real world.’

  ‘In every world. It may not be as obvious or understood but it’s there.’

  ‘But if that was the case then all marriages would fail eventually,’ she objected. ‘And they don’t. Some, sure. But not all.’

  Gael shrugged. ‘Some people are happy with the imbalance. Or they have equal power and can balance each other out, but that’s rare. Now my dad, he keeps marrying women with money. In the beginning they like that he’s younger, they think he’s handsome, it gives him status—he holds the power. But once they are used to his looks and the lust dies down and they realise their friends aren’t so much jealous as amused by their marriage then the power shifts. That’s where he is right now. Again.’

  ‘Does he love them? The women he marries?’

  ‘He loves the lifestyle. He loves that they don’t demand anything from him. My mom, she held the power because he was absolutely besotted. He tried everything to make her happy. That’s her trick. Only in her case she always stays on top. She leaves them when a better deal comes along. Although she’s been with Tony for ten years and they have two kids so who knows? Maybe this one she’ll stick out.’

  ‘Not all marriages are like that. Your parents were so young when they married.’

  ‘Like Hunter and Faith?’

  ‘Yes.’ She wanted to say things would be different for them but how could she when they were still such strangers? But her sister’s marriage was hers, to succeed and fail as it would. Hope would help where she could but in this her sister, for the first time in her life, was on her own. ‘But they are hardly typical either. Look, you have spent your whole life watching these absurdly rich, absurdly spoilt people play at marriage, play at love, grabbing what they want and walking away the second it gets tough. The real world isn’t like that. My parents survived seven miscarriages—seven—IVF. Me,’ she finished sadly. She was all too aware just what a strain her behaviour had been on her parents. She would give anything to go back and do it all over again. Yes to Saturday night pizza and films, yes to Sunday walks in the country, yes to that damn carousel ride.

  She tried again. ‘Look, I might have little real-time experience of love or relationships. I’ve obviously never been married. But I know something about living up to expectations. If you go around believing everyone is looking to shaft everyone else then that’s what you’ll find. I don’t believe that. I won’t.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Look at that, Hope McKenzie all fired up. I like it.’

  And she was. She was on fire, living, completely in the moment for the first time in nine years. Her chains loosened, her self-hatred relieved. ‘In that case,’ she said slowly, scarcely believing the words coming out of her mouth, ‘I believe we have a painting to start working on.’

  Time stilled as Gael studied her, his eyes still narrowed to intense slits, his focus purely on her. Hope made every muscle still, made herself meet that challenging stare as coolly as she could. If they didn’t start this now she wasn’t sure she’d ever have the guts to go through with it. But right here, right now, she was ready.

  He pushed his stool back and stood up in one graceful, almost predatory movement. ‘Yes, it’s time,’ he said and a shiver ran through her at his words. ‘Let’s get this painting started.’
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br />   * * *

  The scene was set. He’d planned it all out the day he met her and it was the work of seconds to pull the chaise round to exactly the right angle and to set up the spotlights he used for his photographs to simulate the sun. ‘Here,’ he said, throwing a clean robe over to her. ‘Go and get changed. Can you screw your hair up into a high knot?’

  Hope nodded. She had barely said a word since they had left the bar, since her unexpected challenge. But she’d lost that wide-eyed wariness that had both attracted and repelled him. Tonight she was filled with some other emotion, an anticipation that pulled him in. She was ready, ripe for the unveiling.

  Gael swallowed. She wasn’t the only one full of anticipation. His hands weren’t quite steady as he threw a white sheet over the chaise, adding a huge pillow and a rumpled flowery shawl. The other models had brought in their own jewellery, pillows, throws to lie on, things that had significance to them, but he was painting Hope in almost identical colours and attitude to the original. The virgin posing as the courtesan.

  ‘Wait, take this as well.’ He handed her a bag.

  Hope took it, opening it and peering at its contents. A thick gold bracelet, a pair of pearl earrings and a black ribbon to tie around her neck. Mule slippers. An orchid for her hair. ‘Okay. What about make-up?’

  ‘You don’t need any. You have perfect skin.’

  A blush crept up her cheeks at his words and she threw him a quick smile before heading off to the small bathroom he had directed her to just three days ago. Was that all it was? He’d lost count but what he did know was that it felt like weeks, months since he had met her and he didn’t want to analyse why that might be.

  It didn’t take him too long to set up his tools: paints, palette, brushes, linseed oil, rags. They evoked a fire deep inside that his camera and lenses never could; the messy, unpredictable elements appealed even as he tried to impose order on his emotions. Gael ran a hand through his hair as he took stock one last time. The setting was perfect, all he needed was his model.