Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Cleo
“How does he look?”
“Amazing.” Damn him. I slipped on a pair of oversized sunglasses to shield my eyes from the morning sun. Annika and I were sitting on a bench outside the cupcake place on Bleecker Street, gorging ourselves while rehashing the encounter with my estranged husband two nights ago.
“Here. Try this one.” Annika force-fed me a cupcake with pink frosting.
“Stop.” I swatted her hand away. “I can’t eat another bite. I’m going into a sugar coma.” I took a sip of my iced coffee to counteract the sweetness and groaned, slumping in my seat.
A box of half-eaten cupcakes sat between us, thanks to Annika’s insistence that we try all the flavors. The breakfast of champions.
“Just one more,” she pleaded.
I clamped my mouth shut and shook my head. “Nope. No way. Not another bite.” I gave her the side-eye. Annika looked like a Nike sportswear model in stretchy black shorts and a cropped Lycra tank top. The poster girl for her new dance fitness studio. “What’s with all the cupcakes anyway?”
She licked the frosting off her fingers. “Matteo and I went on that no carbs, no sugar kick and now look at me. Mainlining refined sugar like a junkie.” She took another bite then tossed the cupcake in the box and slammed the lid shut. “I feel like I’m cheating on him.”
“For all you know, he’s across town inhaling a box of donuts.”
“Have you seen him? That man’s body is his temple. The one I worship at. So, last night, he puts on Ginuwine’s “Pony” and does this whole sexy strip show and then we?—"
I held up my hand. “Please don’t give me any more salacious play-by-plays. I’m still scarred from that sexy maid scenario.”
“You should try it. All you need is a feather duster and handcuffs?—”
“Stop sharing all your sexy times with your hunky stripper boyfriend!” I shouted, just as a middle-aged woman walked past, glaring at us while her teenage son gawked.
When they were gone, Annika and I doubled over laughing.
“Scarring young minds since 1970,” Annika said, which made us laugh even harder. “Maybe you just need some hot sex.”
“Or a mouth that comes with a filter.” I sighed. “I can’t believe I filed for divorce. That was so cold.” It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time but now, in the harsh light of day, I was seriously questioning my life choices.
Had I been too hasty? Too heartless?
“Oh, please. What did he expect? Were you just supposed to sit around and wait for him forever?”
She dumped the cake box in the garbage as we walked up Bleecker. Annika was heading to her studio, and I was meeting Jack Wells at his boutique hotel in SoHo.
“Why did he have to show up now when I’m finally getting my life back together?”
“Okay, first of all, you have gotten your life together.” Annika looked me up and down.
I was wearing a tank top and hand-painted Carhartt work pants.
My daily uniform. “You look amazing, and you have this whole fabulous career. You’re doing better than ever.
” She wagged her finger at me. “So don’t you dare let him derail all your hard work. ”
“No, I know. But I walked out on him.” I didn’t just walk out, I ran.
“So what? He broke your heart. You were devastated. I was there, remember? That man put you through hell. He’s the one who left,” she reminded me. “You were there for him but where was he when you needed him?”
I could argue that he couldn’t show up for me when he wasn’t even showing up for himself. I could argue that the circumstances were out of the ordinary and that none of it was his fault. But he seemed to be doing just fine now, so what was his excuse for being MIA for so long?
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, rallying again. My actions were completely justified. “I didn’t even expect him to care.”
“Exactly. If he wants you back, let him work for it. He needs to prove he deserves you, not the other way around. But who knows? You might fall in love all over again.” She sighed, her hand going to her heart. “How romantic would that be?”
Turncoat.
For as much as I’d loved Gabriel, madly and truly and deeply, after he left, I had to find a way to love myself more. That had been my entire focus for the past few years. Falling in love with myself and my one precious life all over again.
Had I met other men? Sure. I’d even kissed a few. An Australian filmmaker I met in Bali. A French journalist in Paris. And a British artist on New Year’s Eve as fireworks cascaded over the River Thames, heralding the new millennium.
But for the most part, men had been a distraction I hadn’t wanted or needed so I’d stayed in the shallow end and never ventured beyond the initial attraction and the giddy high of kissing someone new.
I didn’t have the time or energy or interest in pursuing anything more. Once I’d made the decision to step away from fashion design and pursue art, I went all in.
If you’re not taking risks with your art, what’s the point?
So I did the thing that scared me most and put my art, and by extension myself, out into the world. Installations in public spaces. Group and solo exhibitions in London, Paris, Basel. An open invitation for critics and collectors and dealers to judge, laud, revile or praise.
I was one of the lucky few who earned my living as an artist and now, thanks to Greer, I’d landed another commission.
Jack was waiting for me outside the former textile factory on a cobbled street in SoHo. He was leaning against the brick wall basking in the sunshine dressed in faded denim and a spotless white T-shirt with aviators shielding his eyes.
No matter what he wore, he always looked as if he’d just stepped out of a GQ photo shoot.
Jack Wells was golden. Golden skin. Tousled brown hair sun-streaked with blond. Golden-green eyes and a Hollywood smile.
Golden, golden, golden.
When Greer introduced us a few years ago, I’d pegged him as a wealthy playboy. Too rich. Too charming. Too good-looking. Too much of everything.
Not my type at all.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He gave me one of his charming smiles and kissed me on the cheek then brushed his thumb over the corner of my mouth and sucked on it. “Mmm. You taste so sweet.”
I ran my tongue over my lips to catch the frosting I’d missed. “I ate a dozen cupcakes for breakfast.”
“Living on the edge. I like your style, Babs.”
I hated that nickname but what could you expect from a guy that everyone called Wellsy.
“Safety first.” He plunked a hard hat on my head then put on his own and led me inside. “It’s still a construction zone but you’ll get the general idea.”
“Will it be ready by September?” I asked as we side-stepped slabs of marble stacked on the floor in front of the concierge desk in the lobby.
“Fingers crossed. We’ve already booked most of the rooms,” he said as we climbed a sweeping bottle-green staircase that looked as if it was made of crushed glass, which Jack confirmed it was.
“This is going to be the main lounge and bar.” Jack swept his arm around the light and airy space, but we hung back, staying out of the way of the construction crew repointing the exposed brick and plastering the soaring ceilings from scaffolding towers while another crew was installing an oak bar with a hammered copper bar top.
A wall of arched windows overlooked a terrace where they were putting up a striped awning.
“What style are you decorating in?” I asked as we moved on.
“Industrial chic mixed with vintage luxe. A lot of rich leather, plush upholstery, jewel-toned velvet. We want to stay true to the artsy, creative vibe of the neighborhood with a nod to rock and roll. Like a home away from home but infinitely cooler.”
“That speaks to my vintage-loving, artsy heart,” I said. “I can already picture it.”
“You’ll have to come to our grand opening. Consider this a formal invitation.”
I laughed. “Okay. I’ll be there.” I followed him through another doorway and across a hallway.
“This is going to be the Club Lounge. Vinyls playing on a turntable, plush sofas, a bar…” He gestured to a large brick wall. “And that is where your piece is going.”
I stared at the wall, intimidated by the sheer size of it. It was both terrifying and exciting that my work would be on display in a hotel that would probably be frequented by creatives, rock stars, and celebrities, thanks to Jack’s connections.
I clasped my hands tightly and held them against my chest, trying but failing to find my zen. “Okay, now I’m officially nervous.”
He waved his hand, dismissing my fears. “Don’t be. When Greer showed me your portfolio, I was already sold. But I was even more impressed when I saw your work the other night.” He flashed me a grin. “You, Cleo Babington, are the darling of the art world. What could possibly go wrong?”
I laughed nervously. “Don’t say that. You’ll jinx me. And I’m hardly the darling of the art world.” Although I had gotten quite a bit of press. Whether it was deserved or not was another story.
Once again, I was left questioning whether my notoriety and “rapid rise to fame” was about who I knew or about my art.
I was still a dead rock star’s daughter. Still a rock star’s estranged wife.
And one British art critic had dug even deeper and claimed that he could see Nigel Babington’s influence in my work. I’d barely known my grandfather, so he hadn’t influenced my work in the slightest.
Fuck the patriarchy. It followed me everywhere. Would I ever be judged solely on my own merits? The Magic 8 Ball told me, No .
“Can I ask you something?” I said when Jack and I took off our hard hats and stepped outside.
“If you’re asking me on a date, the answer is yes. Absolutely fucking yes.”
I laughed. “Wow, you’re easy.”
“Easy?” he scoffed. “I’ve waited two years to go on a date with you.”
I highly doubted that Jack Wells had been sitting around waiting for me. He was the kind of guy who always had a gorgeous model on his arm.
“So what did you want to ask me?”