Unveiling the Bridesmaid (6 page)

‘It's all perfectly respectable,' he promised as they turned the corner and walked towards the steps leading up to the arched entrances of the museum. As usual the steps were crowded: groups of girls gossiping while sipping from huge coffee cups, lone people scrolling through phones, sketching or reading battered paperbacks, couples entwined and picnicking families. The usual sense of coming home washed over him. The museum had been a sanctuary when he had lived in Misty's town house, the place he had come to on exeats from school. The only place where he had felt that he knew who he was. Where his anonymity wasn't a curse but a blessing as he moved through the galleries, just another tourist.

Hope tossed her apple core into a trash can and wiped her hands on a tissue before lobbing that in after her apple. ‘I pass this every day on my way to work,' she said as they began to climb the stairs. ‘I always meant to come in.'

‘What stopped you? It's open late and at weekends.'

Hope shrugged. ‘I don't know, the usual, I suppose.'

‘Which is?'

‘That because I haven't before I don't know how to. And before you say anything, yes, I know it's stupid. But even though we lived in London my parents weren't really museum people or theatre people—they were far more likely to take us for a walk. They liked nothing better than driving out to a hill somewhere so we could walk up it and eat sandwiches in the drizzle. It was always drizzling!'

‘My parents didn't take me to museums either—Misty's interest only runs to showing off her philanthropy and my dad only stepped foot inside when it was the annual ball and only then under duress. I think that's why I loved it so much; it's somewhere I discovered for myself. What did you do as a teenager?'

‘Hung out with friends, the usual.' But her voice was constrained and she had turned a little away from him, a clear sign she didn't want to talk about it.

They reached the doors and entered the magnificent Great Hall with its huge ceilings and sweeping arches. Gael palmed his pass, steering Hope past the queues waiting patiently to check their bags in and pay for admittance until he reached the membership desk.

The neatly dressed woman behind the desk smiled, barely looking at his pass. ‘Good morning, Mr O'Connor. Is this young lady your guest?'

‘Good morning, Jenny. How's the degree going? Yes, Hope's with me.'

‘First-name terms with the staff?' Hope murmured as he led her down the corridor, expertly winding his way around tour groups and puzzled clumps of map-wielding visitors.

‘I may come here fairly regularly.' Plus he was a patron—and Misty sat on the prestigious Board of Trustees but Hope didn't need to know that. He didn't want to dazzle her with his connections; he'd learned long ago that women impressed with those were only after one thing—influence. He'd vowed long ago never to be used again. He might be enjoying Hope's company but, just like every other woman, she was with him because of what he could do for her. It was a lesson he was unlikely to forget.

* * *

Hope sank onto the couch with a grateful cry. ‘I wore my most comfortable shoes and
still
my feet ache. We must have walked miles and miles and miles without ever going outside. And my eyes ache just as much as my feet.'

Gael suppressed a smile. ‘It's not easy compressing two thousand plus years of art history into a four-hour tour.'

‘Five hours and only a twenty-minute coffee stop,' Hope said bitterly. ‘I almost fainted away right in front of the Renoir—or was it Degas?'

‘Better get it right or you'll fail the written test later. I've ordered a cheese plate, water and a glass of wine. Do you think that will fortify you?'

‘Only if I don't have to move again. Ever.'

‘Not for the next half hour,' Gael promised. ‘But then we have a private tour of the roof garden and the Terrace Room. Your sister can't get married here but she can certainly have the reception. Do you know how many you're organising it for yet?'

Hope rubbed her temples. ‘Not exactly but because Misty is planning such a lavish party and a blessing two days later the wedding day itself is to be kept small and intimate. Last email she said that she would like to keep it down to me, you, Hunter's mother of course. His father—will that be awkward in such a small group?'

‘I don't think so. Misty and he still move in all the same circles. I told you yesterday, she specialises in civilised divorces.'

‘Then a couple of the groom's friends and apparently they are paying for two of Faith's school friends and our aunt and her family to fly over. So that will be...' she totted up the amount on her fingers ‘...fifteen.'

‘Hmm, we might rattle around a bit in the Terrace Room. Let's have a look and see what you think.'

‘Faith emailed yesterday to say she would definitely like to have two dresses, which is great because finding just one isn't proving to be at all awkward. Something subtle for the wedding because it's so small, but I think she wants to go all out for the party, especially as they will be repeating their vows.' Hope bit her lip. ‘It's such a responsibility. The couple of places I spoke to yesterday seemed to imply that it was easier to learn to do heart surgery in a fortnight than it is to buy and fit a wedding dress. And it's not just the dress. There's a veil, tiara, jewellery. Underwear. And she wants me to sort out bridesmaids' dresses for just me for the ceremony but for both friends and our cousin for the party as well.'

Gael got that Hope felt responsible for her sister, that she had raised her. But this amount of stress all for someone else? He couldn't imagine a single member of his family—including all the exes and steps—putting themselves out for someone else. He had them all on the list for his exhibition's opening-night party and knew Misty would be there if she possibly could. His father if there was nothing better to do. But his mother? She hadn't made his graduation from school or college, he doubted she'd make the effort for a mere party. Funny how, much as he told himself he didn't care, her casual desertion still stung after all these years—only he was so used to it that it was more of a pinprick than anything really wounding.

He didn't know if it was better or worse that she adored his two half-brothers so much, every occasional email a glowing testimonial to their unique specialness. No, he might still have two living, breathing parents but Faith was luckier than he was. What would it be like to have someone like Hope on your side? Someone you could count on? ‘You could say no. Ask her to come and organise it herself.'

But she was already shaking her head. ‘No. I promised her that I would take care of everything. If things were different she'd have a mother to help her. Well, she doesn't, she only has me. I won't let her down.' There was a telltale glimmer in her eyes and her words caught as she spoke. She looked away, swallowing convulsively as the waitress brought their food and drink over.

Gael sat back, smiling his thanks as the waitress placed their drinks and the cheese platter onto the table. Hope swallowed again and he gave her a moment to compose herself, glad that it was so quiet in the members' only lounge he had brought her to. ‘What about you, Hope? Who takes care of you?'

She stared at him, her eyes wide in her pale face. ‘I take care of me. I always have.'

‘And you're doing just fine, is that what you're saying? You don't know how to step out of your limited comfort zone. You pour all your energy into work and looking after your sister and you're lonely. But you don't need anyone. Sure. You keep telling yourself that.'

What was he saying? He was all about the self-sufficiency himself. But it was different for him. He was toughened whereas Hope was like a toasted marshmallow—a superficial hardened edge hiding an utter mess on the inside. He'd only known her for less than three days but he'd diagnosed that within the first day. And it was a shame. She was a trier...that was evident. She cared, maybe a little too much. A girl like that should have someone to look out for her.

‘Thanks for the diagnosis, Doc.' Hope picked up her wine glass and held it up to him in a toast. ‘I'll make sure I come to you every time I need relationship advice. Especially as I spent a lot of time yesterday looking through photos at your place and do you know what I didn't see? I didn't see a single photo of you having fun. Oh, yes...' as he tried to interrupt. ‘There are pictures of you posing next to women. Sometimes you have your arm around their waist. But you never look like you're enjoying yourself, you never look relaxed. You're as alone as I am—more so. I have Faith. Hunter said you were his brother but you were very quick to deny any relationship with him at all.'

Touché. Gael clinked her glass with his own. ‘But I prefer to be by myself. It's my choice. Is it yours, or are you just too afraid to let anyone in? Either way, here's to Hunter and Faith, getting their wedding and this painting out of the way and returning to our solitary lives. Cheers.'

CHAPTER SIX

W
HAT
WAS
IT
about Gael O'Connor that made her bristle like an outraged cat? Hope usually hid her feelings so well sometimes it seemed, even to her, that she didn't have any. Slights, slurs and digs passed her by. It didn't rankle when the girls at work went out without her, when they chatted about nights out in front of her as if she weren't even there. She barely noticed when photos of school reunions she hadn't been invited to showed up on her social-media pages or when wedding photos were circulated and she wasn't amongst the guests. Hope had chosen to remove herself from the human race, had chosen to devote herself and her life to Faith; she wasn't going to complain now her job was almost done.

Why would she when she had raised a happy, confident, bright girl who had her whole future before her? She could never fully make things up to her little sister but she had done as much as was humanly possible—and if she had sacrificed her own life for that, well, that felt like a fair trade. She was at peace with her decision.

At peace until Gael opened his mouth, that was. As soon as that mocking note hit his voice her hackles rose and she responded every single time. Was it because he didn't care for the official ‘Hope is wonderful to give everything up for Faith' line, instead making her sound like a pathetic martyr living life vicariously instead of in reality? She didn't need it pointed out. She knew she wasn't wonderful or selfless but she didn't feel like a martyr. Usually.

Still, she couldn't complain too much when in one afternoon he had managed to sort out the wedding venues and in such smooth style. It helped that they were looking at a Thursday afternoon wedding and not the weekend but Gael had known all the right people to talk to, to ensure the tight timescales weren't a problem. After consulting with the blissful and all too absent couple they had decided to hold the ceremony in Central Park itself, at a beautiful little leafy spot by the lake, followed by cocktails at the Tavern on the Green. The Met's Roof Garden closed to the public at four-thirty p.m. and wasn't usually available for private hire, but Gael had managed to sweet talk the event coordinator into letting them in after hours for drinks and dinner. So all Hope needed to do was organise afternoon entertainment, evening entertainment, flowers and clothes. She still had just over ten days. Easy.

Now all she wanted to do was fling herself onto the surprisingly comfortable daybed and sleep for at least twelve hours. Her feet still throbbed from the whistle-stop tour through the history of art and her head was even worse. But sleep was a long, long way away. Instead she had less than an hour to shower and get ready. ‘I'll pick you up at eight,' Gael had said brusquely as they'd finalised the details with first the event organiser at the Met and then with the Central Park authorities. ‘It might be worth eating first.'

Okay. This wasn't a date. Obviously. It was part work, part family business but still. Hope would bet her half of her overpriced London home that not one of the beauties she had seen hanging off Gael's arm in photos had ever taken less than three hours to get ready—and he would have always bought them dinner.

She crammed the rest of her Pop-Tart into her mouth and grabbed a banana reasoning that the addition of fruit turned her snack into a balanced meal.

Thirty minutes later she was showered with freshly washed and dried hair and dressed in one of her new dresses. She hadn't dared wear it before, much as she liked the delicate coffee-coloured silk edged with black lace; it was just so short, almost more of a tunic than a dress... She fingered a pair of thick black tights; surely they would make the dress more respectable? But it was still so hot and humid and her own legs were the brownest they had ever been thanks to weekends spent reading on her fire escape. Hope stared down at what seemed like endless naked flesh before cramming her feet into a pair of black and cream sandals she'd bought on sale but not yet worn because she wasn't entirely sure she could walk in them.

Hope steeled herself to look in the mirror. It was like looking at a stranger: a girl with huge eyes, emphasised with liquid liner and mascara, hair swept back into a low, messy bun, tendrils hanging around her face. This girl looked as if she belonged on the Upper East Side; she looked ready for anything. This girl was an imposter but maybe, just maybe, she could exist for a night or two.

The sound of the buzzer brought her back to the room, to the evening ahead, and Hope blinked a couple of times, getting her bearings back, returning to reality. Rather than buzz Gael up she grabbed her bag and slowly, teetering slightly as she adjusted to the height of the shoes, made her way out of the studio and down the stairs into the evening heat.

Gael took one look at her feet and hailed a cab, much to Hope's relief. She breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction as she sank into the back seat and swapped the evening humidity for the bliss of air conditioning. She had spent twenty-seven years in London considering air conditioning a seldom-needed luxury—less than a day in the New York summer and she'd changed her tune for ever.

She didn't recognise the address Gael gave the cab driver and so sat back, none the wiser about her destination, watching the streets of Manhattan slide slowly past. They were heading west and down, towards the busy tourist hotspots of Times Square and Broadway. She lived barely half an hour's walk from the lively theatre district and yet had only visited once, quickly defeated by the crowds and the heat. Hope stared out of the cab window at the crowded streets thronged with an eclectic mix of tourists, locals and hustlers—the busiest district of New York City by far.

The cab made its slow progression along Fifty-First Street until just after the road intersected with Broadway and then pulled up outside a small, dingy-looking theatre. Hope hadn't been entirely sure what to expect but it wasn't this down-at-heel-looking place. She pulled the dress down as she got out of the cab, wishing she had worn the black tights, feeling both overexposed and overdressed. Gael took her arm. ‘This way.' They were the first words he had said to her all evening.

He ushered her through the wooden swing door into the lobby. It was a study in faded glory: old wooden panelling ornately carved and in need of a good dust, the red carpet faded and threadbare in places. It was the last place she had expected Gael to bring her. He was smart in a pale grey suit, his hair sleeked down, as incongruous a contrast to the tatty surroundings as she was. He handed two tickets to a woman dressed like a nineteen-forties usherette and then led Hope down the corridor into the theatre.

It was like stepping into another world. The huge chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling gave out a warm, dim glow, bathing the gold-leafed auditorium in flattering lowlights. The seats had been removed from the stalls and instead it was set up cabaret style with round tables for two, four or six taking up the floor space instead. Many tables were full already, their laughing, chattering occupants wearing anything from jeans to cocktail dresses.

The stage was set up with a microphone and a comfortable-looking leather chair. Nothing else. Steps led up from the floor to the stage.

Gael led her to a small table with just two chairs near the front, pulling a chair out for her with exaggerated courtesy. ‘Two glasses of Pinot Noir, please,' he said to the hovering waitress, who was also dressed in nineteen-forties garb. Hope opened her mouth to change the order, she preferred white wine to red, especially on a hot night like this, but she closed it again as the waitress walked away, not caring enough to call the woman back.

‘What is this?' she asked as she took her seat. ‘Are you thinking this will be suitable entertainment for after the wedding meal?'

‘What? Oh, no. We're looking into that later. Right now, this is all about you.' The wolfish look in his eyes did nothing to reassure her and she took the glass the waitress handed her with a mechanical smile. This wasn't some kind of comedy improvisation place, was it? Oh, no, what if it was audience participation? She would rather dance in public than try and tell jokes. And she'd probably prefer to strip naked rather than dance. Maybe that was the point.

Just as she tried to formulate her next question the lights dimmed and one lone spotlight lit up the chair and the microphone. The buzz of conversation quietened as, with an audible scrape and squeak, all chairs turned to face the stage. It remained empty for what was probably less than a minute but felt longer as the anticipation built, the air thick with it. Hope clasped her glass, her stomach knotted. She doubted she was here to see an avant-garde staging of Shakespeare or some minimalist musical.

Finally, a low drum roll reverberated throughout the room, the low rumble thrumming in her chest as if it were part of her heartbeat, and a woman stepped out onto the stage. She was tall, strikingly dressed in a floor-length black dress, a top hat incongruously perched on her head.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I am delighted to welcome you to the Hall of Truth tonight. As you know the entertainment is you and the stage is yours. This is where you are able to free yourselves of an unwanted burden. You are welcome to share anything—a secret, something humorous, a sad tale, a confession, a rant, a declaration, anything you like. Here are the rules: what's said in the Hall of Truth stays in the Hall of Truth unless it's illegal—there's no confessor's bond here, people.' A nervous laugh at this as people turned in their seats as if searching out any potential villain.

The blonde Master of Ceremonies smiled as the laugh faded away. ‘No slander, no judgement and—most importantly—no lies. And no singing or dancing. There are no directors here searching out their next star! Oh, and please switch your cell phones off. Anyone caught recording or videoing will be prosecuted and, besides, it's bad manners. Okay. As is customary on these occasions I'll start. Anyone who would like to contribute please let a waitress know and you'll be added to tonight's set list.' She took in a deep breath, her rich tones captivating the audience. ‘Tonight I am going to share with you the story of my daughter's hamster and my parents' dog and I must warn you that I can't guarantee that no animals were harmed during the making of this tale.'

‘You've brought me to a place that tells pet snuff tales? Shame on you,' Hope whispered and a gleam of amusement flickered on Gael's face.

‘Compared to some of the stories I've heard here this is practically fluffy and warm.'

‘I bet that's what the dog said.' But Hope's mind was whirling. He'd come here before? More than once. Did he sit here and listen, just as he'd sat to the side and taken photos when he was younger? Or did he join in? What did he have to confess? She couldn't imagine him telling a funny story.

‘Have you done this?' she whispered as the first audience participant stumbled up onto the stage, pale and visibly nervous as he launched into a tale of wreaking revenge at a school reunion on the bullies who had made his school life a misery. Gael leaned in, his mouth so close to her ear she could feel the warmth of his breath on her bare shoulder. Hope shivered.

‘I can't tell you that, I'm afraid. You heard her. What's said in the Hall of Truth stays in the Hall of Truth.' He leaned back and the spot on her shoulder tingled, heat spreading down to the pit of her stomach. Hope drew in a shuddering breath, glancing sideways at Gael. He was concentrating on the stage, his eyes shuttered. Why did he come here to hear strangers speak? And more importantly why had he brought her?

Hope wouldn't have thought it possible that so many people would be prepared to stand up and bare their souls to a room of strangers but, as the first hour ticked by, there was no shortage of willing volunteers. There was a pattern, she noticed. Most ascended the steps nervously, even the ones with confident grins showed telltale signs, the way they tugged at their hands or pulled at their hem. But they all, even the woman who confessed to crashing her husband's car and blaming it on their teenage son, bribing him to take the fall, descended the steps with an air of a weight having been removed from their shoulders, a burden lessened. It was an appealing thought.

The red wine was heavier than she cared for and yet the first glass was finished before she noticed and replaced with a second, which also disappeared all too easily. Gael motioned the waitress over to get their glasses topped up again and a wild idea seized Hope. Maybe she too could lessen some of her burdens. True, she didn't deserve to. But she'd been carrying the guilt around for nine long, long years. Would it hurt to share it? To let this crowd of strangers be her judge and jury.

Her breath caught in her throat, the very thought of speaking the words she'd buried for so long out loud almost choking her. But as the man on stage finished relating a very funny tale of neighbourhood rivalry taken to extremes her mind was made up and when the waitress came over in response to Gael's gesture Hope handed her the slip, slumping back in her chair as the waitress nodded.

What have I done?
Her chest was tighter than ever, nausea swirling in her stomach as her throat swelled—her whole body conspiring to make sure she didn't say anything. She glanced at Gael and saw his eyes were fixed on her. Was that approval she saw in their blue-grey depths? He'd brought her here for this, she realised. Wanted her to expose herself emotionally before she did so physically. He was probably right—posing would be a doddle after this.

If she went through with it.

She barely took in the next speaker, her hands clammy and her breath shallow. She swigged the wine as carelessly as if it had been water, needing Dutch courage in the absence of actual courage. She didn't have to do this; she could get up and walk away. She
should
get up and walk away. What was stopping her? After all, her sister's wedding was almost sorted—and if this was the price she had to pay for her career then maybe she needed to reassess her options.