My phone pings, a text from Paige. Where are you, lover?
I drag my head up and check the time. It’s almost ten, the slot for our weekly Skype chat.
Keep your panties on, I write back.
Paige brings out the raunchy side in me, since it’s such a part of her nature. She’s also smart as a whip and way more confident than I am, so basically, the cooler friend. But she’s always been supportive of me and my art, even when I had to drop out and leave her alone at Tufts at the end of freshman year. We cried as we said goodbye, swearing to remain friends forever, and we have kept in close touch over the years.
I open my laptop and click on the bouncing icon and Paige’s beaming face appears on my screen. Her hair is still wet, and she’s got a facemask on: it’s evening in London, and she’s getting ready to go out for the night.
“Hey, you,” she says. “Tell me all about your glamorous new job!”
“Oh, yeah, sweeping the floor is so glamorous.”
“Hold up,” she frowns. “That fancy internship has you playing Cinderella?”
“Right, you don’t know yet,” I say and explain to her all about the mix-up and actually being hired as a clerk/janitor/fill-in waitress/servant.
“I’m sorry, Grace,” Paige says. “I know how much you wanted that internship.”
“It’s a foot in the door,” I say. “And I got to be around some amazing art.”
She nods emphatically. “Hell yeah,” she says. “And you are going to kick ass and show those bitches who’s boss.”
I laugh, knowing she means it, and that she would have no trouble kicking ass. Paige wouldn’t hesitate for a second. “I got to see a Rubens up close.”
She gasps. “The unveiling of The Judgment of Paris?” Paige works for an insurance company valuing art and antiquities. Of course she would know about the arrival of this highly prized masterpiece.
I nod. “And before it went on stage, behind the scenes when I went to get chairs. I got to see it close enough to distinguish the brushstrokes.” I sigh, remembering. “It was incredible.”
“I heard Charles St. Clair won the bid for six million.”
“Wow,” I say, surprised. “News travels fast in the art world.”
Paige shrugs, picking at her mask. “St. Clair is something of a celebrity in the art world. My boss said his collection is insured for like, hundreds of millions. The guy’s a veritable museum. And hot. Is he as dreamy up close as in all the gossip columns?”
“I mean, I guess…” I look down, feeling my cheeks redden.
“What?” Paige knows me too well. She squints at me. “Why are you blushing?”
“Something else happened last night,” I say, dropping my voice.
“Oooh,” she squeals. “Something juicy? It sounds juicy.”
“I met him.”
“Yes! What’s he like?” Paige demands. “Give me the gossip. Who was he there with? Did he seduce you with his eyes? Describe his ass. Details, my friend, details!”
I laugh, and settle back in bed with my laptop. “God, he is so hot. Like a god, Paige, for real.”
“Drool, much? Your face is bright red!” She laughs. “You liiiiiike him. You want to kiss him. You want to make sweet, sweet looooove.”
“So does every other warm blooded female who looks at him,” I grin. “But I bid for him when he left to take a call and afterward he asked me out. That means something, doesn’t it?”
“Absofuckinlutely!” she exclaims. “Hot famous guys have to go out on dates, too, don’t they?”
“He’s famous? Like on TV famous?” I ask.
“Occasionally. He does guest appearances on New York or London morning shows to talk about business or finance, or art.” She shrugs. “He’s young and articulate and loaded. Not to mention hot as lava.”
“He’s in finance?” I realize I don’t know anything about him. Besides how charming and cute he is.
“Yeah, family money from banking that he took global a few years ago and tripled his business,” Paige says, shaking her head at me. “He’s worth billions. Grace, you should really know who you’re going out with.”
Billions? I feel nauseous. “So this guy is famous and worth more than I could make in fifteen lifetimes. Great.” We have nothing in common. This date is going to be a total disaster.
“At least you know he’s not interested in you for your money,” she quips, and I wish I could throw something at her through the screen.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Because there are so many other things to love you for!” Paige covers. “Your wit, your heart, your amazing taste in friends…”
“I get it,” I laugh, but I still can’t shake the feeling I’m way out of my league.
Paige peers at her camera. “You’re looking a little green.”
“I just didn’t know he was so famous.” I take a deep breath. “It’s such a different world for me, you know?”
“I know.” She gives me a sympathetic smile. “But I mean it, he’s the lucky one to be taking you out.”
“It doesn’t feel that way. And these people I work with have been a nightmare. I just really want to show them I can be worthy,” I say, wishing my mom could be here.
“Shut up. You already are more worthy than all those trust fund brats with their sports cars and diamond lipstick cases. Don’t you forget that. And if St. Clair doesn’t realize it too, then fuck him up his billionaire ass.”
I burst out laughing. “I am so lucky to have you,” I say.
“Don’t you forget that, either,” she beams. “When you’re a famous artist and the world is clamoring for your attention, including all the eligible hot guys, just remember who stood by you way back when.”
“Some girl named…Penny? Polly?”
“Ha,” she says, and sticks her tongue out.
My phone vibrates with my alarm. “Sorry babe, I need to go get ready for my deli shift,” I say. “And we didn’t even talk about you!”
“Eh, nothing’s new over here,” she shrugs. “London, schmondon. It won’t stop raining, my hair is begging for mercy. Talk next week?”
“Duh.”
“And take a picture of St. Clair’s butt when you see him again,” she demands. “Remember, no glove, no love!”
She’s still making kissy faces at the screen when I sign off.
Downstairs in the deli, Giovanni and Nona’s daughter Carmella runs a tight ship with an iron fist. I’m on register duty today, taking orders and writing tickets for the sandwich makers, but I can’t stop thinking about St. Clair. Charles. It even sounds hot. Why are British men never Charlie? I don’t care what he calls himself; if he called me I would listen to him talk all day.
“Would you like mayo and mustard?” I ask the lady in front of me who ordered a turkey avocado on wheat.
“Just a touch of mayo,” the woman says and I think of Charles’ hands on mine, his lips on my cheek. He’s like no one I’ve ever met before. Confident, but not cocky, smooth, charming, but also genuine.
“That’ll be ten fifty,” I say. Charles trusted me with millions of his dollars. Would he have done that with just anyone?
“Next!”
A young couple comes up, hanging all over each other. His hand is in her back pocket, and she’s nuzzled up against his chest.
I want Charles to want me like that.
“What can I get you?” I say, trying to push away the thought of him. What the hell’s happening to me? I’ve never felt this way about a man before, never really ached to be near someone like this.
“…and extra pickles.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, flustered. I’m zoning out here.
“Grace? Earth to Grace?” Carmella snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Are you sick or something? You are way off your game today.”
“I’m sorry, Carmella. I had to work late last night. I’m a little out of it.”