One Season Collection

‘Okay. So what do you want? Names obviously so we can cross reference them, dates—what else?’

‘Any references made to the subjects in Expose. Once we’ve finished with that we’ll move on to the photos I either didn’t use or were taken after the blog closed down. We’ll only need names and dates unless they were used professionally in which case the magazine will need referencing as well. Most are saved with all the relevant information but any that aren’t put aside into a separate folder and I’ll go through them with you at the end of each day.’

She was scribbling fast, taking notes. ‘Got it. I don’t think it’ll take too long. You’ve kept good notes and everything seems to be labelled...’ She hesitated and he looked at her. Really looked at her for the first time since they had left the Empire State Building yesterday afternoon. Oh, she’d spent time with him. Had coffee, learned some tips on handling her new in-laws-to-be, drawn up a list of possible venues for her sister’s wedding, but he had retreated behind a shield of courtesy and efficiency. She barely knew him and yet that sudden withdrawal left her feeling lonelier than she had for a long time.

‘Everything okay?’

‘Yes, it’s just... Obviously I know that you’re a photographer.’

‘Were,’ he corrected her. ‘Hence the retrospective. I’m a struggling unknown artist now.’

Hope looked around at the kitchen full of gleaming appliances, each worth the same amount as a small car, and repressed a smile. There were few signs of struggling in the studio. ‘Were a photographer. And you do—did—a lot of society shoots and fashion magazines and stuff...’

‘And?’

‘Where does the blog fit in? If I’m going to catalogue properly I need to know what I’m dealing with.’ Somehow Brenda had failed to make this clear in any one of her excitable emails, most of which just reminded Hope how important this assignment was.

Gael leaned on the counter close beside her. He was casually clad in dark blue jeans and a loose, short-sleeved linen shirt. Hope could see every sharply defined muscle in his arms, every dark hair on the olive skin. ‘Expose was a blog I set up when I was at prep school. My plan, not surprisingly given the name, was to expose people. The people I went to school with to be more precise. I took photos chronicling the misadventure of New York’s gilded youth. It just skated the legal side of libellous.’ His mouth curved into a provocative smile. ‘After all, there was no proof that the senator’s son was going to snort that line, that couple on the table weren’t necessarily going to have sex, but it was implied.’ The smile widened. ‘Implied because generally it was true.’

Hope thought back to the hundreds of black and white photos she had already seen today, stored on hard drives, in the box, some framed and hung on Gael’s studio walls, the attractive, entitled faces staring out without a fear in the world. What must it be like to have that sort of confidence ingrained in you? ‘And they let you just take photos, even when they were misbehaving?’ She cursed her choice of word. Misbehaving! She was living her own stereotype. She’d get out a parasol next and poke Gael with it, saying, ‘Fie! Fie!’ like some twenty-first-century Charlotte Bartlett.

He laughed, a short bitter sound. ‘They didn’t even notice. I was invisible at school, which was handy because nobody suspected it was me. They simply didn’t see me.’ How was that possible? Surely at sixteen or seventeen he would still have been tall, still imposing, still filling all the space with his sheer presence? ‘By the time I was outed as the photographer the blog had become mythic—as had its subjects. To be posted, or even better named and the subject of a post? Guaranteed social success. The papers and gossip magazines began to take an interest in the Upper East Side youth not seen for decades—and it was thanks to me. Instead of being the social pariah I expected to be I found myself the official chronicler of the wannabe young and the damned. That was the end of Expose, of course. It limped on through my first years at college but it lost its way when people started trying to be in it. I became a society photographer instead as you said, portraits, fashion, big events; lucrative, soulless.’

‘But why? Why set it up in the first place? Why run the risk of being caught?’ She could understand taking photographs as a way of expressing his loneliness—after all, she had been known to pen the odd angsty poem in her teens. But that was a private thing—thank goodness. She shivered at the very thought of anybody actually reading them.

Gael straightened, grey-blue eyes fixed on Hope as if he saw every secret thought and desire. No wonder he’d been so successful if his camera’s eye was as shrewd as his own piercing gaze. She swallowed, staring defiantly back as if she were the one painting him, taking him in. But she already knew as much as she was comfortable with. She knew that his hair was cut short but there were hints of a wild, untamed curl, that his eyes were an unexpected grey-blue in the dark, sharply defined face. She knew that he could look at a girl as if he could see inside her. She didn’t want to know any more.

‘Because I could. Like I say, I was invisible. The people at the schools I went to cared about nothing except your name, your contacts and your trust fund. I had none of the above, ergo I was nothing.’ His mouth twisted. ‘The arrogance of youth. I wanted to bring them down, show the world how shallow and pathetic the New York aristocracy were. It backfired horribly. The world saw and the world loved them even more. Only now I was part of it for better or for worse. Still am, I suppose. Still, at least it should guarantee interest in the show. Let’s just hope the paintings are as successful as the photographs were.’

‘But why change? You’re obviously really successful at what you do.’

‘Fame and fortune have their perks,’ he admitted. ‘The studio, the invitations, the parties, the money...’ the women. He didn’t need to say it; the words hung in the humid New York summer air, shimmering in the heat haze. She’d seen the photos: pictures by him, pictures of him—with heiresses, actresses, It Girls and models.

Hope didn’t even try to suppress her smirk. ‘It must have been very difficult for you.’

‘I’m not saying my lifestyle doesn’t have its benefits. But it wasn’t the way I thought I’d live, the way I wanted to earn a living. Expose was just a silly blog, that was all. I thought anyone who saw it would be horrified by the excess, by the sheer waste, but I was wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘My plan was always art school and then to paint. Somehow I was sidetracked.’

‘So this is you getting back on track?’

‘Hence the retrospective. Goodbye to that side of my life neatly summed up in an A4 hardback with witty captions. Right, lunch was a little on the meagre side so I’m going to go out and get ice cream. What do you want?’

‘Oh.’ She looked up, unexpectedly flustered. ‘I don’t mind.’

He shot her an incredulous look. ‘Of course you mind. What if I bought you caramel swirl but really you wanted lemon sorbet? The two are completely different.’

‘We usually have cookie dough at home. It’s Faith’s favourite.’ Hope’s mind was completely blank. How could she not know which flavour she preferred?

‘Great, when I buy Faith an ice cream I’ll know what to get. What about you?’

‘No, seriously. Whatever you’re having. It’s fine.’ She didn’t want this attention, this insistence on a decision, stupid as she knew that made her look. Truth was she had spent so long putting Faith’s needs, wants and likes before her own it was a slow and not always comfortable process trying to figure out where her sister ended and she began. ‘Thank you.’

Gael didn’t answer her smile with one of his own; instead he gave her a hard, assessing look, which seemed to strip her bare, and then turned and left leaving Hope feeling as if she’d failed some kind of test she hadn’t even known she was meant to study for.

‘Any more? I don’t think you tried the double chocolate peanut and popcorn.’

Hope pushed the spoon away and moaned. ‘No more, in fact I don’t think I can ever eat ice cream again.’ She stared at the open tubs, some much less full than others. ‘And even after eating all this I don’t know which my favourite flavour is.’

‘Mint choc,’ Gael said. ‘That one has nearly gone. Impressive ice-cream-eating skills, Miss McKenzie.’

‘If I ever need a reference I’ll call you.’ She paused and watched Gael as he placed the lids back onto the cartons and stacked them deftly before carrying them to the industrial-sized freezer. She hadn’t known what to say, what to think when he’d returned to the studio carrying not one or two but ten different flavours of ice cream.

‘You wouldn’t pick,’ he’d said in explanation as he’d lined the pots up in front of her. A bubble of happiness lodged in her chest. Nobody had ever done anything so thoughtful for her. Maybe she could do this. Work with this man, pose with him, because there were moments when she crossed from wariness to liking.

After all it would be rude not to like someone who bought you several gallons of Italian ice cream.

The pictures on the computer screen blurred in front of her eyes. ‘I feel sleepy I ate so much.’

‘Then it’s a good thing you’re about to get some fresh air. There’s no time to slack, not with your schedule.’

‘Fresh air?’

‘Central Park. I spoke to a couple of contacts yesterday and they might just be able to accommodate your sister.’

Central Park! Of course. One of the few iconic New York landmarks she had actually visited and spent time in. Hope obediently slid off her stool, pressing one hand to her full stomach as she did so. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d indulged so much. The last time she’d felt free to indulge, not set a good example or worry about what people thought.

Central Park was barely a ten-minute stroll from Gael’s studio. Hope had spent several hours wandering around the vast city park but it felt very different walking there with Gael. He clearly knew it intimately, taking her straight to a couple of locations that had availability on Thursday in two weeks’ time.

‘What do you think?’ he asked as they reached the lake. ‘Romantic enough or did you prefer the Conservatory Garden?’

‘The garden is lovely,’ she agreed. ‘It’s a shame the floral arch is already booked. I think Faith would love it. But with such short notice she’ll just have to be grateful we found her anywhere at all.’

‘Why on earth is it such short notice? Is it a religious thing? Is that why your sister wants to marry Hunter on six weeks’ acquaintance? Why you are still a virgin? You’re waiting for marriage? For true love?’ She could hear the mockery inherent in the last phrase.

The small bubble of happiness she’d carried since the moment she’d seen the bags heaped with ice cream burst with a short, sharp prick. He thought she was odd, a funny curiosity. ‘I don’t see that it is any of your business.’

‘Hope, tomorrow, or the day after or the day after that, the moment I think you are ready, that you can handle it, you are going to pose for me for a painting which is supposed to symbolise sex. If this is going to work I need to understand why you have made the choices you have. I’m not going to judge you—your body, your decisions. But I need to understand.’

Hope stopped and stared out over the lake, watching a couple in a boat kissing unabashedly, as if they wanted to consume each other. Her stomach tightened. ‘Honestly? Is it that unbelievable that a twenty-seven-year-old woman hasn’t had sex yet? Does there have to be some big reason?’

‘In this day and age, looking like you do? You have to admit it’s unusual.’ Happiness shivered through her at his casual words. Looking like you do. It was hard sometimes to remember a time when she had felt like someone desirable, bursting with promise and confidence, confident in her teeny shorts and tight tops as only an eighteen-year-old girl could be.

‘It’s no big mystery. It’s not like I have been saving myself for my knight in shining armour.’ She didn’t believe in him for one thing. ‘It just happened.’ Hope turned away from the lake, dragging her eyes away from the oblivious, still-snogging couple with difficulty. For the first time in a really long time she allowed herself to wish it were her. Oblivious to everything but the sun on her back, the gentle splash of the water, his smell, his taste, the feel of his back under her hands. She had no idea who ‘he’ was but she ached for him nonetheless.

‘I told you I raised Faith after our parents died. My aunt offered to help. She had a couple of kids Faith’s age and would have been happy to have had her. But I wanted her to grow up where I grew up, in the family house, stay at her school with her friends.’ She twisted her hands together. It all sounded so reasonable when she said it but there had been nothing reasonable about her decision at the time. Just high emotion, bitter grief and desperate guilt.

‘So you put everything on hold?’ He sounded disbelieving and she couldn’t blame him; it sounded crazy said so bluntly. But she had had no real choice—not that she wanted to tell him that. To let him know she was responsible for it all. She had to take care of Faith—if it wasn’t for Hope she would have had her family intact.

She swallowed, the old and familiar guilt bitter on her tongue. ‘I didn’t mind. But it meant my life was so different from my friends’ new worlds—they were worrying about boyfriends and exams and going out and I was worrying about paying bills and childcare. It was no wonder we drifted apart. My boyfriend went to university just a few weeks after the funeral and I knew it would be best to end it then, that I wouldn’t be able to put anyone else first for a long time.’ It had seemed like the logical thing to do but she had hoped that he would fight for her, just a little.

But he had disappeared off without a word. He was getting married in just a few short weeks, his life moving on seamlessly from grungy teen to pretentious student to a man with responsibilities, just the way it was supposed to. Just as hers was supposed to have done.

Gael was like a dog with a bone. ‘Let me get this straight: you didn’t date at all? Since you were eighteen you have been single?’

How could she explain it? It all sounded so drab and dreary—and in many ways it had been. Those first few years when she earned so little, the long nights in alone while Faith slept, studying for her Open University degree, the ever-widening chasm between herself and her school friends until the day she realised she had no one to confide in. Too young for the mums at the school gates and the other secretaries at her law firm, too old at heart and shackled by responsibilities for the few girls around her age she managed to meet.

And then there was the rest: the lack of money or time to take care of herself and the slow dawning realisation she had lost any sense of style or joy in clothes and hair. It was hard when she had no budget to indulge herself and little time or talent to make the most of what she could afford. But there had been other things that compensated—watching Faith star in her school play, taking her ice skating at Somerset House, organising sleepovers and pamper evenings and home-made pizza parties for her sister and her friends and seeing her sister shine with happiness. Surely that was worth any sacrifice?

‘No, I dated. A little. But I didn’t like to stay out late, even when Faith was older and no one could stay over, it didn’t seem right. And so the few relationships I had never really went anywhere. It’s really no big deal.’

‘Okay,’ but she could hear the scepticism. Hope didn’t blame him. How could she fool him when she had forgotten how to fool herself? ‘Come on.’

Gael took her arm and turned her down a path on their left, his walk determined and his eyes gleaming with a devilish glint she instinctively both distrusted and yearned for. ‘Where are we going?’

He stopped in front of a red and yellow brick hexagon and grinned at her. ‘When’s the last time you rode on a carousel, Hope?’

Was he mad? He must be mad. Hope stared over at the huge carousel. It was like a step back in time, wooden horses, their mouths fixed open, heads always thrown up in ecstasy, their painted manes blowing in a non-existent breeze as the circular structure turned to the sound of a stately polka. ‘I don’t know when I last rode on one,’ she said and that was true. She couldn’t pinpoint the date but she knew it was before Faith was born. Before she had elected to opt out of family life. She vividly remembered standing by the side of a carousel in the park as her parents took her laughing baby sister on one. She had refused to accompany them, had said it was too babyish. Instead she had stood by the side feeling left out and unloved, hating them for respecting her word and not forcing her to ride.

‘You’ll always be able to answer that question from now on. The eighteenth of August, you can say confidently. In New York, around...’ He squinted at his wrist. ‘Around two-forty in the afternoon.’

‘No, I can say the eighteenth of August is the day some crazy person tried to persuade me to go on one and I walked away.’ She swivelled, ready to turn away, only to be arrested by a hand closing gently around her wrist. She glared at Gael scornfully. ‘What, you’re going to force me to go on?’

‘No, of course not.’ He sounded bemused and who could blame him? She was acting crazy. But she could still see them, the two forty-somethings cradling their precious toddler tight while their oldest child stood forgotten by the exit.

Only she hadn’t been forgotten. They had waved every time they passed by, every time. No matter that she hadn’t waved back once. Hope swallowed, the lump in her throat as painful as it was sudden. Why hadn’t she waved?

Gael leaned in close, his fingers still loose around her wrist. His breath was faint on her neck but she could sense every nerve where it touched her, each one shocking her into awareness. ‘Doesn’t it look like fun?’

Maybe, maybe not. ‘I’ll look ridiculous.’

‘Will you? Do they? Look at them, Hope.’

Hope raised her eyes, her skin still tingling from his nearness, a traitorous urge to lean back into him gripping her. Stop it, she scolded herself. You’ve known him for what? Two days? And he’s already persuaded you to pose nude, holds your career in his rather nicely shaped hands and is trying to make a fool of you. There’s no need to help him by swooning into him.

But now he was so close she could smell him, a slight scent of linseed and citrus, not unpleasant but unusual. It was the same scent she had picked up in his studio. A working scent. He might be immaculately dressed in light grey trousers and a white linen shirt but the scent told her that this was a man who used his hands, a physical being. The knowledge shivered through her, heating as it travelled through her veins.

‘Hope?’

‘Yes, I’m looking at them.’ She wasn’t lying, she was managing somehow to push all thoughts about Gael O’Connor’s hands out of her mind and focus on the carousel, on the people riding it. Families, of course. The old pain pierced her heart at the sight; time never seemed to dull it, to ease it.

But it wasn’t just families riding; there were groups of older children, laughing hysterically, a couple of teens revelling in the irony of their childish behaviour. Couples, including a white-haired man, stately on his golden steed, smiling at the silver-haired woman next to him. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘They don’t look ridiculous. They look like they are having fun.’

‘Well, then,’ and before she could formulate any further response or process what was happening she was at the entrance of the building and Gael was handing over money in crisp dollar bills.

‘Go on, pick one,’ he urged and she complied, choosing a magnificent-looking bay with a black mane and a delicate high step. Gael swung himself onto the white horse next to hers while Hope self-consciously pulled her skirt down and held on to the pole tightly. He looked so at ease, as if he came here and did this every day, one hand carelessly looped round the pole, the other holding a small camera he had dug out of his jeans pocket.

‘Smile!’

‘What are you doing?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Practising my trade. Watch out, it’s about to go. Hold on tight!’

The organ music swelled around them as the carousel began to rotate and the horses moved, slowly at first, before picking up speed until it was whirling around and around. At first Hope clung on tightly, afraid she might fall as the world spun giddily past, but once she settled into the rhythm she relaxed her grip. Gael was right, it was fun. More than that, it was exhilarating, the breeze a welcome change on the hot, sticky day. Above the organ music she could hear laughter, children, adults and teens, all forgetting their cares for one brief whirl out of time. She risked a glance at Gael. He was leaning back, nonchalant and relaxed, like a cowboy in total control of his body; his balance, his hand was steady as he focussed the camera and snapped again and again, watching the world through a lens.

And then all too soon it was slowing, the walls slowly coming back into focus, the horse no longer galloping but walking staidly along as the music died down. She looked over at Gael and smiled shakily, unable to find the words to thank him. For a moment then she had been free. No one’s sister, no one’s PA, no expectations. Free.

‘Another go?’

‘No, thank you, one was enough. But it was fun. You were right.’

‘Remember that over the next two weeks and we’ll be fine.’ Gael dismounted in one graceful leap, holding a hand out so that Hope could try and slide down without her skirt riding up too far. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink at the Tavern on the Green and you can decide if you like it enough to shortlist it for the wedding drinks.’

‘Good idea.’ Damn, why hadn’t she thought of that? Celebrating her sister’s wedding in such an iconic venue would certainly be memorable.

Hope stopped, suddenly shy, trying to find the right words to frame the question that had been dogging her thoughts since their conversation at the lake. ‘Gael, when will I be ready? To be painted?’

It wasn’t that she felt ready; she wasn’t sure she ever would be. But knowing that at some point it would happen, at some point she would have to keep her word, made it almost possible for her to relax.

Gael didn’t answer for a moment, just stared at her with that intense, soul-stripping look that left her feeling as if she had nowhere left to hide.

‘When you start living,’ he said and turned and walked away. Hope stood still, gaping at him.

‘I am ready,’ she wanted to yell. Or, ‘Then you’ll be waiting a long time.’ Because the truth was she was scared. Scared of what would happen, scared of who she was, scared of what might be unleashed if she ever dared to let go.

CHAPTER FIVE

HOPE STOOD IN her walk-in wardrobe and stared at the rack of carefully ironed clothes, fighting back almost overwhelming panic. Panic and, she had to admit, a tinge of anticipation. Every day for the last nine years had followed its own dreary predictable pattern and even here, in the vibrant Upper East Side, she had managed to re-establish a set routine before she’d worked out the best place to buy milk.

But not today. She had no idea what Gael had in store for her. He’d told her to be ready at ten a.m. and that he would call for her. Nothing else.

He’d mentioned risks. Allowing herself to live. Unlocking herself. Hope swallowed. She liked the sound of that, she really did. She just wasn’t sure whether it was possible, that if she stripped away the layers of self-sufficiency and efficiency and busyness there would be very much left.

‘Okay,’ she said aloud, the words steadying her. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’