Not that it mattered. The whole project had never been about Rick Matisse. It had been about seducing a man. Any man. Rick had simply been the first one who happened by.
The telephone remained silent.
To occupy herself, Georgina tackled the chore she hated the most. Housework. She resolved to dust and vacuum the entire apartment.
In the bedroom, something unfamiliar glinted on top of the bedside cabinet. She picked up the object with caution. The steel links felt hard and cold in her hand. Only one of the three dials showed normal time. Georgina weighed the bulky watch in her hand. Then she dropped it back and carried on cleaning.
Two hours later, the phone still hadn't rung. The apartment shone spotless. Georgina felt like a firework ready to shoot up into the sky. It seemed as though the watch on top of the bedside cabinet gloated at her. She picked it up. Perhaps she'd been just another conquest, one of too many to recall. The reason men called women ‘Darling’ and ‘Sweetheart’ was because they couldn't be bothered to remember their names.
She could take it no longer. She simply had to know.
Flying through the hallway, she plucked her front door keys from the china bowl. Her jeans looked fine in the mirror, but the white T-shirt had a dirty streak over the front. She untangled a cotton cardigan from the heap of clothes on the floor and pulled it over the T-shirt, fastening the buttons while she bounced down the stairs.
This time she rang the bell, instead of pounding the door with her fists.
It was Andy who answered. Her face blossomed into a welcoming grin. “Georgina? Hi. Are you looking for my dad?"
"Yes, I ... sort of, I guess. Is he in?"
Andy pouted and shook her head. “Uh-huh. He's out. Sorry."
"Oh.” Georgina realized she hadn't thought it through. How was she going to give Rick's watch to Andy, without explaining how it had come into her possession? She kept her hand hidden behind her back. Maybe, if Andy looked the other way, she could quickly stuff the watch into her jeans pocket.
"How was it, going to bed with my dad?” Andy whispered, leaning toward Georgina, her eyes round with fascination. “Did you like it?"
"Andy!” Georgina gasped. She raised a hand to cover her open mouth, forgetting that Rick's watch dangled from her fingers.
"Should I pretend I'm stupid?” Andy said archly. “That I don't realize you're shagging him?"
"Shagging? Where do you learn words like that?"
Andy beamed at her. “I saw Austin Powers on DVD. They say ‘shag’ all the time in that movie. It's a cool word. Much better than screw."
Georgina shook her head meekly. At least the child hadn't used the f-word.
"What makes you think I'm ... shagging your dad?
"There's candle wax on the bedroom floor and ‘Music for Lovers’ in the CD player. My dad eats breakfast with a stupid grin on his face. Then he asks me three times what my plans are for the day, and he tries to put the coffeepot in the refrigerator. You have the same stupid grin, and your cardigan is buttoned up wrong. What am I supposed to think?"
"Oh?” Georgina looked down her front, and saw the child was right. All least about her buttons. She started to fix them. Rick's watchstrap rattled as her fingers worked their way down the cardigan.
"What's that? Andy asked, eyeing her hand with curiosity.
"It's your father's watch,” Georgina said. At this point, she decided the smart thing was to drop all pretense. “He left it on my bedside table."
"I was wondering why he asked to borrow back his old one,” Andy said. “So, are you going to be his girlfriend now? Are you going to keep shagging him?"
Georgina frowned. “If you say one more word, I'll repeat this conversation to him. All of it."
"There's no need to get all hot and bothered.” Andy looked offended, and then she frowned at Georgina. “I thought my dad was going out with you tonight. He got all glammed up, like. He was wearing a new suit."
"Oh? What kind of suit?"
"A real sharp one. It had two rows of buttons on the front. And he put some yucky stuff in his hair."
"Do you know where he's gone to?” Georgina asked. Dear God, she was pumping the child for information. Did she have no shame at all?
"He always leaves contact details in case there's an emergency.” Andy stepped back and shifted through the bits of paper stuck on a cork notice board in the hall by the front door. “I don't have to stay with Mrs. Donati unless he's going to be out all night. Tonight he said he'd be back by eleven. Here.” She handed a piece of paper to Georgina.
"He's gone to the Marriott,” Georgina blurted out.
"Right. He'll be in the restaurant. But I can only call if there's an emergency."
"Got it,” Georgina said. “This isn't an emergency. Just give him the watch."
Andy hesitated, turning the watch over in her hands. Then she passed it back to Georgina. “I think you should give it to him. Otherwise he'll know that I know. You know what I mean?"
Georgina stared at her. “You're not going to tell him that you know?"
"Of course not!” Andy looked horrified. “It would embarrass the shit out of him. I'll just have to pretend I'm dumb."
"But you told me."
"Or course,” Andy said, raising her hands in the air and sounding exasperated. “I can tell
you
. You're cool. Dad's a jerk. All men are jerks."
"I see.” Georgina nodded. That was one proverb proven right. Out of the mouth of children came the truth.
Georgina accepted the watch and waved Andy a distracted goodbye. Then she raced up to her apartment, where she rushed into the living room and flopped on the sofa. Every nerve, every muscle in her body had gone completely numb. She stared through the balcony window at the cotton-wool clouds sailing in the fading evening light. Tears welled up in her eyes.
Then, with a jerky motion, she pulled the telephone into her lap and dialed Annabel's number. “Annie. I'm sorry to bother you at home."
"Are you all right?” Annabel said. “How did it go last night?"
"It went to plan,” Georgina replied miserably. “That's not the problem."
"There's some other problem?"
"Yes.” Georgina gripped the cord and began to wind it around her hand. “He left his watch in my apartment."
"Why's that a problem? If you don't want to see him again, you can just shove it in his mailbox."
"I've just been down to his apartment to return it.” Georgina's voice became shrill with distress.
Annabel let out an audible sigh “And...?"
"And he's gone out. To the Marriott. All glammed up. In a new suit with two rows of buttons, and yucky stuff in his hair."
"What
are
you talking about?"
"That's what Andy said. His daughter."
"This guy has a daughter?"
"Annie, will you go out to the Marriott and see who he's with? I have to know."
"Don't be so stupid,” Annabel said. “Why are you so upset?"
"I slept with him,” Georgina wailed. “And now he's gone out on a date with someone else. I need to know if I'm just a notch on his bedpost. I can't go and check it out myself. It would be too humiliating to be caught spying on him. Will you go? I'll send a taxi to take you there and back."
"No,” Annabel said firmly. “I've just opened a bottle of Merlot and I've got The Last of the Mohicans on DVD. I'm not going anywhere."
"Annie! Please. I don't want to be a notch on someone's bedpost."
"Too late for that,” Annabel told her. “You should have thought about it before you started your idiotic project."
"I've got to know what the other woman is like. If she's a blonde bimbo with big boobs, I'll know he's a moron, and I can stop thinking about him."
"Let me make some phone calls,” Annabel said with a resigned sigh. “I'll try to find someone to go with you. You can pretend you're out on a date, and it's just an amazing coincidence that you've gone to the same restaurant. It will be obvious, but it won't be as humiliating. I'll call you back."
Georgina paced up and down the apartment while she waited. The instant the phone rang, she snatched up the receiver.
"You won't believe this,” Annabel said. “I've found you someone who's already at the Marriott. He's an art dealer. He is doing a private showing for some important clients. He's hired a function room to display the works. You can pretend that you're with him."
"Do you know this person?” Georgina asked. “Will he mind?"
"He's a good friend. I told him what the problem is. He'll help you. When you get to the Marriott, go up to the reception and ask for Trenton Wakefield III. They'll tell you where to find him."
It took Georgina twenty minutes to find a limo service that could dispatch a car immediately. Then she dressed in her evening clothes. The little black velvet dress by Oscar de la Renta had sequins at the collar and cuffs and looked suitable for a business function. She fastened her hair on top of her head. Then, almost as an afterthought, she went to the small wall-safe at the back of the bedroom closet. Punching in the numbers of her birthday, she waited as the door whirred open. Then she pulled out several leather cases in varying sizes.
Pearls give a girl a touch of class. Georgina watched her reflection in the mirror as she fastened Grandma Ethel's five-strand choker around her neck. And gold gives you courage, she decided as she clipped on a pair of big square earrings.
Plain black shoes with medium heels on her feet. A Chanel bag dangling over her shoulder. A Platinum American Express card clutched in her shaking fingers.
She had everything she needed—everything except her pride and dignity.
Georgina had imagined Trenton Wakefield III as a stern middle-aged man with thinning gray hair and a lanky build. Sort of Abraham Lincoln type, but without the beard.
The man who handed her a glass of champagne when she entered the business centre at the Marriott was no more than thirty-five. He had the tanned skin and the sun-streaked curls and the lean body of a surfer. Only the sober suit kept him from looking like an aging beach-boy.
"Are you Georgina?” he said. “You're absolutely perfect."
Georgina frowned at him. “Perfect for what?"
"To repay a favor with another favor.” He guided her to the open doorway. “Can you see that canvas on the easel at the far end?"
"The one with the young chap in a ponytail standing next to it?"
"That's the one. Walk up to the painting and admire it. Go gaga over it. Say you've got to have it. Ask the young man lots of questions. He's the artist."
"What? Does he need his ego boosting?"
"No. Do you see the couple in the corner? The brassy blonde? With the old guy in tow?"
"The woman wearing the red dress that's too small?"
"That's the one. She wants the painting, but sugar daddy is being tight-fisted tonight. But I know the guy well. He's incredibly competitive. If you march up to the painting and announce that you're buying it, he'll decide that
he
wants it. He'll elbow you out of the way."
"Let me get this right. You want me to go inside and pretend that I want to buy the painting standing on that easel?
Trenton Wakefield III nodded, contemplating her with a pair of twinkling blue eyes. “Yes. Do you think you can do that?"
"Watch me,” Georgina said. She handed her champagne glass back to him. Then she strolled into the room. She lingered a few seconds over a cluster of mediocre seascapes, before making her way over to the nude portrait propped up on the wooden easel.
"Wow,” she said. She froze on the spot and stared at the painting. “This is excellent.” She turned to the artist and raised her voice. “I didn't really come here to buy, but you might be able to persuade me otherwise."
"Trent does the selling,” the ponytail said. His fresh complexion and plump cheeks were as far as one could possibly get from the image of a starving artist.
"Did you use a live model?” Georgina quizzed him. Bending closer to the painting, she observed the couple from the corner of her eye. The blonde was tugging the old guy's arm, trying to steer him back toward the easel.
"I used a live model for the body. The face I took from someone else. I painted that from memory."
Georgina examined the painting. “That's a shame,” she said.
"Why?"
"Because you were in love with the girl whose face you painted. You were not in love with the girl who modeled for the body. There's a mismatch in how you portray them."
"That's the idea,” the artist said. “If you don't get the one you truly love, you'll always know the difference."
Georgina stared at him. Then she gave a decisive nod. “How much?” She could hear the clip of heels behind her, and she knew that the blonde was getting near.
"Trent does the negotiating,” the artist said.
"I'm not negotiating,” Georgina told him with an arrogant toss of her head. “I'm asking for the price of that painting."
An aggressive voice boomed behind her. “I'm afraid it's reserved."
"Oh?” Georgina turned. She succeeded in looking down her nose at a man who towered several inches over her. “I don't see a red dot on it."
"We were hesitating between the nude and the still life with fruit,” the man said. “We've decided on this.” He gave her a belligerent stare.
"Wait a minute,” Georgina challenged him. “If you have only just made your decision, then I'm in the queue before you."
"Cue?” The man said. Ignoring Georgina, he turned to his lady friend. “What's she talking about?"
"I think she means line, Harry. She is trying to say she is in front of you in the line to buy that painting."
The man returned his attention to Georgina. He puffed up his chest and bristled.
At that point, Trenton Wakefield III drifted over. He slipped his arm around Georgina's shoulders. “Georgina, honey, I'm so sorry, but Mr. Sykes
did
express his interest before you. He's a longstanding client. I really do owe him the courtesy of first refusal."
"Even if I outbid him?” Georgina said in an icy tone.
The art dealer pulled his arm away and cast a hurt glance at her. “Georgina, honey, you know that's not the way I do business."