Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
gold dust
REY
It’s the gold dust coming out of my nose that earns me Mum’s death-stare this time. Last night was my first glitter spray gig, and now that I’ve sneezed all over my blue cardigan sleeve, it’s clear that glitter truly gets everywhere.
Mum’s bulging brown eyes tell me she’s not pleased. She snatches up a cloth and steps around the green-tiled kitchen island to me.
I hoped I’d avoid that look from her today. I left my purple Converse for these black flats, and even covered up my tattooed arms, without her having to nag me about it.
But alas, here we are, at her annual Early May extended family Sunday roast, with her scowl in full effect. And I’ve not even had a cupcake yet.
“Glitter spray is in again,” I lie as she frantically wipes my arm, muttering under her breath. “Saturday nights in London, right?” I add, as if it’ll explain it all. Not that she asked.
The stain is relentless, so she scrunches up the cardigan sleeve to hide it, huffing when the trailing wildflowers of my three-quarter sleeve tattoo appear.
“No one will see the specks, Mum, stop fussing.”
I pull my arm back.
“Fine.”
She shakes her head in that condescending way, and I grit my teeth. It’s so subtle, no one else would think twice about it. But I always notice, and I always pretend I don’t.
“Why do you keep that bartender job, Rosemary?” she whispers, and I cringe at the sound of my given name.
“Call me Rey, Mum, please.”
For the trillionth time…
She picks something off my shoulder. “You have your HR assistant role now, isn’t that enough?
” she continues, ignoring me (as she does).
As always, she whispered the words ‘bartender’ and ‘assistant’ as if someone in the lounge would hear her and care.
I honestly don’t think any of them would, despite everyone being bankers, doctors, and lawyers, but she does.
“Take the potatoes, darling,” she demands.
Carrying the tray of roast chickens, Mum pushes the door open with her hip, re-entering the lounge to an audible celebration from the family (most of whom travel solely for Mum’s cooking and free booze), and I’m trailing behind her, trying my best to look as elegant as she’d want me to while navigating this massive plate and my brother’s French Bulldog.
“Beanie, stop licking my shoes.” I laugh at the silly dog.
My brother swoops in, and the weight of the heavy potatoes disappears. “I’ll grab that before you give Mum a real reason to glare at you.”
I look up at my brother, and there’s that comforting, yet saddening, look in his eye that says he sees the shit I take, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.
He’s four years older, and some days the gap feels massive.
Alexander (Xander to everyone but Mum) Hart followed in our father’s finance footsteps and is the pride and joy of our parents.
I’m twenty-nine, but feel stuck at twenty-three.
I can’t seem to find my path again after failing as a painter, which hasn’t helped my title as the family dud.
“I heard what she asked.”
“Eavesdropping, are we?” I narrow my eyes at him, and he shrugs.
“I was on standby in case she got nasty with you.”
“You don’t need to protect me, you know. I’m used to it.” Mum’s always been on my case, but she turned it up to eleven after I wasted my degree from the University of the Arts London.
She doesn’t realise she killed my creativity.
“Why do you keep the bartender job?” Xander asks, his voice low. “If it’s about money, I can help.”
Xander is the only person close to me I’ve thought of sharing the truth of my extra job with, especially considering I live (and sneak around in glitter paint) under his roof.
But I can’t stand the thought of seeing the judgement on his face. It’s a face that looks a lot like mine. We both have deep dimples, brown eyes, thick eyebrows, and dark locks—although his are cut short and stylish, whereas mine are long, tangled and, frankly, a bit of a mess.
Xander lights up when he sees me, and I don’t want to lose that.
“Don’t be silly,” I say. “I pay almost nothing to live with you. The job is fun, and I like the people,” I add, shrugging and picking at the damp cardigan sleeve.
Although, it does pays well.
Four hours at a high-end gig can cover a month of my tube rides and some lunches.
But I’m not a bartender, which is the lie I’ve told them.
I’m an atmosphere model.
And it’s not only about the money. I love dressing up, being live art as part of a big, exciting entertainment event. It’s my only creative outlet these days (or years). It lets me step into a different world, allowing me to just be in the moment; like I used to when I sketched or painted.
Considering I occasionally (like last night) dress up in something that leaves little to the imagination, none of them would get the appeal. I worry Mum’s death-stare would set forever if she were to see her daughter like that.
Xander…? I don’t know what he’d do. Throw me out on my head? Lock me in my room?
Still, I risk it.
My modelling manager said the next gig will be the best one ever, but that she can’t reveal the details yet.
Beanie snorts at my feet, and a pang of guilt hits me for not giving him his regular big cuddle. With glitter on my sleeve and a tangled mess on my head, I’ve set the bar pretty low, but I need to draw the line at dog drool stains.
Beanie gives up and I watch him waddle across the room to my old school friend and Mum’s friend’s daughter, Nia Gooding. She’s talking to my mum and two of my aunts.
Nia’s deep red lips set off her bright white teeth. Not a lipstick stain in sight.
The smooth skin of her arm glows in the sunlight streaming through the open patio door as she flicks a long black braid behind her shoulder in an elegant move. Mum laughs at something she says, and a knot forms in my stomach.
Nia catches my eye and grins, waving me over. I plaster on a smile and push down whatever started simmering.
“Hello,” I chirp. Besides being an old family friend, Nia is also my boss—for another week, anyway.
“Darling,” Mum says. “Nia was just about to tell us some stories; we’re dying to know about your CEO.”
She giggles with the other ladies.
“Why?” I ask.
“I read about him in a magazine,” Mum says, smirking.
“Do you mean the gossip blog?” I ask.
She refuses to acknowledge that’s what it is, and by the sharp intake of breath from my aunts next to her, I take it they’re in denial as well.
“It’s more like news,” Mum’s youngest sister states, brown curls swaying as she leans into our little circle. “That woman has real insight into the world of Mayfair. Surely she’s a member of all these private clubs.”
“Absolutely agree,” Mum whispers, eyebrows raised conspiratorially.
I mean, I get the need to fantasise. Mile End and Mayfair are worlds apart. But why gossip?
“How do you know it’s a woman behind What Happens in Mayfair?” Nia asks.
“It has to be,” the older sister pipes up, her grey bob glistening in the sunlight. “Only a woman knows what matters, and she really hits all the notes. I can’t wait for the next one!”
I shrug.
I’ve not read it, and I just won’t. There are other things to care about.
What Happens in Mayfair is known for revealing the misconduct of Infinio’s ex-CEO, which I read about in the actual news, and what he did is mortifying. But gossip is gossip, and I’m still a believer in the old ‘innocent until proven guilty’ thing.
Okay, Damian Hawkins turned out to be very guilty, but what if he wasn’t? Who are we to be the judge and jury?
“Nia.” My aunt leans in further. “Is it true that those who reported his affairs were fired?”
Nia coughs into her glass, but regains her composure. “I can’t confirm anything,” she says to a chorus of boos. “Let’s just say HR is in much better shape under me,” she adds, serious now, despite the effect it has on her gasping audience.
I’ve heard the stories at the office. What my aunt asked about is just one of many. From what I understand, Damian had perfected his power-abuse techniques; no one dared turn him down when he set his eyes on them. And no one dared report it.
“Mark Becker is an angel in comparison,” Nia says, and I swear her eyes gloss over for a moment. “Demanding, yes, but he’s a rule-follower, and it makes my job easier.”
“Oh, it’s so exciting that you both work for Mr Becker,” Mum says. “He seems like a wonderful man.” By wonderful she means he’s loaded, and she believes we adapt to those we are close to, which is why she always pushed me into the high-end art circles.
She hooks her arm in mine and tilts her head to meet my eyes. She looks … proud? I’ve not seen that since I graduated from UAL. A welcome heat spreads through my chest.
Just for a moment…
Then I meet Nia’s piercing stare. The warmth leaves me, and my heart sinks into my stomach. I raise my eyebrows in response, giving her the most discreet shake of my head.
No, I haven’t yet told my mother the job was a temporary favour.
“What do you do there again? Your mother is always so vague,” my aunt asks, and I dare another glance at Nia, but before I can answer, Mum’s voice cuts through the air.
“Oh, she’s integral to the creative team.”
Nia raises her eyebrows at me, and I grimace, but quickly morph it into a smile as Mum brags about me (sort of) to her sisters, which never happens.
Ever.
At Christmas, she didn’t talk about me at all. At the time, I was a preschool teacher’s assistant, and before that, I was a part-time tattoo artist. Hardly the conversation topic for my mother.
So yeah, I’d consider this a win.
“Rosemary holds an art degree from UAL, you recall. They are lucky to have her,” Mum continues.
I can feel Nia’s eyes burning a hole in the top of my head as I stare at my feet.
How the hell am I supposed to break it to Mum I’ve only got a week left at Mark Becker’s Infinio Games?