Unveiling the Bridesmaid (4 page)

She shifted and her full profile came into view. Nice straight nose and a really good mouth—full bottom lip and a lovely shape to the top one. Almost biteable. Almost... ‘So, is this it? The perfect spot?'

She jumped as he joined her at the barrier, her cheeks flushing as she threw a stilted smile his way. ‘I don't know. It looks a bit busy for a wedding.'

‘Which is a good thing because it turns out you can only get married up here on Valentine's Day and only then if you win a competition. I checked...' he added as she raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘They could marry elsewhere and then come up here for photos but to be honest with you Hunter isn't that keen on heights.'

‘He isn't?'

‘Turns green on the Brooklyn Bridge,' Gael confirmed.

‘Why didn't you tell me any of this before I arranged to meet you here?' She turned and glared, hands on her slim hips in what was clearly meant to be an admonishing way. She looked more like a cute pixie.

‘And ruin your Deborah Kerr moment? Or are you Meg Ryan? Isn't it every girl's dream to arrange a meeting on the top of the Empire State Building?'

‘I already told you, your role is the wisecracking best friend, not the hero.'

‘What about your role, Hope? Who are you?' No woman he knew was content to play the supporting role in their own lives.

‘Me? I'm the wedding planner.' She stared out over Manhattan, her face softening. ‘Isn't it breathtaking? I can't believe I haven't been up here yet.'

‘Seriously? I thought this was the first destination on every tourist's wish list.'

‘I'm not exactly a tourist. I live here. Well, for three more months I do. I mean to do the tourist trail at some point but I haven't had a chance yet.' Her voice was wistful.

Not the heroine of her own story, neither a tourist nor a native. If he didn't have a pose in mind he'd paint Hope as something insubstantial, some kind of wandering spirit. ‘Why are you here, Hope?'

She turned, blinking in surprise. ‘To meet you and make a start on the wedding, why?'

‘No, why are you in New York at all? Here you are in the greatest city on earth but you're barely living in it, not experiencing it.'

‘‘I'm planning to.' But her words lacked any real commitment and she looked away. ‘But I want a real career, to make something of my life that's about me. All this...' She waved her hand over Manhattan. ‘This can wait. It will still be here in ten years' time. I'm here because for the first time in nine years I don't have to worry about anyone but myself. I can put my career and my choices first.'

‘Is that what this is? Putting yourself first? Because from where I'm standing you've agreed to all kinds of things you don't want to do for other people. For Brenda, your sister...'

‘Brenda's my boss, of course I'm going to do what she asks me to do. As for Faith, it's complicated. Our parents died when I was eighteen and Faith was only ten. I've raised her. I can't turn my back on her now, not when she needs me, wants me. Besides, she's marrying Hunter in two weeks. She won't be my responsibility any more. This is the last thing I can do for her and I want it to be perfect.' Her mouth wobbled and she swallowed. ‘It will be perfect.'

She'd raised her sister? That explained a lot. ‘Of course it will. I've agreed to help. Besides, as soon as you mention the Carlyle name any door in the city you want opening will swing open.'

‘There's no budget for the wedding at all. Hunter's sending a card. But seriously, what does that even mean? Everyone has some kind of budget.'

Gael couldn't help his grin. It was so long since he'd spoken to someone who didn't live in the rarefied Upper East Side bubble. ‘No, not the Carlyles. You've heard people say money's no object?' She nodded, dark eyes fixed on him. ‘The Carlyles take that to a whole new level. I have no idea how rich they are but filthy doesn't even begin to cover it.'

‘Wow.' She looked slightly stunned. ‘And I was worrying that Faith was marrying a street artist with no prospects. I think I was worrying about all the wrong things. I don't think Faith and I are going to fit in with people like that. We're very ordinary.' She hesitated and then turned to him, laying her hand on his forearm. ‘Will she be okay? They won't look down on her, will they?'

He might be standing on a platform hundreds of feet up in the air but the air had suddenly got very close. All Gael could feel was that area of skin where Hope's hand lay, all he could smell was the citrus notes of her perfume. He tried to drag his concentration back to the conversation. ‘Misty doesn't think like that. She's the least snobby person I've ever met and, believe me, living where I live and doing what I do I have met a
lot
of snobs.' A thought struck him. ‘She'll be delighted I'm helping with the wedding. In her head Hunter and I will always be brothers even though he was an annoying three-year-old brat when I moved into their house and we've never hung out in the same circles.' Truth was Hunter had always idolised him. He'd even decided to follow in his footsteps and study art rather than the business degree Misty Carlyle had picked out for her only son.

‘She sounds nice, Misty. If she was such a good stepmother then maybe she'll be good for Faith.' Hope's mouth trembled into a poor attempt at a smile. ‘Poor Faith has only had me for so long, she deserves a real mother.'

Gael suspected that Misty would be delighted to have a young and pliable daughter-in-law. She still introduced herself as
his
mother even though she'd divorced his dad ten years ago. Still, that was more than his own mother did. ‘She is nice,' he conceded. ‘By far the best of my parents.'

Hope blinked. ‘How many do you have?'

‘Are we counting discarded steps? Misty is my father's second ex-wife. My mother was his first. His current wife is number four. We all try and forget about number three.'

Her eyes widened. ‘That's a lot of wives.'

‘Misty's just divorced husband number five and my mother is on her third marriage.' He shrugged. ‘No one in my family takes the whole “as long as you both shall live” part very seriously.'

‘My parents met at university, married as soon as they graduated and that was that. I used to think they were really boring. Old before their time, you know? Now I envy them that. That certainty.'

‘Oh, my parents are certain every time. I'm not sure if it's more endearing or infuriating, that eternal optimism. They were dancers, Broadway chorus dancers, when they met.'

‘No way.'

‘Oh, yes,' he said wryly. ‘It was very
Forty-Second Street
. Right up to the minute my twenty-year-old dad knocked up my nineteen-year-old mom and carried her back to Long Harbor to the family bar.' His poor young mother, a streetwise Hispanic girl with stars in her eyes, wasn't content with a life serving drinks to the moneyed masses who flocked to the Long Island resort in the summer. ‘I don't remember much about that time, but I do remember a lot of yelling. She's Cuban and my dad's Irish so when they fought crockery flew. Literally. Just before my fifth birthday she packed her bags and walked out. Never came back.'

He hadn't realised that he was clenching his fist until Hope's hand covered his, a warm unwanted comfort. He'd shed the last tear he would ever shed on his mother's behalf on his fifth birthday when she'd failed to turn up to her own son's birthday party. ‘I'm so sorry. Do you see her now?'

‘Occasionally, if I'm near Vegas. She has a dance troupe there, she's doing well but the last thing she needs is a six-foot, twenty-nine-year-old son reminding her that she's nearer fifty than thirty.'

‘So you were raised by your dad?'

‘And my grandparents, aunts, uncles—anyone else who wanted to tame the wild O'Connor boy. Not that there was much time to run wild, not with a family business like the Harbor Bar—there's always a surface to clean, a table to clear, an errand to run if you're stupid enough to get caught. And Dad wasn't broken-hearted for long. It seemed like there was a whole line of women just dying to become my stepmom. But they all were swept away when Misty decided she was interested. She was fifteen years older than my dad and it was like she was from a different planet. So calm, so together. So one minute I'm that poor motherless O'Connor boy living on top of a bar with a huge extended family, the next I'm rattling around a huge mansion with a monthly allowance bigger than my dad's old salary. It was insane.'

‘It sounds like a fairy tale. Like
Cinderella
or something.'

‘Fairy tales are strictly a girl thing. It's okay for Cinderella to marry the prince, not so okay for an Irish bartender to marry his way into the upper echelons of society. The more polite people called him a toy boy, but they all wore identical sneers—like they knew exactly what Misty saw in him and didn't think it should be allowed in public. And as for me? Breeding counts, money counts and I had neither. When Dad became Misty Carlyle's third ex-husband then I should have returned to the gutter where I came from.'

By unspoken accord they moved away from the railing and began to walk back to the elevator lobby. ‘What happened?

‘Misty. She insisted on paying for college, persuaded my dad to let me spend my holidays with her, Christmas skiing, spring break in New York, the summers in Europe. Of course everyone at school knew I was there on charity—not even her stepson any more.' It was hard looking back remembering just how alone he had been, how isolated. They hadn't bullied him; he was too strong for that—and no one wanted to incur Misty's wrath. They had just ignored him. Shown him he was nothing. Until he'd started
Expose
and made them need him.

‘That must have been tough.' Her dark eyes were limpid with a sympathy he hadn't asked for and certainly didn't want.

‘Expensive education, great allowance and a suite of rooms in one of the oldest and grandest houses in the Hamptons? Yeah, I suffered.' But Gael didn't know if his words fooled Hope. He certainly never managed to fool himself. He greeted the elevator with relief. ‘Come on, I'll buy you a coffee and fill you in on everything you need to know about life with the Carlyles. I'll warn you, you may need to take notes. There's a lot to learn.' For Gael as well as Hope. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd decided to go all
This is Your Life
with her but one thing he did know. He wouldn't let his guard down again.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘I
T
'
S
ALL
SET
UP
and ready to go. Where do you want me to start?' Hope was perched on one achingly trendy and even more achingly uncomfortable high stool, her laptop set up on the kitchen counter, her bright yellow skirt and dotted cream blouse feeling incongruously feminine and delicate set against the stainless steel and matt black cupboards and worktops.

To one side was Gael's own laptop and several backup drives plus a whole box of printed photos, most of which had names and dates pencilled on the back. Hope had spent the morning looking through the box and scanning through a couple of the hard drives before setting up the spreadsheets and database she was planning to use.

Gael strolled into the kitchen carrying yet another box, which he set next to the first. Great. Even more photos. ‘I think you are best off starting with the old blog posts. They're all archived and filed.' He pushed one of the hard drives towards her and Hope plugged it into the side of her laptop.

‘Okay. So what do you want? Names obviously so we can cross reference them, dates—what else?'

‘Any references made to the subjects in
Expose
. Once we've finished with that we'll move on to the photos I either didn't use or were taken after the blog closed down. We'll only need names and dates unless they were used professionally in which case the magazine will need referencing as well. Most are saved with all the relevant information but any that aren't put aside into a separate folder and I'll go through them with you at the end of each day.'

She was scribbling fast, taking notes. ‘Got it. I don't think it'll take too long. You've kept good notes and everything seems to be labelled...' She hesitated and he looked at her. Really looked at her for the first time since they had left the Empire State Building yesterday afternoon. Oh, she'd spent time with him. Had coffee, learned some tips on handling her new in-laws-to-be, drawn up a list of possible venues for her sister's wedding, but he had retreated behind a shield of courtesy and efficiency. She barely knew him and yet that sudden withdrawal left her feeling lonelier than she had for a long time.

‘Everything okay?'

‘Yes, it's just... Obviously I know that you're a photographer.'

‘Were,' he corrected her. ‘Hence the retrospective. I'm a struggling unknown artist now.'

Hope looked around at the kitchen full of gleaming appliances, each worth the same amount as a small car, and repressed a smile. There were few signs of struggling in the studio. ‘
Were
a photographer. And you do—did—a lot of society shoots and fashion magazines and stuff...'

‘And?'

‘Where does the blog fit in? If I'm going to catalogue properly I need to know what I'm dealing with.' Somehow Brenda had failed to make this clear in any one of her excitable emails, most of which just reminded Hope how important this assignment was.

Gael leaned on the counter close beside her. He was casually clad in dark blue jeans and a loose, short-sleeved linen shirt. Hope could see every sharply defined muscle in his arms, every dark hair on the olive skin. ‘
Expose
was a blog I set up when I was at prep school. My plan, not surprisingly given the name, was to expose people. The people I went to school with to be more precise. I took photos chronicling the misadventure of New York's gilded youth. It just skated the legal side of libellous.' His mouth curved into a provocative smile. ‘After all, there was no proof that the senator's son was
going
to snort that line, that couple on the table weren't necessarily going to have sex, but it was implied.' The smile widened. ‘Implied because generally it was true.'

Hope thought back to the hundreds of black and white photos she had already seen today, stored on hard drives, in the box, some framed and hung on Gael's studio walls, the attractive, entitled faces staring out without a fear in the world. What must it be like to have that sort of confidence ingrained in you? ‘And they let you just take photos, even when they were misbehaving?' She cursed her choice of word. Misbehaving! She was living her own stereotype. She'd get out a parasol next and poke Gael with it, saying, ‘Fie! Fie!' like some twenty-first-century Charlotte Bartlett.

He laughed, a short bitter sound. ‘They didn't even notice. I was invisible at school, which was handy because nobody suspected it was me. They simply didn't see me.' How was that possible? Surely at sixteen or seventeen he would still have been tall, still imposing, still filling all the space with his sheer presence? ‘By the time I was outed as the photographer the blog had become mythic—as had its subjects. To be posted, or even better named and the subject of a post? Guaranteed social success. The papers and gossip magazines began to take an interest in the Upper East Side youth not seen for decades—and it was thanks to me. Instead of being the social pariah I expected to be I found myself the official chronicler of the wannabe young and the damned. That was the end of
Expose
, of course. It limped on through my first years at college but it lost its way when people started
trying
to be in it. I became a society photographer instead as you said, portraits, fashion, big events; lucrative, soulless.'

‘But why? Why set it up in the first place? Why run the risk of being caught?' She could understand taking photographs as a way of expressing his loneliness—after all, she had been known to pen the odd angsty poem in her teens. But that was a private thing—thank goodness. She shivered at the very thought of anybody actually
reading
them.

Gael straightened, grey-blue eyes fixed on Hope as if he saw every secret thought and desire. No wonder he'd been so successful if his camera's eye was as shrewd as his own piercing gaze. She swallowed, staring defiantly back as if she were the one painting him, taking him in. But she already knew as much as she was comfortable with. She knew that his hair was cut short but there were hints of a wild, untamed curl, that his eyes were an unexpected grey-blue in the dark, sharply defined face. She knew that he could look at a girl as if he could see inside her. She didn't want to know any more.

‘Because I could. Like I say, I was invisible. The people at the schools I went to cared about nothing except your name, your contacts and your trust fund. I had none of the above, ergo I was nothing.' His mouth twisted. ‘The arrogance of youth. I wanted to bring them down, show the world how shallow and pathetic the New York aristocracy were. It backfired horribly. The world saw and the world loved them even more. Only now I was part of it for better or for worse. Still am, I suppose. Still, at least it should guarantee interest in the show. Let's just hope the paintings are as successful as the photographs were.'

‘But why change? You're obviously really successful at what you do.'

‘Fame and fortune have their perks,' he admitted. ‘The studio, the invitations, the parties, the money...' the women. He didn't need to say it; the words hung in the humid New York summer air, shimmering in the heat haze. She'd seen the photos: pictures by him, pictures of him—with heiresses, actresses, It Girls and models.

Hope didn't even try to suppress her smirk. ‘It must have been very difficult for you.'

‘I'm not saying my lifestyle doesn't have its benefits. But it wasn't the way I thought I'd live, the way I wanted to earn a living.
Expose
was just a silly blog, that was all. I thought anyone who saw it would be horrified by the excess, by the sheer waste, but I was wrong.' He shrugged. ‘My plan was always art school and then to paint. Somehow I was sidetracked.'

‘So this is you getting back on track?'

‘Hence the retrospective. Goodbye to that side of my life neatly summed up in an A4 hardback with witty captions. Right, lunch was a little on the meagre side so I'm going to go out and get ice cream. What do you want?'

‘Oh.' She looked up, unexpectedly flustered. ‘I don't mind.'

He shot her an incredulous look. ‘Of course you mind. What if I bought you caramel swirl but really you wanted lemon sorbet? The two are completely different.'

‘We usually have cookie dough at home. It's Faith's favourite.' Hope's mind was completely blank. How could she not know which flavour she preferred?

‘Great, when I buy Faith an ice cream I'll know what to get. What about you?'

‘No, seriously. Whatever you're having. It's fine.' She didn't want this attention, this insistence on a decision, stupid as she knew that made her look. Truth was she had spent so long putting Faith's needs, wants and likes before her own it was a slow and not always comfortable process trying to figure out where her sister ended and she began. ‘Thank you.'

Gael didn't answer her smile with one of his own; instead he gave her a hard, assessing look, which seemed to strip her bare, and then turned and left leaving Hope feeling as if she'd failed some kind of test she hadn't even known she was meant to study for.

* * *

‘Any more? I don't think you tried the double chocolate peanut and popcorn.'

Hope pushed the spoon away and moaned. ‘No more, in fact I don't think I can ever eat ice cream again.' She stared at the open tubs, some much less full than others. ‘And even after eating all this I don't know which my favourite flavour is.'

‘Mint choc,' Gael said. ‘That one has nearly gone. Impressive ice-cream-eating skills, Miss McKenzie.'

‘If I ever need a reference I'll call you.' She paused and watched Gael as he placed the lids back onto the cartons and stacked them deftly before carrying them to the industrial-sized freezer. She hadn't known what to say, what to think when he'd returned to the studio carrying not one or two but ten different flavours of ice cream.

‘You wouldn't pick,' he'd said in explanation as he'd lined the pots up in front of her. A bubble of happiness lodged in her chest. Nobody had ever done anything so thoughtful for her. Maybe she could do this. Work with this man, pose with him, because there were moments when she crossed from wariness to liking.

After all it would be rude not to like someone who bought you several gallons of Italian ice cream.

The pictures on the computer screen blurred in front of her eyes. ‘I feel sleepy I ate so much.'

‘Then it's a good thing you're about to get some fresh air. There's no time to slack, not with your schedule.'

‘Fresh air?'

‘Central Park. I spoke to a couple of contacts yesterday and they might just be able to accommodate your sister.'

Central Park! Of course. One of the few iconic New York landmarks she had actually visited and spent time in. Hope obediently slid off her stool, pressing one hand to her full stomach as she did so. She couldn't remember the last time she'd indulged so much. The last time she'd felt free to indulge, not set a good example or worry about what people thought.

Central Park was barely a ten-minute stroll from Gael's studio. Hope had spent several hours wandering around the vast city park but it felt very different walking there with Gael. He clearly knew it intimately, taking her straight to a couple of locations that had availability on Thursday in two weeks' time.

‘What do you think?' he asked as they reached the lake. ‘Romantic enough or did you prefer the Conservatory Garden?'

‘The garden is lovely,' she agreed. ‘It's a shame the floral arch is already booked. I think Faith would love it. But with such short notice she'll just have to be grateful we found her anywhere at all.'

‘Why on earth is it such short notice? Is it a religious thing? Is that why your sister wants to marry Hunter on six weeks' acquaintance? Why you are still a virgin? You're waiting for marriage? For true love?' She could hear the mockery inherent in the last phrase.

The small bubble of happiness she'd carried since the moment she'd seen the bags heaped with ice cream burst with a short, sharp prick. He thought she was odd, a funny curiosity. ‘I don't see that it is any of your business.'

‘Hope, tomorrow, or the day after or the day after that, the moment I think you are ready, that you can handle it, you are going to pose for me for a painting which is supposed to symbolise sex. If this is going to work I need to understand why you have made the choices you have. I'm not going to judge you—your body, your decisions. But I need to understand.'

Hope stopped and stared out over the lake, watching a couple in a boat kissing unabashedly, as if they wanted to consume each other. Her stomach tightened. ‘Honestly? Is it that unbelievable that a twenty-seven-year-old woman hasn't had sex yet? Does there have to be some big reason?'

‘In this day and age, looking like you do? You have to admit it's unusual.' Happiness shivered through her at his casual words.
Looking like you do.
It was hard sometimes to remember a time when she had felt like someone desirable, bursting with promise and confidence, confident in her teeny shorts and tight tops as only an eighteen-year-old girl could be.

‘It's no big mystery. It's not like I have been saving myself for my knight in shining armour.' She didn't believe in him for one thing. ‘It just happened.' Hope turned away from the lake, dragging her eyes away from the oblivious, still-snogging couple with difficulty. For the first time in a really long time she allowed herself to wish it were her. Oblivious to everything but the sun on her back, the gentle splash of the water, his smell, his taste, the feel of his back under her hands. She had no idea who ‘he' was but she ached for him nonetheless.

‘I told you I raised Faith after our parents died. My aunt offered to help. She had a couple of kids Faith's age and would have been happy to have had her. But I wanted her to grow up where I grew up, in the family house, stay at her school with her friends.' She twisted her hands together. It all sounded so reasonable when she said it but there had been nothing reasonable about her decision at the time. Just high emotion, bitter grief and desperate guilt.