Today was different. Today, I’d reserved a spot in one of the public study rooms at the British Museum and I was attempting to get back to work. It was going . . . not great, but that was at least partly because the reference librarian hadn’t had all the materials I’d requested in my application when I arrived. I had to explain that I’d been given special dispensation by Dr. Chesterton to view the books, which brought up all kinds of memories that made me blush and stammer.
The librarian had given me what she did have and told me the rest would be brought over when they were pulled from the stacks. So I’d settled at my spot and propped the first book up against the large easel that stretched the length of the narrow table.
The reading light illuminated the pages as I turned them, but I wish I could say I noted their contents with fascination. Distracted and depressed, I lectured myself silently about taking up a coveted study room seat and not making the most of it, and vowed to focus.
I had finally managed to get involved in comparing the recipes for fertility tonics in The Compleat Housewife and The Experienced English Housekeeper when someone appeared at my elbow. The blue carpet had muffled the sound of footsteps walking toward me, and I was startled to see Dr. Chesterton herself standing beside me.
She was as stunning as ever, a flowy, ivory silk shell showing off her beautifully toned brown arms and making me wish I’d put in a little more effort than black stretchy ponté pants and a gray cowl-neck sweater.
Reminding myself that what I looked like literally could not matter less in this moment, I summoned up a smile that barely wobbled at all. Go me. “Hello, Dr. Chesterton. How are you?”
“Georgiana,” she reminded me gently as she laid several heavy tomes on the table beside my laptop. “Here are the rest of your research materials.”
“Wow, thank you.” A flush heated the back of my neck. “You must have better things to do than hand-deliver books to writers.”
She turned her slim wrist up to check her delicate gold watch. “As a matter of fact, I’ve a board meeting in about five minutes, but I wanted to drop by and take the opportunity to make certain you know your invitation to the Common Harvest Gala is still very much on the table.”
“Oh!” Nonplussed, I tapped a nervous finger on the stack of books. “That’s, ah, very kind of you.”
“Not at all.” She smiled, a flash of brilliantly white teeth. “I should have mentioned when last we met, I very much enjoy your books. The Secret Life of Cotton is a particular favorite; extremely interesting and entertaining. I’m honored that you’re using our library here, and I would be pleased to see you at the gala. But of course, you are not obligated to attend.”
There was a delicate pause while I tried to figure out how to gracefully say that I’d rather eat a bag of raw dicks than go to a fancy fundraiser where I might come face to face with the man I sobbed my heart out over every night.
She shrugged and turned to leave. Over her shoulder, she tossed off, “Ian told me you wouldn’t be joining us, but men don’t always know what to do for the best, do they?” Then she was gone, trailing a cloud of expensive perfume in her wake.
Well, shit. I sighed to myself and began gathering up the books I’d borrowed. There was zero chance of getting anything productive done after that. I dropped them at the reference desk and let them know I hoped to check them out again soon. Then I headed out into the drizzly mist of another rainy London afternoon.
Rummaging in my bag for my phone to check the time, I frowned when I saw that I had five missed calls from my sister. I’d had my phone off, as per the study room rules, and I quickly thumbed in Sam’s number, heart thudding heavily against my ribs.
“Is everyone okay?” I demanded the instant my sister picked up.
“What? Yes, oh my God, check your email. I sent you a link to a Variety article.”
Confused, I said, “Okaaaaay . . .”
“Go read it,” Sam instructed, “then call me back.”
Samantha was the only person I’d told the whole story to, including how painful I’d found it to read all the gossip about my relationship with Ian. She knew I was trying to wean myself off Ian Hale headlines. So if she thought I needed to see this . . . what could it be?
The rain started pelting down harder, making me curse and scattering the groups of students and tourists who habitually used the front steps of the museum as a meetup spot. Pulse racing, I found a tea shop across Great Russell Street and ducked inside to shake the water from my hair.
There was a tiny table tucked into the front corner by the window, and I ordered a cup of Darjeeling and a cheese and pickle sandwich before snagging it. Finally settled, I hurriedly opened my email and clicked through to the link Sam had sent.
It was short, not even a real article—just a few paragraphs announcing the news that Immortal Wars actor Ian Hale had stepped into a key role in the independent film The Battle of Cable Street, and had also signed on as an executive producer.
I sat in that tea shop and cried. At least this time, there was joy mixed in with the pain.
Still sniffling, I called Samantha. “He did it,” I cried into the phone. “He really did it. I can’t believe it.”
“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” my older sister said. “As a gesture, it’s better than a dozen roses.”
My mouth went dry. “You think he’s sending me some kind of message?”
She snorted as though the answer was obvious, but I was already shaking my head and trying to squash the tiny tendril of hope. I had to remember the finality in Ian’s voice when he’d said goodbye. It was over. “No, no. If it had anything to do with me, why haven’t I heard from him?”
“Maybe he’s tired of being the only one putting himself out there.”
I rocked back in my seat, all the wind knocked out of me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Mallory.” I could vividly picture Samantha pulling her own hair out in exasperation based on the tone of her voice. “You are my baby sister, and I love you, but do you know why you dated Tony the Tool?”
My mouth dropped open, but nothing came out.
“Because he asked you,” Sam said, with emphasis. “And on some level, you didn’t think you could do any better.”
“I didn’t know he was a tool when he asked me out!”
“So defensive,” Sam tutted. “Maybe because you know I’m right. You stayed with him for over a year, Mal.”
“Look, I know I was stupid for not kicking Tony to the curb sooner.”
“Hey. You’re not stupid,” Samantha said firmly. “But you haven’t really put yourself out there since you asked that asshole to dance at prom.”
I sat bolt upright. “So I’m not stupid, I’m a coward?”
A white-mustached, bespectacled gentleman a few tables over cleared his throat and rustled his newspaper in my general direction. Taking the very British hint, I lowered my voice and turned my body slightly toward the rain-spattered window.
“That’s not fair, Sam. I write books and publish them! Every single time, I know I’m opening myself up to criticism and bad reviews and readers who just don’t like them. It’s hard and scary every time, but I do it.”
“Yes, you are brave in your professional life,” Sam agreed. “But what about your personal life?”
Slumping, I barely noticed when the waitress set down my tea and sandwich. The moment when eighteen-year-old Mallory screwed up all her courage and approached Michael Trombley for a dance, and he and his friends guffawed with laughter, blazed through me in an instant, leaving its familiar sickly smear of shame and sadness. “Look, we weren’t all born with perfect hair and faces and bodies and the confidence to match. Some of us actually know what rejection feels like, so we avoid it!”
“There it is.” She didn’t sound satisfied, only resigned. “The real reason you didn’t pick up your phone and call Ian the minute you saw that movie deal. You’re so scared of rejection, you won’t make a single move to
fight for what you want.”
I can’t be the only one responsible for your happiness. It’s too much. You need to fight for it too.
My mouth went dry. I took a sip of tea and the porcelain clattered against my teeth. Was Samantha right? All the way along, through every step with Ian, I had felt like I was taking a huge risk. Like I was putting myself out there, as Sam suggested. But was I? Looking back, Ian was the one who initiated every encounter. He did the asking out, he invited me back to his flat.
He made it clear, over and over, that he wanted me. That he wanted to be with me, in every way.
And what did I do? I lapped up all that intoxicating attention and swore I believed he meant it . . . then I told him he wasn’t fighting hard enough, and I left him.
“Take it from me,” Samantha said softly. “Nobody’s appearance is some kind of vaccine against insecurity.”
“You’re right,” I breathed, the enormity of my mistake crushing my chest. “I’m the worst.”
“You’re not the worst.” Samantha was as staunch in her defense as she had been brutal in her wake-up call. “You’re human. Humans make mistakes. They’re only unforgivable if you don’t do anything to make it right.”
How could I expect Ian to forgive me, when I could barely imagine forgiving myself? For the first time in a week I let myself look back on the night I’d left and remember not my own pain, but his. The expression on his face when I told him I had to go . . .
My heart jumped into my throat like it was trying to make a quick getaway. The temptation to get down and roll around in the guilt and regret was strong. But my eyes strayed to the clock over the fireplace on the wall opposite my table.
I didn’t have time. I had somewhere I needed to be.
“Sam, I need your help.”
“Anything,” was her instant reply. “Does this mean you’re going after your man?”
I threw money down on the table and snatched up my laptop case, determination firing every cell of my being. “If Ian can be brave, I can too.”
Chapter Twelve
Two hours later, back at the British Museum, being brave felt harder than it had seemed alone in my flat. I glanced at the banner by the door, elegant russet and gold lettering that proclaimed this the First Annual Common Harvest Gala. The whole evening appeared to be in support of an education initiative around sustainable farming, which was a great cause. Certainly worth the money I’d spent on this dress at the last minute.
Whoever had sponsored the fundraiser—the Pella Group, according to the banner—obviously had plenty of money, I mused as I gazed with awe at the transformation of the huge, circular Great Court.
It was a fancy event planner’s fever dream of the world’s swankiest fall festival. The glass-domed ceiling glittered under the fading sunset sky, limned in shades of red and orange from carefully placed lights. The Great Court was filled with gold-draped tables and a dance floor with a raised dais at one end for the live band. At intervals around the perimeter of the space, gorgeously moody black-and-white photographs of farms and farmers were perfectly lit for the perusal of the admiring guests. Autumnal garlands festooned the walls, and everywhere I looked there were centerpieces bursting with ripe pomegranates, golden tufts of wheat, ruffled dahlias and spiky tassels of Amaranthus.
The lady guests appeared to all have received some sort of memo about the color theme of the evening, because their gowns were an array of rich browns, crimsons, yellows, and metallics, with the occasional tasteful black thrown in.
I, however, had not gotten the memo.
Swallowing hard, I touched a hand to the smooth, silky fabric of my brilliant purple gown. The one that was more daring than anything I’d ever worn in my life before—something I wouldn’t have dreamed of even trying on before I met Ian.
I’d specifically chosen it for this event, anticipating a phalanx of photographers out front. I’d pictured myself boldly marching past them, my magnificence on full, confident display, and maybe throwing a smile and an upraised middle finger over my shoulder as I swept inside.
Now I reached down deep inside for that fuck-off energy I’d had when I looked in the mirror before I left the house. I could use some of that energy to get through this evening, even if it wouldn’t help with photographers. By the time I’d arrived, I’d missed whatever red carpet situation there had been.
I also appeared to have missed the speeches, since the dancing was in full swing.
That’s good, I told myself. That’s what you’re here for.
The internal pep talk didn’t do much to calm my nerves. I stopped touching my dress, suddenly sure I was leaving stains from my clammy palms on the delicate silk. Oh God, sweat stains. My armpits suddenly felt unbearably humid. The Reading Room, usually chilly enough to require a cardigan, felt more like a sauna tonight with all the wealthy, beautiful people circulating and chatting and drinking and laughing.
The room swirled in my vision slightly, the colored lights dancing behind my eyelids even when I closed my eyes to get my bearings for a second. The music seemed to swell and fade in a wave, along with the tinkle of ice in glasses and the scrape of forks on plates, and the low, constant buzz of champagne-lubricated conversation.
I desperately wished for a glass of liquid courage right at that moment. But I definitely didn’t need anything that would make it even harder for me to balance in the ridiculously high heels I needed to go with a dress I hadn’t had time to hem.
The song ended, smoky jazz saxophone trailing off into a smattering of applause from the couples dancing. As they began to drift off the dance floor, my view of the other side of the room cleared . . . and there he was.
Ian. Devastating in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, complete with a gold watch chain glinting at the pocket of his waistcoat. One of the only men not in a tux, he would’ve stood out no matter what—if not for his fallen-angel good looks and the impossible breadth of his shoulders then for the impenetrable aura of aloneness that surrounded him like a barrier.
Ian sat at a table with nine other people, his chair kicked out slightly so his long body was angled away from the rest of them as they laughed and talked and toasted one another. Ian’s strong thighs were parted, feet solidly planted, as he leaned back in his chair with a glass dangling from the fingers of one hand. His posture could have looked lazy or careless, but instead he gave the impression of brooding alone in the dark with his thoughts and a glass of whiskey.
As I watched, the woman to his right tried to engage him in conversation. He turned his head to indicate he was listening, and he seemed to respond politely enough, but when he immediately faced forward again and took a sip of his drink, she gave up with a bit of a huff. Ian might as well have been encased in ice for how much anything around him seemed to touch him.
He hadn’t even bothered to haul out his movie star smile and practiced charm for this evening. He’d shown up, as promised, and that was it. Because he was loyal, and he lived up to his word. Even when he was miserable.
Determination and agonized fear swelled in me, propelling me forward. Eyes trained on Ian’s face, I cut across the dance floor. Every step reminded me of that stupid senior dance, and my stupid crush on that stupid boy.
This was different, I reminded myself. Ian was a grown man, and I was a grown woman, and no matter what, he wasn’t going to laugh in my face. Probably.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t reject me, I knew. He might. He might not be kind about it—he might lash out, and I had to acknowledge that his feelings were at least partially justified. I was ready to take whatever he dished out. Because whatever happened next, at least I would know I had tried. I hadn’t waited and let life happen to me like I was a secondary character instead of the heroine of my own story.
The fat friend, not the girl who got the guy.
Well, fuck that. I was Mallory Pritchard, published author and beloved sister and loving dog owner and the woman who could make Ian Hale happy. This was my goddam
ned story, and no one was going to write the ending for me.
I marched right up to Ian’s table and stopped directly in front of him. All conversation at the table, and at some of the ones nearest us, ceased as guests nudged one another and stared. I didn’t care. I waited while Ian’s hooded gaze traveled from the tips of my silvery pumps, up the slinky lines of my unapologetically body-hugging sheath dress, to the proud swell of my breasts over the low, straight neckline.
When he finally looked up at my face, the smoldering heat in his heart-of-the-flame blue eyes nearly singed my eyebrows off.
I didn’t wait for him to speak. I held out my hand, and my voice didn’t waver or break when I said, “Care to dance with me?”
There was a quiet gasp from the woman who’d been trying to talk to Ian a minute ago, but it barely scratched the surface of my focus on Ian. He was studying me like there was going to be a test later, and he was determined to ace it. I kept my hand out, waiting, and when he reached to grasp it, a full-body shiver raced through me.
At the first brush of our fingers, that connection I thought I’d shattered snapped back into place between us.
“I’d be honored,” he rasped, that low, smoky voice that went straight to my core.
He stood in a lithe, powerful rush that made me want to scale him like a mountain. Instead I grinned in elation as I walked backward, towing him onto the dance floor. The band had slowed way down, a tune I couldn’t name but that beat in my blood like the first stirrings of desire.
My plan had been to sweep him off his feet, but when he whirled me in close and held me to his body with a strong arm across my back, I was the one who nearly swooned. Pulling myself together, I let Ian move us slowly, sensually around the dance floor while I remembered what I’d come there to say.
“Congratulations on the new movie deal,” I said. Our faces were so close, I could see the flecks of silvery gray in his irises as his eyes widened.
“Saw that, did you,” he rumbled.
Naughty Brits: An Anthology Page 36
