Chapter 17

The paintings were hanging on the walls in their stark white frames, all except for the centrepiece. I looked around. The gallery was already crowded, but everyone gave the space with the covered easel in the back a wide berth.

Good. No more surprises tonight, please.

The light in the spacious room was dim, so the attention was on the small powerful lights taped to the walls below the frames. The atmosphere almost felt jazzy. Most guests took to conversing in front of Emmanuelle's work, sipping their wine, while the waiters meandered around and offered hors d"?uvres. The mini bites ranged from smoked salmon mousse to caviar on baguettes and something that a little sign denoted were escargots bourguignonne, snails baked in garlic and butter. Although I was giving the last dish a wide berth, it was endearing that Emmanuelle's French half began rearing its head with the food choices.

To the far side of the elongated hall, a grand piano stood, making me surreptitiously glance at my watch. Bobby Daniles was supposed to begin with his musical interlude in a little more than half an hour. The fact that he hadn't shown up yet filled me with a sense of uneasy foreboding. I plucked at my collar.

"Stop fiddling. You look great."

Casey appeared at my side. She'd got me the suit as a thank you for helping out so much. It was now the most expensive clothing I owned. Armani. Brand new. It made me blend in nicely, but I could admit that being dressed up made me feel like I was wearing a costume. "Thanks. Your dress looks really nice, too."

And it was. There was one other outfit I was even more curious about, though.

Casey smirked knowingly at my searching gaze. "She isn't here yet."

"Who isn't?"

She snorted at my innocent face. "Ms Renaud … or should I say Emmanuelle? When did you two get so cosy?"

I shrugged, not knowing what to say. Before she could grill me further, a waiter approached to whisper something into her ear. She excused herself, so I used the time to examine the room again. I was sure the amount of jewellery in here would have easily paid for several mansions and maybe a few castles.

A small hustle broke out by the door, and I turned to see whose entrance generated the unrest. My thoughts came to a crashing halt.

Holy mother of…

Emmanuelle's dress was midnight-black but was superseded with glinting flecks of dark grey hues. The differing shades produced a depth that made each singular patch shift with the ebb of low and bright light. The cloth flowed over her skin like a silken embrace, and my brain, at last, grasped the true, cruel meaning of the phrase effets de soir. At that moment I felt very much like an impressionist artist of old, trying to capture an image shifting in the twilight, caught in the futility of completely penetrating the darkness but still unable to break the compulsion and simply look away. I was utterly and thoroughly entranced, and I knew then that I would never look into a night sky the same way again.

My eyes roved over the woven black lace on her slender shoulders, drinking in the sensuous curve of her neck, the regal tilt of her chin. She really looked like one of Michelangelo's angels tonight. Ethereal, alluring, a homage to a flawless creation. Her face was framed by two dark, luscious curls, and her hair was pinned up with four braids fastened over her ears. But it was her eyes that really sucked the air out of my chest. Green. Seas of green.

She scanned the crowd, and her lips curled into that devastating lopsided smile when she caught my gaze. My mouth was dry, and my heart beat like a drummer chasing a high, and I realised with total clarity that this feeling wouldn't go away. No amount of wishing, stern resolutions or sketching would ever make it stop. I could no more stop feeling it than turn myself into a pumpkin.

What on earth am I going to do?

Emmanuelle gave me a secretive wink before focusing her attention back on the people surrounding her. I managed to lift my hand in a half-wave before making a beeline toward a waiter. I was in need of a drink.

Or several … bottles.

I observed from afar how easily Emmanuelle dived into the world of the rich and famous. Nursing my sparkling wine in a reasonably quiet corner, I managed to catch snippets of conversations. Some of them were about art, sure, but a significant number were about which yacht had been bought last year and what handicap a person sported at the golf course. I felt like an interloper who was only accepted because my outward appearance matched everyone else.

At some point, I decided to just focus on the artwork. I had seen some pieces when I'd helped with the framing, but there hadn't been much opportunity for a deep dive. Not for the first time, I asked myself why I hadn't tried harder to convince the old man to come, too. But he'd wanted to visit when it was quieter. It was only now that I realised I could have used another familiar face. For one intense moment, I desperately wished for Harry to be here. He would have loved getting the chance to see Emmanuelle's art.

After a while, I noticed Casey and Ms Jackson standing together at the door to the office. My friend was cramping both hands around her phone. Neither of them looked happy.

Uh-oh. Please don't tell me that is what I think it is.

My legs carried me over, and I saw the manager glare at her watch. That lead elephant returned and settled in my belly again.

"He still isn't here?" I asked, before fidgeting at Casey's headshake. "Have you tried calling him?"

Ms Jackson looked at me as if I was something scraped off her shoe. "He isn't picking up! Did you think we didn't try that already? This clusterfuck is entirely your fault! It was your idea to hire that loser!"

She began pacing but stopped when Casey gave her a warning glance and gestured at the guests with her chin. "This is a catastrophe," the manager snarled more quietly. "It's impossible to get a replacement in time. We'll have to cancel the opening act five minutes before there's supposed to be an opening act! Fucking unbelievable. I knew right from the start that it was a stupid idea, but even I didn't think the asshole wouldn't show up at all!"

I opened my mouth but found nothing to defend myself with. She was right. I'd so dearly wanted to stick it to her, make her acknowledge someone who wasn't part of her damned elitist circle, and now he wasn't even showing up. Why did I care about her damned elitist circle in the first place? When exactly had my determination to help out Casey grown to include earning Jackson's respect? Was I mad?

Then, it hit me. I wanted that respect so fiercely because it would've shown that I could exist in that elitist world, in Emmanuelle's world. That maybe we weren't poles apart.

And now she didn't have an opening act.

Fuck.

"Can you play this, if I print it out?" Casey asked and held out her phone.

I leaned forward to glance at the screen.

"'Moonlight Sonata'?" Scratching my head, I examined what I could see of the notes. "I know the piece, but I've not played it in ages. We can't really risk me messing up, can we?"

"No, we cannot," Jackson hissed. "That would be even more embarrassing than not having an opening act in the first place!"

Just then, I had an idea. A crazy, ridiculous, terrifying idea.

You really don't want to do this, my six-year-old self whispered.

No, but this is my fault, and I have to do something, I whispered back.

"How about I play something else?"

They both stared at me blankly.

"How good are you?" asked Jackson. "You realise this is a room full of people who've absorbed Brahms, Mozart, and Bach with their mother's milk."

Casey frowned and faced her squarely. "She can play just fine." It was only when she turned to me that her concern and unease shone through. "Sure you're up for this?"

"It was my idea, wasn't it?"

Jackson's eyes narrowed. "And just what is it you expect to play in front of all these people, exactly?"

The thought of performing in front of this crowd without having any time to prepare made beads of sweat break out at the back of my neck, and transformed that long-nosed, four-ton behemoth in my stomach into a bubbling mass of molten metal. I licked my lips. Could I really do this? Start playing, shut down my brain and get it over with? I hated having an audience. I'd always hated that. For a second, I was reminded of that day when my father had forced me to get on stage, but I firmly told myself not to go there. This wasn't about me. No one cared that I sat there. They just wanted an opening act.

Giving Casey a reassuring smile I didn't entirely feel, I told Ms Jackson, "You'll just have to trust me. Go ahead and make the announcement."

The manager vanished, and after another inquiring look, Casey followed her. I took a plunging breath and walked towards the piano. Taking off my jacket, careful not to wrinkle it, I laid it next to me on the bench. The room had already started to grow quieter, people noticing me stepping up to the instrument. A part of my mind could hear Ms Jackson's words, even if most of my attention was focused inward, at the notes I could only see in my head. Seating myself, I took another deep breath when I heard quiet clapping.

Steady now, Hale. Steady now.

The piece didn't begin slowly but jumped right into the fray. My fingers flew over the keys, remembering the old notes as if I was seeing them before my eyes—just like I had when I'd sat on my mother's lap during her practice sessions. This had been one of her favourites.

Chopin's "Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-Sharp" echoed around the gallery space, its visitors falling silent. The music slowed after the hectic beginning, and I felt melancholy surge up at the familiarity, but I didn't let that distract me. Eyes closed, head poised slightly forward, I chased the tones across the line of white and black minstrels, all the while trying to do justice to this complicated composition.

The music picked up again, growing louder and louder, high tones suffusing the quiet. Minutes ticked by in which the only movements in existence seemed to be my fingers caressing the instrument. When the last note rang out, I startled, suddenly aware my fingers had stopped. I found them shaking, fearing the unknown and what would come next. Silence?

A little cramped, I got up from the bench. The sudden and lively clapping made me freeze before I remembered my manners and bowed to my audience. As if in a trance, I heard Emmanuelle welcome everyone to the exhibit, but my feet were already carrying me into the direction of Casey's office. Away, away from the crowd and the possibility of being judged for how I'd played.