Page 2 of One Wrong Move

She’s still sitting alone. Unlike most people, she hasn’t pulled out her phone to pass the time, to avoid even a second of boredom. She’s looking around like she’s analyzing the environment she’s in. An observer rather than a participant.

Dean follows my gaze. “What… oh,” he says. Then he smiles. “She’s cute, isn’t she?”

I pick my gin and tonic back up. “She’s a college student.”

“So? Even old dogs, and all that.” He bumps my shoulder with his again and then he walks off. Meandering through the crowd. My buddy, Dean, who can be blunt but also charming. Who is good-looking, sporting a short buzz cut, and who has a passion for sailing and real estate. Heading straight toward the table where she’s sitting—radiant and alone—gripping an untouched bottle of beer.

And she looks up at him… and smiles.

So, even though I saw her first, he was the one who spoke to her first.

And that made all the difference.

Harper, four years later

The gallery is large, white, and entirely impersonal, excluding the bright-colored art pieces lining the walls. Standing next to my new coworker, Aadhya, I feel incredibly out of place. Not only is she tall, she’s fabulous, too. And British, dressed in a sleek outfit that’s nothing like my own red maxi dress. She’s gorgeous and already knows the ropes around here. I find her incredibly intimidating.

She walks me through the client roster. The codes that open the different offices. The protocol for event organizing.

Her overview is at a breakneck pace, and I try my best to follow along.

“Now you try,” she says, stepping to the side and gesturing at the computer. Aadhya watches me for a few seconds as I try to replicate her steps. “So, you really just got here a week ago?”

“Yes,” I say.

“From New York?”

“Yeah. I love the City, but needed a change of pace,” I say. It’s an understatement. I needed an escape, and London and this gallery provided it. I applied to this paid junior traineeship a few months ago, without telling anyone. And when the acceptance letter arrived in my email inbox a few weeks ago…

I’d seen a way out. A chance at a new existence. I’d jumped at it and left everything behind.

“New York, though,” Aadhya says. Her tone is contemplative. “I can’t imagine ever leaving that city. I was born and raised in London, and this city is never getting rid of me.”

“This gallery was just calling my name,” I say. “So how does this system work? With the access codes?”

She comes to stand beside me and shows me what to do with brisk competence. For my first day, it’s thankfully pretty slow, with only a few clients scheduled for appointments to browse the art. I know my tasks. Shadow Aadhya all day and make sure the clients are happy, satisfied, and have a glass of champagne in hand if they want it.

Around us hangs art worth millions of pounds. Excitement is a steady beat inside of me, all day long. To get to work with this. To get to see it every day.

A few men are standing on the other side of the gallery. I recognize one immediately. Eitan White. The owner and executive head of the Sterling Gallery. He’s a short man with thick, curly black hair, and the most intimidating gaze I’ve ever encountered.

His voice is warm as he speaks to a tall man in a suit.

I look back to Aadhya. “A potential customer? Already?” I whisper.

She nods and flips a page of the art collection catalog. She’s looking for one of the abstracts. “Yes, he was here bang on time as the gallery opened. He’s an existing client. Always gets the royal treatment and personal tours from Eitan.”

I glance over at the pair again. There’s something familiar… A deep, unsettling feeling washes over me when the man turns, and I catch sight of his profile.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

I had known he was in London. Of course I knew, but I didn’t think I would bump into him. Hadn’t really thought about it at all. Not since I packed a bag and booked a flight.

But it’s true that he’s always been interested in contemporary art. Had frequently asked me about existing and up-and-coming artists every time he’s gone to dinner with Dean and me. It had been one of the few things we had in common. I loved telling him about the artists I thought had a bright future, and he seemed like he enjoyed listening to me go on about it.

“Harper?” Aadhya asks. She’s chewing gum, and her long, black ponytail gleams under the soft glow of recessed lighting. She’s beautiful. Brown skin, expertly applied makeup, and a fantastic accent. “You are staring a bit, you know.”

---