Authors: Sarah Manning
Unsticky (21 page)
‘What kind of party is it? Do I need to dress up? Is it really swank?’
‘Grace, I don’t have time for this. Call Madeleine and she can fill you in,’ he said, and she could sense his impatience to finish the call. ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday.’
chapter twelve
At precisely 6.57 p.m. on Wednesday, Grace stood outside 17 Thirlestone Mews. She looked down at her perfectly polished toes peeking out of her vintage Roland Cartier silver sandals and told herself that everything was going to be all right.
The door was opened by Piers, his face pinking up as soon as he caught sight of her. He was the only person she’d ever met who blushed as much as she did, and if Grace’s gaydar wasn’t shrieking at a very high frequency, she’d have begun to wonder if he had a crush on her.
‘Hi. I’m expected . . .’
‘Hi. I think he’s expecting you . . .’
Grace felt a little ragged standing there in her expensive new dress, which was starting to stick to her clammy skin.
‘So, do I just go up then?’ she asked, though the moment it popped out, she wondered if she was meant to be more blasé. It wasn’t the sort of dilemma that had been covered in the Madame Pompadour biography. And Madame Pompadour had never turned up to meet Louis XIV with a spare pair of knickers, a toothbrush and her multi-vitamins stashed in her clutch bag or have to plan a sneaky cut and run from the office half an hour early so she could get to the spa for a quick wash and blowdry.
Grace followed Piers up the stairs, casting an interested glance at the two other girls who were standing behind the reception desk. Posh girls - she could tell immediately. Something about the self-assured way they held themselves and their shiny hair and crisp dresses that looked as if they’d been freshly pressed and put on five minutes earlier. They barely looked in Grace’s direction, though Grace couldn’t tell if they were following orders or monumentally not interested.
‘He’s through there,’ Piers told Grace, pointing down the corridor, when they’d finished the long climb to the second floor. Grace slowly walked up to the door and knocked softly on it.
‘Enter.’
Grace wriggled her shoulders and opened the door.
Vaughn was sitting behind his desk and frowning at his computer screen as Grace walked in. She hesitated, thought about perching on one of the Cubist armchairs but then he looked up and frowned a little bit harder.
‘Hey,’ Grace said, raising one sweaty paw in a salute.
‘Hello,’ he said, pushing his chair back so he could walk towards her. Grace wanted to inch back but she stayed where she was.
Vaughn was wearing one of his snowy-white shirts and impeccably tailored trousers, but he’d caught the sun on the high planes of his cheekbones, which made his eyes seem bluer as they fixed on Grace’s face and didn’t waver.
‘You’re on time,’ Vaughn murmured as he reached her, brushing her cheek with his lips, his hand just skirting her hip and slip-sliding off the jersey silk in a proprietorial gesture that made Grace give a nervous start before she could stop herself. He was frowning again. ‘I don’t like your hair.’
‘You told me to change it.’ Grace ran a defensive hand over her new cut, which she happened to love, from the blunt fringe to the long, razored layers that actually gave her cheekbones. ‘I got rid of the black.’
‘Why didn’t you just pick a new colour and stick with it? It looks like a Mars bar,’ Vaughn said flatly, moving his head so he could get a better angle to see the lowlights in Grace’s hair, which had been far too brown without a few streaks to give it some oomph. Vaughn ran an appraising eye over her new Zac Posen dress with its asymmetrical hem, which had cost most of her clothing allowance. ‘The rest of you looks very lovely,’ he said. ‘Green suits you.’
Then he picked up his suit jacket from the back of a chair and marched out of the room, without bothering to see if Grace was trotting after him like an obedient little dog.
There was a long, sleek car waiting for them outside with its engine running. A uniformed driver opened the door and Grace sank back against the plump leather and tried to will herself to unclench.
Vaughn crossed his legs and looked at her. ‘I don’t want you to drink too much at this party,’ he said. ‘Just one glass of wine, I think.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Grace immediately bristled.
‘It means that the first time we met, you downed a glass of champagne in one,’ Vaughn informed her. ‘The second time you phoned me drunk. You were absolutely steaming in New York and last time you admitted you had a hangover.’
When he put it like that, Grace felt like she should ask the driver to drop her off at the nearest AA meeting.
‘Fine,’ she said, her lips thin.
‘You can drink afterwards, when we have dinner,’ Vaughn conceded and Grace’s heart lifted, then sank to her knees. Ms Jones hadn’t mentioned anything about dinner. Grace had imagined that Vaughn would want to skip right to the sex part. But, no, he was determined to prolong her agony.
‘You’re annoyed with me,’ he went on, ‘but really, there was no polite way to say it.’
Grace looked at him from under her lashes. ‘Well, actually there was but you chose not to use it.’
Vaughn shrugged carelessly. ‘I gave you fair warning about what you’d be dealing with.
Who
you’d be dealing with. So there’s really no need for the sulky face.’
Who
you’d be dealing with. So there’s really no need for the sulky face.’
It took a great effort to rearrange her features into something less pouty. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just a bit nervous.’
That should have been Vaughn’s cue to say something nice to help Grace tamp down the rising hysteria, but he just gave her a bland smile that she didn’t like one little bit and didn’t say a word for the rest of the journey.
The party, given by a Russian businessman who collected art and trophy wives, was being held at his home in Kensington. It wasn’t a home like Grace knew homes, where you kicked off your shoes by the front door and were offered a cup of tea by your host. This was a home where a line of limos were gridlocked outside, and once Grace and Vaughn had hurried up the stone steps of the immense Regency townhouse, which took up most of the block, there was a uniformed flunky to take their names and announce them.
As Grace stepped over the threshold she was momentarily dazzled by the huge amounts of gilt and crystal that covered every surface, including the banisters of the sweeping staircase, and the sparkling stones dripping from the necks of every other woman present. A mêlée of guests milled over the imported marble floor and a hundred different French perfumes fought it out for olfactory supremacy. Grace counted five Roberto Cavalli dresses, which made her decide that the gathering was mostly former Eastern Bloc. Kiki was always banging on about how only rap stars and Russian gangsters’ wives wore Cavalli.
Grace caught sight of herself in a huge ormolu mirror that took up most of one wall and inwardly shuddered. When she’d left the spa, she was certain that she’d never looked this good, this pretty, in her entire life. But now, she looked all wrong hanging from Vaughn’s arm, though that could be because Vaughn was still frowning. It was more than that; Vaughn looked at ease. He wore his suit with the same assurance as he’d worn jeans and a T-shirt, while Grace felt horribly contrived in her £1,000 plus change dress, like it was a costume rather than the most beautiful frock she’d ever owned. And Vaughn was right: her hair
was
stupid - and so were her tatty sandals. All of a sudden, vintage was just another word for second-hand.
was
stupid - and so were her tatty sandals. All of a sudden, vintage was just another word for second-hand.
Grace took a panic-stricken step back and nearly trod on the foot of the woman behind her, who took it in really bad humour.
‘Let’s get out of this scrum.’ Vaughn took Grace’s elbow so he could lead her away from harm. ‘The ballroom’s through those doors.’
‘They have a ballroom?’ Grace whispered frantically. ‘Ms Jones didn’t say anything about a ballroom. Will there be dancing? Will I have to waltz?’ Grace had taken some Lindy Hop lessons when she’d been trying to ensnare a beautiful boy with a quiff and a pair of dice tattooed on his biceps, but she’d stopped going when he’d tried to get off with Lily instead.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Vaughn whispered back, steering Grace adroitly through the crowd into a larger room, with yes, a sprung floor. ‘This is where Boris displays some of his art.’ Grace cast a cursory look around at the hideous canvases, then to the point where the huge doors at the other end of the room opened out into a garden. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out to be a landing strip or an Olympic-sized pool.
‘I need my one drink now,’ Grace breathed as she watched a woman walk past swathed in fur though it was a hot and balmy late-summer night. She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and took a small sip because it was going to have to last her hours.
Grace stared at a trio of girls, who looked like they might be trannies, before her attention was diverted by a fat, sweaty man in a pink suit. ‘Like blancmange,’ she muttered under her breath as Vaughn raised his hand and waved at someone on the other side of the cavernous ballroom.
He tried to take a step forward and they both realised that Grace had his arm in a death grip. ‘Let me go, Grace,’ he said evenly. ‘I’m going to talk business.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Can I come with you?’
‘No, you’re going to mingle and absolutely not have any more to drink,’ Vaughn informed her, skilfully detaching himself and disappearing across the floor.
Grace made a face at his departing back and wondered how she was supposed to mingle when usually her two conversational gambits were, ‘Where did you get your dress?’ or ‘Didn’t we meet at Glastonbury?’ Neither one would work here.
Slowly she ambled down the room, smiling vaguely, which she hoped made her look as if she was perfectly at ease.
Eventually she sidled up to a middle-aged woman who was staring, almost disconsolately, at one of the paintings. ‘It’s a great piece, isn’t it?’ Grace chirped. ‘Some people prefer his earlier work, but whatever.’
The woman turned and stared at Grace for a moment with great consternation, then walked off without saying a word. Still, Grace had made the effort and, more importantly, she was now out of sight of Vaughn’s beady eye so he wouldn’t be able to see what an utter failure she was at being a people person.
Her mind made up, she wandered out into the garden. The sky was a smudgy dark blue somewhere between dusk and twilight, and there were hundreds and hundreds of candles in votive holders illuminating a path across a gently sloping lawn to a canopied seating area. Grace sniffed the air appreciatively. She’d found the official smoking area.
There was a couple huddled in conversation and a man quietly barking on his phone, but apart from that the place was deserted. Grace gratefully sat down on an overly padded gilt chair, swapped her empty glass for a full one on a tray and fished out her cigarettes.
Grace smoked the first one right down to the butt, then started on the second one at a more leisurely pace. She used to be a social smoker, but that had recently upgraded to a packet a day.
‘Hello,’ a voice drawled.
Grace looked up into the heavy-lidded eyes of a young man standing in front of her.
‘Hello.’
‘Mind if I cadge a fag?’ he asked, and didn’t wait for Grace’s answer, but sat down next to her and reached for the cigarettes she’d left on the side table. He ignored Grace’s huff of indignation as he lit up, inhaled extravagantly and then puffed out a series of smoke rings.
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