‘Oh come on, Oliver, you appreciate the female form, don’t you?’
‘It has been known.’
‘Well, Emo Taragucci dresses women in a totally unique way. All her designs are ultra-feminine, sexy, strong, everything a woman should be.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Oliver answered.
Hayley punched his arm. ‘You’d better mean that.’
‘I do, I swear,’ he laughed.
‘Ooh, look at that one… it’s beautiful,’ Hayley said, admiring a black dress printed with tiny Japanese blossom.
Her excitement and enthusiasm were catching. Her joy in the fashion show made him feel the same elation as winning another billion-dollar contract or scoring a winning touchdown on the football field. He swallowed back the feeling, something pinching. There had to be at least an arm’s length. She was leaving. He was dying. He couldn’t do complex.
‘I squeezed Emo’s leg,’ Hayley whispered, her face close to his.
‘You didn’t!’
‘I didn’t mean to, I just got overexcited. She took it well. She is coming back after her section of the show, isn’t she?’
Oliver laughed. ‘How hard did you squeeze her?’
‘Do you think it would be too much to ask for a selfie?’
39
GREENWICH VILLAGE, NEW YORK
‘So this is Greenwich Village,’ Oliver remarked after the car had dropped them off again.
Hayley sucked in some of the cold air, including a mouthful of snowflakes, one hand deep in her pocket, the other intertwined with Oliver’s. She was still on cloud nine after the fashion show. Seeing a production like that, something she would never normally have been able to get invited to, had been unbelievable. Sitting next to her absolute, number-one icon in the fashion industry had been on another level. By the end of the evening at the theatre, Hayley had felt confident enough to speak instead of squeeze and she’d complimented the designer on all her favourite collections since she’d become a fan.
Hayley sniffed. Scents of incense, spruce, chocolate and mulled wine filled her nose. There were different flavours on every corner. A man was selling Christmas trees up ahead and it reminded her that Dean still didn’t have one in the apartment. He had always been far more into Christmas than she was until Angel came along and stoked up her excitement. When Angel was little, she’d always made a paper fairy for the top of the tree. Hayley suspectedmaking tree toppers was way too infantile for a nine-year-old now. Her daughter was growing up so fast. Then Michel came to mind. He’d walked her through Greenwich Village in their twelve hours together. He’d seemed right at home with the bohemian ambience.
She came to a stop outside a store where Christmas music was coming from the window display. There were animatronic animals moving to the sound of ‘Rockin’ Robin’. A stag was in the middle, his mouth opening and closing in time to the lyrics, two penguins sat in front, their wings lifting up and down, then there was a trio of rabbits – knitted red scarves wrapped around their necks – and half a dozen small mice, spinning round and round in circles. Fake snow was filtering down upon them and a troupe of Nutcracker soldiers moved up and down the window frame on a track, pink, wooden cheeks glowing, arms shifting forward and back.
Hayley laughed. ‘Angel would love this.’
‘What does this store sell anyhow?’ Oliver asked, trying to look for merchandise. He stepped back, looking at the sign. ‘Pet supplies,’ he remarked, shaking his head.
‘Can we go inside?’ Hayley asked him.
‘You want to go shopping for pet supplies?’
‘We enjoyed the display, Dean’s partner has a dog, come on,’ Hayley encouraged, stepping towards the door.
Oliver checked his watch. ‘We have a dinner reservation.’
‘Five minutes, I promise.’ She pulled a face she hoped was like one of Angel’s when she wanted something. It always worked for her.
‘I really hope this dog likes sequins.’
‘It isn’t really for Randy,’ Hayley responded, tucking the paper bag containing a silver sequinned waistcoat and bow tie for thepooch under her arm. ‘It’s for Angel. Fussing over that dog and dressing it up is going to take her mind off finding her father.’
Oliver swallowed. Daniel Pearson hadn’t been able to find any trace of Michel De Vos which even the private investigator thought was unusual. He was going to keep looking, try a different tack, report back as soon as he had something.
‘Still nothing?’ he asked her. Should he tell her he was looking? How would she feel about that? Pleased that he wanted to help? Or was it too much and none of his business?
