Unveiling the Bridesmaid (9 page)

She tried for a smile, wanting to lighten the suddenly sombre mood. ‘Fairy tales have darkened since my day.'

‘Oh, this is no fairy tale. It's an old-fashioned morality tale of lust, hubris and greed.' He hooked a stool out and sat down opposite her, leaning on the steel countertop, eyes burning with sardonic amusement. ‘They rarely have a happy ending.'

Hope was right. He couldn't have a retrospective and not include his own secrets and shame. What would be the point in that? Besides, Tamara was no secret. Their relationship was well documented as the long list of web links on the laptop attested.

Gael spun the laptop round and stared at the photo. All he felt, all he wanted to feel was pity for the poor fool. Standing there looking as if he had won life's lottery, as if the right honeyed words from the right girl were all he needed to count in this world. ‘It's really no big deal. It wouldn't be worth a footnote in the retrospective if I hadn't been stupid enough to think I was old enough to get married.'

‘But you did get engaged?'

‘Does it count as an engagement if the blushing bride-to-be had no intention of going through with the wedding?' He didn't wait for an answer. ‘It's not that exciting, Hope. No big romance. Tamara was in the year behind me at school. She was...' he paused, searching for the right word ‘...she was ambitious. She felt that she belonged at the very top of the social strata; she was beautiful, smart, athletic, rich—but our school was full of beautiful and smart rich girls and somehow she couldn't even get into the inner circle, let alone rule it. She was left out on the fringes.'

‘Like you.'

Like him but so much more ambitious. ‘Like me. But I knew my place and had no desire to move upwards. I think she knew who I was before I was outed. Sometimes I think she was the one who outed me, because a couple of months before it happened, a few months into my senior year, she started to make a very subtle and clever play for me. Of course I, sap that I was, had no idea. I thought it was the other way round and couldn't believe that this gorgeous girl would ever consider a commoner like me. But the more I noticed her—and she made sure I did—the more I photographed her, the more she made it into
Expose
and the more she featured on the blog the higher her status grew.'

‘She might not have planned it. You make her sound like Machiavelli.'

Proof Hope didn't belong on the Upper East Side; the boys and girls he'd gone to school with had studied Machiavelli at preschool. ‘Oh, she planned it. She played me like a pro—like father, like son. Suckers for a poor little rich girl every time. No one can make you feel as special as a society goddess, like Aphrodite seducing a mere mortal. We started dating spring break that year and right through my first year at college. I asked her to marry me when she graduated from high school. Can you even imagine?' He couldn't. He couldn't begin to imagine that kind of wild-eyed optimism any more. You'd think his own parents would have taught him just how foolish marrying the first person you fell for was. Turned out it was a lesson he needed to learn for himself.

‘She said yes?'

He nodded. ‘Oh, she wasn't finished with me yet, and such a youthful engagement ensured she was in the headlines, just where she wanted to be. She dropped out of college to play at being a fashion intern, did some modelling and dumped me for the heir to a hotel empire. I don't think she has any regrets. Her penthouse apartment, properties in Aspen, Bermuda, Paris and the Hamptons more than make up for any lingering feelings she may have had.' He ran into Tamara every now and then. She usually tried to give him some kind of limpid look, an attempt at a connection. He always ignored her.

‘You were much better off finding out what she was like before you got married.'

‘That's what Misty said. She sent me to Paris for my sophomore year as a consolation prize and that's when I really fell in love.'

‘With Olympia?'

He smiled then. ‘Olympia and all her sisters.'

‘You're lucky.'

‘Lucky? Interesting interpretation of the word. Foolish, I would have said.'

‘Not for Tamara, for Misty. To have someone who cares. Okay, you lost out a little in the parent lottery. They were too young, too self-absorbed to know how to raise you.'

‘Were?' Neither of them had ever grown up, at least where he was concerned.

‘But it sounds to me like Misty has always been there for you. Not everyone has that.'

Interesting interpretation. But there was a kernel of truth there that niggled at him uncomfortably. He'd never asked why Misty had kept him after she divorced his father; he'd been more focussed on the fact both biological parents had walked away rather than appreciating the non-biological one who'd stayed. But she
had
kept him. Supported him, still expected him to come and stay every Christmas, Thanksgiving, every summer. She'd have bought him the studio, made him an allowance if he weren't so damned independent. Her words.

He'd always thought that somehow he was fundamentally flawed, unlovable; that was why his parents didn't stay, why Tamara could discard him without a qualm. That was why he only dated women with short-term agendas that matched his, never allowed himself to open up. But maybe he wasn't the one who was flawed after all.

Because it wasn't just Misty who believed in him. He might have bribed Hope into posing, manipulated her into helping him, but she'd responded with an openness that floored him. The painting was almost taking on a life of its own, rawer and more honest than he had thought possible. And then there was the sex...

He'd be lying if he said that was unexpected. There had been a spark between them from the first moment and although he'd been reluctant to take her virginity in the end he'd been powerless when confronted by the desire in her eyes. She was a grown woman and she had made it clear she knew exactly what she was doing.

What was unexpected was how calmly she accepted the situation. No expectations for anything beyond his limited offer. He should be relieved. He wasn't sure what it meant that he wasn't. He was very sure that he didn't want to know.

CHAPTER NINE

L
UCKY
.
S
EVERAL
HOURS
later Hope's words were still reverberating around Gael's head. He'd been called lucky before—when his father married Misty and he stopped being one of ‘us', a local, and became one of ‘them', the privileged summer visitors. Lucky when he started seeing Tamara, lucky as his career progressed. It had been said with envy, with laughter, with amusement but never before with that heart-deep wistfulness.

He'd never been able to think about that time with anything but regret and humiliation. Tamara's manipulation had been the final confirmation of everything he had suspected since the day his mother had walked out, her next lover already lined up. His subsequent relationships hadn't done much to change his mind, a series of models, socialites and actresses whose beautiful eyes were all solely focussed on what he, his camera and his influence could do for them. The only thing in their favour was that they knew the score, were only interested in the superficial and the temporary and made no demands on his heart or future.

Of course he had never dated outside that narrow world. Never searched for or wanted anything more meaningful. Why would he when so many easy opportunities presented themselves with such monotonous regularity?

Until Hope. She broke the mould, that was for sure. The first woman he had met who seemed to want nothing for herself—he didn't know whether he admired her or wanted to shake her and shout at her to be more selfish, dammit. To
live
. It would be so easy to take advantage of her, to hurt her. Every day he told himself that they should end their affair. And yet here they still were.

Maybe he wasn't the one with the power here after all; in his own way he was as bad as she was, living safely, ensuring his emotions were never stirred, that he remained safe.

Gael scowled, pushing the unwanted thought out of his mind. He
was
challenging himself, opening himself up to potential ridicule with his change of direction. In a few weeks his paintings would be exhibited at one of the most influential galleries in town, exposing his heart and soul in a way that his photos never had. Besides, look at him now. Wedding planning, ordering suits, playing happy families so that his pain of a little brother could have the perfect wedding.

Little brother? He was usually so quick to disassociate himself from any close relationship with Hunter by a judicious ‘ex' and ‘step'. Just as he always added the ‘half' qualifier onto his mother's two children.

Gael shifted, uncomfortable on the overstuffed velvet seat. A few phone calls had led Hope and he here to the exclusive bridal salon popularised on the TV show
Upper East Side Bride
. Women from all over the States—and further afield—travelled here, prepared to pay exorbitant prices for their one-of-a-kind designs, hoping for a sprinkle of rarefied fairy dust to cast a sparkle over their big day.

‘I have your sister's measurements and her choices from our available stock,' the terrifyingly elegant saleswoman had said, eyeing Hope as if she were a prize heifer. ‘You're a couple of inches too short and a little larger around the bust but I think it's best if you try on the dresses I have selected. That way you'll know how they feel, how your sister will feel when she puts it on.'

Hope had gaped at her, looking even more terrified than when Gael had first asked her to model. ‘Me?' she had spluttered but had been whisked away before she could formulate a complete sentence. That had been half an hour ago and Gael had been left in splendid isolation with nothing to occupy him except several copies of
Bridal World
and a glass of sparkling water.

Tamara had never tried on a wedding dress. They hadn't even discussed the guest list. In fact, looking back, she'd shown no interest in anything but the ring—the largest he could ill afford and one she hadn't offered to return.

‘Don't laugh.' Hope's fierce whisper brought him back to the here and now. Finally. He'd begun to wonder if this was some form of purgatory where he would be left to ponder every wrong move he had ever made.

Hope teetered into the large room, swaying as if it was hard to get her balance. The private showroom was brightly lit by several sparkling chandeliers and a whole host of high and low lights, each reflecting off the gold gilt and mirrors in a headache-inducing, dazzling display. The walls were mirrored floor to ceiling so he couldn't escape his scowling reflection whichever way he turned. The whole room was decorated in soft golds and ivory from the carpet to the gilt edging on every piece of furniture. A low podium stood before him, awaiting its bride.

Or in this case a bridesmaid masquerading as the bride. A pink-faced, swaying bridesmaid.

‘Because Faith's two inches taller they've made me wear five-inch heels,' she complained as she gingerly stepped onto the podium. ‘I'm a size bigger as well but they have these clever expanding things so hopefully we'll get an idea but bear in mind that Faith won't spill out the way I am.'

Of course he was going to stare at her cleavage the second she said that—he was only flesh and blood after all—and she was looking rather magnificent if not very bridal, creamy flesh rising above the low neckline of the gown.

The huge, ornate, sparkling gown. It looked more like a little girl's idea of a wedding gown than something a grown woman would wear.

But what did he know? Gael understood colour, he understood texture, he understood structure. Thanks to the work he had done for many fashion magazines he knew if an outfit worked or not. But in this world he was helpless. The second they'd sat down he'd been ambushed with a dizzying array of words: lace, silk, organza, sweetheart necklines, trails, mermaids—mermaids? Really? People got married in the sea?—ball gowns, A-line, princess, crystals. This was beyond anything he knew or understood or wanted to understand, more akin to some fantasy French court of opulent exaggeration than the real world. Marriage as an elaborate white masquerade.

‘Say something!'

Hope looked most unbridal, hands on hips and a scowl on her face as she glared at him.

‘It's...' It wasn't often that Gael was at a loss for words but he instinctively knew that he had to tread very carefully here. His actual opinion didn't matter; he had to gauge exactly what his response should be. What if this was Faith's dream dress—or, worse, Hope's? He swallowed. Surely not Hope's. Her body language was more like a child forced into her best dress for church than that of a woman in the perfect dress, shoulders slumped and a definite pout on her face.

Gael blinked, trying to focus on the dress rather than the wearer, taking in every detail. There were just so
many
details. A neckline he privately considered more bordello than bridal? Check. Enough crystals to gladden the heart of a rhinestone cowgirl? Check. Flounces? Oh, yes. A definite check. Tiers upon tiers of them spilling out from her knees. It seemed an odd place for flounces to spill from but what did Gael know?

‘It doesn't look that comfortable.' That was an under-exaggeration if ever he'd made one; skintight from the strapless and low bust, it clung unforgivingly all the way down her torso until it reached her knees, where it flowed out like a tulle waterfall. If Gael had to design a torture garment it would probably resemble this.

‘It's not comfortable.' She was almost growling. ‘Worse, I look hideous.'

‘You could never look hideous.' But she didn't look like Hope, all trussed up, tucked in and glittering.

Hope pulled a face. ‘Now you start complimenting me? Don't worry, Gael, I don't need your flattery.'

Was that what she thought? ‘I don't do flattery. But if you want honesty then I have to say that dress doesn't suit you. But you're not looking for you and I don't know your sister at all.'

She studied herself in the mirror. ‘She did shortlist it but I don't think she'd like it. I can't imagine her picking it in a million years but who knows? Even the sanest of women, women who think a clean jumper constitutes dressing up, get carried away when it comes to wedding dresses. This was designed for a reason. Someone somewhere must think it's worth more than a car. But no, I don't think Faith would. Still, it's not up to us. Take a photo and email it to her.'

The next dress was no better unless Faith dreamed of dressing up as Cinderella on steroids. The bead-encrusted heart-shaped bodice wasn't too bad by itself—if copious amounts of crystals were your thing—but it was entirely dwarfed by the massive skirt, which exploded out from Hope's waist like a massive marshmallow. A massive marshmallow covered in glitter. Gael didn't even have to speak a word—the expression on his face must have said it all because Hope took one look at his open mouth and raised eyebrows and retreated, muttering words he was pretty sure no nicely brought-up Cinderella should know.

He very much approved of dress number three. Very much so, not that it was at all suitable unless Faith was planning a private party for two. Cream silk slithered provocatively over Hope's curves, flattering, revealing, promising. Oh, yes. He approved. So much so he wanted to tear it right off her, which probably wasn't the response a bride was looking for. Regretfully he shook his head. ‘Buy it anyway, I'll paint you in it...' he murmured and watched her eyes heat up at the promise in his voice as she backed out of the room.

‘I like this but I think it's too simple. She's already wearing one flowy dress, I think she wants something a bit more showy for the party.'

Gael looked up, not sure his eyes could take much more tulle or dazzle, only to blink as Hope shyly stepped onto the podium. ‘I like that,' he said—or at least he tried to say. His voice seemed to have dried up along with his throat.

He coughed, taking a sip of water as he tried to regather himself. Brought to his knees—metaphorically anyway—by a wedding dress? Get a grip. Although Hope did look seriously...well, not hot. That wasn't the right word, although she was. Nor sexy nor any of the other adjectives he usually applied to women. She looked ethereally beautiful, regal. She looked just like a bride should look from the stars in her dark eyes to the blush on her cheek.

Looked just like a bride should?
Where had that thought come from? He'd attended a lot of weddings, many of them his parents', but right up to this moment Gael was pretty sure he'd never had any opinion on how a woman looked on her wedding day. It was this waiting room, infecting him with its gaudiness, its dazzle, its femininity.

But Hope did look gorgeous. The dress was deceptively simple with wide lace shoulder straps, which showed provocative hints of her creamy shoulders, and a lace bodice, which cupped her breasts demurely. The sweetheart neckline was neither too low nor too high and the skirt fell from the high waist in graceful folds of silk. She was the very model of propriety until she turned and he saw how low the back of the dress swooped, almost to her waist, her back almost fully exposed except for a band of the same lace following the lines of her back.

‘I've seen statues of Greek goddesses who look like you in that dress.'

‘I look okay, then?' But she knew she did. Look at the soft smile curving her mouth, the way she glowed. Not only did she look incredible, she obviously felt it too.

‘Is this the one, then?' An unexpected pang hit him as he asked the question. Not at the thought of the day's purgatory finally ending, but because Hope should buy that dress for herself, not for someone else. It was hers. It couldn't be more hers if it had been designed and made for her. But here she was, ready to give up the perfect dress to her sister, just as she had given up everything for Faith every day for the whole of her adult life.

‘I don't know.' Hope was obviously torn. ‘I really, really love it. It's utterly perfect. But is it right? She asked for a showstopper for the party and this is too simple, I think. Take a photo and send it but I'm not sure she'll pick it.'

Gael disagreed. His show had been well and truly stopped the second Hope appeared in the dress. ‘Whatever that dress is it isn't simple.'

‘It
is
the most gorgeous dress I have ever seen. I can't imagine finding anything more beautiful. But I'm not sure it's what Faith has in mind.'

‘There is a whole salon of showstopping dresses you haven't tried on yet,' Gael said, heroically reconciling himself to another several hours of dazzling white confections. ‘Let's fulfil the brief and get your sister what she wants. But, Hope, you look absolutely spectacular in that dress. You should know that.'

She looked at him, surprise clear on her face. Surprise and a simple pleasure, a joy in the compliment. ‘Thank you. I feel it, for once in my life I really do.'

* * *

Gael stood back and surveyed the painting before looking over at Hope, lying on the chaise in exactly the same position she had assumed every day for the last eleven days. She had complained that she was so acclimatised to it she was sleeping in the same position now. ‘I think we're done.'

‘Really done? Finished and done? Can I see?' Gael hadn't allowed her to take as much as a peep at her portrait yet and he knew she was desperate to take a look. ‘I need to, to make sure you haven't switched to a Picasso theme and turned me blue and into cubes. Actually, that might be easier to look at. I vote Picasso.'

‘No to the blue cubes, possibly to taking a look and no, not finished, but I don't need you for the second pass, that's refinement and detail. I have photos and sketches to help me for that. But I am absolutely finished for now. I'm going to let it dry for a few days and then work on it some more.'

Hope was manoeuvring herself off the couch, as always reaching straight for the white robe, visibly relaxing as she tied it around herself. ‘It's good timing. Faith gets here in what, three hours? We've got a fitting almost straight away. Tomorrow I am going to walk her through the whole wedding day and then we have afternoon tea with Misty. I hope Faith's happy with the decisions we made. Not that she has much choice at this late hour.'