‘It must be the day for funerals. Today’s Jobe Devereux’s—’ Her voice halted when she felt the heat sear in Aubrey’s cheeks. ‘That’s where you’re headed?’
Jobe was New York City royalty and so, when Aubrey nodded, the make-up assistant knew exactly what her customer was up against. ‘Let’s get to work, then,’ she said. ‘I’m Vanda, by the way.’
‘Aubrey.’
Vanda plugged in some flat irons and smoothed out Aubrey’s wavy blonde hair before taking a very close look at her face. ‘You have the most incredible bone structure.’
‘You should have seen my mother’s,’ Aubrey said. ‘She had the most amazing cheekbones.’
‘Had?’
Aubrey didn’t answer. Her mom insisted that her injuries were kept quiet, and even far from Vegas still she didn’t reveal how her mother’s looks had been ravaged in a fire.
‘So...’ Vanda asked another question as she worked. ‘If you wear stage make-up, what do you do?’
‘All sorts,’ Aubrey admitted. ‘I dance in some shows and do a bit of trapeze...’
‘Get out!’
‘Nothing too glamorous,’ Aubrey was honest. ‘Anything and everything really...’
Anything and everything to avoid going into the oldest profession in the world.
It beckoned to Aubrey, of course it did. When the rent was overdue, when the shifts at work dried up...when her mother, disfigured in a fire, needed her meds. But Aubrey had found other ways to make ends meet.
Jobe Devereux’s money hit her account each and every month.
And each and every month the very generous sum had been spent.
Aubrey had let him think that she was studying music and Jobe, estranged from her mother and a busy man, had never checked.
He’d trusted her, Aubrey guessed, yet instead of education the money had gone on surgery, doctors’ bills, medication, rehabilitation, more surgery...
More medication.
Even her mom thought that she was on the game. It was never said outright, of course, but it was Aubrey who took care of the bills and Stella never asked where the money came from.
Aubrey had had serious offers—and some rather glamorous ones too—but she’d declined them all. In truth, she mistrusted men. Her mother had been an escort, that was how Aubrey had come about. Her mom had, for a brief time, been a showgirl, but when parts in the big Vegas shows had got fewer her mom had done what she’d had to to make ends meet.
Until Jobe had come into her mom’s life there had been a parade of men through their home, and it had left Aubrey both cynical and scared of sex. Despite the skimpy outfits and provocative moves, she had never been so much as kissed, let alone anything else.
‘Don’t let history repeat itself,’ Jobe had told her.
The simple fact was, Aubrey was too terrified to, even if needs were starting to must—especially now that Jobe was dead and the money would stop.
Still, despite her reluctance, there was an awful feeling of inevitability to it.
That thought had Aubrey’s eyes suddenly screw tightly closed, which wasn’t ideal when eyeliner was being applied. ‘One moment,’ she said, and took a deep breath, doing what she could to pull herself together.
‘It’s okay,’ Vanda said. ‘We’re just about done here, just your lips left to do...’
Aubrey opened her eyes to find that there was quite a crowd now gathered around the counter, all watching the transformation take place.
And it really was a transformation.
Vanda held up a mirror and Aubrey’s eyes widened when she saw herself. ‘I look...’ She swallowed.
‘You look amazing.’ Vanda smiled.
‘No.’ Aubrey was struggling to find the right word. The make-up was subtle and neutral and her eyes looked so big and blue. Her blush beige lips looked soft and pretty, and so unlike how they did with the deep crimson she was more used to. ‘Sophisticated.’
‘You’re going to blend right in,’ Vanda said, and then glanced down at Aubrey’s rather cheap dress, but decided there was nothing that she could do about that. ‘I’ll give you a sample size of the lipstick so you can top up before the service.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Have you seen how many customers I now have?’ Vanda said. ‘I really hope today goes as well as it can for you.’
So did Aubrey.
She might appear streetwise, but she was terrified.
* * *
Crowds were gathered and the security was tight, with the street cordoned off, but it did not deter Aubrey. She walked towards the barrier and spoke to a uniformed security guard. ‘My driver took me to the wrong drop-off,’ she attempted, but was immediately cut off with a question.
‘Name?’
‘Aubrey,’ she mumbled. ‘Aubrey Johnson.’
‘Wait there.’
There was no chance of getting in, Aubrey knew that. She certainly wouldn’t be on the guest list. Still, she was used to slipping into concerts and things and had hoped to find a chink in security’s armour, a group to tag onto, or even a less-than-vigilant security guard.
No such luck.
He was talking into his mouthpiece and, knowing that she wouldn’t be on the private guest list, Aubrey’s eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a vantage point that might give her at least a view of the casket. She wanted to say goodbye, she really did, not just on behalf of her mother but for herself.
‘This way, Miss Johnson.’
She turned around at the sound of her name and blinked in surprise as the black velvet rope was pulled back and she realised that she’d been allowed through.
It was a mistake.
Of that she was certain.
Johnson was a common surname after all, but Aubrey took good news when it came.
‘Follow that group,’ the security guard told her.
Aubrey did so, climbing the stone stairs and then standing in line to sign the book of condolences before heading in. She kept her head down, worried that security might realise their mistake, because she was rather certain that she shouldn’t have been allowed in.
And that was how Khalid first saw her.
Alerted that one of the mystery women was here and about to sign the book of condolences, Khalid scanned the line.
His eyes drifted past her twice, but then a gentleman stepped back and he saw her.
From the way she had been painted, from the photos he had seen, Khalid had rather expected a less demure figure.
She was tiny.
A mere wisp.
Her blonde head was bowed down and around her slender shoulders there was a lace shawl that she clutched with one hand.
Khalid made his way over to the line-up. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the people who stood behind her, and promptly stepped in. They didn’t argue, and not just because it was a funeral. Despite the fact he was today clean-shaven and wearing a black suit, there was still a commanding air to Khalid that had people instinctively defer to him.
In his country they would, of course, have knelt.
Aubrey was far too worked up to notice the movement in the queue behind