‘I was very disturbed after our last meeting. You seemed to think that it was all a nefarious scheme so I could have my evil way with you. That you were being used for sex,’ Vaughn continued, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. These involuntary caresses were starting to freak Grace out. He was so tactile. ‘Which you’re not, by the way.’
‘Well, actually I kinda am - but I’m using you too,’ Grace countered, staring at the cleft in his chin which was right on her eyeline, as his hands dropped away. ‘We both need something from the other one. And for me, it’s not just for the money, but that I get to live in a different world, get treated differently. Or at least people will—’
‘You should stop talking now,’ Vaughn warned her, and it was amazing how chilly his voice could get. ‘Nobody’s being used. We’re just entering into a mutually beneficial arrangement.’
Grace decided to see if she felt like the user or the used when it was the morning after and she had £5,000 in crisp banknotes in her hand.
Vaughn stepped away and she waited for him to call the whole thing off but he just looked at her thoughtfully. Like he’d stripped off everything - clothes, skin - and was the first person to ever see her for what she really was. Apparently, the vision wasn’t too horrific because he smiled. And if Grace thought there was something a little sad, a little bruised in the quirk of his lips, she put it down to the light playing tricks.
‘I told you this would be an interesting year,’ was all he said.
chapter eleven
Grace thought the attack of conscience would kick in on the way home, but it didn’t. In fact, she had an entirely different attack of conscience when she unpacked the spoils from her shopping binge. Even the prospect of actually being able to afford them in the very near future wasn’t enough, and the panic was rising like bile. So she did what she always did; stored them in vacuum-sealed plastic bags and buried them right at the back of her wardrobe where she wouldn’t see them. Then even though it was early, only five o’clock, Grace got into bed and slept. It was monster sleep. Fourteen hours of oblivion and when she woke up, in those few split seconds before her synapses fired up, she’d forgotten what had happened the day before. But as she opened her eyes and sat up, it all started to come back to her.
It wasn’t until she was in a cab on the way to work (because girls with £80,000 per annum part-time jobs didn’t take the bus) that Grace was fighting for breath and frantically tugging at the window because throwing up seemed like a definite possibility.
It was horrific. Yesterday, she’d given Vaughn an Access All Areas pass to her body and he could call it what he wanted, and throw in a few fancy long words for good measure, but it was what it was. She was his mistress and nothing would ever be the same again, Grace told herself. She’d stop being her and become this other creature completely subject to Vaughn’s whims and demands. It was the demands that worried her the most.
But then the cab was pulling up outside the Skirt offices, and Grace was popping into Caffè Nero for a triple-shot latte, no foam and a blueberry muffin, and she realised that technically she might be a mistress but actually nothing had changed. Grace wasn’t sure what she’d expected - maybe Tiffany’s boxes being couriered over and there were definitely strawberries dipped in chocolate, which she ate while lounging on oyster-coloured satin sheets - not holding the lift for a couple of girls who worked on the teen mag on the floor below and exchanging pleasantries about the weekend. It was all the same as it ever was, and if God was planning to strike her down with a thunderbolt then He was taking His sweet time about it.
The only new development was a barrage of emails from Ms Jones, Vaughn’s assistant, when Grace turned on her computer. There was an itinerary of art exhibitions that Grace was meant to toddle along to in her lunch-hours and reading lists to occupy what was left of her waking hours. Grace stared balefully at a catalogue of books on modern art with fun titles like Primitivism, Cubism, Abstraction: The Early Twentieth Century. She felt less like she was having her potential harnessed and more like some Gen-Y Eliza Dolittle.
‘Hey, what you doing?’ Lily asked, coming up behind Grace as she was morosely selecting art books on Amazon and hoping her credit card wouldn’t be declined.
Grace hurriedly clicked the screen away and turned to Lily, who was looking a little peaky for once. ‘You can’t still have a hangover?’ Grace asked.
Lily grimaced. ‘Had a hangover, started drinking again yesterday to get rid of it, now I have a shiny new hangover to take its place. Couldn’t even think about breakfast this morning.’
Grace clucked sympathetically. ‘Breakfast is overrated. I only eat breakfast the week after payday.’
‘Gracie,’ Lily sighed, ‘I’d lend you some money but with the wedding coming up . . .’
‘No! No! No! That’s not what I meant at all. ’Sides, when am I not absolutely skint?’
Lily settled for a non-committal murmur because in all the time that they’d known each other, Grace had always been careering from one financial crisis to the next.
Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, Grace had the answer to a problem that had been bugging her for the last sixteen hours. ‘Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ she said casually, looking Lily right in the eye. ‘I had an interview for a part-time job.’
‘Oh? Doing what?’
‘It’s this private members’ club thing,’ Grace replied, grateful that she’d had years to turn being vague into an art form. ‘If I get it, it will be a lot of evenings and weekends so I might not be around so much.’
That merited the new issue of Vogue being thrust aside. ‘But you promised you’d help me with the wedding prep!’ Lily gasped. ‘I was just going to ask you if you’d managed to blag me a discount card for Browns Bride yet?’
‘You’re not getting married until next spring and this is just a short-term contract. Probably be fired in three months anyway,’ Grace assured her, hoping these weren’t the first few faltering steps on Lily’s road to bridezilla-dom. ‘And I’m not sure they do discount cards,’ she added.
‘So, do you think you’ll get the job?’ Lily wanted to know. ‘You said you always go to pieces in interviews.’
It was true, Grace did. She’d interviewed for three junior-stylist positions in the last year; screwed up two of them with her utter lack of a famous father or perkiness, and had turned up fifteen minutes late to the other one because the bus had broken down. ‘They seemed pretty keen so maybe,’ she mumbled. ‘And the money’s really good. Unbelievably good.’
‘Thank God the wedding won’t be until next year,’ Lily sighed, and Grace wished that Lily wouldn’t make this all about her. But then for this not to be all about Lily, Grace would have to tell her the truth and she wasn’t ready to do that just yet. It could all be over in a couple of weeks (and wasn’t that a welcome thought?) so there didn’t seem to be any point in rocking Lily’s world off its axis until Grace knew exactly what being a mistress entailed.
‘Sucks for you, though,’ Lily went on. ‘Kiki’s going to get really pissy when you can’t work late.’
‘Kiki’s always pissy about something,’ Grace said heavily, and she couldn’t help but slump over her desk. ‘God, how do I manage to get myself into these situations?’
‘Gracie, could you try and cheer up a little bit?’ Lily said imploringly. ‘You were in a weird mood all of last week and Liam said that you completely freaked him out on Saturday night.’
Grace’s head shot up. ‘What exactly did he say?’
Lily shrugged. ‘Just that you got really drunk and were all over him.’ She brightened. ‘It would be so cool if you two got back together. Just what you need to cheer yourself up.’
‘Going to take more than that,’ Grace said dryly, and marvelled that she hadn’t even thought about Liam until now. She’d had far more pressing matters to angst about.
Lily rummaged in her Chloé handbag. ‘You can have this,’ she said cheer
fully, offering Grace a glossy leaflet. ‘It’s a free consultation with this make-up artist who’s just launched a new range of mineral cosmetics. You get a fantastic bespoke goodie bag with all these products tailored to your skin type. It’s this lunch-time but I can’t go ’cause I’ve got a perfume launch and the PR said there’d be champagne.’
It was amazing how the thought of free beauty products could make everything seem better. ‘Thanks,’ Grace said, taking the leaflet from Lily, then rustling the nearest pile of press releases ostentatiously. ‘I’ll try my best with the discount card, but I’ve got a ton of work to do first.’
As soon as Lily was out of range, Grace picked up her phone.
Liam sounded satisfyingly groggy when he answered on Grace’s fifth attempt to get through.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she cooed. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘Well, yeah . . .’
‘Good,’ Grace said savagely. ‘Listen to me, if you breathe a word to Lily about anything that we talked about on Saturday night, I’m going to use my spare key, come to your flat and smash every single piece of vinyl you own. Including your Nick Drake boxed set. Got that?’
‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Liam spluttered. It was a fair question. It seemed to Grace that she’d been mainlining the crazy ever since that first tear-soaked meeting with Vaughn in the accessories department of Liberty’s.
‘Do. You. Understand?’ Grace bit out. She was all set to hang up on Liam’s sleep-fuddled response, which mostly involved the words ‘psycho bitch’ when another thought occurred to her. ‘And if you tell her that we had sex then I’ll smash your guitars too.’ She did hang up then, almost spraining her index finger as she pressed down on the ‘end call’ key with maximum force.
Grace arrived back at the office after her consultation clutching a sweet little wicker basket full of pots and vials. The make-up artist had been really insistent that she was a winter person, though Grace still thought she was a spring. She’d also had to surrender her make-up bag and its grimy contents, which had been chucked unceremoniously into the nearest bin. ‘Time for a whole new you,’ the make-up artist had said, and Grace wondered why everyone was so down on the old Grace. She hadn’t been that bad.
‘Someone’s waiting in Reception for you,’ Lucie informed her cheerily as Grace stared at the new Grace in her pocket mirror. The new Grace didn’t seem to have quite so many open pores, thanks to the mineral make-up. ‘Says he has to have your signature and no one else’s will do. We think it might be the new Chanel pumps, so get a wiggle on.’
Grace squinted at her fringe. The black hair dye looked even harsher now she was wearing the correct base colour for her complexion. ‘Hey, what do you think I’d look like as a blonde?’
‘He’s been there ages, Gracie,’ Posy chimed in. ‘I think that might be a human rights violation.’
‘OK, OK, I’m going,’ Grace said, clicking her compact shut.
When she got down to Reception, there was no courier waiting for her, but a delicate-looking boy about her age wearing a Dior Pour Homme suit and flicking through a copy of Real Women, Magnum Media’s most downmarket title. He seemed pretty engrossed and it wasn’t until Grace cleared her throat that he looked up.
‘Are you from Chanel?’ she asked.
‘Are you Ms Reeves?’
They were talking over each other and Grace was painfully aware that she had green eye-shadow smeared over one lid and not the other. She gestured jerkily to indicate that they should try again.
‘I’m Piers,’ he said in a low voice. ‘From Vaughn’s office. He asked me to deliver a few things.’
Grace looked down at the thick white A4 envelope, which bulged promisingly, on the sofa beside him. Then shook the hand Piers was offering.
‘I’m Grace,’ she said, trying to ignore the way Piers’s eyes had widened as he looked at her, although he was now gazing at his shoes. Despite the impeccable suitage, Grace had a feeling that Piers felt as out of his depth as she did - the tips of his ears were bright pink. ‘Shall I take that?’
They both looked at the envelope. ‘I need to get your signature first,’ Piers said, swallowing convulsively. ‘The contract . . .’
It was a mutual blush-fest. Grace glanced over her shoulder anxiously but the two receptionists were obscured by a gigantic floral display and too busy fielding calls to pay any attention to her. ‘Why don’t I take it and pop it in the post once I’ve signed it?’ she suggested, but Piers was already pulling out a couple of pieces of paper.
‘Vaughn wanted it signed now. He was really insistent.’ Piers grimaced. ‘He expected me back ages ago. He’s meant to be flying to Moscow today.’
Vaughn seemed very keen to have everything sewn up - almost as if he was worried that Grace was going to back out. She knew he wanted her, that was what the contract and the money were about, but all of this would be so much easier if he’d just told her how much he wanted her, instead of getting one of his minions to do it.
‘So, if you could sign it now?’ Piers continued. ‘Just I’ve been waiting for ages and Vaughn’s already called twice and, quite frankly, my life’s not worth living if I go back empty-handed.’
Grace suspected that Vaughn didn’t know how fabulously indiscreet Piers was, but she’d been made to do Kiki’s dirty work often enough (and going to the dry cleaners was the very least of it) that she could empathise. ‘God, my boss would be baying for my blood too if she wasn’t on holiday. I’ve just taken a two-hour lunch-break, ’ Grace confessed, and now she and Piers shared a mutual eyeroll. ‘OK, let me just have a quick look at it.’
There were only two sheets of papers and the second one didn’t have much on it except a dotted line where Grace’s signature was meant to go. Grace scanned her eyes over what appeared to be a pretty standard employment contract. In fact, it was very similar to the one that she’d signed when she’d started at Skirt. Even included that catch-all: Other duties, as required.
Piers was fiddling with the other envelopes and Grace was sure she could make out the outline of a wad-like object, which made her concentration waver.
‘Ms Reeves . . . Grace . . . I don’t mean to rush you,’ Piers almost moaned as something in the inner pocket of his jacket began to ring. ‘Here’s a pen.’
Grace had only skim-read the top sheet, but it was enough to decide that there didn’t seem to be anything particularly sinister in the contract. She quickly signed her name and watched as Piers signed as a witness.
‘Do I get my own copy?’ she asked, because there’d been two copies of her Skirt contract, but all she could really think about was the three envelopes that Piers was withholding.
‘I’m not sure. I’ll ask Madeleine when I get back to the office,’ Piers said, as he tucked the contract away. ‘OK, these are for you. Vaughn said you’d know what to do with them.’
He’d got that right. Grace tried really hard to contain herself and not squeak like an overexcited little piggy as Piers finally handed over the envelopes. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed.
Grace saw Piers to the main doors, then ran up seven flights of stairs so she could lock herself in the wheelchair toilet before she eagerly ripped into the largest envelope. Inside were two stiff bundles of money; ten- and twenty-pound notes so shiny and new that Grace couldn’t resist holding them up to her nose. She then opened the second thickest envelope, which had Clothing Allowance helpfully written on it, and found another £2,000 inside. She plopped down on the toilet, then quickly stood up when she realised she hadn’t put the lid down first. Finally, she sank down and stared at the money spilling in her lap.
£7,000! Suddenly all the indignities of the past week didn’t matter. Pffft! Not when she had cold hard cash in her hot little hands. There was no doubt or hesitation now that the money was real. Through a sequence of events that she still didn’t completely understand, Grace was going to live the life that she’d only read about in the pages of Skirt: parties, champagne receptions, first-class tr
avel and lots and lots of lovely frocks. And shoes. And bags.
Yes, there was the whole thing with Vaughn, but he was probably on his way to Moscow right now for a whole week, and if he was hardly ever going to be around, then Grace could deal. She’d be jetted off to some glorious locale once every fortnight, be glittering and witty, shag him then fly home again. There were worse ways to earn £5,000 and allowances a month. Hell, she’d worked in a pub in Dalston for four pounds an hour and had the landlord trying to shove his hand down the back of her jeans when his wife wasn’t looking. This was completely different. It was practically respectable.
If the nagging doubts hadn’t completely disappeared, then the contents of the third envelope would have made them melt away like drops of water on a hot griddle. Inside was a membership card to a spa equidistant between the Skirt offices and Vaughn’s gallery. It was the beauty equivalent of those invitation-only, private members’ clubs that wouldn’t even give out a street number. And thankfully, Kiki wasn’t a member. In fact, Grace remembered how Lily had spent weeks trying to sort out Kiki’s membership and they’d point blank turned her down.