Chapter 19
19
DEAN WALKER’S APARTMENT, DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN
Hayley looked at herself in the gold-edged, full-length bedroom mirror. The navy-blue, wool knit dress would have been perfect for the North-Pole-like climate outside but would have baked her under the nightclub strobes. So she’d hacked off the long sleeves. With the arms gone, she’d tidied up the cuts until it hung from her like it was always meant to be that way. One of Angel’s bright-white flower hair clips was now positioned on the front as an appliqué and her hair had been tamed as far as it could without the aid of a professional stylist. The reflection declared her almost Rachel Riley-esque and that would have to be enough.
She reached down to the bed to pick up a small, silver, sequinned clutch bag. Her mother had bought it for her when she was sixteen from a fancy shop you only dared step in for a treat. It was a rare occasion where the two of them had actually got along.
Hayley smoothed her hand over the magnetic clasp then pulled it open. There was just enough room for money, a key, a credit card or two, lipstick, powder and perfume and the only photo you possessed of the father of your child.
She drew out the photo she’d shown Carl at the gallery earlier, pressing the corners a little flatter. There she was, looking young, vibrant, her highlighted hair looking glossy and conditioned, her smile wide, joyous, like someone high on life or maybe someone just full of tequila.
And there, next to her in the photo, was Michel. Michel De Vos. A Belgian artist – or so he’d told her – hoping to make it big in the metropolis. She’d admired his chocolate-brown eyes as well as his accent and she’d listened intently as he talked about his plans for the future over a seemingly never-ending bottle of sparkling wine and a few vodkas thrown in for good measure. They’d danced and they’d sung loudly and completely out of tune and then he’d asked about her.
Hayley sighed and sat down on the bed. Running her fingers over Michel’s dark hair in the picture, she remembered everything they’d spoken about that night like it was a favourite DVD she’d watched time and again. She’d told him all her secrets. Her ambition to be a fashion designer. How she wanted to finish college, get some work experience with a fashion house in London, work on other people’s designs until she got a chance to deliver her own.
And he’d listened, looking at her like she held the world in her palm. He’d called her an artist too, said she was going to be making clothes for Hillary Clinton before she knew it. She’d laughed and said she was hoping for someone more like J.Lo.
Fashion designer. It was almost laughable now. She’d got herself pregnant, listened to her mother’s disappointed I told you so’s and got a job at a factory that made Wellington boots.
Was Michel still an artist? Did he get to pursue his dreams? She wasn’t sure she really wanted to find out. If he had, she would be jealous. If he hadn’t, she would be disappointed. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Angel.
She slipped the photo back into her clutch bag and fastened it up.
Vipers Nightclub, Downtown Manhattan
‘Any second now and they’re going to be back over here,’ Tony said, his eyes fixed on the group of women moving to a David Guetta song.
Oliver leaned on the dark wood and surveyed the dance floor from their vantage point. The beer was slipping down well and at last, he felt himself start to loosen up. This was good.
‘So, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony asked, his mouth at Oliver’s ear.
‘What?’
‘I said, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony repeated twice as loud.
‘I heard what you said, I just didn’t know what you meant.’
‘Well, is it gonna be the double dating thing or the singular attack?’
‘Safety in numbers,’ Oliver answered.
‘Yeah but you usually end up with both of them.’
He shook his head. ‘That happened once .’
‘And I’m not letting it happen again.’ Tony loosened the top button of his shirt then ran a hand through his thick, black hair. ‘See ya!’ He waved a hand and strode onto the dance floor, his head bobbing and bouncing like an excited emu.
Oliver laughed, watching his friend sidling up to the object of his affection.
‘I know who you are.’
The blonde-haired woman he’d paid attention to earlier was suddenly at his side, the heat from her body unavoidable.
He straightened up. ‘You do, do you? ’
She nodded. ‘Uh-huh. You’re Oliver Drummond. I’ve seen your photo in the New York Times .’
‘And where have I seen you before? A billboard maybe?’ he flirted, putting his beer bottle on the shelf in front of him.
‘That’s cute,’ she responded. ‘So, are you here on your own?’
He looked over one shoulder and then the other, then turned back to smile at her. ‘Theoretically, I guess I am now.’ He widened his smile. ‘But with a capacity crowd, I’m sensing potential.’
‘Want some closer company?’
‘You haven’t even told me your name,’ he responded.
‘Buy me a drink and I might let you in on that.’ She smiled with confidence and he nodded, returning the sentiment. She was good. She was practised and a player. She could get his day back on track. And his night.
‘What would you like?’ he asked her.
Just walking through the front doors of Vipers brought so many memories flooding back.
Hayley stepped into the main room of the club and the music enveloped her. A heavy bassline kicked in, a track she recognised, and suddenly she was transported back ten years.
Her very first New York nightclub. She’d felt so grown-up in her neon-pink mini-dress with her glossy hair and dollars destined to be spent on enjoying herself. Dean had pulled her onto the dance floor to something by Whitney Houston. She’d swirled and twirled and got tipsy on vodka within the hour. Her relationship with alcohol had been the most longstanding one she’d had. Some things didn’t change. Even this place hadn’t changed much. The dark woodwork she remembered, the mirrored tiles she didn’t and the walls without mirrors were now painted a sultry plum. It looked like a classy boudoir, with just a dash of decorations to let patrons know that Christmas was coming.
She paused where she stood, taking in the fashions, seeing what the nightclub-goers of 2015 wore. There were hot pants and tight jeans, little dresses with sequins and sparkle. The men wore smart jeans or suit trousers, more shirts than T-shirts – Vipers had got a little more upmarket. Reasons Christmas is better in New York number forty-five: anything goes in the fashion stakes. And that was one of the things she loved about the city most. The non-conformity, the ability to express yourself, be different and unashamed. Freedom . Maybe she was thinking too hard with her ideas book. Perhaps she just needed to relax into it a little more.
Michel had certainly been relaxed the night they’d met. She remembered exactly what he’d been wearing that night. Faded denim jeans, the hem fraying over his retro Converse. His T-shirt had fitted him perfectly and he’d known it. And it had borne a slogan. She’d had a definite thing for slogan T-shirts back then. It had stated simply, I Shoot People , and then had a sketch of a camera below. It had appealed to her childish sense of humour. And if she was honest, she would still find it funny.
Hayley headed for the bar, almost able to taste the cranberry vodka. It was busy and she joined the throng of individuals waiting for one of the bar staff to give them attention. Dying of thirst was a possibility, judging by the disgruntled groans every time a server took an order from someone who had skipped the line.
Hayley raised a ten-dollar bill in the air, waving it in the direction of a passing barman.
‘I find a hundred-dollar bill works better.’
She spun round, looking at the owner of the voice. Oliver Drummond. Clark . Dressed in dark-grey trousers, a pristine, white shirt open at the neck, those eyes still the colour of cased pistachios. His musky cologne drifted up her nose as her gaze refused to move from him.
‘Hello, Lois,’ he greeted.
She forced a smile. So he recognised her now, did he? ‘Why, Superman, I did think about calling, but wasn’t sure the need for a vodka cranberry was dire enough to require your services.’
‘I think it depends just how desperate the drinker is for it.’
‘She had a couple of glasses of Italian wine she couldn’t pronounce the name of an hour ago.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t call 911.’ Oliver raised his hand and the barman immediately stopped right in front of them, waiting for orders.
‘A bottle of Bud, a white wine soda and a vodka cranberry,’ he ordered.
‘Whoa, stop. No white wine chaser for me,’ Hayley said quickly.
He smiled. ‘It isn’t for you.’
‘Ah, already replaced the woman from last night.’ She smiled wider. ‘Are you going to get to the end of the date with this one?’
He didn’t respond to the question. ‘Thank you for returning my jacket.’
‘Oh, it was nothing.’ She paused, raising her voice a little louder over the music. ‘Actually, it wasn’t nothing. I’m pretty sure your receptionist thought I was a conquest bringing in your love child.’
He wasn’t sure whether to smile or grimace and he was pretty sure the look he’d ended up with didn’t make the most of his features.
He watched Hayley’s mouth open like a cartoon character. ‘Wow, you mean that’s actually happened. ’
He nodded, handing the barman the money for the drinks. ‘A couple of times.’
‘Whoa.’
‘And I hasten to add that none of the children were mine.’ He smiled then and passed her a tall glass filled with red liquid.
‘Good to know,’ Hayley said, nodding.
‘So, you’re meeting someone here?’
She shook her head. ‘No… just checking out an old haunt.’
‘You’ve been here before,’ he stated the obvious.
‘Years ago.’
He watched her eyes drift to the glass of white wine he was holding. Shit, he’d forgotten all about the blonde.
‘I’d better let you go and give that to your date,’ Hayley said, as if mind reading was her speciality.
‘It isn’t a date,’ he answered quickly. He wet his lips.
‘Is that how you justify it when you bail out early?’
‘That was a one-off.’
‘Business then?’ She lowered her voice, inching her head closer into his personal space. ‘Something about the Globe?’
He reeled back then, shocked by her words. What did she know about something so confidential?
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he answered swiftly.
She knew about his business. Their encounter at the Chinese restaurant hadn’t been coincidental and neither was this. His hackles were raised now, suspicion rife. Was she competitor or press?
‘Sorry, it’s none of my business,’ she spoke fast. ‘It’s just putting my brother in charge of the project practically made his year.’
His face wrinkled in confusion until everything sunk in. That’s where he had seen Dean Walker before: at the Chinese restaurant, with Lois and the chattering nine-year-old child. Relief flooded his insides and he watched Hayley’s eyes widen .
‘Ha! You thought I was from Apple, didn’t you? Luring you into buying me drinks so I could get the inside scoop on the next big thing.’
He shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
She laughed. ‘You went as white as if I was carrying Kryptonite in this handbag.’
He tried to recover. ‘How do I know you’re not?’
She raised her hands. ‘I come in peace. No substances poisonous to superheroes and no Mob connections, I promise.’
He really wanted to get rid of the white wine. He looked to the blonde across the dance floor. There really was no competition. This English girl was fun and feisty. He liked the idea of a challenge.
He cleared his throat. ‘Just stay right there and give me one second.’