“Lulu,” I corrected. He hooked his finger into the waistband of my skirt and drew me forward. His arms wrapped around me, his lips landed on mine and Lulu was a goner.
***
When it came to his gallery, Bronson was a neat freak. I arrived the next morning to find him polishing the leaves on the pot plant near the door.
“Shiny plants are happy plants, darling,” he explained.
“What are you using to clean them with?”
He held up the spray can and read the label. “Pledge.”
“I’m pretty sure that will hurt the plant, Bronson.”
He waved the cloth in his hand. “Beauty is pain.”
I sat at my desk, chuckling at the strange man who paid my wages. A day in Bronson’s head would be like an overseas holiday. Spending time with him at the gallery wasn’t that different to occupying Bridget. As long as he was busy, he was happy. For that reason, I wasn’t going to separate him from his can of plant-killing Pledge.
I diverted my attention to the invoices on my desk. Bronson bought art like Fiona bought shoes. No expense was spared if something took his fancy, and like Fiona he had a great eye for a good deal. His gallery was hugely successful, and I was proud to be a part of it. When he was in the mood, he was a good salesman. Today was one of those days. He abandoned the can of furniture polish when the first customer walked in, and promptly sold her a twelve thousand dollar painting.
After praising the woman’s eye for detail and her knowledge of the arts, he arranged delivery and sent her on her way as only Bronson could. “All done now, darling,” he crowed, flapping his hands at her. “Shoo, shoo.”
The customer didn’t take offense. No one ever did. She skipped out the door twelve grand lighter with a huge smile on her face. Bronson shuffled over and slumped down on the chair opposite my desk. “I’m exhausted, Charlotte,” he complained. The gallery had been open for business less than an hour.
“Can I get you something?”
“Yes.” He slapped both hands on his knees. “Take care of the next client. Dazzle them with your charm and sell them something wonderful.”
Ordinarily I might’ve given it a crack, but the next person through the door had never been remotely dazzled by me.
Olivia breezed in wearing a lovely summer dress and a bright smile. Politely, I would’ve described her as pretty, but it was a hard kind of pretty. I was glad I didn’t look like her, but remembering the photo of her and Alex as teenagers reminded me that I used to. Somewhere along the line she’d lost the softness, and dealing with her made me feel like I was losing it too.
“Hello, Charli,” she beamed.
I wanted to ask what she wanted, but managed to say hello instead.
Bronson levered himself to his feet. “Sell her something, darling,” he instructed in a ridiculously indiscreet whisper.
“Actually, I am looking for a piece for the reception area of the studio,” said Olivia, diverting her walk to check out the art hanging on the far wall.
Bronson clapped his hands. “Then this is where you belong today.”
Choosing art is a process, whether the person selecting it realises it or not. When Jean-Luc bought his boat-on-the-beach picture, I watched it call to him for ten minutes before he knew he wanted it. His eyes kept darting toward it until he finally made the decision to buy.
Olivia didn’t seem to go through any sort of process. She pointed out a large abstract piece that she’d hardly even looked at. “This would be perfect.”
Photographs were my specialty, but she’d chosen a painting. Bronson took over the reins and revealed a whopping price tag, just shy of thirty thousand dollars.
I expected her to gracefully bow out of the deal, but she didn’t. She cheekily asked him if he’d give her a month to pay for it.
Bronson wagged his finger at her, tutting like he was scolding a child. “It’s not customary, darling,” he said sternly. “My business doesn’t operate that way.” The relief I felt was immense. If the woman didn’t have funds to buy a designer handbag, chances were that dropping thirty grand on art was beyond her means.
In an attempt to help her save face, I steered her in a different direction. “There are other pieces that are much cheaper,” I offered, pointing toward the opposite wall. “Or a photograph. They’re still exclusive, but generally not as expensive.”
There was a sly edge to the smile she gave me. “I’m not interested in a silly photograph,” she said bluntly. “I find no talent in clicking a camera.”
It was another kick-in-the-face example of how little she knew me. Olivia never asked questions about my life. Conversations were always about her. She had no idea that I was a photographer who’d captured the twenty-four years of my life that she’d missed through the lens of a camera. I would’ve been offended by her ignorant comment if I wasn’t concentrating so hard on trying to pre-empt her next move – and I knew there was one, because there was always a game in play where Olivia was concerned.
“Photography is a masterful craft,” defended Bronson.
She unlocked me from her stare and turned to him. “Of course,” she falsely agreed. “But I much prefer the intensity and depth of a painting.”
Bronson bowed his head. “To each her own, darling.”
He was accommodating because he thought he was about to make a huge sale. He would’ve agreed with anything at that point, thinking he was in control. I knew differently. Olivia was playing him like a fiddle; I just wasn’t sure of the tune.
She turned back to the painting and sighed. “I truly adore it,” she declared wistfully.
“I can hold it for a month,” Bronson generously offered.
“That won’t do.” Olivia glanced at him. “I have a charity event coming up before then. I would like to have it on display.”
My heart began thumping when she took a few slow steps toward me. “I’m not your average client.” She spoke to him, but her eyes never left mine. “I’m hardly likely to stiff you considering my daughter works here.”
I felt sick to my stomach. Olivia had publically claimed me as her daughter only twice, and she had been screwing me over both times.
Bronson started squealing like a little girl. “Why didn’t you say so, darling?” he asked, waving both hands at me.
Words failed me. Olivia had no such problem. In two minutes flat, she’d arranged delivery and a fourteen-day account.
Bronson was kind and trusting. Perhaps that’s why he dropped the ball. There was no contract signed, no conditions to be met. If the painting hadn’t been so large, she could’ve carried it out there and then.
“Charli is a wonderful addition to my gallery,” he prattled. “Her family is my family.”
His experience with my family was limited to Ryan, who had no problem dropping a small fortune on artwork every time he walked through the door. The difference was, he could afford it.
“Are you sure about this, Bronson?” I asked in a small voice.
He took me by the shoulders and shook me. “Of course, darling,” he crowed. “There is no risk to me. If your lovely mother skips the country, you can pay her bill.”
He laughed, thinking he’d made a cheeky joke. The worst part was, Olivia laughed too.
I didn’t trust my mother. I didn’t respect her either. If Bronson had left the room, I might’ve finally told her so. But he didn’t leave. He picked up his can of pledge and went back to polishing the leaves on his plant.
I walked back to my desk, despondent and worried. When I sat down, Olivia was right behind me.
“Did you have a chance to speak to Fiona?” she asked casually.
I frowned at her. “About what?”
“You offered to talk to her about attending my charity event,” she reminded me.
The woman was relentless – always on the take. It was exhausting me, but in typical Olivia fashion she didn’t notice.
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “She said she’d love to support you.?
??
She clasped her hands together, grinning broadly. “Wonderful. I’ll send Erin back tomorrow with the official invitations. It’s going to be fabulous.”
I forced myself to smile at her. “No problem.”
“I’m so happy, Charli,” she beamed. “Things are working out beautifully.”
***
The text message Adam sent me letting me know that he’d collect Bridget from Ryan’s place after work couldn’t have come on a better day. Needing time to clear my head, I decided to walk home. It wasn’t necessarily the brightest move. My shoes weren’t made for walking, so by the time I got there my feet ached as much as my head.
Adam’s alarmed expression as I opened the door wasn’t unexpected. Presumably I looked like something the cat had dragged in. At least he was polite enough not to mention it.
“Mama’s home,” he cheerily announced for Bridget’s benefit.
They were both in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. Just by looking at the mess strewn across the counter I knew it was going to take me three days to clean up after them.
“Hi, lady.” Bridget pointed a wooden spoon at me. “We’re making dinner for you.”
I hoped calling me lady was a one-off, but I could never be sure where Bridget was concerned. She’d recently ended a month-long phase of calling her father by name.
“That’s wonderful,” I praised. “Thank you.”
I wasn’t sure what I was thanking her for. While her dad’s back was turned, she dumped an entire bunch of coriander into the pan.
Adam turned around but still didn’t notice. His focus was on me. “Tired?” he asked quietly.
I grimaced. “I have a headache.”
He picked Bridget up under her arms and transported her the short distance to the living room. It was a good move on his part. I suspect the bunch of parsley in her hand was seconds away from hitting the pan.
“But I’m cooking,” she protested.
“And you’re doing a good job, baby.” He picked up the remote and pointed it at the TV. The cartoon mermaid lit the screen. “Take a break for a while.”
Bridget handed Adam the parsley, grabbed Treasure off the coffee table and clambered onto the couch. He walked back to me and presented me with the bunch of parsley as if it was a posy of flowers.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, taking it from his grasp. “It’s lovely.”
Adam took my face in his hands and tilted my head. I saw concern in his eyes. I wondered what he saw in mine. “What do you need?” he asked quietly.
Sleep was the only thing I could think of to remedy the ache in my head. Time away from the world to gather my thoughts would also be beneficial.
“Go to bed.” He lightly pressed his lips to mine. “I’ll bring you some dinner.”
I smiled. “Don’t threaten me, Adam,” I whispered.
The little girl on the couch chimed in. “It’s a lovely dinner, lady,” she insisted. “I cooked it.”
***
Our apartment was so small that private conversations were impossible. I lay in bed listening to my little family chatting over dinner in the next room.
“It’s not right, Bridge,” complained Adam. “What did you put in it?”
“Just weed,” came the little reply. “I love weed.”
Laughing made my head throb. I put my fingertips to my temples in a futile attempt to rub the pain away. Adam had a better remedy. As soon as Bridget was in bed, he came into the room carrying a big bowl and a glass of milk.
I shuffled to sit up. “Cereal?”
He balanced the bowl on my lap. “Only the best for you.”
“How did you know which one I’d like?” It was a fair question. Our extensive cereal selection took up two shelves in the pantry.
“I chose the one with the lowest nutritional value.” Adam poured the glass of milk into the bowl. “Like I said, only the best.”
I smiled at the chocolaty bowl of breakfast junk food, quietly thrilled that he knew me so well.
He put his hand on my forehead. “How’s the head?”
“Busy,” I replied. “Olivia came to see me at work today.”
I was used to the mention of her name inciting a look of distaste, but he gave me something different this time. Adam actually looked panicked. “What did she want?” He sounded panicked too. “Actually, don’t answer that. Charli, we really need to talk.”
He stood up and paced the small room, looking anywhere but at me. “Olivia came to see me too,” he revealed. “I meant to tell you yesterday, but we had such a good afternoon and I didn’t want to ruin it.”
The bowl of cereal in my lap was suddenly unappetising. I leaned across and set it down on the bedside table.
Adam looked completely stricken, and I knew he would rather have been anywhere else on earth but in that room.
“You’re about to break my heart, aren’t you?” I asked weakly.
“I think so,” he admitted.
I nodded, resigned. If Adam couldn’t stop it from happening, no one could, and I got the distinct impression he’d been trying to save me for weeks. “Just tell me,” I muttered.
I’d listened to some brutal truths in my time but nothing compared to hearing that my own mother was willing to get out of our lives in exchange for money. I wasn’t even shocked. I wondered if that made me as hard as her.
Adam stopped pacing at the foot of the bed. “I told her she won’t see a cent,” he said strongly.
I looked up at him, slightly tortured by the notion that that might not necessarily be true. If Olivia reneged on her agreement to pay for the painting she’d all but conned out of Bronson, I was going to have to cover it.
I’d been trying to work out her latest scam all day, and given myself a migraine doing it. Everything was suddenly clear, including my head. One way or another, Olivia intended to get paid.
I reached for Adam but said nothing. He’d gone to great lengths to let her know that he wasn’t going to pay her off. News of the shady art purchase would undo everything.
He didn’t push me to talk. Perhaps he thought I needed time to come to terms with everything. Truthfully, I’d been suspicious since the first night I met her. If anything, he’d just validated my feelings of mistrust and unease.
The only confusing part centred on the fact that I was tied to the woman by blood. The only likeness I could find between us was that we were both determined to get what we wanted.
She was hell bent on getting my money.
And I was hell bent on making sure she paid dearly for it.
50. STARTING FIRES
Adam
Telling Charli about her mother’s evil deeds came at the risk of having her doubt my truthfulness. That was the worst case scenario. If it had gone that way, I would’ve told her everything, starting with the phoney résumé and ending with Olivia’s threat of turning Bridget against her.
Mercifully it never got that far. I gave her only the basics, hoping that I’d armed her with enough information to make her cut ties once and for all – right up until she pulled herself together and laid out a plan.
She dropped my hand. “Bridget’s concert is in two weeks,” she said. “I think we should keep quiet until then.”
I was shaking my head before she’d even finished speaking. “I can’t believe you’re willing to leave the kid in her class, Charlotte. After all, she’s –”
“For Bridget. No other reason.”
I frowned, but didn’t speak.
“I’ve also teed up your mum and a group of her friends to attend Olivia’s charity luncheon at the studio. That’s the week after.”
“Then what? Christmas is coming up too. Perhaps you should keep her around until then.”
Some kisses are designed to halt conversation, like the one she planted on me a few seconds later. I kissed her back – because I always kiss her back. She finally broke free to hit me with her next words of wisdom. “You want to know what your dad always says to me?”
/> I rested my forehead against hers. “Stop talking nonsense, Charlotte,” I recited in a French laced whisper. “Stay home, raise my granddaughter and be a good wife to my son.”
I felt her laugh. “Besides that.”
“Enlighten me,” I murmured.
“He says that in order to sell a bucket of water, you sometimes have to start a fire.”
I groaned, seriously unhappy with the route she was preparing to take.
“Olivia is the fire, Charli,” I warned. “She’s no good.”
“I’ll make a deal with you, Adam,” she offered.
“No.”
She laid it out anyway, the same way our daughter did whenever I declined to negotiate. “I won’t see her again. You take Bridget to dance lessons and that’s it,” she offered. “As soon as the concert is done, we’ll walk away.”
I knew there was more to it, but I couldn’t bring myself to call her on it. All I cared about was keeping her away from her toxic mother. She was agreeing to do that so I had no reason to make waves.
“Just until the concert.” I reiterated, raking both hands through her hair. “Promise?”
“I promise you.”
It wasn’t ideal, but for now it had to be enough.
51. BUSINESS AS USUAL
Charli
Avoiding Olivia wasn’t going to be difficult. The only time I saw her was when she ambushed me at the gallery, and now that she owed Bronson money she was likely to steer clear.
The bad turn in weather kept everyone away that afternoon. Fall had arrived, and after a glorious summer, trees were starting to lose their leaves and the days were getting cooler.
Rain was added to the mix that day, but it wasn’t enough to keep Olivia’s sidekick Erin away. She waltzed into the gallery just before closing time. After collapsing her umbrella, she walked over and dropped a large envelope on my desk.
I looked up, studying her closely. Erin wasn’t in ballet mode that day. She looked like any other teenage girl with a penchant for hoodies, jeans and Converse sneakers. And even though her long blonde hair was straggly and wet from the rain, it was still a better look than the too-tight bun she wore to work.