Chapter Twenty-Eight
The car has completely opaque blackout windows, and the driver opens the door covertly and I see Alistair subtly shielding his face, I assume in case anyone happens by as I climb in.
I slide into the back seat with Alistair and see that I was correct to assume he would be alone.
“Will Clementine be at this event?” I ask anyway.
“No.”
“Did you…tell her about—”
“Of course not.”
I nod, feeling embarrassed. “Right.”
The car takes off.
“Champagne?” he asks, pulling two glasses from a built-in bar.
“Sure.”
He pops a bottle of Krug and pours me a glass. I take it and say, “Thank you.”
He pours his own, and then holds it out. “To art.”
“To…art.” I clink my glass against his.
We both take a sip. It’s so good.
It’s amazing how lately I have been unable to think of Alistair without feeling uncontrollable desire. Sometimes I want him so bad just from the memory that I gasp at the thought.
My night with Luca was beautiful, but it definitely did not have the same effect. That felt more like a nice night with a boyfriend of many years or something. It didn’t have the electricity of the kiss with Alistair.
Well, of course it didn’t. He’s completely off-limits. Married. My donor. I’m an idiot.
“So where are we going?” I ask.
“An art show. I need to buy a piece, and I know you have a good eye. I need someone young to tell me what’s working.”
“You’re not that old,” I say.
He gives the smallest hint of a smile, and says, “No, but I also didn’t spend a year with one of the most popular emerging artists. I can only imagine that some of Morales’s taste rubbed off on you.”
I feel shocked by the sudden appearance of Jordan in this conversation. I take a bigger sip of my champagne.
“Am I wrong?” he asks.
“No, I heard him talk about all kinds of artists that are selling right now. I don’t know how much I remember.”
“It’s better than I could do without you. This is an important purchase.”
“Why?” I ask.
“It just is.”
It’s clear I’m not meant to ask for further clarification, so I just nod and look out the window. I swallow the questions I want to ask about his and Clementine’s relationship.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” he says.
“Oh, thank you—thank you, by the way, sorry, I can’t believe I didn’t lead with that.”
“It’s all right.” He smiles.
“Yeah. It’s not hard to look good in a dress and jewelry like this.”
He hesitates, then says, “Just take the compliment. You don’t need to give the dress credit.”
“Women are always doing that. Having trouble taking compliments. I blame men.”
This elicits the first real laugh I’ve gotten out of him.
—
The gallery isn’t far, and when we get out, there are paparazzi.
Holy shit.
I smile and try to look pretty and less normal than I feel.
My mom would love all this. God. I can’t believe she won’t see the pictures. Little as we talked, I would have shared them with her.
Alistair doesn’t touch me as we walk in, and he answers one of the paparazzi asking who is that by telling them that I’m Jocelyn Banks, a ballerina with the RNB.
We walk up the red carpet and into the gallery.
I felt a little ridiculous just being myself in this dress and everything, but here, in this context, I can see that wearing anything else would have been a huge mistake. Everyone here drips of money.
I nibble on pieces of cheese and drink champagne as Alistair mingles. It’s not until an hour in that I see the only other person there who is not dripping of money. But just like me, he’s dressed the part.
Jordan.
And he looks stunning.
He’s in a tailored suit that looks exactly on trend. Someone else must have dressed him. He’s not one of those guys who wears button-downs and khakis, not at all. But he’s not this trendy.
I find myself drifting toward him like a ghost, my heeled feet moving of their own accord.
He sees me and does a double take.
“Just one moment,” I hear him say to the man he’s talking to.
He comes toward me.
“Jocelyn.”
“Jordan. What are you doing here?”
He gives a sheepish look. “I have a few pieces in the show.”
“Oh—duh, of course. Yeah. Of course you do.”
He smiles. He looks more handsome than last time I saw him. How? Did life without me suit him that much?
Or do I just not remember him accurately?
I am about to ask why he never texted me when someone walks up to us.
“Everything else here is shit,” she says. “Oh, hi!”
Up close, she looks familiar. I can’t place her, except that I’m certain she’s the same woman from Jordan’s apartment.
“Jocelyn Banks,” I say, holding out my hand.
“I know—we’ve met.” She glances at Jordan.
“Jocelyn, you remember my sister, Adrienne.”
“S-sister?”
They both look at me with confusion and then everything clicks back into place.
“Holy shit,” I say. “You look—you look a lot different. Or am I wrong? Sorry, I feel so rude for not recognizing you, Adrienne, yes, of course I remember you.”
I don’t feel that bad actually, because she looks almost unrecognizable. Last time I met her was on a FaceTime call when Jordan and I first started dating. She had long dark hair and she weighed about forty pounds more. The worst part is that we’ve texted a lot . Like, a lot. Not since Jordan and I broke up, obviously. But before that, a lot.
“It’s fine,” she says. “My own mom didn’t recognize me. Long story short, I divorced my boring husband and moved my kids to L.A. Now one goes to school with J. Lo’s kids and I do yoga every day—oh, I’ll take one of those.”
She intercepts a glass of champagne off a passing tray.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing.”
“I didn’t tell anyone right away, not even Jordan. I don’t know why, I guess I was embarrassed to be trying to make it in L.A. or whatever. But yeah, actually everything’s been great. I chopped all my hair off and work out every time I feel depressed, and now I’m super skinny!”
She laughs, and that gives me permission to laugh.
Last I knew her, she was living in Orange County, working a job she hated, with a husband who never wanted to do anything more with his life than he was already doing. Most of what she and I talked about was Bravo TV, so I’m not surprised I was not someone she confided in.
“You look incredible,” I say. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
I feel so relieved that this isn’t some gorgeous woman Jordan is dating that I can hardly breathe.
She glances between us. “Great to see you, Jocelyn, but obviously this is awkward, so I’ll let you guys catch up. I’m going to go look at some pretentious art and find the caviar.”
Once she’s gone, I look back at Jordan’s face and I feel compelled to touch it.
I don’t, of course.
“Jocelyn, I—”
“Jordan Morales,” says Alistair, appearing at my side. “I hoped we’d get a chance to meet. Alistair Cavendish.”
Jordan’s eyebrow flicks at the sound of the name. “Nice to meet you,” he says.
“I hoped Jocelyn could introduce us,” he says. “I’m interested in buying one of your pieces. In fact, I have a proposition for you.”