‘And now I give you Mr Bardales.’
Bardales... No, surely it was the Cavendish Prize that was being given by the benefactor that the new science block was named after? Bardales was a very different name with very different connotations for Gwen.
On the surface nothing changed. Outside she was a serene swan, with only the fluttering of the long curling lashes that framed her sapphire-blue eyes and the faintest quiver of the fine muscles beneath the skin around her wide mouth betraying that under the surface she was frantically duck paddling to stay afloat, a heartbeat away from...who knew? Total panic? She’d never gone there and she never intended to—it was all a matter of control.
Breathe, Gwen, she told herself. The breath left her parted lips in a slow, uneven, near-silent hiss as, like someone who had jumped in the deep end of the pool by accident, she kicked for the surface, leaving panic behind.
She brushed her forearms hard with her hands, rubbing the rash of goosebumps that had broken out over her skin. She despised her stupid overreaction, the first in a while. It had to have been a couple of months ago the last time she had experienced the dry-throated, heart-racing sensation of stepping off a cliff in the pit of her stomach. On that occasion it had been triggered when she’d seen a dark head standing out from the crowd in the middle of the busy shopping centre, but a moment later she had realised there was no definitive arrogant angle to his jaw, no big-cat fluidity to his stride. The sensation hadn’t lasted longer than a moment before her common sense reasserted itself and was followed by the sigh of relief that left her feeling foolish and annoyed with herself for allowing her overactive imagination to take control, even for a second.
The annoyance with herself was already kicking in hard as she tipped her head back to see the cause of her flashback. She had to tip it back some more as the guest was tall, the cut of his dark suit not disguising the power of his lean muscle-packed frame.
No, it hadn’t been a flashback; this was a flashback! And pulling free of it was not an option. Nearly three years suddenly slipped away and she was back in New York.
The bar was as cool and sophisticated as its clientele and Gwen, sitting perched on a tall stool, fitted right in; she was cool, she was sleek and she belonged...or at least she looked as though she did and that was what counted, she’d discovered. She imagined there would be a time when it didn’t feel as though she were playing a part. It would come; she’d only been in New York three months and she knew it couldn’t happen overnight. She focused instead on the positives, the most positive aspect being that her five-year plan was already off to a flying start.
The first month at work she’d been finding her feet, so anxious to make a good impression that she had been unable to hide it. She did what she’d done all through university, when she had known that if her plan was to succeed she needed a good degree—some people could party and still get good results, but Gwen knew she couldn’t do that; she had to focus solely on work. So she kept her head down, sacrificing a social life to achieve what she needed. It had taken her a few weeks before she’d realised that the same method was not going to work here. Simply putting in extra hours at the office was not enough; you needed to network outside office hours too.
The first time she had accepted an invite she had stood out like a sore thumb in her office gear, but now she’d become something of an expert at making a seamless transition from day to evening and had it down to an impressive five minutes in the ladies’ room to make the necessary adjustments.
Like anything in life, it was about organisation: first make-up refreshed, lips highlighted for the evening by a bold red lipstick, then her hair, released from the sleek ponytail secured at the nape of her neck; one quick shake and it fell in glossy waves down her narrow back. All achieved while she was exchanging the discreet studs in her ears for a pair of art deco jet chandelier drops.
The tailored jacket that had seen her through the day’s meetings was removed and the stark simplicity of the little black dress it had covered was jazzed up with an oversized art deco pendant tonight. The jacket, neatly folded, was inside her capacious designer bag along with the moderate heels she had swapped for a pair of spiky ankle boots; that part took two minutes, tops.
It was amazing what you could do when you were organised and Gwen was incredibly focused. That was how she had made it this far. She didn’t allow herself to be distracted; she knew what she wanted and then figured out the quickest way to achieve her goal. People had quickly started to notice. She’d overheard a conversation in the ladies’ room once, and she had wondered, curiously, who this ruthless person was that they were discussing.
Then she’d found out it was her.
‘You’re just jealous, Trish, that Gwen has got the face and body to sleep her way to the top,’ had been one of the cruel comments she’d overheard.
Crossing one slim, shapely ankle over the other, she turned her head and laughed because everyone else was. The anger she had felt that day in the Ladies was spent now, but the memory still had the power
