The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) (22 page)

He rests his hand on my chair, just beside my arm in some kind of protective code. I glance up through the glass canopy. To the left of the building I can just make out, if I crane my neck, the ice-cream-layered elegance of the Chrysler Building. Then the arches of Grand Central Station. Above us, the trail of a jet plane, heading east.

‘Tomas will have to be blackballed, then. He’s the one who told me.’

Pierre lifts his glass in another toast and smiles steadily at me, his tongue flicking quickly across his teeth as if removing a foreign object. I think I am going to pass out. Tomas isn’t just the man I rejected at Pierre’s Halloween party in London who still has the hots for me. He has broken every code in the book and told Pierre
exactly
what happened at the club, no doubt every slavering detail. I daren’t look at Gustav. He must be recalling the same scenario. Those thick golden curls buried between my thighs just a few hours ago.

Gustav puts his glass down on the table. I notice his hand is shaking very slightly. ‘Let’s leave it there, shall we? Discretion being the better part of valour, and all that?’

Pierre grins and sits back in his chair. It honestly feels as if he’s interviewing us for a job.

‘Absolutely. But you know that Club Crème is the pinnacle of every man’s desires. I know, I know. You’re wondering why I want to belong to a den of iniquity like that when I’ve made such a big deal about what was going down in Baker Street. But this is different. Five years ago I was a clueless, cosseted young man who was genuinely shocked by what he saw and heard, partly because he was so green, but mostly because it involved you, Gustav. I’m still getting over that, to some extent.’ He glances across the table, but Gustav is looking down, biting his lip, trying to keep calm. ‘But I’ve learned a lot since then, and Club Crème is for grown-ups. It has a gloss on it that no other club in New York or London has. Everyone is panting to join. Its members are men of the world who know their own mind, and what they want is pure, unpoliced hedonism. There’s no other darkness involved. Just escapism. Extreme fetishes like whips and racks are banned, isn’t that right, G?’

‘You’ve done your research.’ Gustav looks up. ‘That’s right. It’s why I accepted the nomination to join.’

Pierre leans forward eagerly. ‘The bottom line is, guys, that a lot of my friends and business associates are members, or on the list to be voted in. You’re a nobody if you haven’t at least been along as a guest. But my own brother is a member, which would have a lot more clout than one of my mates. How about voting me in, G? Put the seal of validation on this reconciliation?’

‘I would love you to be a member, P, but it doesn’t work like that.’ Gustav isn’t looking at Pierre but at his glass of wine, perhaps trying to defuse any slight tension with a small laugh and a shake of the head. ‘For a start, you have to have a million in the bank.’

Pierre’s expression barely changes, but I notice an intensifying of the blackness in his eyes. Just like Gustav’s, when he’s displeased.

‘Of course. Money talks. I guess what you need is an inheritance, handed to you on a plate.’

Gustav turns the stem round and round in his long, strong fingers. Keeps turning it. The wine barely moves in the glass. I would not blame him for rising to that, but he keeps it very calm. Very low.

‘Anything handed to me on a plate was used to look after you, Pierre. A home, school fees. Any fortune I have accumulated since you left came to me through hard graft. You’re making big strides in your own work and I’m proud of you. So let’s give it six months. If you can show me where you are with your current project, that midtown theatre and your costume business, how you’ve publicised it, who’s taking it up, giving it their patronage, then of course I’d be glad not only to sponsor you for the Club Crème but more than that. I’d finance a business project for us to do together. I can see you doing something theatrical with these industrial spaces I’m viewing up and down North America over the next few months. My plan is to turn them all into venues for the arts. Something creative that interests us both.’

Pierre’s face darkens slightly. He leans forward in his seat, frowning at his brother. ‘You’d only give me a leg-up on the basis of a deal? Does everything work like that in your life?’

I shrink away from what could be a gathering storm.

‘Honestly?’ Gustav leans forward, too, so that their hands are nearly touching. ‘Yes. That’s how I’ve got where I am. You have to have concrete proven talent to go with. Not just someone’s word. And I think you and I could work together, your design eye and my business brain. Serena came to me on that basis, and look at us now! You’re my brother, and together we could be a force to be reckoned with. But first, show me your cards, yes?’

‘Fair enough. It’s why you’re such a great example, and I’m a fool ever to have thought otherwise.’ To my relief Pierre smiles ruefully and sits back in his chair. He spreads a hand towards Gustav as if presenting him to an audience. ‘Don’t look askance like that! I mean it! I’m going to work like a dog to prove myself to you. Let’s forget everything else, all the other influences. All the bad stuff, the mistakes, the betrayals. If we can do that, all we need to focus on is the positive. And the positive is you, Gustav. You are an incredible success story!’

Gustav’s mouth remains slightly open, as if he’s trying to get his breath.

‘Thank you, P. And I agree. That we need to jettison everything negative from this drama, like a splinter. You remember when you fell through the beams of the attic playing hide and seek? I had to take out about ten wooden splinters from your knees and fingers with an ice cube and a sewing needle.’

‘I should have known coming to you cap in hand wouldn’t do the trick!’ Pierre lifts his glass again. ‘I could do with a few quid, who couldn’t? It’s just that some things aren’t going so great. The business in London hasn’t really taken off, despite my Halloween launch. In fact, the only punters who have been into the premises since then have been pantomime dames.’

There’s a brief pause where we all look at each other. I can’t blame Pierre for being anxious and embarrassed about that, especially after all the fanfare. But the vision of these grotesque comedy figures with deep voices and false bosoms barging through that little shop looking for Widow Twanky crinolines makes me giggle, then splutter into my wine glass. The brothers stare at me for a moment then start to laugh, too.

‘You may have to cut your losses with that one, P. Close the shop or let it out, but keep grafting, build on what you’re doing here in NY, and I have every faith in you.’ Gustav shakes his head with amusement and takes another drink. ‘And that neatly segues, does it not, into the other reason we’re here?’

I realise that I’ve been staring so hard into the pale primrose of my Sauvignon that it is blurring. I am so, so tired.

‘Serena, yes. I want to put some business your way.’

Gustav laughs again. ‘You sound like a car dealer!’

Pierre laughs, too. I’m happy to hear their laughter. It sounds comfortable, like some kind of in-joke they share. I take another sip of wine. If I get much more relaxed I’ll nod off.

Gustav reaches over to me and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His way of getting my attention. I blink and yawn. As his fingers trail down my neck, pluck gently at the chain holding the golden locket, the sliding rattle inside rouses me and I look up. Just in time to see Pierre’s eyes wandering over my body. Up my legs, long and lean in the burgundy leather trousers I’ve chosen. Taking in the smoky grey silk T-shirt clinging to my breasts.

‘You up for another commission, Serena?’ he asks, lifting the wine from the ice bucket. I keep my eyes not on his face, which is unsettling me more than ever this evening, but on his hands as they tip the bottle to pour. The fingers are thicker than Gustav’s. More powerful. Seem more capable of causing harm. I can see them snapping the belt from round his waist and flicking it in the air, frightening the living daylights out of Polly.

‘Sure. I’m always up for more work.’ I cross my legs calmly and hold out my glass for more wine. ‘Tell me more.’

I’m too tired or too pissed to take anything seriously. Despite everything I’m enjoying myself. I’m with two gorgeous, hot-headed brothers. I’m the envy of several of the other women in this bar. I try to compose how I will excuse myself to Polly when she asks how I got on.

Pierre is either a consummate actor concealing a committed philanderer, in which case she needs to let him go, just like the failing little shop in Covent Garden – or the wide-boy charm she fell for in the first place, flawed as it is, is worth fighting for.

‘I want you to come down to this theatre in Gramercy Park Gustav just mentioned. It’s where I’m working at the moment, supplying wardrobe for a new off-Broadway musical show that’s rehearsing there. I’m dressing the cast and I’d like you to come down and take some photographs. A day in the life. The dancers dressing. Dancing. Undressing …’

I nod briskly.
That theatre where he works. It’s like a candy store.

‘They’re a burlesque troupe who have come out of nowhere but are already attracting attention. Possibly from Hollywood. I’d like you to take the publicity and fashion stills as part of a kind of photographic storyboard.’

‘No pantomime dames involved?’ I ask slyly.

‘Absolutely not. These are stunning professional dancers. This could take me places.’ Pierre grins at both of us. ‘This could be the success story I bring to you in six months’ time.’

We talk a little more, and make an appointment for me to come along to the theatre for the press show, which will give me some exposure, too. The conversation becomes practical and detailed and so interesting that before I know it it’s the early hours.

I stand up, and the men stand with me.

‘I’m bushed now, boys. I’m going to leave you to talk,’ I say, stepping back from the table. Pierre takes me firmly by both arms, and kisses me on first one cheek, then the other.

‘Very French,’ I smile, feeling the smooth wetness on my face.

‘I’ll walk you to the lift,
cara
.’ Gustav curls his arm round my waist.

Pierre watches as Gustav escorts me to the lift and folds me into his arms.

‘Thank you, my darling,’ he murmurs, his breath hot in my hair. I lean against his chest and listen to the deep thump of his heart. ‘You’re a kind of balm, soothing everyone.’

‘You make me sound like a hand cream!’ I laugh softly. I could stand here forever. ‘Why are you thanking me?’

‘For being here. Making tonight feel as close to a normal family get-together as possible. For being in demand as a clever young photographer going places. And while I’ve been listening to you and him chatting on, I’ve made my mind up about one more thing.’

I look up at him. I have to crick my neck back to meet his eyes. He bunches my hair up in his hand.

‘There’s something I haven’t told him. I thought the time would come eventually but no. There might never be the right time. Not when his happiness means more than mine.’

‘Gustav?’ I say, letting him pull me close to him. ‘What is it?’

He leans his chin on the top of my head. ‘I swore to him, to you, that I would be honest and open about everything. So I thought that would include, eventually, the devastating truth about the fire. But I realise, especially now you and he are building such a rapport, that I can’t risk it. It would bring down the house of cards. I’ll just have to accept that part of him will always blame me for everything, for robbing him of our parents before he got a chance to remember them. But I’m big enough to take it. We have to cut him some slack.’

‘We?’ I reach up and stroke his dark, troubled face. Feel the scrape of bristle under my fingers. ‘What is this devastating truth, honey?’

Gustav catches my hand and kisses it, pressing the palm against his face like a mask.

‘I’ve never told him – how could I? – but that night in Paris when our family home was burned to a cinder and we’d got him to the hospital, the doctors found matches and a lighter in Pierre’s little pyjama pockets when they cut his clothes off. He was only three years old. He had no idea what devastation he had caused. The lift comes up with a little ding and the doors shiver open. ‘How can I ever tell him that he started the fire?’

The roar of the greasepaint. The smell of the crowd. The dusty choke of hairspray, the stale whiff of caked lipstick and powdery make-up and strong, cheap perfume hanging like mist over a swamp. The velveteen wallpaper has come away in chunks, leaving crimson-painted bricks exposed. Starkly lit mirrors nailed along each crumbling wall add to the confusion, repeating the scene over and over again.

Setting up the dressing room as part of the scenery makes for a surreal mix. It brings the back stage to the front, and mixes period with modern-day. The music stands, a broken violin that looks as if it has been snapped over a starlet’s head, tailor’s dummies draped with corsets, beads and cloaks are all vintage, but there are also contemporary touches such as trailing wires, hair tongs, curlers, ironing boards and a huge ghetto-blaster.

It all makes for a clever contrast between the grandeur of the proscenium arch, the stage and stalls, the music, costumes, laughter and applause, and the cramped accommodation normally concealed beneath the stage, the scruffy brickwork, the twittering, gossiping and pale nakedness of the actors and dancers as they prepare – all symbolic of the illusion that is showbiz.

A few minutes ago Gustav crooked his finger to summon the car, which was hovering a few yards behind us like a respectful courtier. We’re both inordinately pleased that he ditched that lazy limo and replaced it with this bright-red fire-engine-like Hummer with blacked-out windows and a series of burly drivers. All we’re missing now is Dickson to drive it.

I have plans for that car. The back seat is as big as a double bed. How sexy would it be to order the burly driver to take us wherever we wanted to go around town so that we could tear each other’s clothes off and make out, shielded by a few millimetres of blacked-out bulletproof glass from the eyes of all those unsuspecting passers-by? But so far there has not been the time.