The Arrangement Page 7

  “Our job as her parents is to love her and accept her,” Celeste had said. But, his wife’s unconditional devotion had given their daughter carte blanche to turn herself into a morally superior jerk. Had Violet remained with her hard-drinking, coke-snorting peers, at least she’d have been normal, at least she’d have made some useful connections. But Celeste was in charge of their daughter’s well-being. And Gabe had plenty to distract him: a challenging career; a membership at an exclusive gym; sexy, younger, women eager to please. As Violet performed her soliloquy (something about white privilege though she was, technically, three-quarters white), Gabe realized that the girl onstage was a stranger to him.

  His phone, in the breast pocket of his jacket, vibrated silently. It would be work. He was currently embroiled in a massive acquisition, should not be away from the office, but Celeste had guilt-tripped him into staying for this performance. He would head back to the city first thing in the morning, be in the office before anyone else. Surreptitiously, his hand slipped inside his sport coat. Celeste would admonish him if she saw him checking texts during Violet’s monologue, but his wife was still filming, seemingly enraptured by their daughter’s words. Celeste and Violet had had their issues—the girl could be strong-willed and rebellious; her mother’s illness had taken a toll on all of them—but they now shared a connection, a bond that excluded him.

  He pulled the phone from his pocket and held it low, next to his right knee. His wife kept filming, didn’t even notice. The number on the tiny screen was not familiar but he read the message.

  Do-over? I promise not to drink too much this time.

  And then, below it.

  It’s Natalie btw.

  The drunken mess from the other night.

  He couldn’t suppress his smile as he remembered the girl: cute, funny, inebriated, sloppy. . . . But Gabe had liked her. There was something real and raw and refreshing about her. He’d even enjoyed taking care of her: helping her out of the bar and into his waiting car, escorting her to her door where she’d given him a clumsy hug of thanks. It was the way she’d looked at him, with such gratitude, respect . . . almost awe. His wife and daughter did not look at him that way. The other sugar babies he’d dated did, but it was practiced, fake, professional. Natalie’s admiration was authentic. He suddenly realized how much he needed it.

  Stealthily, he slipped the phone back into his pocket before his wife noticed. When the play was over, he would head to the restroom and text Natalie back. He’d take her for dinner this time, somewhere in Manhattan, close to his apartment on the Upper East Side. If things progressed like he hoped they would, they would have easy access to his place. A thrill ran through him at the thought of her naked, in his bed, her eyes on him, hungry and adoring.

  Celeste lowered her phone then and smiled over at him. Her eyes were full of proud, happy tears. He smiled back at his wife, gave her knee an affectionate squeeze. Dutifully, he turned his eyes back to the stage, saw that Violet’s monologue was over. She was now being arrested by a teen in a cop uniform and a fake mustache. He watched his kid being dragged off to a cardboard jail, his thoughts firmly entrenched on Natalie.

  13

  * * *

  The Call

  Natalie’s resolve to leave the sugar bowl lasted roughly two hours after her disastrous date with Nick. When she’d gotten home and showered away the filth of the encounter, the reality of her situation had dawned on her. She had tuition and rent to pay. She could not afford to take a moral stand. All she could do was brush up on acronyms for kinky sex (BDSM equals bondage, domination, sadomasochism; RP equals role-play; DMLB equals dominant mommy–little boy) and read the men’s profiles carefully. She would ensure that the next daddy she met would not expect her to dress up like a dominatrix, a toddler, or the slutty pizza delivery girl.

  She had scrolled through her messages (they continued to pour in), her cursor landing on the conversation with Gabe. He’d been so kind to her, so patient and understanding. That was not something she was used to with her temperamental father, nor her aloof stepfather. Her boyfriend, Cole, had seemed doting at first, but he had quickly turned cloying, smothering, controlling. Nat had stared at the phone number Gabe had sent after he’d had the Thai food delivered. It couldn’t hurt to see him one more time, could it? But when she had gone to text him, her stomach had filled with nervous butterflies and she’d returned to the new messages.

  Her search had identified two other potential dates: one, a pudgy business owner who seemed bland and lonely; the other, a neuroscientist, awkward and harmless. The thought of reaching out to these strangers caused her no anxiety, but texting Gabe made her sweat. It was different with him. She knew him, she liked him, and she was slightly attracted to him, despite his age. So why was she hesitating? The other men might be completely benign, but Gabe was a known commodity. He was guaranteed safe, guaranteed to pay. With her heart thudding in her ears, she had sent him a message.

  He’d responded to her within the hour, inviting her to meet him for dinner on the Upper East Side on Wednesday night. It was a trek from Brooklyn, but a treat to go out in such a posh neighborhood. And when Gabe offered to send a car for her, Nat was grateful and flattered. As she hurried home from school that evening to get ready, she felt a thrill of anticipation. It was wrong to feel excited; this was not a date, it was an arrangement, a way to pay her bills. But she couldn’t help but feel a bit like Cinderella . . . if Prince Charming had handed her a wad of cash as the clock struck midnight.

  She was slipping into Ava’s black pencil skirt when her cell phone rang. It would be Gabe, canceling their rendezvous. He had commitments: a high-powered job, needy clients. As she rummaged through the clutter in her room for her phone, she was surprised at the depth of her disappointment. She had been looking forward to seeing him again. But when she found her device, buried under her robe on her unmade bed, it was her mom’s name on the call display.

  It was not a good time to talk to her mother. Nat was about to embark on a date with a man several years her mom’s senior. The thought twisted Nat’s insides, made her feel guilty and gross. But she knew she could ignore her mom no longer. She picked up the phone and answered.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Finally.” Allana’s tone was not annoyed, as expected. It was relieved. “Why haven’t you called me back?”

  “Sorry,” Nat mumbled. “I’ve been busy. With school and work.”

  “Look, honey . . . there’s something you need to know.”

  Her mom’s ominous tone made Nat’s stomach plunge. “Are you okay? Is it the kids?”

  “The kids are fine. I’m fine. Derek’s fine.” There was a pause. She heard her mom take a fortifying breath. “It’s about Cole Doberinsky.”

  A weight, dark and heavy, fell on Nat at the sound of his name. Nat was angry at Cole, afraid of him, even hated him. But she couldn’t deny that he had played a significant role in her life. Her first love, her first sexual experience, her first devastating breakup. And now, something had happened to him.

  “He’d been going to school,” her mom continued. “Working for his dad part-time. Even dating.”

  He was dead. Her mother didn’t need to say it. Nat knew it in her bones.

  “He seemed to have moved on and put the past behind him. But recently, he’d been drinking a lot, hanging with a bad crowd.”

  Suicide? A car crash? A drunken brawl? It would be something like that. To Nat’s surprise, tears welled in her eyes and emotion clogged her throat. A small part of her blamed herself.

  “And then . . . he just left.”

  “Left?” Nat’s tears and emotion evaporated. “What do you mean, he left?”

  “He’d been living with his parents. They came home from work to find he’d packed a bag and gone.”

  “So . . . you’re calling to tell me Cole took a vacation?” Her grief instantly morphed into irritation.

  “He didn’t take a vacation, Natalie.” It was Allana’s turn to sou
nd annoyed. “He left a note. His mom wouldn’t tell me exactly what it said, but his parents think he’s gone to New York. They think . . .” Her mom trailed off, took a ragged breath.

  “They think Cole’s trying to find you.”

  14

  * * *

  The Bistro

  Nat sat in the back of the town car, her eyes transfixed by the twinkling lights of Manhattan. Usually, she commuted into the city in a cramped, smelly subway car. Now, she was being chauffeured in the back of a sumptuous Lincoln that smelled of leather and wool and expensive cologne. The uniformed driver (she vaguely recalled meeting him the other night) had greeted her officiously in accented English, had held the door open for her to enter the sleek vehicle. Now, he was whisking her into the city to meet a handsome, older man at a chic, uptown restaurant. It all felt surreal . . . because it wasn’t real. It was a transaction.

  She had vowed to put Cole out of her mind, for tonight, at least. There was no proof that he was in New York, that he was looking for her, that he was still angry with her. And even if he were in the city, how would he find her? The apartment was in Mara’s name. Nat had paid fifteen bucks for a new cell number upon relocation. She had blocked Cole from her social media accounts after he’d posted angry rants calling out her abandonment, her duplicitousness, her lack of loyalty in the most colorful terms (selfish cunt, cheating bitch, lying whore). Even if he created a fake account to access her Instagram or Snapchat, she never posted anything personal. When she’d first arrived in New York, she’d shared a bunch of touristy photos: the Brooklyn Bridge, the 9/11 Memorial, the Statue of Liberty taken from the Staten Island Ferry. Her limited presence on social media would provide no clues to her whereabouts. She could almost relax, could almost feel safe . . . Except Cole knew where she went to school.

  The thought made her feel hot, sweaty, mildly nauseated. She grabbed the plastic water bottle from the console beside her, cracked it open, and drank. It was tepid and tasted like chemicals, did nothing to cool her down or soothe her anxiety. She tried to breathe her way through the panic fluttering in her chest—closing her eyes, inhaling slowly through her nose, out through her mouth. Even if Cole came to the School of Visual Arts, he wouldn’t attack her in front of the entire student population. He wasn’t that violent, nor that impulsive. But Cole might observe her, follow her, discover her recent lifestyle choice. And with that knowledge, he could destroy her.

  She wouldn’t allow it. Nat was no longer the naive, vulnerable girl Cole had known back in Blaine. She’d discovered new depths to her resolve, new lengths to which she was willing to go to sustain her life in New York. Two years ago, she could never have imagined she’d be getting paid to date older men. But now she was. And if Cole Doberinsky came for her, she would be ready for him. If he threatened the life she had built here, she would fight back. She would do whatever it took to protect herself.

  They were uptown now, the streets widening, lightening, glowing like they’d been scrubbed clean of the city’s grit and grime. Nat did not come here often, but it still felt familiar: the park, the museums, the buildings, all so iconic.

  “It feels like a movie,” she mumbled, gazing at the passing scenery.

  “It does.” The deep voice came from her chauffeur.

  Nat leaned forward. “I always feel that way when I come up here. I’m from a small town, far away.”

  “Me, too.”

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked.

  “Many years now,” he said, in his undetermined accent. Russian maybe? “But sometimes, I still feel like I’ve landed on another planet.”

  “I feel that way about twice a day.”

  The driver chuckled. “A strange but familiar planet.”

  Nat liked this avuncular man, felt an instant rapport with him. But then she remembered why she was in the back seat of his car. He was driving her to meet her sugar daddy. He knew what was about to happen. He knew what she was. What did he think of her?

  The car pulled up in front of a quaint French bistro set below street level. “We’re here,” he announced.

  “Thanks.”

  The muscular man, in his mid-to-late forties, was already getting out of the driver’s seat, moving around to open the door for her. He took her hand and helped her out without a whiff of judgment.

  “Mr. Turnmill is already inside.”

  Gabe Turnmill. Ava had told her to get his full name, had told her to google him. Oops. Again.

  “Thanks for the ride, uh . . . ?”

  “Oleg,” the driver said with a slight nod. “Nice to meet you, Natalie.”

  She smiled, appreciating his warmth, his acceptance. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  With some difficulty, Nat descended the steps to the establishment’s front door (a pencil skirt and heels did not pair well with stairs). Inside, she found a classic French bistro: a black-and-white-tiled floor, linen table cloths, orangey-red roses in bud vases. The walls were papered in vertical stripes of gold and cream, the lamplight giving the room, and its well-heeled patrons, a flattering glow.

  She spotted him instantly, seated at a secluded back table. Gabe was dressed more casually than the last time she’d seen him. He wore a tweedy sports coat over a crisp white shirt and a pair of jeans. On the table sat that same amber drink, and her stomach churned with remembrance. Gabe was fixated on his phone, but he must have sensed her presence hovering at the door. He looked up and smiled, his blue eyes twinkling, even from this distance. He was handsome, she realized. And not just for his age.

  The maître d’ snapped to attention. “Bonsoir,” he said in a smooth Parisian accent. “May I help you?”

  “I’m meeting a friend,” she said, gesturing toward Gabe.

  The man glanced behind him. “Of course. Monsieur Turnmill is expecting you. Right this way, mademoiselle.”

  Obediently, she followed him down the narrow walkway. Gabe’s location afforded them as much privacy as was possible in the packed bistro, its tables close together in the European style. He could have chosen a more discreet restaurant, somewhere bigger, darker, with huge booths where they could disappear. But Gabe did not seem to feel guilty or ashamed to be seen with her. (Of course, it was not he who received the disparaging looks; those were directed at Nat.) He stood to greet her, his hand on her waist, his lips on her cheek. She liked his scent: a pricey cologne concocted to smell like he’d spent the day chopping down cedar trees.

  As they sat, Gabe ordered them a bottle of Côtes du Rhône, and their host hurried away. Gabe reached out and held her fingers in both his hands. They were warm, smooth, felt strangely comforting. His eyes roved over her appreciatively.

  “You look great.”

  “So do you.” She smiled, cast her eyes down. “Thanks for seeing me again.”

  “I wanted to see you,” he said. “I was happy to get your text.”

  “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d told me to get lost.”

  “Why? Because you got a little tipsy last time?”

  “A little tipsy? I was a drunken disaster.”

  “An adorable drunken disaster.”

  He was charming her, his attention making her feel warm and fluttery. She had to stay professional, in control. She could not forget, even for a moment, what this was. She could not fall for this guy.

  The maître d’ returned then, making a performance of opening the wine, offering Gabe a taste, but Gabe dismissed him with a curt “It’s fine.” Her date filled their glasses; they toasted their reunion and drank. As usual, good wine was wasted on Nat, but it tasted acceptable, and the first few sips were already relaxing her.

  Gabe was perusing the menu. “Do you eat foie gras?”

  “Constantly,” Nat quipped. Nerves or infatuation were making her silly, sassy. She hoped she wasn’t being rude.

  But Gabe laughed. “I meant it from an ethical standpoint. My daughter says foie gras is cruel.” He took a sip of wine. “But she also thinks chickpeas have feelings.
”

  Nat chuckled through an uncomfortable twinge. His daughter. It felt awkward to think of Gabe as a family man, a father. “How old is she?” Nat asked, straining for a casual tone.

  “She just turned eighteen.”

  “It’s normal to have a lot of principles at that age.”

  “Too many, if you ask me.”

  Nat wondered if Gabe knew how recently she had been a principled eighteen-year-old. He knew she was young, obviously, but did he know she was only a few years older than his daughter? Would he care? Or would it excite him? A frisson of wrong shivered through her, but she pushed it away.

  They ordered then, a foie gras appetizer (she couldn’t object now), coq au vin for her and boeuf bourguignon for him. Conversation flowed easily. Waiting for their food, Gabe asked her about school, queried about her favorite classes, what she’d like to do upon graduation. When the foie gras on toasted baguette rounds arrived, she told him she hoped to become a children’s book illustrator. Gabe didn’t smirk or sneer, didn’t tell her it was unrealistic or impractical. He seemed supportive, confident that she had the talent and drive to bring such a career to fruition.

  As they tucked into their main courses, conversation shifted to travel and their dream destinations. The topic morphed into a lively debate about human settlement on Mars. Gabe thought being a part of the Mars One mission would be a thrill, a chance to explore a new frontier, establish a new world, be a pioneer. Nat had felt claustrophobic in Blaine; she could only imagine how she would freak out if she had to live in a bubble.

  They were laughing, flirting, having fun. Nat knew this wasn’t real, that it was all a game, but she allowed herself to enjoy the fact that there was no physical or emotional agenda. She and Gabe could simply have a good time together. That was the point of a no-strings relationship. Well, that and the money were the points for Nat. But she was swept up in the conversation, the wine, the French ambiance. And then . . .