Hayley looked at herself in the gold-edged, full-length bedroom mirror. The navy-blue, wool knit dress would have been perfect for the North-Pole-like climate outside but would have baked her under the nightclub strobes. So she’d hacked off the long sleeves. With the arms gone, she’d tidied up the cuts until it hung from her like it was always meant to be that way. One of Angel’s bright-white flower hair clips was now positioned on the front as an appliqué and her hair had been tamed as far as it could without the aid of a professional stylist. The reflection declared her almost Rachel Riley-esque and that would have to be enough.
She reached down to the bed to pick up a small, silver, sequinned clutch bag. Her mother had bought it for her when she was sixteen from a fancy shop you only dared step in for a treat. It was a rare occasion where the two of them had actually got along.
Hayley smoothed her hand over the magnetic clasp then pulled it open. There was just enough room for money, a key, a credit card or two, lipstick, powder and perfume and the only photo you possessed of the father of your child.
She drew out the photo she’d shown Carl at the gallery earlier,pressing the corners a little flatter. There she was, looking young, vibrant, her highlighted hair looking glossy and conditioned, her smile wide, joyous, like someone high on life or maybe someone just full of tequila.
And there, next to her in the photo, was Michel. Michel De Vos. A Belgian artist – or so he’d told her – hoping to make it big in the metropolis. She’d admired his chocolate-brown eyes as well as his accent and she’d listened intently as he talked about his plans for the future over a seemingly never-ending bottle of sparkling wine and a few vodkas thrown in for good measure. They’d danced and they’d sung loudly and completely out of tune and then he’d asked about her.
Hayley sighed and sat down on the bed. Running her fingers over Michel’s dark hair in the picture, she remembered everything they’d spoken about that night like it was a favourite DVD she’d watched time and again. She’d told him all her secrets. Her ambition to be a fashion designer. How she wanted to finish college, get some work experience with a fashion house in London, work on other people’s designs until she got a chance to deliver her own.
And he’d listened, looking at her like she held the world in her palm. He’d called her an artist too, said she was going to be making clothes for Hillary Clinton before she knew it. She’d laughed and said she was hoping for someone more like J.Lo.
Fashion designer.It was almost laughable now. She’d got herself pregnant, listened to her mother’s disappointedI told you so’sand got a job at a factory that made Wellington boots.
Was Michel still an artist? Did he get to pursuehisdreams? She wasn’t sure she really wanted to find out. If he had, she would be jealous. If he hadn’t, she would be disappointed. But this wasn’t about her. It was about Angel.
She slipped the photo back into her clutch bag and fastened it up.
Vipers Nightclub, Downtown Manhattan
‘Any second now and they’re going to be back over here,’ Tony said, his eyes fixed on the group of women moving to a David Guetta song.
Oliver leaned on the dark wood and surveyed the dance floor from their vantage point. The beer was slipping down well and at last, he felt himself start to loosen up. This was good.
‘So, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony asked, his mouth at Oliver’s ear.
‘What?’
‘I said, how are we gonna play this?’ Tony repeated twice as loud.
‘I heard what you said, I just didn’t know what you meant.’
‘Well, is it gonna be the double dating thing or the singular attack?’
‘Safety in numbers,’ Oliver answered.
‘Yeah but you usually end up with both of them.’
He shook his head. ‘That happenedonce.’
‘And I’m not letting it happen again.’ Tony loosened the top button of his shirt then ran a hand through his thick, black hair. ‘See ya!’ He waved a hand and strode onto the dance floor, his head bobbing and bouncing like an excited emu.
Oliver laughed, watching his friend sidling up to the object of his affection.
‘I know who you are.’
The blonde-haired woman he’d paid attention to earlier was suddenly at his side, the heat from her body unavoidable.
He straightened up. ‘You do, do you?’
She nodded. ‘Uh-huh. You’re Oliver Drummond. I’ve seen your photo in theNew York Times.’
‘And where have I seen you before? A billboard maybe?’ he flirted, putting his beer bottle on the shelf in front of him.
‘That’s cute,’ she responded. ‘So, are you here on your own?’
He looked over one shoulder and then the other, then turned back to smile at her. ‘Theoretically, I guess I am now.’ He widened his smile. ‘But with a capacity crowd, I’m sensing potential.’
