The Woman Before You: An intense, addictive love story with an unexpected twist.... Carrie Blake

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СКАЧАТЬ took Lyft from Brooklyn to the Upper East Side, though by this point I really couldn’t afford it. I’d figure something out before the credit card bill came and started accumulating massive amounts of interest. Well, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t have to pay for a car home. Maybe I would be going home with Matthew…

      Three girls—around my age, dressed sort of like me, prettier than me, with better jobs than me—stood in the lobby with clipboards. It seemed impossible that my name could be on their list. But it was. One of them took my coat and gave me a coat claim ticket.

      The door was open, and everything I could see inside the apartment shone—like gold, like glass, like perfect skin and hair and teeth. There were windows everywhere, and the starry lights of the city glittered in the dark sky. I hesitated in the doorway. Just walking into that room seemed like the hardest thing I would ever have to do.

      The rooms were vast, the walls covered with brocade silk and gilt and mirrors. It looked more like the reception room of a French king’s palace than the living room of a former movie star and fashion model. I tried not to think about my apartment, how small it was, how dark. It hurt to picture what this place looked and felt like in the mornings when Val and Heidi Morton could hold their coffee cups and drift—slowly, leisurely—from room to sunny room.

      Melinda was right; not counting the girls with the clipboards, I was the youngest woman at the party by ten or fifteen years. Many of the women were beautiful, and they looked as if they spent every spare minute and dollar on that beauty. But I had the skin, the bounce, and underneath my little black dress, pretty perfect breasts. No spending required. The men looked at me, even the ones trying not to look, even the gay ones. I felt as if I was struggling to keep my head above water, fighting for sheer survival with whatever weapons I had. The bloom of youth, good skin, good tits, whatever.

      A strange man who excited and frightened me had arranged to meet me in this frightening and exciting place. And I had agreed.

      There were mirrors everywhere, and they multiplied everything endless times. It was dizzying, disorienting. Even so, I saw Matthew clearly, from across the room. I fought off the weak-kneed feeling, followed by the adrenalin rush.

      Matthew was leaning against a green and gold wall, sipping a glass of wine. He looked at me over the top of the glass and smiled his radiant smile. By the time I’d crossed the room, he—as if by magic—had gotten another glass of white wine, which he gave me. He kissed me lightly on the cheek. He smelled of that sandalwood and vetiver cologne he wore the first time I met him. Expensive. Delicious.

      I could feel people watching us. It didn’t seem to matter that I was the poorest, least famous, least powerful person in the room. I didn’t know where Matthew ranked, in that group, in terms of power and money. But we had something they didn’t have. The aura of sex, the promise of sex. Even the oldest and most important guests sensed it.

      Matthew cupped my elbow and leaned in close to my ear. ‘I’m glad you came, Isabel.’

      Nothing seemed real. Not Matthew, not the wine, not the party, not the other guests trying not to watch us. I’d spent so much time imagining this. How could it be coming true?

      I leaned back into him, ‘Who are these people? I recognize some of them, I mean from the news and magazines, but…’

      ‘I thought you knew. I assumed you would Google the foundation and figure out the rest. I work for Val Morton. This is a fundraiser for the Foundation. This is where Val and Heidi live.’

      I couldn’t stop myself from saying, ‘The letter I sent you came back.’

      ‘What letter?’

      ‘A letter I sent to the place in Brooklyn Heights. Where we had drinks on the terrace. Let’s watch the sunset. The mattress … your apartment. Remember?’

      ‘Right. Well, you’re not the only one who can pretend to be somebody else for a minute or two. Truth is, that was Val’s apartment. Part of my job was to keep that fact out of the papers. Because when there was all that trouble, the PR was that he wasn’t building it for himself—but I assumed you would figure that out. That’s hilarious, really.’

      ‘I just assumed it was yours…’ I was trying to remember if he’d actually said anything to suggest that it was his apartment.

      ‘What made you think that?’

      ‘Didn’t you say that you were moving and didn’t want to take your old mattress with you?’ I was getting my stories mixed up—when was Matthew playing The Customer and when was Matthew just being the real Matthew?

      ‘I was,’ he said. ‘And I didn’t. But that wasn’t the same mattress. I bought that one for Val and Heidi. That was their apartment. Did I not make that clear?’

      Something still didn’t add up. He must have gotten my card with the picture of the melon if he’d sent me back a card with a picture of the world. And yet he was refusing to answer, or choosing to ignore, my question about it. Was he just messing with my head? I didn’t want to think that was true, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t like the slippage, the questions that suddenly rose in my mind about what was real and what wasn’t, what was true and what was a lie. For a moment everything seemed like a mind game in a thriller … and then I calmed down. After that it just seemed quirky and interesting. Funny.

      No wonder he didn’t want to have sex on someone else’s mattress.

      ‘It’s crazy how two people can have a complete misunderstanding. Isn’t it, Isabel?’

      I loved how he said my name. I hadn’t misunderstood what had happened on the mattress at the store, nor the feeling of his hand on my back beneath my T-shirt as we’d looked at someone else’s bed in someone else’s apartment.

      ‘Let me introduce you,’ he said, and steered me over to Val Morton, who was surrounded by a group of older men with good haircuts and much younger wives.

      For some reason they shifted to make room for Matthew and me.

      ‘Val Morton,’ said Matthew, ‘I’d like you to meet my friend, Isabel Archer.’

      Val Morton smiled his famous smile and looked me up and down.

      ‘Beautiful name,’ he said.’ Is that your real name? Wait a second. Don’t tell me. Portrait of a Lady. Early Nicole Kidman. Malkovich was amazing.’

      ‘My mom’s a big Henry James fan,’ I said.

      ‘See?’ he said. ‘Didn’t I call it? Let’s give me some credit.’

      His friends made admiring gestures and noises.

      ‘You’re sure it’s not a stage name?’ he said. ‘You’re an actress, right?’

      Failed actress, I thought. Shit. Was it that obvious?

      ‘I can always tell. I spent the best years of my life in the industry. There’s something about how you hold yourself, how you study the world, I can watch you figuring out what other people are feeling. Figuring out what you can steal. Or should I say borrow?’

      ‘That’s my real name. And thank you,’ I said.

      ‘She’s perfect,’ Val Morton told Matthew.

      Then СКАЧАТЬ