The long, black, lace sleeves are finished with an extravagant pearl and crystal cuff. The front of the dress is high and square and hugs my skin perfectly until it pools at the floor. The train at the back pulls the front against the shape of my legs, which are looking lean in high, strappy heels. Then the pièce de résistance: the drooped back, cut out to just below the waist. I turn my back to the mirror and cast a glance over my shoulder, biting down on my lip. My pinned hair shows off the open back and the necklace Julia picked out is dazzling in the light. A square-cut diamond rests on top of the square neckline at the front and a platinum chain sparkles all the way down to the middle of my back where three pearls run into another square diamond. The necklace I did have to use Gregory’s account for but only as security. Julia said she’dmake an exception to the rules and allow me to loan the precious stones, on the basis that Gregory’s account would back it up.
There’s a gentle tap on the dressing room door. ‘Scarlett, are you ready?’
I run my Chanel red over my lips one last time and open the door. ‘Ready, Jackson.’
‘You, ah, you look lovely.’
I take a deep breath as my heart thumps in my chest. ‘I hope he likes it.’ Looping my arm through Jackson’s, I let him lead me down the staircase. ‘Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?’
‘I’m under strict orders not to.’
I shake my head and smile. I knew the answer before I asked the question.
My insides tie themselves in knots as we drive through the city in the Mercedes. I dismiss the signs for London City Airport until there’s no alternative but the airport being our destination. Jackson drives across the tarmac surface until a private jet comes into view. On its side, GJR Enterprises. He rounds the jet in the Mercedes and a red carpet appears on the other side. He stops the car at the edge of the red carpet. I look around but don’t see Gregory.
Jackson opens my door and offers his hand to me in his usual black suit and black tie. I take it with a nervous smile, stomach sick with excitement and anticipation. Jackson chuckles as my wide eyes silently thank him, my mouth incapable of releasing words.
‘Your man,’ he says, closing the car door and turning me to look towards the steps of the plane, no longer empty.
My heart explodes in my chest, my head in a spin, my legs weightless. He moves his palm to his heart. I take him in, all ofhim: his tall, perfect body, his immaculate dinner suit and bow tie, his slicked-back hair.
‘Holy shit,’ I say beneath my breath.
I can’t move. I can only stare in awe. His lips turn into a knowing half-smile and he mouths something, which I can guess is, ‘Get here.’
I’m aware of the eyes of airport staff and Jackson on me as I find the ability to move one foot in front of the other. Lifting my dress at the side with one hand and holding onto the stair rail for strength with the other, my eyes follow two sparkling, precious, brown stones, lured by their magnetism.
He holds out a hand which I take as I climb the last step to him and when I stand before him, he whispers, ‘Aurora,’ just loud enough for me to hear.
‘My very own Richard Gere,’ I say.
‘My very own stunning woman.’ He lifts my fingers to his lips and melts my heart.
‘Where are we going?’
That cheeky half-smile is back. ‘To the opera, baby. I want you to know the fairy tale.’
I suppress the irrational fear that he means for one night, before the end.
‘La Traviata?’ I ask.
‘If it’s good enough for Julia Roberts.’
‘It’s a good offer for a girl like me.’
He winks and nearly knocks me from my feet. ‘Shall we?’
I nod, air having escaped my lungs, and follow him into the jet. It’s just like I would’ve imagined: an almond burr and biscuit leather interior. We’re greeted by an air hostess who offers two glasses of champagne from a tray. I thank her and take a sip, a huge grin rising on my face. It’s Pol Roger 2002, the bottleGregory ordered the first time he took me to dinner, the night of his thirtieth birthday.
He takes my hand and leads me through a channel flanked with four beds, curtains closed across each of them, then through two cream suede curtains into the main area. Four large recliner seats and two cream leather sofas sit on top of a red carpet and there’s a small bar in the corner at the far side of the room. Another air steward stands behind the bar, his beige chinos, white shirt and red pocket handkerchief a match for his female colleague.
‘Good evening, Miss Heath,’ he says.
‘Good evening.’
Gregory rotates one of the large chairs to face another and gestures for me to sit, then takes the seat opposite me.
When I do, I lean forward, holding up my champagne flute. ‘To moving forward in our own little world,’ I say.
