Our Little Secret (9 page)

Exposed to what, I wonder?

There’s a pause.

‘Can I trust you?’ he asks, and I can see his eyes as he says it. Those eyes.

‘Of course,’ I tell him.

‘Good.’

He rings off before I challenge him about the dress. Or ask him when I’m likely to meet his wife: the other part of the ‘we’.

17

Everyone has their own so-called ‘comfort zone’ and mine, right now, is way,
way
on the other side of the planet. It’s seven in the evening and I’m sitting on the edge of my seat in the back of the limo, watching the lights of Manhattan looming up ahead of me, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more jittery. Nerves and excitement are flooding my veins with adrenaline.

I’m dolled up in the dress and, even though I have a fake-fur stole around my shoulders – well, I presume it’s fake, although it feels pretty damn fluffy to me – I feel excruciatingly exposed. I’ve never worn anything so sensual, or revealing, but the dress is so cleverly made, it’s like a second skin and, considering its skimpy proportions, I have to admit that it’s unbelievably flattering. I’m all curvy and cool, like that girl in the Chanel advert where she strips off.

There’s no label, but I can’t help thinking that someone who really knows about women made this dress. Despite my initial reservations, I have to admit that I don’t think I’ve ever looked this good.

I stare down at the matching silver high shoes, turning my foot on its side to survey the spiked heels. They don’t have a name or a label in them, either, or any markings at all, but I guess they must be designer, too. Will I be able to walk in them, though? What if I trip over?

I have no idea what to expect, or why I’ve been required to look like this, but as we snake through the traffic I want to pinch myself. Two seconds ago, I was in a dead-end job in FunPlex and now I’m here, looking like this, in Manhattan, in a limo. Tiff wouldn’t believe me, even if she could see me right now.

I distract myself by staring out of the window at the buildings, the yellow cabs, the steam coming up through the sidewalks – just like it does in the movies. Only better. It’s real. It’s happening.

We drive along a wide avenue, snaking in and out of the traffic, and my face is pressed against the window as we go through Times Square and I see all the adverts lit up. It feels familiar and alien, and I wish I could stop the car and get out and look around. But I’m not exactly dressed to be a tourist.

Before long, we’re in a wide block of swanky-looking brownstone buildings. They have tall windows and lots of shiny black cast-iron work. They were probably once warehouses, but they’re done up now. I see trendy bistros and designer shops with grilles over them, the perfect mannequins lit up inside dressed in gowns and coats. I’m trembling with nervous excitement.

As we slow down, I can see that one of the buildings is open and a crowd of people is spilling out onto the sidewalk. The voice of Trewin, the driver, who once again has barely said two words to me, comes through the speaker in the door.

‘This is it. You can leave your coat in the car,’ he instructs.

Coat? My stole isn’t a coat. But maybe he’s right. Maybe the dress should be seen.

Quickly I rummage in my handbag, which I will also leave in the car. I grab the see-through make-up bag stuffed with my essential ‘top-up’ kit that Roberta gave me. I check my eyes in the shiny black compact. They’re still perfectly made-up. They look clear and bright, my lashes sculpted to perfection.

I wave a wand of lip-gloss over my lips and twirl one of my bouncing curls over my shoulder. Then I shrug off the stole and check the top of my dress. It’s a halterneck, but is so cleverly cut, it somehow supports my boobs in a perfect way, even though I’m not wearing a bra. Suddenly I remember Scott and how he used to cup my breasts.

Scott. Oh . . .
shit!

I still haven’t messaged him – or emailed or rung – as I promised I would. I didn’t have enough reception at the house, though I must have here. But it’s too late to call him now. I’m so rubbish only to have just thought of this now. The last contact we had was when I texted him from the plane just before we took off. He’ll be worrying about me by now.

I’m amazed by how distant he feels, like he’s from a different life altogether. What would he say if could see me now? I wonder, seeing my gaze staring back at me in the mirror.

I wouldn’t want him to see me, I decide. I wouldn’t want his small-minded, small-town judgement ruining how I feel right now. Which it would. Besides, Scott – for all his bravado and reputation with his mates – would never have the nerve to do anything like this. To step out into the world. To feel the fear and do it anyway, as the poster on my bedroom door says. I may fall flat on my face, but at least I’m willing to give it a go. And that, I realize with a sad sigh, is why I left.

The limo slows and stops by the sidewalk. I see the faces outside staring at me. They can’t see me through the tinted glass – I know that – but I still flush.

Behind them, standing in the doorway, I see Edward. He steps forward onto the sidewalk. He’s wearing a skinny-cut blue silk suit, which makes his tanned face look amazing.

‘It’s OK,’ he mouths. I know he can’t see me, but it comforts me that he knows I can see him. That he knows I’m looking for him. He smiles at me. There’s that dimple in his cheek. There’s no sign of Marnie Parker. No sign of his wife at all.

I hear Trewin getting out of the driver’s seat. I shove my bag and stole into the shadows and take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

And then the door opens.

18

I take Trewin’s hand as he helps me to step onto the pavement. And I swish out the skirt of my dress and smooth it over my curves as I stand, trying to stop my legs shaking.

It’s just as I feared: everyone is staring at me. I swear there’s a sudden hush as I stand by the car.

In a second, Edward is in front of me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Does he like my dress? Do I look OK?

‘Hi,’ he says. His eyes don’t leave mine as he leans forward to kiss me. I’m expecting a polite kiss on the cheek, but to my surprise, his lips touch mine.

It’s the smallest kiss, but it’s so unexpectedly intimate, I feel my breath catch. I smile back at him. As long as I’m in the bubble of his gaze, nothing else matters. My nerves reduce down from a code red.

I’ve been telling myself all day to drop my stupid fantasies about him, to stop the ridiculous crush I’ve developed in just one meeting, but standing here, his kiss still tingling on my lips, I know I can’t do it. I feel lit up by him.

Edward’s hand slips around my waist, his warm fingertips grazing my flesh and, once again, goosebumps arpeggio up and down my spine. I am careful with the front of my dress, which has a slit down the front to the middle of my stomach. I don’t want any boob blunders, but before we left Roberta and I had a practice and she assured me that it was virtually impossible to fall out of it.

Edward guides me, so that we both turn in unison. ‘Smile,’ I hear him whisper under his breath, although we’re both already smiling. A man with a big camera crouches in front of us as we walk towards the gallery. I thought Edward was photo-shy? I thought he didn’t like publicity, so why are we being photographed like we’re a couple? Where is his wife? What’s going on?

‘That’s great,’ the guy says, briefly checking the view on his camera. ‘And another.’

But Edward is being pulled away, to shake a man’s hand. He’s an effusive young guy with a shaved head and piercings all up his ears. He has an elaborate tattoo on his neck.

‘It’s such an honour, man,’ the man says, pumping Edward’s hand. ‘I can’t believe you’re here.’ He must be the artist.

Edward winks at me and lets go of my hand and steps away, so that I can be photographed alone, but I know I haven’t lost his attention. I gaze at him confused, but he gestures to me to turn around in a slow circle and I do. The photographer snaps away at me. I’ve never even considered modelling for a second. I’m not quite tall enough and have far too large a chest, but I can suddenly see the appeal, although they’re snapping away at all angles.

Ignoring the photographer’s request for more pictures, Edward dispatches his fan with a clap on the top of his arm, and puts his arm once again around my waist and guides me protectively towards the doorway of the gallery. Just the way he is with me makes me feel more special than I’ve ever felt. It fills me with confidence.

As we walk inside, a girl in a short orange dress stands aside for us and I have a jolt of recognition. She’s that actress in
Spider-Man
. The one Scott thinks is hot. She’s minute in the flesh, but she has a kind of star quality and I smile at her. She smiles back, like we’re mates already. Wow!

The gallery is rammed and it’s hot inside. Music pumps out. The open-plan space is lit with lasers, which occasionally illuminate the metal walkways high up, criss-crossing the warehouse. It’s the most exceptionally cool place I’ve ever been.

And this, I realize, is actually what it’s like to be in the centre of things. And it feels . . . magic. Because all my life I’ve been waiting for this. To be somewhere this happening.

On the walls are huge, dramatic black pictures, like photograph negatives that have barely been exposed. Waiters and waitresses walk around carrying trays of champagne and sumptuous-looking canapés between the groups of people. I see people turn to look at Edward and me. I keep my head held high.

‘You’ve got a small job to do,’ Edward says in my ear.

‘Oh?’ I ask. A job? What does he mean?

‘Go straight ahead and up those stairs. That’s all.’ His eyes smile into mine. ‘When you’re halfway up, put your arms up on the rail and turn round. Look over your shoulder,’ he tells me. ‘There’ll be more pictures. Then the guys will leave you alone. Whilst you do that, I’ll get you a drink.’

He fondles a long curl of my hair, and then nods encouragement at me and I walk alone through the gallery, but I can’t help feeling that I’m parting the crowds. That everyone is staring at me.

Without Edward by my side, I feel like an imposter. A fraud. I concentrate on my instructions, keen not to disappoint him, but – surrounded by all these beautiful people – I’m terrified that I’m going to trip up any second. I scan around to look for Edward, but I don’t see him.

I know now why he doesn’t want me to speak. Because I don’t – and won’t ever – fit in here. This, I realize, is a performance. One for which I’ve had specific instructions. And until I know what’s going on and what the nature of the production is, all I can do is play my part. I focus on the metal staircase ahead of me, imagining that it is a stage. I can do this.

Anyway it’s impossible not to sashay in these shoes, which give my stride a confidence I don’t feel. I hold my chin up, as I keep going. I reach the stairs and start to walk up the steep metal steps, putting my hands up on the rails. Halfway up I stop, as I’ve been instructed, and look nonchalantly over my shoulder. Below me, looking up, are two cameramen, their shutters flashing furiously. They must be getting a hell of a rear-view. This dress splits up the back almost to my bum. I don’t smile; I just raise one of my newly shaped eyebrows, like I’m a prize diva.

Then I see a man in a scruffy brown suit standing to one side. He has rumpled, curly black hair that looks like he’s just got out of bed, and a shadow of beard on his chin. He sucks a drink through a straw.

He stares at me and, when my eyes meet his, his own eyebrows rise up in such a way that I realize I haven’t fooled him for a second. That he thinks I’m ridiculous. I quickly look away from him and turn, continuing up the steps.

I see some people above waiting to come down, but they’re going to let me pass first. I smile at the girl. She has blue-black raven hair, cropped in a brutal fringe. She puts her hand over her mouth and whispers to her Japanese-looking blonde friend, who looks at my dress and nods.

Do they like it? Don’t they? Do I look ridiculous? It’s impossible to tell.

I carry on, as fast as I can manage, away from the photographers and that off-putting man. At the top of the steps there’s a walkway, and I see Edward on the other side at the bar. He puts his chin up, his eyes telling me to walk towards him. My eyes don’t leave his. It’s a long way down on either side of the walkway, and I don’t have a head for heights. Halfway across, he nods again, and I realize he wants me to stop.

How many times have I misinterpreted Scott? I think. Dozens. Half our arguments have been over me misreading his body language in clubs and pubs – when he wanted to stay, and I thought it was time to leave – and yet here I am being controlled by the gaze of a man I hardly know.

I wait for Edward, putting my hand on the bar of the walkway. Up here, I have a view over the whole gallery. Looking down on the crowd, I realize this must be the ‘eclectic’ crowd that Edward hangs out with. I looked it up in the dictionary after reading Edward’s Wikipedia entry, but whilst there’s an arty sort of vibe, the people all look similar to me. Most people are wearing black and, with the black pictures on the wall, I feel like I’m a shimmering light.

Edward approaches.

‘Try this,’ he says, holding out a clear drink in a Martini glass.

I take the drink. My silver-blue nails look stylish against the glass. Roberta did an amazing job. I’m never going to take these nails off. That is seriously my favourite nail-polish colour of all time. I look at the big costume ring I’m wearing. It’s a large, round, sparkly knuckleduster on my middle finger. Of course I assumed it was costume, but now, as it catches the light, it dawns on me that the hundreds of diamonds might well be real. I glance down at the stringy diamond necklace that hangs down the slit of my dress. Is that real, too?

‘Are you OK, Miss Henshaw?’ Edward asks. This time, his leg touching mine, the way he says my name feels intimate. Like it’s a pet name and we’re way closer than we actually are.

But that’s not true, I remind myself. That’s just what happened in my filthy imagination. This is purely a business arrangement.

I nod, smile and clink glasses with him, and take a sip of the drink. It’s neat vodka, by the taste of it, and it’s ice-cold. But it’s not bitter or acrid, but rather delicious. I take another sip. Edward’s eyes sparkle at me as he watches me. I suck the liquid off my bottom lip. My nipples are hardening beneath the thin fabric of the dress, as if he’s staring at them, but his eyes don’t leave my face.