“Here they are,” I whisper to St. Clair, feeling my heart race. He hasn’t told me the big plan yet, and I’m excited to see it unfold.
“Patience,” he whispers, then smoothly starts a conversation with the couple beside us about the stock market, and their kids.
I watch Crawford. He sets up in a corner booth, while Natalie scurries off to the bar to fetch him a drink. She returns hesitantly with a glass of something, and Crawford takes one sip – then spits it out, splashing her blouse. She takes a small step back as he starts up his usual verbal abuse.
I tense. St. Clair’s hand is on my waist, calming me, but my blood still boils to watch him belittle her in front of everyone. Finally Natalie slips away, red-faced as she ducks into the crowd, heading for the ladies’ room.
“Excuse me,” I tell St. Clair’s friends. “Just going to freshen up.”
I find Natalie in the restroom, sniffling and trying to rinse off her shirt. She glances at me when the door opens. First she looks embarrassed, but I give her a sympathetic smile.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She wipes at her eyes again and then seems to recognize me. “You were at the Ascot Day with St. Clair,” she says, her voice still shaky with tears.
“Yeah. I’m his art consultant. And girlfriend.” I blush and then hold out my hand. “Grace.”
She shakes it. “Natalie.” She blows her nose.
“You work for Spencer Crawford?”
“Yes, the tosspot.” She flushes. “Sorry. I just have to make up names for him in my head since I can’t say anything back to his face.”
“I saw him kick your dog. I’m so sorry.”
Natalie starts crying again and I move forward and hand her a tissue from the box on the counter. “It’s his dog! He forced me to get him one even though I knew it was a bad idea and then he treats it terribly, and makes me take care of the poor thing.” She blows her nose again and wipes her eyes. “I feel so bad for Wall Street.” I raise my eyebrows and she rolls her eyes. “I know. That’s his name. He’s a purebred.”
I start laughing and then she starts laughing and then we’re both having a giggle fit right there in the bathroom of a posh club where we don’t really belong. We are both here only because we work for (and/or date) rich men who can afford to belong to places like this.
“Thanks,” she says, when our laughter dies away. “I needed that.”
“I’m sorry he’s such a jerk. Why do you put up with it?” I ask, but I think I already know. It wasn’t that long ago that I was in a similar position: desperate to get my foot in the right door, taking any paid work I could, hoping to make my way up the ranks if I just stuck it out long enough.
“I hope this job will lead to something else, but if I resign, everyone will just think I couldn’t handle it,” she says, sad but determined. “I’ve got to grin and bear it.”
She sounds like a true Brit, with a stiff upper lip attitude. But I also understand her drive—just a few months ago, that was me. My boss at Carringer’s was not as bad as Crawford, but she was no walk in the park. Those of us who are not born lucky have to work a little harder, take a little more crap.
“I get it,” I say, and I do. But I also now want to teach Crawford a lesson even more. For Natalie. And for Wall Street. I lean in. “But I also know karma is a bitch and he’ll get what he deserves eventually.”
She looks hopeful. “You think?”
I smile. Oh, I know. “I do. And it might even be sooner than you expect.”
I leave Natalie to finish composing herself—she came prepared with make-up since she says she often ends up crying at work—and I force myself not to stomp over to Crawford and deck him in his fat chin right now. I remind myself that St. Clair is clever, and I should leave the subterfuge up to him. He’s been at this game longer than I have.
I rejoin him at the bar. He’s with a group of people now, and Crawford is lurking nearby. St. Clair winks at me as I approach.
“As I was saying, this loan I’m making for the Chervelle Foundation will be the talk of the art scene—no one else is going to come close!” He elaborates a little with his charm, building up the donation without giving many specifics, just talking a little louder and louder until Crawford takes the bait.
“What is this about, St. Clair?” he booms, parting the crowd like the red sea.
St. Clair gives a casual shrug. “I was just talking about my new acquisition.”
Crawford snorts. “What, did you buy another Picasso?”
“Actually, it’s the Portrait of a Princess by Sergio Graziano.”
A few people make small gasps, and I understand why: it’s a famous impressionist painting that’s rarely been exhibited. Crawford is skeptical. “That painting has never been for sale.”
St. Clair smiles coolly. “It was, though, and I bought it. Too bad you didn’t know it was available. I suppose they only bothered contacting serious buyers.” He emphasizes the word ‘serious’ and I can see the vein in Crawford’s forehead pulsing.
St. Clair continues, “I’m loaning it to the Chervelle Foundation for their big charity exhibit in Paris. It’s their biggest donation, of course. The press is having a field day, all the headlines are already written.” He looks Crawford in the eye. “It’s a pity you don’t have anything that could match it. I suppose this puts me on top of our little rivalry, old friend. I hope you’ll be able to make the opening.” St. Clair smiles, but the challenge is there and Crawford rises to it.
“As it happens,” he muses, “I have been looking for a place to display that Armande painting I love so much. Perhaps this is the perfect chance.”
St. Clair’s smile vanishes. Crawford smirks. “Yes, now that I think about it, the Foundation would love an artwork of that caliber for their exhibit. It would really raise the tone of the whole proceeding. Natalie!” he barks, without looking.
She appears at his side, clipboard at the ready. “Yes, sir?”
“Contact my art team, tell them we’ll be transporting the Armande to Paris.” He turns back to St. Clair with a smug grin. “Let’s see how much they care about your Graziano with a real masterpiece on display.”
St. Clair manages to look downcast, and he keeps up the act all the way into the dining room. We take a seat in the corner, and only then, out of sight, does he let his smile of triumph show.
“He took the bait, hook line and sinker!” He raises his glass in a toast, and I clink it.
“But wait,” I say, still not following. “How is moving the painting to the gallery going to help us? They’ll have plenty of security, too.”
St. Clair nods. “True. But nothing compared to those vaults. I’ll have access to the gallery because of my own donation, and it’ll be far easier to find a weakness in their system.”
I’m impressed. “You’re kinda good at this.”
He chuckles. “I do my best.”
“Seriously though, how do you do that? Take charge, make things happen instead of just waiting, or hoping, for something to work out?”
“I’m no good at waiting,” he shrugs. “I want things to happen my way.”
“I wish I could be more like that, in charge of my own destiny, not afraid to go after things I want.” I sigh and think about how my life might have been different, how it could be different now if I wasn’t so cautious.
“You are,” he reassures me, reaching to take my hand. “You’re here, making your own decisions right now. Don’t sell yourself short, Grace. Besides, there will be no time for feeling sorry for yourself once we’re in Paris.”