Star Promise (30 page)

Olivia picked up her bag. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said.

“Just get out.”

The smile she gave me as she passed was every shade of vile. As soon as she was clear of the door, I slammed it shut.

Ryan wasn’t the only one being measured up for wedding attire that day. Bridget had an appointment with Ivy late that afternoon at their apartment, which meant Adam and I were free and easy for a few hours. I expected him to take advantage by suggesting a quiet few hours at home, but he had different plans.

He met me at the gallery at exactly five, which meant he’d skipped out of work hours earlier than he should have. If he was worried about being dragged over the coals for it, he wasn’t letting on. “Ready to go?”

“I’ve just got to lock up first.” I set the alarm, followed him outside and pulled the door shut. Turning the key in the door was a process that took too long for Adam. He ended up taking them from me and locking it himself.

“All done?” he asked, giving the handle a rattle.

My eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s your hurry, Boy Wonder?”

“No hurry.” He handed me the keys. “I’m just excited to have you to myself for a while.”

“Where are we going?”

Adam led me toward the waiting cab. “A special place,” he replied.

I didn’t ask any more questions. I opted to spend the cab ride thinking about the possibilities instead. Adam seemed preoccupied too. His hand never left my knee, and his eyes never left the window. He finally turned to me and began fussing with the frill on the hem of my skirt. “This is pretty.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

He lightly kissed me. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “For being gorgeous.”

I dropped my head to his shoulder and breathed him in. “You know all the lovely words.”

He replied with a gentle squeeze of my knee, his gaze returned to the window, and not another word was said.

The special place he wanted to show me was a decrepit old building on West 52
^nd
– the club he and Ryan had bought.

I stood on the sidewalk, gazing up at the peeling window frames, half expecting to see something otherworldly staring back. “Is it abandoned?”

“Not quite.” Adam grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the steps. “I told you about Tiger, right?”

The vague narrative he’d given when describing his new business partner didn’t do him justice. The old man met us at the door, grumbling. “You said six, kid.”

Adam glanced at his watch. “We’re half an hour early.”

Tiger grunted, but moved on. “Who’s the broad?”

Adam didn’t bat an eyelid at his crass question. I could only assume he was used to it. “This is my wife, Charlotte,” he replied.

Tiger took a fat cigar out of his pocket and sniffed it. “I knew Baby Bardot’s mother would be a looker.”

Adam interpreted. “Tiger and Bridget are friends.”

“She’s a little French princess,” Tiger declared.

Bridget had mentioned visiting the club with Ryan a few times. The most information she’d given me about Tiger was that he was funny and could take his teeth out. The only thing comical about him was his loud Hawaiian print shirt, and I had no intention of asking if the teeth trick was true.

“I brought Charli here to have a look around,” said Adam, moving up a step.

Tiger leaned out and looked up and down the street. “When is he getting here?” he asked. “I’m busy.”

Adam lifted his hand, raising mine with it. “This is Charli.”

With his fat cigar clamped between his teeth, the old man smiled at me. “That’s what they call you?” he asked. “Did your mother not like you?”

“No, as it happens.” I grinned. “But my father took a shine to me.”

Tiger threw his head back and roared with laughter. Adam didn’t wait for him to compose himself. With a firm hold on my hand, he led me into the lobby of the most neglected building in Manhattan.

Tiger didn’t follow us when we headed into the large main room at the back. I heard his feet clomping on the wooden steps as he trudged upstairs.

“He lives up there,” explained Adam.

“Have you ever been up there?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

I hadn’t decided whether Tiger’s story was a sad one or not. While I conceded that living alone in a run down old club was a depressing notion, there was clearly magic about the place.

I walked to the centre of the room and took a long look around. Paint peeled from every wall, and the flecks that had fallen to the floor looked like they’d been there for years. Using the toe of my shoe, I cleared a line along the dusty floor. The decorative parquetry underneath was intricate, badly worn, and in need of a lot of TLC, just like the rest of the place.

Adam didn’t look the least bit daunted by the mammoth task. I could tell by his expression that his mind was spinning with ideas. Enthusiasm was a good look for him.

“This is wonderful,” I declared, turning a full circle.

“Imagine how amazing this place would’ve been in its heyday.”

I walked to the bar on the far side of the room, drawing a long line in the dust on the wooden counter. “I can almost hear it,” I told him. “A band playing on the stage, the chinking glasses, the hopeful young lovers getting to know each other over a few drinks.”

I moved to the business side of the bar. Glasses still lined the shelves, but most of the bottles on display were empty. Everything was where it should’ve been, which was eerie. For whatever reason, one night long ago, the club just stopped dead.

“Do you think we would’ve come here?” he asked.

“No, not your scene at all, monsieur,” I purred.

Adam folded his arms. “How about you, Charlotte?” he asked. “Would it have been your scene?”

I picked up a silver drinks tray from beneath the counter and set two glasses down on it. “Totally my scene. I reckon I would’ve been Lulu the cocktail waitress in a past life.”

His laugh was just dark enough to get my heart racing. “I’m sure I would’ve frequented this place just to hang out with Lulu.”

“You might’ve tried,” I replied. “But she would’ve been way out of your league.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, I know so,” I drawled. “She was no floozy.”

As I continued looking around, I spotted something so out of place under the counter that I couldn’t possibly help touching it. It was as if Lulu the cocktail waitress had planted the gold sequined headband there herself. I dusted off the long white feather at the top and placed it on my head. “What do you think?”

His stare was more thoughtful now. Perhaps I looked more ridiculous than I thought. “I think you’ve no idea how lovely you truly are,” he said finally.

I felt a flash of heat in my cheeks. “Why, thank you, kind sir,” I teased, dipping my head. “But I’m not done yet.”

He groaned out my name, which was Adam-speak for stop what you’re doing and behave. I ignored him and continued my transformation from art gallery curator to Lulu.

In a move I hadn’t made since high school, I rolled the waistband of my skirt, shortening it just enough to make the height of my heels an obscene match.

“What are you doing, Charlotte?”

“Lulu would’ve shown some leg,” I replied.

As hard as he might’ve tried fighting against it, the dimpled smile won out. “I can’t see your legs from here.”

I straightened my headband, picked up my tray and stepped out from behind the bar. I hadn’t carried a tray since my waitressing days at Nellie’s. My skills were non-existent then, and nothing had changed. My sexy-fifties-cocktail-waitress walk needed work too, but it had the desired effect. Adam met me half way, and took the tray. “You’re dangerous, Charli.” His eyes flitted from my eyes to my lips.

“Lulu,” I corrected. He hooked his finger into the waistband of my skirt and drew me forward. His arms wrapped around me, his lips landed on mine and Lulu was a goner.

When it came to his gallery, Bronson was a neat freak. I arrived the next morning to find him polishing the leaves on the pot plant near the door.

“Shiny plants are happy plants, darling,” he explained.

“What are you using to clean them with?”

He held up the spray can and read the label. “Pledge.”

“I’m pretty sure that will hurt the plant, Bronson.”

He waved the cloth in his hand. “Beauty is pain.”

I sat at my desk, chuckling at the strange man who paid my wages. A day in Bronson’s head would be like an overseas holiday. Spending time with him at the gallery wasn’t that different to occupying Bridget. As long as he was busy, he was happy. For that reason, I wasn’t going to separate him from his can of plant-killing Pledge.

I diverted my attention to the invoices on my desk. Bronson bought art like Fiona bought shoes. No expense was spared if something took his fancy, and like Fiona he had a great eye for a good deal. His gallery was hugely successful, and I was proud to be a part of it. When he was in the mood, he was a good salesman. Today was one of those days. He abandoned the can of furniture polish when the first customer walked in, and promptly sold her a twelve thousand dollar painting.

After praising the woman’s eye for detail and her knowledge of the arts, he arranged delivery and sent her on her way as only Bronson could. “All done now, darling,” he crowed, flapping his hands at her. “Shoo, shoo.”

The customer didn’t take offense. No one ever did. She skipped out the door twelve grand lighter with a huge smile on her face. Bronson shuffled over and slumped down on the chair opposite my desk. “I’m exhausted, Charlotte,” he complained. The gallery had been open for business less than an hour.

“Can I get you something?”

“Yes.” He slapped both hands on his knees. “Take care of the next client. Dazzle them with your charm and sell them something wonderful.”

Ordinarily I might’ve given it a crack, but the next person through the door had never been remotely dazzled by me.

Olivia breezed in wearing a lovely summer dress and a bright smile. Politely, I would’ve described her as pretty, but it was a hard kind of pretty. I was glad I didn’t look like her, but remembering the photo of her and Alex as teenagers reminded me that I used to. Somewhere along the line she’d lost the softness, and dealing with her made me feel like I was losing it too.

“Hello, Charli,” she beamed.

I wanted to ask what she wanted, but managed to say hello instead.

Bronson levered himself to his feet. “Sell her something, darling,” he instructed in a ridiculously indiscreet whisper.

“Actually, I am looking for a piece for the reception area of the studio,” said Olivia, diverting her walk to check out the art hanging on the far wall.

Bronson clapped his hands. “Then this is where you belong today.”

Choosing art is a process, whether the person selecting it realises it or not. When Jean-Luc bought his boat-on-the-beach picture, I watched it call to him for ten minutes before he knew he wanted it. His eyes kept darting toward it until he finally made the decision to buy.

Olivia didn’t seem to go through any sort of process. She pointed out a large abstract piece that she’d hardly even looked at. “This would be perfect.”

Photographs were my specialty, but she’d chosen a painting. Bronson took over the reins and revealed a whopping price tag, just shy of thirty thousand dollars.

I expected her to gracefully bow out of the deal, but she didn’t. She cheekily asked him if he’d give her a month to pay for it.

Bronson wagged his finger at her, tutting like he was scolding a child. “It’s not customary, darling,” he said sternly. “My business doesn’t operate that way.” The relief I felt was immense. If the woman didn’t have funds to buy a designer handbag, chances were that dropping thirty grand on art was beyond her means.

In an attempt to help her save face, I steered her in a different direction. “There are other pieces that are much cheaper,” I offered, pointing toward the opposite wall. “Or a photograph. They’re still exclusive, but generally not as expensive.”

There was a sly edge to the smile she gave me. “I’m not interested in a silly photograph,” she said bluntly. “I find no talent in clicking a camera.”

It was another kick-in-the-face example of how little she knew me. Olivia never asked questions about my life. Conversations were always about her. She had no idea that I was a photographer who’d captured the twenty-four years of my life that she’d missed through the lens of a camera. I would’ve been offended by her ignorant comment if I wasn’t concentrating so hard on trying to pre-empt her next move – and I knew there was one, because there was always a game in play where Olivia was concerned.

“Photography is a masterful craft,” defended Bronson.

She unlocked me from her stare and turned to him. “Of course,” she falsely agreed. “But I much prefer the intensity and depth of a painting.”

Bronson bowed his head. “To each her own, darling.”

He was accommodating because he thought he was about to make a huge sale. He would’ve agreed with anything at that point, thinking he was in control. I knew differently. Olivia was playing him like a fiddle; I just wasn’t sure of the tune.

She turned back to the painting and sighed. “I truly adore it,” she declared wistfully.

“I can hold it for a month,” Bronson generously offered.

“That won’t do.” Olivia glanced at him. “I have a charity event coming up before then. I would like to have it on display.”

My heart began thumping when she took a few slow steps toward me. “I’m not your average client.” She spoke to him, but her eyes never left mine. “I’m hardly likely to stiff you considering my daughter works here.”

I felt sick to my stomach. Olivia had publically claimed me as her daughter only twice, and she had been screwing me over both times.

Bronson started squealing like a little girl. “Why didn’t you say so, darling?” he asked, waving both hands at me.

Words failed me. Olivia had no such problem. In two minutes flat, she’d arranged delivery and a fourteen-day account.

Bronson was kind and trusting. Perhaps that’s why he dropped the ball. There was no contract signed, no conditions to be met. If the painting hadn’t been so large, she could’ve carried it out there and then.