Unveiling the Bridesmaid
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Jessica Gilmore
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16.7K
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12
Chapter One
BEEP, BEEP, BEEEEEP.
Hope McKenzie muttered and rolled over, reaching out blindly to mute her alarm, her hand scrabbling to find the ‘off’ button, the ‘pause’ button, the ‘Please make it stop right now’ button. Only... Hang on a second... She didn’t have an alarm clock here in New York; she used her phone on the rare occasions when the sun, traffic and humidity didn’t wake her first. So what was that noise? And why wouldn’t it stop?
Beeeeeep.
Whatever it was, it was getting more and more insistent, and louder by the second. Hope pushed herself up, every drowsy limb fighting back as she swung her legs over the metal frame of the narrow daybed and staggered to her feet, glancing at the watch on her wrist. Five-thirty a.m. She blinked, the small room swimming into dim focus, still grey with predawn stillness, the gloom broken only by the glow of the street light, a full floor below her sole window.
Beeeeeep.
It wasn’t a fire alarm or a smoke alarm. There were no footsteps pounding down the stairs of the apartment building, no sirens screeching outside, just the high insistent beep coming from the small round table in the window bay. No, coming from her still-open laptop on the small round table in the window bay.
‘What the...?’ Hope stumbled the few short steps to the table and turned the laptop around to face her. The screen blared into life, bright colour dazzling her still-half-closed eyes, letters jumbling together as she blinked again, rubbing her eyes with one sleepy hand until the words swam into focus.
Faith calling. Accept?
Faith? At this time? Was she in trouble? Hurt? Wait, where was she? Had she left Europe yet? Maybe she’d been framed for drug smuggling? Maybe she had been robbed and lost all her money? Why had Hope left her to travel alone? Why had she swanned off to New York for six months while her baby sister was out there by herself alone and vulnerable? With a trembling hand Hope pressed the enter key to accept the call, pushing her hair out of her eyes, scanning the screen anxiously and pulling up the low neckline of the old, once-white vest top she slept in.
‘Faith?’ Hope took a deep breath, relief replacing the blind panic of the last few seconds as her sister’s tanned, happy face filled the screen. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Everything is fab! Oh, did I wake you? Hang on, did I get the time wrong? I thought it would be evening in New York.’
‘No, it’s morning, we’re behind not ahead. But don’t worry about that,’ she added as her sister’s face fell. ‘It’s lovely to hear from you, to see you. Where are you?’ Still in Europe somewhere, she thought, doing a quick date calculation. Despite Faith’s promises to call and write often, contact with her little sister had been limited since Faith had boarded the Eurostar, just over three months ago, to start her grand tour. She was spending the summer Interrailing around Europe before flying to Australia to begin the global part of her adventures but, unlike her big sister, Faith preferred to go with the flow rather than follow a meticulously thought-out plan. Which meant she could be anywhere.
Hope grinned at her sister, the early hour forgotten. It was okay that Faith had been a little quiet; she was busy exploring and having fun. The last thing she wanted to do was call her fusspot of a big sister who would only nag her about budgets and eating well.
‘I’m in Prague.’ Faith pulled back from the screen a little to show the room—and view—behind her. She was in some kind of loft, sitting in front of French windows, which led out to a stone balcony. Hope could just make out what must be dazzling views of the river and castle behind. Wow, youth hostels were a lot fancier than she had imagined.
‘I thought you arrived in Prague six weeks ago?’ Faith hadn’t intended spending more than a few days in any one place and Hope was pretty sure her sister had texted her from Prague at the beginning of July.
‘I did. I never left. Oh, Hope, it’s like a fairy tale here. You would love it.’
‘I’m sure I would.’ Not that she had been to Prague—or to Paris or to Barcelona or Copenhagen or Rome or any of the other European cities so tantalisingly in reach of London. Their parents had been fans of the great British seaside holiday, rain and all—and since their deaths there had been little money for any kind of holiday. ‘But why did you stay in Prague? I thought you wanted to see everything, go everywhere!’
‘I did but...well...oh, Hope. I met someone. Someone wonderful and...’ Hope peered at the computer screen. Was Faith blushing? Her sister’s eyes were soft and her skin glowing in a way that owed nothing to the laptop’s HD screen. ‘I want you to be happy for me, okay? Because I am. Blissfully. Hope, I’m getting married!’
‘Married?’ She couldn’t be hearing correctly. Her little sister was only nineteen. She hadn’t been to university yet, hadn’t finished travelling. Heck, she’d barely started travelling! More to the point Faith still couldn’t handle her own bills, change a fuse or cook anything more complicated than pasta and pesto—and she burnt that two times out of three. How could such a child be getting married? She could only think of one question. ‘Who to?’
Her sister didn’t answer, turning her head as Hope heard a door bang off-screen. ‘Hunter! I got the times wrong. It’s still early morning in New York.’
‘I know it is, honey. It’s not even dawn yet. Did you wake your sister?’
‘Oh, she doesn’t mind. Come and say hi to her. Hope, this is Hunter, my fiancé.’ The pride in Faith’s voice, the sweetness in her eyes as she raised them to the tall figure who came to stand next to her, made Hope’s throat swell. Her sister had been deprived of a real family at such a young age. No wonder she wanted to strike out and find one of her own. Hope had done her best but she was all too aware what a poor substitute she had been, younger than Faith was now when she took over the reins. Maybe this boy could offer the stability and opportunities she had tried so hard to provide.
And if he couldn’t she would be there, making sure he stepped up. She forced a smile, hoping her fierce thoughts weren’t showing on her face. ‘Hi, Hunter.’
‘Hi, it’s great to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you.’ She summed him up quickly. American. Blond, blue-eyed, clean-cut with an engaging smile. Young. Not quite as young as Faith but barely into his twenties.
‘So, how did you two meet?’ Hope forced back the words she wanted to say. Married? You barely know each other! You’re just children! She had promised herself nine years ago she would do whatever it took to make sure Faith was happy—and she had never seen her sister look happier.
‘Hunter’s an artist.’ Pride laced every one of Faith’s words. ‘He was doing portraits on the Charles Bridge and when I walked past he offered to draw me for free.’
‘You had the most beautiful face I’d ever seen,’ Hunter said. ‘How could I charge you when all I wanted to do was look at you?’
‘So I insisted on buying him a drink as a thank you and that was that.’ Faith’s dark eyes were dreamy, a soft smile playing on her lips. ‘Within an hour I knew. We’ve been inseparable ever since.’
A street artist. Hope’s heart sank. However talented he was, that didn’t sound too promising as far as setting up a home was concerned and Faith had no career or any idea what she wanted to do after this year was up. She forced another smile. ‘How romantic. I can’t wait to see the portrait—and meet Hunter in person rather than through a screen.’
‘You will! In just over two weeks. That’s when we’re getting married! In New York and...’ Faith adopted a pleading expression Hope knew only too well. ‘I was really hoping you’d take care of some of the details for me.’
Hope froze. She knew what ‘taking care of some of the details’ meant in Faith speak. It meant do everything. And usually she did, happily. Only this was her first time away from her responsibilities in nine years. It was meant to be Hope Getting A Life Time.
Admittedly she hadn’t actually got very far yet. Oh, she’d rushed out her first week here in New York and splashed out on a new wardrobe full of bright and striking clothes, had her hair cut and styled. But she couldn’t rid herself of feeling like the same old boring Hope. Still, there were three months of her job swap left. She still had every opportunity to do something new and exciting. She just needed to get started.
‘Details?’ she said cautiously.
‘Hunter and I want a small, intimate wedding in New York—just close family and a few friends. His mother will host a big reception party a couple of days later and Hunter says she’ll go all out so I think the wedding day should be very simple. Just the ceremony, dinner and maybe some entertainment? You can handle that, can’t you? I won’t be there until a couple of days before the wedding. Hunter hasn’t finished his course and I don’t want to leave him alone. Besides, you are so good at organising you’ll do a much better job than I ever could. You make everything special.’
Hope’s heart softened at the last sentence; she’d worked so hard to give Faith a perfect childhood. ‘Faith, honey, I’m more than happy to help but why so very soon? Why not have it later on and plan it yourself? Travel first, like you arranged.’ Give yourself more time to get to know each other, she added silently.
‘Because we love each other and want to be together as soon as possible. I’m still going travelling—only with Hunter on our honeymoon. Australia and Bali and New Zealand and Thailand. It’s going to be the longest and most romantic honeymoon ever. Thank you, Hope, I knew I could rely on you. I’m going to send you some ideas, okay? My measurements for dresses, flowers, colours, you know the kind of thing. But you know my taste. I know whatever you pick will be perfect.’
‘Great. That will be really good.’ Hope tried to keep her voice enthusiastic but inside she was panicking. How on earth could she work the twelve-hour days her whole office took for granted and plan a wedding in just two weeks? ‘Thing is I do have to work, you know, sweetie. My time is limited and I still don’t know New York all that well. Are you sure I’m the best person for the job?’ She knew the route between her apartment and the office. She knew a nice walk around Central Park. She knew her favourite bookstore and where to buy the perfect coffee. She wasn’t sure any of that would be much use in this situation.
Faith didn’t seem to notice any of her sister’s subtext, ploughing on in breathless excitement. ‘There’s no budget, Hope, whatever you think is most suitable. Don’t worry how much it costs.’
Hope swallowed. ‘No budget?’ Although she and Faith had never been poor exactly, money had been tight for years. Her parents had been reasonably well insured and the mortgage on their Victorian terrace in north London had been paid off after they died, but after that tax had swallowed up most of their inheritance. She had had to raise Faith on her wages—and at eighteen with little work experience those wages had been pretty meagre. ‘Faith, I know that you have your nest egg from Mum and Dad but I don’t think it’ll stretch to an extravagant wedding.’ Was Faith expecting Hope to contribute? She would love to buy her sister her wedding dress, but the words ‘no budget’ sent chills down her spine.
‘Oh, Faith doesn’t need to touch her money—I’m taking care of everything,’ Hunter said, reappearing behind Faith. ‘I’ve arranged for a credit card to be sent to you.’ Hope’s eyes flew open at this casual sentence. ‘For expenses and deposits and things. Anything you need.’
‘For anything I need?’ Hope repeated unable to take the words in. ‘But...’
‘Only the best,’ Hunter continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Anyone gives you any trouble just mention my name—or my mother’s, Misty Carlyle. They should fall into line pretty quickly.’
‘Mention your name. Okay.’ She seemed incapable of doing anything other than parroting his words but the whole situation had just jumped from bizarre to surreal. How did a street artist in Prague have the power to send credit cards for a budget-free wedding shopping spree across the ocean without batting an eyelid? Just who was Faith marrying? A Kennedy?
‘Actually, the best person to speak to will be my stepbrother Gael. Gael O’Connor. He only lives a few blocks away from you and he knows everyone. Here, I’ll email you the address and his number and let him know to expect you.’ He beamed as if it was all sorted. For Faith and him it was, she supposed. They could carry on being in love in their gorgeous attic room staring out at the medieval castle while Hope battled New York humidity to organise them the perfect wedding.
Well, she would, with the help of Hunter’s unexpected largesse. She would make it perfect for her sister if it killed her. Only she wasn’t going to do it alone. She was all for equality and there was nothing to say wedding planning had to be the sole preserve of the bride’s family after all. As soon as it was a respectable hour she would visit Mr Gael O’Connor and enlist his help. Or press-gang him. She really didn’t mind which it was, as long as Faith ended up with the wedding of her dreams.
* * *
Gael O’Connor glanced at his watch and tried not to sigh. Sighing hadn’t helped last time he checked, nor had pacing, nor had swearing. But when you hired a professional you expected professional behaviour. Not tardiness. Not an entire twenty minutes’ worth of tardiness.
He swivelled round to stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one whole side of his studio. Usually looking out over Manhattan soothed him or inspired him, whatever he needed. Reminded him that he had earned this view, this space. Reminded him that he mattered. But today all it told him was that he was taking a huge gamble with his career and his reputation.
Twenty-five minutes late. He had to keep busy, not waste another second. Turning, he assessed once again the way the summer morning light fell on the red velvet chaise longue so carefully positioned in the middle of the room, the only piece of furniture in the large studio. His bed and clothes were up on the mezzanine, the kitchen and bathroom were tucked away behind a discreet door at the end of the apartment. He liked to keep this main space clutter-free. He needed to be able to concentrate.
Only right now there was nothing to concentrate on except the seconds ticking away.
Gael resumed pacing. Five minutes, he would give her five more minutes and if she hadn’t arrived by then he would make sure she never worked in this city again. Hang on. Was that the buzzer? It had never been more welcome. He crossed the room swiftly. ‘Yes?’
‘There’s a young lady to see you, sir. Name of...’
‘Send her up.’ At last. Gael walked back over to the windows and breathed in the view: the skyscrapers dominating the iconic skyline, the new, glittering towers shooting up around him as New York indulged in a frenzied orgy of building, the reassuring permanence of the old, traditional Upper East Side blocks maintaining their dignified stance on the other side of his tree-lined street. He shifted from foot to foot. He needed to use this restless energy while it coursed through him—not waste it in frustration.
The creak of the elevator alerted him to his visitor’s imminent arrival. No lobby, not when you had the penthouse; the elevator opened right into the studio.
And he did have the penthouse. Not as a gift, not as a family heirloom but because he had worked for it and bought it. Not one of his friends would ever understand the freedom that gave him.
The doors opened with an audible swish and heels tapped tentatively onto the wooden floor. ‘Er...hello?’ English. He hadn’t expected that. Not that he cared what she sounded like; he wasn’t interested in having a conversation with her.
‘You’re late.’ Gael didn’t bother turning round. Usually he made time to greet the women, put them at their ease before they got started but he was too impatient for the niceties today. ‘There’s a robe on the chaise. You can change in the bathroom.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The bathroom.’ He nodded to the end of the room. ‘There’s a hanger for your clothes. Go and strip. You can keep the robe on until I’ve positioned you properly if you prefer.’ Some did, others were quite happy to wander nude from the bathroom across the floor to the chaise. He didn’t mind either way.
‘My clothes? You want me to take them off?’
‘Well, yes. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
He moved around to face her at the exact same moment she let out a scandalised-sounding, ‘No! Of course not. Why would you think that?’
Who on earth was this? Dark-haired, dark-eyed, petite with a look of outraged horror. She was pretty enough, beautiful even—if you liked the ‘big dark eyes in a pale face’ look. But he was expecting an Amazonian redhead with a knowing smile and whatever and whoever this girl was she certainly wasn’t that.
‘Because I was expecting someone who was supposed to be doing exactly that,’ Gael said drily. ‘But you are not what I ordered. Too short for a start, although you do have an interesting mouth.’
‘Ordered?’ Her cheeks reddened as the outrage visibly ratcheted up several notches. ‘I’m sorry that I’m not your takeout from Call Girls Are Us but I think you should check before you start asking complete strangers to strip.’
‘I’m not the one who has gatecrashed their way past the doorman. Who are you? Did Sonia send you?’
‘Sonia? I don’t know any Sonia. There’s clearly been some kind of mix-up. You are Gael O’Connor, aren’t you?’ She sounded doubtful, taking a cautious step back as if he might pounce any second.
He ignored her question. ‘If you don’t know Sonia then why are you here?’
She took a deep breath. ‘My sister is getting married and...’
‘Great. Congratulations. Look, I don’t do weddings. I don’t care how much you offer. Now, I’m more than a little busy so if you’ll excuse me I have to make a call. I’m sure you can find your own way out. You seemed to have no trouble finding your way in.’
The dark-haired woman stared at him, incredulity all over her face as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Ignoring his unwanted visitor, Gael scrolled through what felt like an endless stream of emails, notifications and alerts. His mouth compressed. Nothing from the agency. With a huff of impatience he found their name and pressed call. They had better have a good explanation. The phone rang once, twice—he tapped his foot with impatient rhythm—three times before a voice sang out, ‘Unique Models, how may I help?’
‘Gael O’Connor here. It’s now...’ He glanced up at the digital clock on the otherwise stark grey walls. ‘It’s nine a.m. and the model I booked for eight-thirty has yet to show up.’
‘Gael, lovely to speak to you. I am so sorry, I meant to call you before but I literally haven’t had time. It’s been crazy, you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Try me.’
‘Sonia was booked yesterday for a huge ad campaign—only it was a last-minute replacement so she had to literally pack and fly. I saw her onto the plane myself last night. International perfume ad, what an opportunity. Especially for a model who is...’ the booker’s voice lowered conspiratorially ‘...outsize. So we are going to have to reschedule your booking I am so sorry. Or could I send someone else? We have some lovely redheads if that’s what you require or was it the curvier figure you were looking for?’
With some difficulty Gael managed not to swear. Send someone else? An image of the missing Sonia flashed through his mind: the knowing expression in her green catlike eyes, the perfect amount of confident come-hitherness he needed for the centrepiece of his first solo exhibition. ‘No. I can’t simply replace her, nor can I rebook. I’ve put the time aside right now.’
After all, the exhibition was in just five weeks.
‘Sonia will be back in just a couple of days. All I can do is apologise for the delay but...’
It would help, he thought bitterly, if the booker sounded even remotely sorry. She would be—he would never use a Unique model again. He hung up on her bored pretence for an apology. Once Sonia was back she would be of no use to him. Unlike his photographs Gael didn’t want the subjects of his paintings to be known faces. Their anonymity was part of the point. He spent too much time documenting the bright and the beautiful. For this he wanted real and unknown.
His hand curled into a fist as he faced the bitter facts. He still had to paint the most important piece for his very first exhibition and he had no model lined up. He mentally ran through his contacts but no one obvious came to mind. Most of the models he knew were angular, perfect for photography, utterly useless for this.
Damn.
‘Mr O’Connor.’
Palming his phone, Gael directed a frustrated glance over at his unwanted intruder. ‘I thought you’d left,’ he said curtly. She was standing stiffly by the elevator, leaning towards it as if she longed to flee—although nobody was stopping her, quite the contrary. Gael allowed his gaze to travel down her, assessing her suitability. Before he had only looked at what she lacked compared to the model he was expecting to see; she was much shorter, slight without the dramatic curves, ice to Sonia’s fire. She wore her bright clothing like a costume, her dark hair waving neatly around her shoulders like a cloak. Her eyes were huge and dark but the wariness in them seemed engrained.
She took another step back. ‘Do you mind?’
‘It is my studio...’ he drawled. That was better; indignation brought some more colour into her cheeks, red into her lips.
‘I am not some painting that you can just look at in that way. As if...as if...’ She faltered.
But he knew exactly what she had been going to say and finished off her sentence. ‘As if you were naked.’
He had lit the fuse and she didn’t disappoint; her eyes filled with fire, her cheeks now dusky pink. She would make a very different centrepiece from the one he had envisioned but he could work with those eyes, with that innocent sensuality, with the curve of her full mouth.
He nodded at her. ‘Come over here. I want to show you something.’
Gael didn’t wait to see if she would follow; he knew that she would. He strode to the end of the studio and turned over the four unframed canvases leaning against the brick wall. There would be twenty pictures in total. Ten had been framed and were stored at the gallery, another five were with the framers. These four, the most recent, were waiting their turn.
He heard a sharp intake of breath from close behind him. He took a step back to stand beside her and looked at the paintings, trying to look at them with fresh eyes, to see what she saw even though he knew each and every brush stroke intimately.
‘Why are all the women lying in the same position?’
Gael glanced over at the red chaise standing alone in the middle of the studio, knowing her eyes had followed his, that she too could see each of the women lying supine, their hair pulled back, clad only in jewellery, their faces challenging, confident, aware and revelling in their own sensual power.
‘Do you know Olympia?’
Her forehead creased. ‘Home of the Greek gods?’
‘No, it’s a painting by Manet.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘It was reviled at the time. The model posed naked, in the same position as each of these,’ he waved a hand at his canvases, at the acres of flesh: pink, cream, coffee, ebony. ‘What shocked nineteenth-century France wasn’t her nudity, it was her sexuality. She wasn’t some kind of goddess, she was portraying a prostitute. Nudes at that time were soft, allegorical, not real sensual beings. Olympia changed all that. I have one more painting to produce before my exhibition begins in just over a month.’ His mouth twisted at the thought. ‘But as you must have heard my model has gone AWOL and I can’t afford to lose any more time. I want you to pose for me. Will you?’
Her eyes were huge, luminous with surprise and, he noticed uncomfortably, a lurking fear. ‘Me? You want me to pose? For you? On that couch? Without my clothes? Absolutely not!’
