Page 8 of The Bridesmaid
‘I grew up here,’ I tell the driver, as we pass by the upscale condominiums and trendy boutiques, ‘before it got fancy.’
The driver gives a good-natured guffaw. ‘Lot less safe back then too.’
‘Cops everywhere,’ I agree. ‘I used to hang around crime scenes trying to spot things they’d missed.’
‘Bet they loved that. How do you know Mark Li?’
I hesitate. ‘I used to work for Simone Walters. The forensic attorney. She has a reality law show on TV.’
Through the glass I see his head bob up and down. ‘Wrongly Accused? I love that show! Solve the puzzle, right?’
I smile. ‘Right. Simone sees life as one big treasure hunt, with a murder at the end. You know she was raised in a trailer park? She won a scholarship to Kensington Manor Boarding School. Lost her Kentucky accent. Learned how to act like one of America’s wealthy elite.’ I sigh. ‘She was always trying to teach me how to do the same, but it never stuck.’
Unease ripples through me. Simone is bound to be at the crime scene already. Meeting my former boss is going to be awkward to say the least.
We’ve left the huddled streets of the Lower East for the wider roads and skyscrapers of Mid-Town, its metro stations disgorgingteeming clumps of people into the morning sun. The flow thins as we break into the tree-lined grandeur of the upper east, stately townhouses smiling benevolently on the sidewalks of boutiques and glittering glass restaurants. The river of arterial traffic on Madison runs yellow and black with cabs and chauffeured cars.
Ahead, rising majestically from the manicured sidewalk, is the timeless elegance of the New York Plaza. Stretching up into the clouds like a fairtytale castle. It has an iconic vista all of its own, turreted with a regal facade, a thousand rectangular windows detailed in intricate stone carving, and deep blue awnings at street level.
‘You know the Plaza was built on a murder scene?’ I tell the driver, trying to quell the unease I always feel entering grand places with well-dressed people.
A pause. ‘For a pretty girl, you sure talk a lot about death,’ observes the driver, slowing the car.
‘Occupational hazard,’ I admit. As he pulls to a stop, I see a broad-shouldered man standing by one of the white Grecian pillars that frame the carpeted steps and gold balustrade leading to the Plaza’s iconic Art Deco glass doors. I recognize him immediately. Mark’s mix of Chinese and European heritage is distinctive. The brown hair, light eyes and angular cheekbones are model-handsome. To my relief, Simone isn’t waiting with him. She must be inside.
‘No tip, ma’am,’ the driver says, as I rummage in my purse for bills. ‘It’s all taken care of by Mr Li.’
Second time in one day.The familiar feeling of having breached some unseen formal protocol descends.
‘Well. Thanks for the ride,’ I say, sliding out of the car, without waiting for him to open the door.
Fancy buildings always put me on edge, and nerves are getting the better of me. Whatever Mark Li called me in to do, I may as well get it over with.
Chapter Six
HOLLY
With the Plaza behind him, Mark Li could be a poster-boy for New York city. Immaculate in his designer suit and polished leather shoes, sporting the kind of shave and haircut that likely cost more than my entire outfit. He is holding a briefcase – an actual real-life, shiny leather briefcase – which he places on the ground when he sees me.
As I walk across the broad sidewalk to the hotel, the humid New York summer morning is working to stick my blue hair to my neck. The polyester black lace sections of my skull pattern dress feel like they’re generating their own heat. Glancing at Mark’s delicate handmade brogues, I’m aware of my heavy-soled shoes, clomping across the floor.
‘Ms Stone!’ Mark steps forward, enclosing my hand in both of his, and shaking in a way that should be warm, but feels strangely detached. ‘Thank you for coming. I apologize for the strange circumstances,’ he adds, not sounding sorry at all, and giving me a slightly loaded once-over. I’m guessing he’s not used to doing business with women larger than a size six.
‘You’re telling me it’s strange.’ I look up at the hotel, its American flags hanging above us. ‘Those pictures you sent—’
Mark nods. ‘It gets stranger,’ he says, lifting his briefcase.
‘The 1980s called,’ I joke, to disguise my nerves, ‘They want their luggage back.’
He blinks twice, in confusion, then continues walking as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘What’s with the briefcase?’ I add, to hide my discomfort of the joke not landing. ‘Don’t billionaires use man-bags nowadays?’
He frowns slightly. ‘I’m a millionaire, not a billionaire,’ he says, as if the distinction would mean anything to a girl who survives on cup-noodles in a shared Queens walk-up. ‘And I always carry a briefcase. Since I was a boy.’ He clears his throat. ‘Before we go inside, I wanted to bring you up to point. What do you know about my future wife?’ As he talks, he flicks open the catches of his little case.
I hesitate. Questions like this always catch me out. It feels like a test of protocol I’m bound to fail.
‘Adrianna is … famous?’ I watch his face. ‘Really famous?’ I try. ‘She is the billionaire heiress to an international nightclub empire. And … um. She’s kind of known for being … you know, sort of difficult? Strong-minded,’ I amend, hastily.
