“Oh, that’s fine. I was here to see Sam, actually,” I said. He stopped and pulled out the megawatt Sam Shaw smile I’d only seen on the rarest of occasions.
“How do you do?” Sam asked, taking my mother’s hand. Oh Jesus. My mother would love manners like that.
“Sam’s bought a number of works from my gallery,” I explained as he and my father shook hands. “I’m helping him arrange them. Sam, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Astor.”
My mother’s gaze flitted between Sam and me. “What did you say your surname was?” She was confused by Sam. She clearly hadn’t come across him but he was wealthy enough to live in their building.
“He didn’t,” I replied.
“Shaw,” Sam said. “My name is Sam Shaw.”
My mother nodded and I could tell she was scanning through her contact list, trying to place him.
“And have you lived here long, Mr. Shaw?” she asked.
“Sylvia, we’re running behind. We’ll leave you to it,” my father said, wanting to discourage my mother’s nosiness.
“We have a few minutes,” my mother said, clearly eager to spend a little more time in Sam’s presence. I knew that feeling.
“No, darling. We’re late already.” My father wrapped his arm around my mother’s waist, guiding her toward the door. “And we’ll see Grace for her birthday next week.”
My mother’s attention shifted from Sam to me. “Yes. I’ve left you several messages about the menu, but I’ve not heard from you.”
I avoided my mother’s calls ninety percent of the time. When she wanted to discuss my birthday, I nudged that figure up to an even one hundred.
“I don’t care about the menu. It’s the Four Seasons—I’m sure it will all be good.” I hadn’t spent a birthday with my mother in a couple of years, but I’d promised my father I’d make more of an effort. I glanced at Sam, who was smiling politely at nothing in particular. He’d lost so much and here I was, acting like a princess talking about the Four Seasons to my mink-wearing mother. My birthday dinner was so inconsequential.
“I just want to make sure you have a perfect evening.” My mother’s voice wobbled, as it always did when she wanted people to feel sorry for her. It had stopped working on me a long time ago.
“I really don’t mind,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“Come on, Sylvia. Let’s leave Grace to get to work,” my father said. “We’ll have a lovely time. It’s the company that counts. Will we see you there, Mr. Shaw?”
Had my father picked up on something personal between us? I kissed my dad on the cheek. “Have a great time. I have to go.” I turned back to the elevator and vigorously pushed the up button.
Luckily, Sam was polite enough to just grin in response to my father’s question. The doors opened and I dipped inside, indicating with a sharp tip of my head for Sam to follow.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Astor,” he called, following me into the elevator.
He cornered me as the doors closed. “You didn’t tell me it was your birthday,” he said, his fingers wrapping around my waist, his breath on my cheek.
“It’s not,” I whispered, my body suddenly weak from being so close to him.
He pulled back to look at me and shook his head. “Next week is, and you didn’t tell me.”
Is that what we did now? We hadn’t discussed how things stood between us. I was looking for him to acknowledge that things were different between us.
“It’s just going to be a few friends and family. You can come if you like.”
“I like,” he said, kissing my neck.
“It will probably be boring.”
“I don’t care.”
“Is this what we do now?” I asked. Were we a couple? I wanted him to tell me.
“Is what what we do?” He ran his nose along my jaw and I tipped my head and pushed my hips against him.
“Invite each other to things. Introduce each other to our friends. Are we doing that stuff?” My words were punctuated by pauses while I enjoyed his fingers, his lips, his warmth.
“Yeah, we’re doing that stuff,” he replied as the elevator doors pinged open at his floor. He straightened, grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the car. “We’re doing all the stuff.”
I pressed my lips together, trying hard to disguise my smile. We were doing this.
Sam
“Her mother was wearing a coat when I ran into them. Mink by the look of it,” I said to Angie as we walked through Bergdorf Goodman, looking for a birthday present for Grace. I had no idea what Grace would like so I’d enlisted Angie’s help.
“How do you know what kind of fur it was?”
“Because I do. She grew up in that building. We’re so different.” I liked Grace. To anyone else, saying that they liked a woman wouldn’t be a big deal. But for me, I never really considered whether I liked someone or not—it didn’t matter. It wasn’t just that she was good in bed or that she was so beautiful it left me breathless, I actually liked spending time with her. But because that was such an unusual reaction, it led to questions—why did I like her? Would I feel the same next Thursday?
“Why do you care?” Angie asked.
I’d observed the successful before becoming successful, learning their mannerisms, their speech patterns, so when I got there I didn’t stand out. Through trial and error and practice, I’d learned to associate with the well-heeled. I wasn’t born one of them, but Grace had been.
We were from different worlds. Could people from contrasting backgrounds really like each other?
I followed Angie as she scanned shelves and displays, picking up things and putting them down.
“What about a scarf? Those Upper East Side girls love a neckerchief.” Angie laughed, holding up a silky scarf with orange streaks in it. She wasn’t wrong. I just wasn’t sure Grace was a typical Upper East Side girl.
“Don’t scrunch up your face like it’s made of dog shit—it’s a seven-hundred-dollar scarf,” Angie said, putting it back on the shelf.
“It’s not right,” I replied.
“Is she not a neckerchief kind of gal?” she asked as we moved toward some glass cabinets holding wallets.
I’d never seen Grace in a scarf. I’d never really thought about what she was wearing beyond how it showed off her body. “I don’t think so.”
Despite our differences, I found myself wanting more of Grace. More of her time, more of her body. I craved her thoughts on everyday things. I wanted to watch the way she blinked, slower and slower, as she climbed toward orgasm. I knew that she had an unaffected belly laugh and a polite, rehearsed smile. Even now, I was thinking about her when I should be paying attention to Angie. I was following Grace deeper along a dark corridor, not knowing what lay at the end. But I couldn’t stop, couldn’t turn back.