Authors: Sarah Manning
Unsticky (13 page)
‘Vaughn? As in J. Vaughn, art dealer?’
‘This
is
Ms Reeves then?’ The woman sounded irritated, but then if she’d had to work Sunday evenings, Grace would have had a strop on too.
is
Ms Reeves then?’ The woman sounded irritated, but then if she’d had to work Sunday evenings, Grace would have had a strop on too.
‘Yeah. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘Mr Vaughn would like to arrange a meeting with you. Are you free at eleven tomorrow morning?’
Er, why? Grace thought. ‘Well, I’ll be at work,’ she said out loud. ‘I guess maybe lunch-time or . . .’
There was a muffled conversation on the other end of the line. ‘Seven thirty in the evening? Shall I give you the address of the gallery?’
‘But what’s the meeting about? Why doesn’t he just call me himself? Is he there with you?’ Grace could have fired questions without pause until the train pulled in at Victoria. But she was stopped by a terse cough.
‘I’m going to give you the address. Have you got pen and paper?’
‘Hang on.’ After a quick rummage, she found an old flyer and an eyebrow pencil. ‘OK.’
The Mayfair address from the business card was reeled off. ‘It’s just off New Bond Street.’
‘Could you just tell me—’
‘Mr Vaughn will see you at seven thirty. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.’ There was a decisive click as the connection was severed.
Grace decided she wasn’t going to answer the imperious summons. Not after Vaughn had dumped her on the street like a broken fridge. Well, technically it had been the entrance to her hotel but same difference.
When she woke up the next day, she planned to be on the 134 bus heading back to Archway at seven thirty that night, but just to keep her options open, Grace put on her black and white, fifties polka-dot sundress that smooshed her breasts right up to her chin. She even took the Marc Jacobs bag out of the oven with the idea that she’d stalk in, place it on Vaughn’s desk and walk out without saying a word. Just to show him that she had some pride.
But Vaughn obviously had a reason for wanting to see her again. Maybe to tell Grace that he couldn’t stop thinking about her and he’d been beating himself up for the callous way he’d spurned her advances. But no, that wasn’t Vaughn’s style. Which was a pity, Grace thought, as she spent the morning doing a Google image search on ‘j vaughn + art dealer’ and turning up photo after photo of Vaughn, usually stiff-backed in a dinner jacket, standing next to Icelandic ambassadors and YBAs. He was much better looking in the flesh.
By lunch-time, Grace had decided that Vaughn was going to offer her a job. Because she’d totally rocked when it came to scaring away aggressive agents, and his current assistant had a very poor phone technique. That was why Vaughn hadn’t wanted to succumb to Grace’s blatantly offered charms. She rehearsed the moment when she’d turn him down with a cruel smile playing around her mouth. Then he’d know
exactly
how it felt.
exactly
how it felt.
During her mid-afternoon Diet Coke break, Grace toyed with the idea of asking what the salary and benefits package would be. Just to satisfy her curiosity. And by seven, she was slowly walking up Bond Street towards Mayfair, pausing to stare at artful window displays of expensive bags shiny with gilt hardware, dresses that would change her life the moment she slipped them on, shoes that were the very epitome of ‘fuck me’, until she could practically hear her one solitary credit card begging to be allowed out to play. It simpled things up though. She loved fashion. And she was going to stay in fashion for as long as it would have her - or until Kiki pushed her down several flights of steps for calling in an unphotogenic belt.
chapter eight
17 Thirlestone Mews was a pretty, stucco townhouse with a discreet brass plaque to the left of the imposing black door. Grace wiped her hands on the skirt of her dress and pressed the bell. She heard the sound of a bolt being pulled back and steeled herself for a face-to-face confrontation with the unpleasant Ms Jones but it was Vaughn standing there in shirtsleeves, a pair of grey suit trousers with razor-sharp creases, and a harried expression on his face which suddenly disappeared as he saw her.
‘Grace,’ he said smoothly, as if that horrible scene in the limo had never happened. He stepped aside, so she could enter. ‘Glad you could make it at such short notice.’
Grace was all set to walk past him, but Vaughn took her arm, fingers sliding into the crook of her elbow, and pulled her towards him. So this wasn’t a job interview, Grace thought, as she tilted her head so Vaughn could kiss her on the cheek.
But he didn’t. His lips found the corner of her mouth for one fleeting, unbelievable moment and then he was stepping away as Grace touched her fingers to the tingling spot where his lips had just been, because when she wasn’t saying something dumb, she was doing something dumb instead. She risked a glance at Vaughn but he wasn’t half-smirking as she expected but giving her a long, considered look that she couldn’t begin to decipher but made her feel like her blood was coming to a slow boil.
‘Let me show you the gallery,’ he said in exactly the same voice he’d used to greet her and didn’t even try to touch her as he gestured to the right.
A huge skylight at the back of a long room spilled mellow evening sun over the stark white walls. The canvases on display were bold splashes of electric blue and shocking pink, sludgy reds and a stinging acid green that made her eyeballs itch.
‘Our current exhibition,’ Vaughn said from behind Grace. ‘An Austrian artist called Wilhelm Bauer. I’ve been buying up his work for years.’
‘Oh, are they for sale or just, like, a retrospective?’ If he could pretend that nothing had happened, so could she. Though he was far better at it.
‘They’re for sale, of course,’ Vaughn said, standing next to her so that, out of the corner of her eye, Grace could see his bemused smile.
‘Does it bother you to have to sell them after you’ve spent so many years collecting them?’ Grace asked, thinking of the time she’d had to eBay most of her vintage dresses because her former landlord was threatening to take her to the small claims court. It had been like a death in the family. ‘It must be horrible to get attached to some pictures, then have to pack ’em up and ship ’em off.’
‘If I had that attitude I’d be destitute,’ Vaughn laughed. ‘I don’t get attached to pictures. I foresee their potential, collect them discreetly so that I don’t drive up the price, and sell them several years later for a lot more than I originally paid. Liking them really doesn’t come into it.’
‘You must like some of them,’ Grace protested, following him back into the reception area and up a sweeping flight of stairs. Did he live above the shop? Should she try out a really tasteless joke about coming up to see his etchings? Probably not.
They arrived at the second floor just as Grace was starting to fight for every breath. Her flip-flops slapped against the parquet as Vaughn ushered her into a minimalist sitting room: all white leather seating and black walls. There was a Bauhausy desk to one side with a sleek little laptop perched on it. ‘This is my office,’ he said, rifling through some papers. ‘Sit down.’
Grace chose one of the high-sided, cubed armchairs and sank down on it. She felt as if she was being swallowed whole.
‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘May I have some water? Still, if you’ve got it,’ she added, forestalling yet another question.
Grace watched Vaughn get a big blue bottle of Ty Nant out of a fridge, along with two glasses. Keeping glasses in a fridge was just the kind of effortlessly stylish thing that impressed the hell out of her. Sometimes Grace wished that she wasn’t so shallow.
When she was clutching the glass in her sweaty hand and hoping it wouldn’t slip to the floor, Vaughn sat down on the sofa opposite her and placed some papers down on the long, low table between them. ‘I need to discuss something with you but before I do, I’d like you to sign a non-disclosure agreement,’ he said reasonably. So reasonably that Grace was already nodding her head before her rusty internal alarm system blared into life.
‘Why? You know, I half-wondered if you were going to offer me a job, but—’
‘Grace, I know this all seems very cloak and dagger but you have to sign an NDA before I explain anything else.’
‘Why do I need to sign anything?’ Grace suddenly had a horrible suspicion that maybe this,
all of it
, was some elaborate sting operation by a big financial conglomerate that had bought all her outstanding debts. She dismissed the thought. There was no way she could owe
that
much money. She tentatively pulled the two sheets of paper closer and flicked her eyes over dry legalese. ‘The only bit I understand is my own name!’
all of it
, was some elaborate sting operation by a big financial conglomerate that had bought all her outstanding debts. She dismissed the thought. There was no way she could owe
that
much money. She tentatively pulled the two sheets of paper closer and flicked her eyes over dry legalese. ‘The only bit I understand is my own name!’
Vaughn muttered something under his breath, but when he turned to her, it was with a disarming smile, despite the little tic twitching by his left ear. Grace watched it in fascination. ‘There’s really nothing to worry about. Just a confidential proposition.’
‘You could just ask me not to tell anyone,’ she suggested, wrinkling her brow at all the
henceforths
and
indemnifications
.
henceforths
and
indemnifications
.
The tic in Vaughn’s cheek picked up speed. It looked painful. He thrust a pen at her. ‘Just sign it. Now.’
It wasn’t a tone of voice that Grace was brave enough to argue with. She put down her glass on a little side table and signed on the dotted line that was neatly marked with a cross, then handed the agreement back to Vaughn.
Vaughn studied it intently, possibly to check her penmanship. She wasn’t too sure and he didn’t seem in a hurry to fill her in about, well, anything.
‘So, what did you . . . ?’
‘You’re very pretty.’ He breathed hard and steepled his fingers together.
‘Well, thanks . . .’
‘You’re well-educated, you have a good layperson’s knowledge of the art world,’ he continued listing her plus points, though it was going to be a very short list so he might get to the point soon. ‘Though it occurs to me that you may be back with your ex.’
She’d barely thought about Liam at all in the last fortnight. ‘God - as if!’
‘And you’re not involved with anyone else?’ he asked, tapping his fingers nervously against his knees.
‘Well, no,’ she said slowly. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, and actually this is all slightly inappropriate after New York, and—’
‘It’s not,’ he said briskly. ‘It’s not at all because I’d very much like you to be my mistress.’
Grace stared at him in disbelief. Her mouth opened to let out a few wheezy gasps.
‘That was a little forceful, wasn’t it?’ Vaughn smiled, like he was trying to put Grace at ease. She didn’t return the smile but stared at him without blinking. ‘I’d really like to spend more time with you on an exclusive basis.’
‘Huh? What? Like, you want me to be your girlfriend?’
Vaughn shook his head. ‘Not exactly. Do you remember in New York that I told you I looked after young artists? Spotted their potential, nurtured their talent? Well, that’s what I’d like to do with you.’
‘But I’m not an artist.’ Grace picked at a hangnail on her thumb, then gave in to the urge to stick it in her mouth and nibble. And if she was biting her nails, then she was still herself, still the same old Grace. And the same old Grace didn’t sit in fancy offices in Mayfair as a wealthy art dealer asked her if she fancied being his mistress. ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about going into partnership together,’ Vaughn said softly, as if the impatient, sarcastic man she’d met before had just been an illusion. ‘What I’m proposing would be almost like a business agreement.’
‘Christ! You think I’m a tart!’ Grace spluttered indignantly. ‘I’m not some kind of rent-a-skank, thank you very much.’
‘Of course you’re not,’ Vaughn said, and he sounded so offended at the idea that Grace was mollified - just a little. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well. I’d like to take you to all sorts of places - Art Basel in Miami, the Art Cologne show, the Tokyo Design Festa . . . I’d introduce you to interesting people, give you new experiences and I’d have someone to talk to at some very dry functions. On a more practical note, once a month I give a dinner-party with a very exclusive guest-list and you’d act as my hostess, provide some colour while I discuss business. I do my biggest deals at these dinners.’
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