absolutely spectacular what-the-fuck-are-you-thinking-Grace? she punched in the number.
The plan was that she’d leave a message. A breezy, insouciant ‘thanks even though you don’t do thanks’ voicemail because . . . because . . . because it was rude not to.
‘Hello?’
Grace took the phone away from her ear so she could stare at it in disbelief. Why was he answering on the first ring? That wasn’t part of her plan.
The next ‘hello?’ was tinny and tetchy.
‘Hi,’ she said quickly, mind racing through possibilities of why he was up and why she was ringing before the cock crowed. Not that Archway had a huge number of crowing cocks. ‘It’s Grace. We met in Liberty’s.’
‘Oh yes, I remember.’ There was a delay on the line, which threw Grace into even more confusion.
‘I’m sorry to call you so late. I was just going to leave a message,’ she babbled, her words sticking together in a garbled rush.
Vaughn gave the tiniest chuckle. ‘It’s not that late where I am.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Miami, just coming back from a very boring business dinner.’
‘For real?’ Incredulity won out over breezy and insouciant.
‘Yes, for real. I could stick the phone out of the car window to see if I can pick up some salsa music if you need proof.’ Vaughn snickered again and God, Grace thought, this had been such a bad idea.
‘OK . . . I’ll take your word for it,’ she said, flicking the corner of a postcard she’d pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen, as an alternative to hurling herself out of the window. ‘Well, I just—’
‘But it’s very late where you are,’ Vaughn continued, and now Grace remembered how he’d constantly interrupted her mid-sentence when she’d been sitting across from him in that red room. ‘Why are you still up?’
‘Oh, I only just got in and I wasn’t ready to go to bed yet. Thought I’d catch up on my outstanding correspondence.’ That was better. It was almost breezy and insouciant. ‘So anyway,’ Grace rushed on, ‘how did you find out where I worked?’ That two-second pause after everything she said while the fibre optics sent her words over two continents and several time-zones, made Grace feel as if her tongue was this cumbersome thing that had found its way into her mouth by accident.
‘Would you buy that I put a tracing agent in your champagne? No? You had a very fetching security laminate around your neck,’ Vaughn replied. ‘What do you do on Skirt magazine?’
‘Well, technically I’m the Style Director’s assistant but mostly I live in the fashion cupboard.’
‘In the fashion cupboard?’
‘Yeah, the fashion cupboard. It’s where we keep the, er, fashion.’
‘And do you like it?’
‘I love the fashion part but the cupboard bit, not so much. What do you do? I’ve narrowed it down to a weapons supplier or human trafficking.’
The chuckle upgraded to a full-throated laugh and Grace wondered what Vaughn looked like when he did that. ‘Oh, it’s much worse than that. I’m an art dealer.’
That would be Grace’s cue to say something incisive and intelligent about the modern art world gleaned from all the articles she’d flicked through but not read in the Evening Standard . But she was too busy nervously twisting her legs around each other, until she banged into the side of the fridge. She settled for a hesitant: ‘Cool.’ The two-second delay stretched to five and counting. ‘So, like, anyway, I wanted to thank you for the bag but you don’t do the thanks thing, so can I take you out for a drink sometime instead?’
Where the fuck had that come from? Vaughn was saying something and she didn’t really want to hear what it was. ‘You’re offering to buy me a drink?’ He didn’t sound at all repulsed. ‘That’s . . . well, rather charming. You lower-middle-class girls do have beautiful manners.’
‘I
The plan was that she’d leave a message. A breezy, insouciant ‘thanks even though you don’t do thanks’ voicemail because . . . because . . . because it was rude not to.
‘Hello?’
Grace took the phone away from her ear so she could stare at it in disbelief. Why was he answering on the first ring? That wasn’t part of her plan.
The next ‘hello?’ was tinny and tetchy.
‘Hi,’ she said quickly, mind racing through possibilities of why he was up and why she was ringing before the cock crowed. Not that Archway had a huge number of crowing cocks. ‘It’s Grace. We met in Liberty’s.’
‘Oh yes, I remember.’ There was a delay on the line, which threw Grace into even more confusion.
‘I’m sorry to call you so late. I was just going to leave a message,’ she babbled, her words sticking together in a garbled rush.
Vaughn gave the tiniest chuckle. ‘It’s not that late where I am.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Miami, just coming back from a very boring business dinner.’
‘For real?’ Incredulity won out over breezy and insouciant.
‘Yes, for real. I could stick the phone out of the car window to see if I can pick up some salsa music if you need proof.’ Vaughn snickered again and God, Grace thought, this had been such a bad idea.
‘OK . . . I’ll take your word for it,’ she said, flicking the corner of a postcard she’d pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen, as an alternative to hurling herself out of the window. ‘Well, I just—’
‘But it’s very late where you are,’ Vaughn continued, and now Grace remembered how he’d constantly interrupted her mid-sentence when she’d been sitting across from him in that red room. ‘Why are you still up?’
‘Oh, I only just got in and I wasn’t ready to go to bed yet. Thought I’d catch up on my outstanding correspondence.’ That was better. It was almost breezy and insouciant. ‘So anyway,’ Grace rushed on, ‘how did you find out where I worked?’ That two-second pause after everything she said while the fibre optics sent her words over two continents and several time-zones, made Grace feel as if her tongue was this cumbersome thing that had found its way into her mouth by accident.
‘Would you buy that I put a tracing agent in your champagne? No? You had a very fetching security laminate around your neck,’ Vaughn replied. ‘What do you do on Skirt magazine?’
‘Well, technically I’m the Style Director’s assistant but mostly I live in the fashion cupboard.’
‘In the fashion cupboard?’
‘Yeah, the fashion cupboard. It’s where we keep the, er, fashion.’
‘And do you like it?’
‘I love the fashion part but the cupboard bit, not so much. What do you do? I’ve narrowed it down to a weapons supplier or human trafficking.’
The chuckle upgraded to a full-throated laugh and Grace wondered what Vaughn looked like when he did that. ‘Oh, it’s much worse than that. I’m an art dealer.’
That would be Grace’s cue to say something incisive and intelligent about the modern art world gleaned from all the articles she’d flicked through but not read in the Evening Standard . But she was too busy nervously twisting her legs around each other, until she banged into the side of the fridge. She settled for a hesitant: ‘Cool.’ The two-second delay stretched to five and counting. ‘So, like, anyway, I wanted to thank you for the bag but you don’t do the thanks thing, so can I take you out for a drink sometime instead?’
Where the fuck had that come from? Vaughn was saying something and she didn’t really want to hear what it was. ‘You’re offering to buy me a drink?’ He didn’t sound at all repulsed. ‘That’s . . . well, rather charming. You lower-middle-class girls do have beautiful manners.’
‘I
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