A Midnight Kiss to Seal the Deal

by Sophie Pembroke

  CHAPTER THREE

  Have you watched this yet? Call me when you have.

  THE INNOCUOUS EMAIL had come through from her agent, Richard, that morning, but Celeste had been buried deep in the research for her next chapter, so had put it off until she was ready for her scheduled mid-morning break. Now, as the final credits on the Christmas Cracker Cranium Quiz rolled, she smiled to herself.

  That hadn’t actually been nearly as bad as she’d expected. She’d avoided watching the show when it had aired the night before, partly because she was nervous about how it would turn out, and partly because she’d been having dinner with her parents and some of their department colleagues, and there was no television in the Hunter family home.

  She clearly had a friend in the editing suite. Celeste remembered the actual filming as being more confrontational on her side—the way she always got when she was nervous or feeling intimidated. But in the final cut, Theo came across as far more superior, more patronising, than in real life.

  Which, she supposed, wasn’t entirely inaccurate, as he hadn’t given her any points for all the questions she’d answered far more correctly than his bloody answer cards had.

  Finishing the last gulp of her cup of tea, Celeste turned to her other breaktime indulgence—checking her social media accounts. While she didn’t tend to post much, she kept up with the world outside her office through them—they were sort of her guilty pleasure. She mostly followed other historians, archaeologists, researchers and writers—as well as a few university and academic accounts, plus the odd political or news website or reporter. She’d actually had to turn off the notifications on her phone and computer, to stop herself getting distracted when she was working. And she never let herself check them first thing in the morning. That was a slippery slope she didn’t want to fall down.

  Which was why she had no idea she’d become an overnight Internet sensation until she checked her phone.

  She blinked at the number of notifications showing, and tapped through to them, scrolling slowly as she took in the words.

  Celeste Hunter doesn’t need Theo-bloody-Montgomery mansplaining history to her.

  There were screenshots, too. Oh, God, she’d become a meme.

  Celeste: I have a PhD in this.

  Theo: I have an answer card written by an inadequate researcher. So I must be right!

  Celeste: I’m an actual professor of history.

  Theo: Yeah, but I have generations of white male privilege on my side. Who do you think they’re going to listen to?

  There were more. So many more.

  Then she remembered the second part of her agent’s email. Call me.

  ‘So are we thinking the show went well?’ she asked, weakly, when Richard picked up.

  ‘For us? Very well.’ She could practically hear his grin down the phone line. ‘For Theo Montgomery, not so much. Not that that’s our problem.’

  ‘I feel kind of bad about that,’ Celeste admitted. ‘The way the show was edited... I mean, yes, I was right. But he wasn’t actually so patronising about it in person.’

  ‘Nobody cares what really happened, Celeste. You know that.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She’d learned, a little, over the past year. After the first radio slot she’d done, as a favour for a friend who’d had to drop out at the last minute, it seemed as if she’d got her name on some sort of list. Suddenly she was every producer’s pet historian, trotted out to offer an historical perspective on current events, on school history exams, on latest discoveries and research. No matter that her official area of expertise was ancient history, she’d become a knowledgeable semi-pro on the whole span of human existence. At least it was the one thing her childhood had prepared her for.

  And it had led to the talks about her own TV show, looking at women through history—starting with Ancient Greece.

  She supposed something like this could only be good publicity, and production companies definitely loved good publicity. No wonder Richard was sounding so thrilled.

  ‘So, we need to capitalise on this,’ he went on. ‘We need to show that production company that your series is a sure bet. We could have it commissioned by January! Get you on display a bit more, now you’ve stepped out from behind the radio mic and people know what you look like.’

  Celeste pulled a face at that last bit, glad that Richard couldn’t see it. On display wasn’t exactly her favourite place to be, she’d learned. Especially when it wasn’t on her terms.

  ‘What’s your calendar like between now and the new year?’ Richard asked.

  She looked at the stack of research materials, liberally spotted with sticky notes, that were supposed to form the basis of her book. Not even the popular history book she was supposed to be writing to support the case for the TV show, but the other one. The proper, serious, academic text that would cement her career at the university—the one her parents would approve of.

  The one that was going nowhere at all.

  ‘I have some time,’ she told Richard. ‘Term ended yesterday, so I don’t have any more lectures or seminars to give until January.’

  ‘Great! I’ll see if I can get some appearances set up for you, then. Keep in touch!’

  And he was gone. Celeste sighed, and put down her phone—until she noticed the new message notification, the one notification she allowed herself, since hardly anyone ever messaged her, was flashing.

  Fancy lunch? My treat. Seems like I owe you. Theo Montgomery.

  * * *

  Cerys had been right. He hated this idea.

  He especially hated the part where he was sitting in a restaurant, alone, with people staring at him, whispering behind his back. He didn’t need to be able to make out the individual words to guess what they were saying. Exactly the same things as everyone on social media—and the morning TV shows, apparently—had been saying since the Christmas Cracker Cranium Quiz aired. Plus, all the older gossip about Tania and the break-up, probably, just for good measure.

  He’d watched the show. He’d read the comments. He’d watched the show again.

  Then Cerys had called back, given him Celeste’s phone number, and told him exactly what he needed to do.

  ‘Make it right, Theo. And quickly.’

  He hadn’t honestly been sure that Celeste would respond when he texted her. He should have called, probably—Cerys had told him to—but Theo remembered what had happened last time he’d interrupted Celeste, in the green room, and decided that it might go better if he allowed her to respond in her own time, rather than ambushing her with a phone call.

  Perhaps it was the right move, because she had texted back. And she’d agreed to meet him, here, in a neutral restaurant, ten minutes ago. He checked his watch; no, fifteen now.

  Celeste didn’t seem like a habitually late person to Theo, but, apparently, he was wrong. That happened a lot. Just ask his parents. They still hadn’t forgiven him for ‘losing’ Tania—a rich, beautiful, famous prospective daughter-in-law they would have embraced willingly, despite her ‘unfortunate start’ on reality TV. His parents always claimed to have incredibly high standards for their social circle, but as far as Theo could tell they mostly all came down to ‘money’ and ‘fame’.

  God, what if this debacle lost him both of those? Infamy, he knew, was not the same thing.

  Maybe his father would take some comfort in the fact that he’d been right all along, and Theo really would never amount to anything worthwhile. If Celeste didn’t show up for this lunch, it might be the best he was going to get.

  Finally, after another five minutes, the restaurant door flew open and Celeste Hunter strode in, wrapped in an elegant white wool coat, black boots clicking on the tiled floor as she crossed towards him. Her dark hair was twisted up on the back of her head, her lips painted a bright Christmas red, and she seemed completely unaware of the way every person in the restaurant tur
ned to look at her as she approached him.

  Theo was not unaware. He could hear the whispering, the ‘Isn’t that her?’ that hung in the air behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, stripping off her coat and hanging it on the back of one of the empty chairs. Underneath it, her black jumper matched her black jeans. Her lipstick, Theo realised, was the only colour about her. ‘There were all these...people waiting outside my office at the university. Apparently last night’s show was a bit of a thing.’

  A bit of a thing? Did she really just describe my career-crippling disaster as ‘a bit of a thing’?

  She had. Because, of course, that was all it was—to her. Her career was the university, her academic life. TV was merely a bit on the side.

  Whereas it was all he had.

  ‘Apparently so,’ he said drily, although she didn’t seem to pick up on the faint hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘In fact, some of the rumours online are starting to get a little outlandish. And nasty.’

  She had the good grace to wince at that, at least. ‘If only you’d just admitted I was right at the time, huh?’

  Theo honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Why was this woman so hard to read? He was good at people, usually—it was what had got him as far as he’d come. But this woman? He had no idea what was going on inside her head—or how she was going to react when he put Cerys’s plan to her.

  She might go along with it. Or she might verbally eviscerate him while pouring hot oil onto his chest on the restaurant table while the crowd cheered her on. It was hard to tell.

  He was just going to have to take his chances. But he could at least improve them by softening her up first.

  ‘Thank you for coming, despite everything.’ He flashed her his best ‘love me’ smile, and she looked a little taken aback. Fortunately, the waiter arrived at that moment with the wine he’d ordered, and poured them both a glass.

  God, he hoped she liked Viognier, or this would be off to a worse start than ever.

  He held his breath as she took a sip, then started to let it out when she smiled at the waiter, only to have it catch in his chest again.

  That smile, he thought, as he half choked on his own breath.

  She hadn’t smiled like that when they were recording the show. And she definitely hadn’t smiled at him like that ever—not even when he’d done nothing beyond politely introduce himself. Yet the waiter got that smile—all bone-deep pleasure and gratitude.

  He supposed it was reassuring to know that she could smile like that. It might make the next phase of Cerys’s plan easier.

  Theo took a sip of the wine to soothe his throat after the coughing fit Celeste had totally ignored. It was nice enough wine. But not worthy of that smile.

  ‘This is delicious, thank you,’ Celeste said to the waiter. ‘Did you suggest it?’

  The waiter—young, spotty and obviously impressionable—blushed. ‘Um, actually your, uh, companion chose it.’

  The smile disappeared as she turned back to Theo. ‘Oh, well. It’s still nice wine.’

  Theo decided to let that one pass while they ordered—Celeste asking the poor waiter what most people ordered, then going with that.

  ‘So.’ Celeste folded her hands on her lap, over the napkin the anxious waiter had placed there, and looked Theo dead in the eye. ‘I imagine you invited me here to apologise?’

  He had, of course. That was step one of Cerys’s master plan. But being asked to do so outright like that...it made him want to, well, not.

  Theo lifted an eyebrow. ‘You don’t think there’s any reason you should need to apologise to me?’

  That earned him a flash of a grin. Nothing like the smile she’d given the waiter for the wine, but still. Better than anything he’d managed from her so far.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, her tone heavy with sarcasm. ‘I’m so sorry that your mansplaining and patronising behaviour got you into trouble with your adoring fans.’

  Theo rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, I was actually there too, remember? I haven’t just watched the edited footage. I know what really happened.’

  She raised both eyebrows, and sat back in her chair. ‘Enlighten me, then.’

  He wanted to. He wanted to fight his corner, wanted to stand up for what he felt had really happened. But he also wanted all the other people sitting in the restaurant to stop listening to their conversation.

  This was never going to work. Cerys hadn’t met Celeste, or she’d never have imagined for a moment that it could work.

  But what other option did he have?

  Theo took a deep breath, and started again.

  ‘You’re right. I did ask you here to apologise. Let’s start over, shall we?’

  One step at a time, that was all he had to focus on. If this went well, he might not need all the other steps of Cerys’s absurd plan.

  He just had to keep the conversation civil for one lunch.

  How hard could that be?

  * * *

  Why on earth had she agreed to this lunch? Curiosity, Celeste supposed. The curse of the academic. She just couldn’t help but want to know what happened next, and why.

  Plus Richard had been pretty insistent, when she’d called him back to ask what to do. Apparently, being seen with Theo Montgomery again, even if she wasn’t sure why he wanted to see her at all, was a Good Thing, publicity-wise.

  ‘Keep them talking,’ as Richard put it. ‘Doesn’t matter what they’re saying, as long as they’re talking about you.’

  But Celeste was pretty sure Theo did care what people were saying. Was it just that he was so used to being the Nice Guy he couldn’t handle people thinking otherwise? Or was he concerned about the effect on his career?

  Or—and this seemed the least likely—was he genuinely sorry about how things had gone down at the filming?

  That last went out of the window as he asked if perhaps she should be apologising to him, of all things. But then he pulled himself together and she saw something she hadn’t expected to see from Theo Montgomery.

  Authenticity.

  He immediately hid it again, behind that charming smile and smooth words, suggesting they start over. But for a second there, Celeste almost believed she saw the real human behind the TV persona.

  And he looked just as baffled and annoyed about this lunch as she was.

  Interesting.

  She’d pegged him as a faker straight off—she’d had enough students who tried to pretend they’d done the work to know how to spot a faker at a hundred paces. Besides, wasn’t that the whole point of TV? To show a faked-up version of reality? Even her own appearance on the quiz show hadn’t been authentic—she’d never be caught dead in a Christmas jumper outside that studio.

  Some people, she knew, had been faking so long they’d forgotten how to be real. She’d assumed Theo would be one of them.

  Apparently, there was still some hope for him after all.

  ‘I’m sorry that the research on our show wasn’t up to your own standards,’ Theo said, which she noticed wasn’t actually a real apology on his own behalf. ‘I could tell that you’d prepared well for the show, and to a level that our researchers clearly weren’t expecting.’ A flash of that charming smile. ‘And I’m sorry that I couldn’t accept your—obviously correct—answers. I hope you didn’t feel that I was mansplaining to you. On the contrary, I had the producer in my ear telling me to read out the official answer—but I was far more interested in the answers you were giving.’

  Did she believe him? Celeste wasn’t sure. But then he went on, ‘Is it really true that Prince Albert wasn’t responsible for bringing Christmas trees to Britain?’

  So, he’d been paying attention. Or he’d just watched the show again in preparation for this lunch.

  ‘Are you questioning me now?’

  He held up his
hands in surrender. ‘I swear to you I’m not. Is it so hard to believe that I might be interested in the answer?’

  Yes. Not just because he hadn’t been the other night—she could understand that, under the constraints of filming and with his producer talking in his ear, hurrying him along, he might not have had the time or mental space to care about the real answer then. But in her experience, even when she stripped away those problems, most people weren’t all that interested in the real answers anyway.

  The simple, familiar stories were more interesting. Prince Albert had brought the Christmas tree. Thomas Crapper invented the toilet—except he didn’t. Santa Claus was designed by a popular drinks company in the thirties—also not true.

  People didn’t want the complicated, multi-layered truth—the same way that people didn’t want to bother with her, and her difficult to understand nature. They wanted the straightforward historical anecdotes that made sense and that people nodded along with—exactly how they wanted Theo Montgomery and his bland smiles, rather than her, on their TVs every night.

  Except...the people who’d posted on social media about the show had been interested in her answers. They were cross that Theo had cut her off before she’d fully explained them.

  They hadn’t said she was boring, unlike most other people outside her family. They’d been interested. In her. And maybe it was because it was Christmas, and lots of people were interested in Christmas, right? But if she could get them interested in that—if she could get Theo freaking Montgomery interested in that—maybe she could get people interested in the lives of women in the ancient world, too. Maybe she really could pull off her own show.

  It had to be worth a try, right?

  ‘Queen Charlotte, the wife of George III, put up the first one in 1800,’ she said, watching to see if his eyes glazed over. They didn’t. ‘Where she grew up, in the duchy of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Germany, the tradition was to decorate a single yew branch. She brought the tradition over with her in 1761, and the whole palace started getting involved in it. Then in 1800 she was planning a children’s party at Windsor and decided to pot up a whole yew tree and decorate it with sweets and baubles and load it with presents. The kids were enchanted, of course, and Christmas trees became all the rage in English high society.’