Chapter 3
The knowledge that I know Nate, beyond the basic degree of acquaintanceship, has changed something at the gallery. I felt it immediately after our first encounter, but it became more noticeable in the following days, with both Aadhya, Eitan, as well as Brett—another sales associate—asking me circumspect questions about my life back in New York.
Any other big clients? Aadhya inquired with a smile, before popping chewing gum into her mouth. She always smells brightly of mint. Eitan had been slightly more casual about it all. He’d joined me one morning when I was adjusting the signs for the new exhibition in the North Room, and spoken about the importance of client relations. But there was a tone to his voice that hadn’t been present before.
Nate had helped me impress my coworkers.
It feels unearned, but I try to ignore the impostor syndrome that loves to rear its ugly head. Nate had said that their impressions can’t be false, since they are technically true. He had bought art on my recommendation, therefore…
I suppose he is my client, in a roundabout, white lie kind of way.
The work is fun, at least, and every single morning, I walk into the gallery with a feeling of this is exactly where I should be. I haven’t felt that in a very long time.
“What were you doing before this?” Aadhya asks. It’s Friday afternoon, and we’re both sitting in the back office, working on our laptops. Sorting through the orders and the deliveries coming in next week.
I look at her over my screen. Her hair is in a beautiful sleek bun today, the kind of style I can never get my curls into. “I was a research assistant at a museum in New York.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Wow, that sounds amazing.”
“It was interesting, yeah,” I say. But I shrug a little. “It did get tiring after a while. It was a small museum, with almost no visitors, and the exhibition coordinator wasn’t interested in any kind of innovation.”
Aadhya’s eyes soften. “Oh, no.”
“Yeah.”
“So, what were you researching?”
“I put together all kinds of suggested purchases, and each one was rejected.”
“Goodness,” she says matter-of-factly. “That sounds like a nightmare. I’m glad you got out of there.”
That makes me smile. Thank you, I think. It’s a throwaway comment for her, but it’s the first time someone has validated my decision to leave the job I’d been tied to for years, and all the rest that came with it.
“So am I,” I say.
She wiggles her eyebrows. “And is that little museum where you bumped into the billionaire clients?”
Oh no. I thought we were done talking about Nate. I lift a single shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “He was a friend of a friend when we were introduced.”
This makes her nod, and I see interest flash in her eyes. “I love that. You must have some great friends.”
“Thanks. But I’m sure you do, too, right? How long have you been working at Sterling Gallery?” She’s also infinitely more glamorous than me and hasn’t been sitting in the equivalent of a dusty broom closet for the past four years, focusing on research tasks that went nowhere.
At 5 p.m., I head into the restroom to freshen up. There’s considerably better water pressure here than in the hovel I’m renting, and I take the opportunity to quickly wash up.
I leave my hair down, but add a headband to keep it from being too unruly. Swipe on a touch of lip gloss and add dramatic eyeliner. It’s not ideal as far as touch-ups go, but at least I’m in a great outfit—a long, blue silk dress and an oversized men’s blazer thrown over it.
Aadhya is packing up her bag when I return to the office. She throws me a knowing smile. “Off to a night on the town?”
I grab my own bag. “Yeah, kinda.”
“Of course you are.” She grabs her own lipstick and applies it carefully while looking in the small mirror she keeps at her desk. “Where are you headed?”
I hate lying. I avoid it as much as I can.
But saying where I’m going, and who I’m going with, would spark the wrong kind of assumptions. False impressions and all that be damned.
“He’s picking me up,” I say instead.
Now Aadhya nods. “So, you’re going on a date, and you’ve been in London less than a fortnight?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding once again. “I might have underestimated you, Harper from New York.”
I smile at her. “And you’re not going on a date tonight?”
“Oh no, I absolutely am,” she says. “Compare notes tomorrow?”
Hand me a shovel and I’ll dig this hole even deeper, I think. “Sounds great. Enjoy your night.”
“You, too,” she says with a wink.
I head out of the gallery. It’s a beautiful spring day, still a bit chilly but the evening sunlight counteracts it. Spring used to be my favorite season. Still is, actually. Dean had been a summer-lover, wanting to spend every day outdoors during the hot months. The Hamptons, Montauk, Connecticut. For the past two summers, he had us scheduled to the nines. A week here, a weekend there, we have to make this party…
He hasn’t called me this past week. I know better than to think it’s done, that he’s accepted my decision. We’ll speak soon enough again. But with each day that passes without an angry text or call from him, the calmer I feel about the choices I’ve made.
My mom is a different matter. My phone is practically burning in my bag with the six texts from her I haven’t answered in the last twenty-four hours. She doesn’t understand my decision.
Neither can my big brother, my stepdad, nor my two younger half sisters who hoped to be flower girls at the wedding. My cousin Ashley, who’s not only family but also my best friend, is the only one who told me to gowhen I said I’d been having panic attacks in the bathroom every night for a week straight at the thought of marrying Dean.
The second I walked out of our apartment, out of his apartment, that anxiety had settled. It hadn’t disappeared, but it had lessened, diminished, as if my body realized it was no longer in danger.
I was finally free.
I walk down the sunbathed London street and feel like everything around me is brand new… because it is. Nothing gives quite the same adrenaline shot straight to the soul as traveling. I wish I had done more of it before. But at least I can do a ton of it now.
I can make up for lost time, and I can become the person I always dreamed of being. And maybe I can get to know myself in the process.
Nate is waiting at the corner of Cadogan Square, a few blocks away from the gallery. He’s leaning against a black car, parked neatly in front of one of the red brick townhouses. I’d fallen in love with all of them on my very first walk in this neighborhood. Tall, beautifully built stone structures with glossy black doors. Each windowsill on the first floor has flower boxes, filled with ivy and white cyclamen.
He’s wearing a suit and a pair of sunglasses, his brown hair swept back over a square forehead. In a navy suit without a tie, the top button undone. He looks cool. Unapproachable. Rich. A couple walking a dog send him several long glances.
Nerves swirl in my stomach.
He has always been so closely associated with Dean in my mind. But he’s also been funny, and kind, and nothing but good to me as his best friend’s girlfriend. Welcoming even, and genuinely interested in my work.
Use me, he’d said.
And there’s no doubt that the event he’s taking us both to is an opportunity for me. I’ve been excited ever since he mentioned it. The London Modern is an internationally renowned gallery. But a private tour? The unveiling of new artists?
He could be Dean himself, and I might have said yes for this opportunity alone.
Nate spots me. He pushes off the side of the car and reaches up to take off his sunglasses.
“Harper,” he says. His voice is deep, and a little amused.
“Hey. Sorry if you’ve had to wait awhile.” I don’t know much about his job, but I know enough to realize that he’s one of those people who is perpetually busy. Frequently traveling for work, stopping over in New York for a day at most sometimes before jetting off again. At thirty-eight, he’s ten years older than me; the same age as Dean. And that difference has been blatant for as long as I’ve known them both.
Their careers are established, their bank accounts full.
“Not at all,” he says. “Now, are you ashamed of me?”
I chuckle. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, having to park around the corner to pick up a girl is mildly embarrassing.”
I glance at the car behind him. I know nothing about vehicles, but recognize an expensive model when I see one. “Can you imagine if you pulled up in that outside my work?”
“I can,” he says. “Your boss might have had a heart attack out of sheer joy.”
“Because he would have thought you were there for him?”
“He should be so lucky,” Nate says easily.
“It’s just that I want to make a name for myself at this gallery,” I say. “And I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. You know, about us.”
His eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. “And what might that impression be?”
“Nate,” I say with a groan. He’s never serious, not for a second, and it helps settle the nerves in my stomach. Being around him is easy. It always has been. “Don’t make me say it.”
He chuckles and opens the passenger door. “I’ll take pity on you. Now, if you’re ready…”
I slide into the car. It sits low to the ground and the interior smells like leather. A glance at the center console tells me more than enough of what the vehicle might be worth. Dean would have been all over a car like this. He’s always liked swanky wheels, while they have never interested me. This is, clearly, a car with a capital C.
Nate gets into the driver’s seat.
“You’re driving in London,” I comment.
He revs up the engine. “I am,” he says. “Your tone is disapproving. Think I’ll crash, Harper?”
“No, but they drive on the left side, and the traffic is…” I shake my head. “I’m just surprised, is all. And then there’s parking.”
“Parking is a bitch,” he acknowledges. He pulls away from the curb and onto the calm Chelsea side street. “But I need to drive.”
“You need to?”
“Yeah.” He glances at me, flashing me a quick grin. “I don’t do it a lot, it’s true, but I’d go crazy if I couldn’t at all. Besides, I’ve been here for two years now. Driving on the left side isn’t so hard.”
“But everything is in… reverse.”
“Yeah, you have to adjust your thinking.” He stops the car at a red light and looks over at me again. “Want to try it some time?”
“Drive? In London?”
“Yes,” he says. “This car is an easy one to handle. I have another that’s a stick shift, but we can start with baby steps.”
My instinct is to say no. Absolutely not. I haven’t driven in years, considering I was living in New York, and my first time getting back behind the wheel shouldn’t be in London.
But I’ve said no for too long. Remained within the gilded lines until they started to feel like a cage. And the reason I’m here now—the reason I left the engagement ring behind and moved to a new country—is to experience new things.
I wrote out a list on the plane. Thirty things to do before I turn thirty. I tried to outdo myself with each new entry, to think big, to think back to what I wanted before I became a responsible adult. Visiting Europe’s biggest art museums— the Louvre, the Prado, the Rijksmuseum—is on the list. So is buying the first piece of art myself. And…
Start saying yes to things.
“Maybe,” I say instead. I run my hand over the leather interior. “If you have great insurance.”
Nate chuckles. “Consider it covered.”
He drives through crowded streets. I’m grateful for the tinted windows, for the privacy they allow as I look out at the cityscape. The people on the sidewalks, the bus stops, the old stone buildings. Neighborhoods change subtly here from one borough to the next. And as we leave the royal borough where I work, the buildings become more modern. Nate drives us over the Thames. The water is a deep gray, almost hovering on blue.
I love this view. The river snakes through the city, and from our vantage point on Lambeth Bridge, I can see Parliament and Big Ben, and the London Eye on the opposite shore.
Nate pulls up to the museum, housed in the giant building that was once a factory. The parking lot is full, but there are a few vacant spots marked reserved, and Nate confidently swings into one as if it’s ours.
I peer out. “Uh, can we park here?
“My team called ahead. It’s all good,” he says with a smile. “Ready to look at some art?”
The staggering privilege of that move momentarily takes my breath away. Not only is he invited to these kinds of events, but he must also be considered a VIP.
“I’m ready.”
And I am. But it doesn’t stop the excited nerves from making my stomach turn.
Nate locks the car, nods at a lot valet, and then we walk up the steps to the museum. It’s closed to the general public during the event, and suited attendants line the entrance.
After Nate gives his name to a woman with a clipboard, she smiles warmly at us. “You’re both so welcome. Come on in. There’s a cloakroom to the left and complimentary drinks right up ahead. My coworker by reception can get you started with a private tour if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “This is amazing.”
She smiles at me. “I hope you enjoy it.”
We check our coats, get a glass of champagne each, and then I head off toward the reception. Excitement is thrumming through me like a low-level electrical current. This place is astonishing, and I can’t wait to look around.
Nate’s voice is amused. “You want to start with the private tour?”
“Yes. Or shouldn’t we?” I glance at him. “I think that sounds incredible, but if you’d rather mingle or look?—”
“No, no, let’s do it,” he says. “Art waits for no man or woman.”
“I just want to ensure we get a spot.”
His lip curves. “Of course. Lead the way.”
The woman behind the counter beams at us when we come up. She’s wearing a name badge with the museum’s logo and looks directly at Nate.
“Mr. Connovan,” she says. “It’s an honor to have you here with us tonight.”
I glance at Nate from the corner of my eye. An honor? Just how much art does he buy?
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he says. “Harper here is my art adviser from New York.”
The attendant’s attention shifts to me, she smiles warmly. “How wonderful. Welcome to London, Harper…?”
“Elliot.”
“I’m very glad you’re here, too. I’m Susan Ritchie. I’m in charge of the new exhibition here tonight. We would love to show you both around, if you’re available?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “We’d love that. I’ve heard so much about Soren’s art, and the interplay with light. It’s amazing to get to see his pieces showcased here.”
Her eyes sparkle. “We think so, too. Tell me, what art agency are you with, Ms. Elliot?”
“Oh, I’m… I work at a gallery. Just started here in London.”
Nate is a steady presence beside me, and his voice is steadfast when he speaks. “Harper has been a freelance art adviser for years. She’s helped inform most of the purchases I’ve made for my own collection.”
Susan nods. “Marvelous. Let’s see if a Soren might be something to add to it, then, shall we?”
“Let’s,” I say. “And perhaps we could drop by the permanent collections?”
“But of course,” she says smoothly and starts to lead the way. We follow a few feet behind.
I elbow Nate and quietly say, “You have to stop hyping me up in front of these people.”
“And why would I do that?” he asks. “Every word is true.”