Penny in London
Page 11
It was the way he’d talked to me, treated me, looked at me that had done things to my insides. Things that felt irreversible and eventually it was everything I could do to get the reminders of him to dissipate. Thus, the bargaining with God. It was what it was.
I looked at the mountain of mail at my door for the millionth time since coming home. I sighed at the ginormous task of it all. There were several hundred envelopes as well as at least ten large and medium boxes, which meant Claire had dropped those in with the spare I’d left her. I reminded myself to get her a thank-you gift.
I tackled the stacks one by one. Most were spam mail, which got tossed into recycling. There was my vlog mail that my sister-in-law forwarded from my PO Box back in Dallas. Then there was a small stack of personal letters, which I found odd, since everyone I knew in London besides the oh-my-gawd girls from FACE and Claire were speaking to me, negating the need to write. I set those aside and opened the boxes first because, let’s face it, those were the fun ones.
One box held brushes from a cosmetics company that was probably hoping I’d review them online. Another was a complete shadow set from an exclusive and large company that was flirting with the idea of advertising with me. I worked it out in my head that it was probably a test. It didn’t matter to me. I was going to pass with flying colors, or flying shadows, that is. What! What! I got several more boxes full of product I was dying to try. If I got it for free, I would most likely review them, that was the deal. I was always looking for things to blog about it, so product landing at my door was fine with me. Occasionally they wouldn’t like the results of my tests, but I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it to my viewers. They trusted me, and I wasn’t going to steer them wrong.
I saved the biggest box for last because I wanted to save the best for last, at least I hoped it would be the best. Giddy, I ran a butter knife over the taped closure and pulled at the ends. Inside was another box, a crisper box, wrapped with twine.
“Oh my gosh,” I whispered, my heart racing.
I yanked out the twined box and set it on top of my dining table. “Oh my gosh,” I said again. “Oh my gosh.”
I cut the twine and pried open the lid. My stomach dropped to my feet when I saw the blue velvet case. Reverently, I pulled out the large case and set it down onto the table. I tugged the edges down to reveal one of Oliver’s Zoe bags.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins. “Oh my gosh.” With trembling fingers, I picked up the bag and examined the work. I didn’t know how, but I’d forgotten how well made the bag was. It was utterly pristine. I ran my fingers over the craftsmanship, imagined how Oliver’s hands must have done the same when he’d inspected his work.
I opened the top and peeked inside. There was a notecard in an envelope setting at the bottom of the bag with my name handwritten on its face. My heart thumped wildly in my chest. My hands shook as they reached for the note and pulled it out. There was a wax seal over the fold and I studied the imprint. It was the letter F with the year 1509 beneath it. My finger ran over the mark, and my heart skipped a beat. Keeping the seal intact, I tugged open the envelope and pulled out the note.
Pen,
This is the original. I couldn’t sell it because it belongs to you.
The success I’ve had from it was all your doing.
-Oliver Finn
My hands went to my face and came away wet. I sighed. My arms wrapped around the bag like it was a lifeline to him. I fell into a dining chair and sat there for several minutes, stunned. I stood. Then sat. Then stood.
“Do I call him?” I asked myself. I sat. “No, send him a thank you?” I stood. “No, too impersonal,” I argued with myself then sat again.
I tried to psych myself up to call him. I toggled back and forth between phoning and actually showing up at his door, but knew that would look too desperate.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
I knew what I had to do. Don’t hesitate. I picked up my cell, found his contact, and hit send. Shit, shit, shit!
“Hello?” a young woman’s voice answered, throwing me off.
“Uh, um,” I stuttered. “Is this Oliver Finn’s number?”
“Who is this?” she asked territorially.
Shit, shit, shit! “So sorry, it’s a business matter. Sorry to disturb you,” I apologized like an ass.
I quickly hung up, feeling like an absolute idiot. Right, calling was a bad idea, a very bad idea. My phone buzzed on my table and I practically jumped to the ceiling. The ID read his name and I hit end. No way was I going to talk to whomever she was, but I knew I did need to thank him.
My hand found the leather of the bag again. I gathered my purse from the chair next to me and transferred all my stuff to the Zoe. Next, I turned the cameras on in my little studio study and recorded a quick vlog on Oli’s gift, dropping the links for those who wanted to purchase one for themselves at the bottom of the video. I gushed over the beauty of the bag, the quality, and how much I loved it. I sent him a warm thank you and the link to the video after it was edited by email, hoping the gesture let him know how much I appreciated his gift.
I turned off my computer and cameras as well as my phone and went to bed. I had the photo shoot the next day and wanted to look well rested. I laid the Zoe bag on its own pillow and stared at it until I dozed off.
I dreamed of Oliver that night.
I was scheduled to be at FACE at five in the morning, which is a freaking beating, but apparently they wanted to catch the sunrise light. I stumbled into the studio with wet hair and a fresh, clean face. When I arrived, Georgiana handed me a hot cup of coffee.
“What in the world, Georgiana?” I grated, practically yanking the cup from her hand.
“I know,” her gorgeous voice told me. Her words sounded annoyed but her face looked flawless, which really irked me.
“How?” I asked her, gesturing to her perfect face. “How is that face possible at five a.m.?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.
“I just rolled out of bed like this, dearie,” I mocked with an ever-improving English accent, if I said so myself. “I really didn’t do anything. I’m that perfect.”
She laughed. “Do us a favor, love. Drink your coffee and don’t talk to us until after you’ve finished.”
I snorted and laughed, which I’m sure was attractive. “I bet you’re rethinking your offer,” I teased. “But too late! The contracts are signed. You’re stuck!”
“Hush,” she said, slapping me on the butt a little to get me going.
I laughed as I approached hair and makeup. “Good morning, you wonderful people! Make me dazzle!” I told them, sitting in the chair.
For two hours I sat in that chair and my bum grew impossibly numb. I had to force them twice to let me up to walk around a bit to get some circulation back there again, but when all was said and done, I discovered why FACE was the fastest growing cosmetics company in the United States as well as the United Kingdom.
“It’s pretty spectacular,” Georgiana told me over my shoulder when they were done. “I believe we’ve made a fantastic choice,” she told me.
“Thank you, Georgiana. I’m living a dream, it seems, and having a blast while I do it. I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Something tells me you’ll last for quite some time,” she said, pinching my shoulder gently. Her eyes shifted to my bag setting on a nearby chair. “Could you please tell me something, though?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“How the bloody hell did you get a Zoe bag when there is a two-year wait?”
My heart sped up into my throat. “There’s a two-year wait?” I asked her.
“And growing,” she said.
“That’s incredible,” I admitted.
“So?” she demanded.
“Oh, well, I know the maker, Oliver Finn, personally,” I hedged.
“Oh my God! Please tell me you can get me bumped up the list!” she begged, bouncing on her heels.
The bag forgotten, her face lit up at my confession and she leaned into me. “Give me all the hellacious details, darling.”
I was not about to do anything of the sort. I aimed for a version of the truth. “Well, I dated his best mate and now his mate and I aren’t speaking so—” I said, leaving it open.
This explanation satisfied her. “Oh, impossible. That’s too bad then.” She peered over at the bag and sighed wistfully.
“Go on,” I said. “Pick her up.”
Georgiana did just that and swung her arm out. “Oh, bugger me. It’s as soft as a baby’s ass!”
“You’re hopeless.” I giggled.
“It’s too bad you’re not on the best of terms with the maker,” Georgiana commented, something strange in her tone as she examined the seams.
“What? Why?” I asked.
“Well, he’s going to be there next week.”
I shot upright. “What!”
Georgiana eyed me strangely. I tried to check my reaction, though it felt a little late.
“Right,” she said, examining me closer. “Well, he’s meant to be at a few shows. Two designers commissioned a few bags from him and are showcasing them on their runways.”
I gulped. “Wow, that’s incredible.” As casually as I could, I asked, “Do you know what shows?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.”
Well, that was the end of that. If I inquired any more forcefully, I’d have given myself away completely. I knew it didn’t matter, though. That was what Google was for. The trouble with Georgiana inadvertently spilling information I was dying to know meant that the photo shoot had come and gone in a flash and I wasn’t in the state of mind to truly enjoy it as I had wanted, too distracted with wanting to know what shows Oliver would be at, what he would wear, what he would look like, how he would smile, and what he would say if I ran into him.
Later at home, instead of editing my photo shoot video as I should have, I checked Oli’s social accounts and searched for any sort of idea which shows he’d be at, but of course, Oliver didn’t care about fashion week all that much. He had only made a single status update the week before, which read:
The Zoe bag will be featured at London Fashion Week, so that’s cool.
Men. I spent two hours combing over each designer’s website showing that week and eventually found both designers. The first show was on day one at Andy Marks’s show and the second was on day four at Alice & Emma. My fingers shook as I typed the dates and times for each show into my phone’s calendar. There was only one slight problem. I had a ticket for the Andy Marks’s show but not for Alice & Emma’s, and chances were slim I’d get one because of their popularity.
I texted Georgiana.
Looking for a ticket to Alice & Emma Thursday. Know where I can filch one?
I bit at the skin of my thumb while waiting for a reply.
Sorry, love. No such luck here, she wrote.
Damn. I was going to have to get creative.
During the next several days FACE London launched our campaign, and I worked endless hours promoting FACE on my blog and making tons of live videos of myself at random events they hosted. I was utterly exhausted by the following Sunday, yet I still had the worst time sleeping because I knew there was a chance I was going to see Oliver at Andy Marks’s show the following Monday. My mind and my heart were too chaotic for rest.
Morning of the show, I woke groggy and feeling sick to my stomach. My nerves were my worst enemy. I decided a long, hot shower was in order. It helped tame the overpowering emotions coursing through my body. I wrapped my hair in a towel and stuffed into a short slip just as the doorbell rang.
I’d hired a hair and makeup artist to get me ready that morning knowing I would be filming a lot. When I peered through the peephole, Henry, my hair stylist, and Siena, a rep from FACE, were standing in the hall with their bags. I pulled it open for them and discovered Claire was also standing with them.
“Hello!” I greeted all three, kissing each of their cheeks as they entered.
I sat in my bathroom after setting up my cameras for another film segment and let them do their thing while Claire perused my closet.
“What are you wearing?” she asked.
“Not a clue!” I shouted toward her.
She sprinted into the bathroom with us. “You haven’t bought something?”
“No!” I panicked. “I didn’t have time. I haven’t had a minute, Claire, I swear.”
“Penelope.” She groaned. “This isn’t like you.”
“I know,” I agreed, wringing my hands. “I’ve been a little distracted lately.”
“Well, I can see that,” she soothed. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now.”
I didn’t correct her misconception. The truth was it was Oliver who’d been my one true distraction. “So, what do you think?”
She sat at the edge of my sink and thought. Her face lit up and she snapped her fingers. “Got it. That navy silk one-piece jumper! It’s perfect!”
I was hesitant. “I’m not sure,” I said, thinking about how uncomfortable it usually got after a few hours.
“Oh, please!” she shouted, jumped up, and ran toward my room. Thirty seconds later she emerged with the jumper in question.
Henry and Siena urged me to try it on when they were done. I shoved them all out of the bathroom and tried it on. I’d had to edit changing from the tape. It was a beautiful piece, long sleeved, deep V-neckline. I shoved on the heels Claire had paired with them, but they seemed all wrong.
“Claire!” I shouted through the door.
“Yes, darling?”
“Grab those open-toed pumps, will you?”
I heard Claire open my wardrobe and laugh. “Which ones?”
“Uh, they’re camel leather, the back wraps up the heel and the ankle, and the front is open with small ties lacing up the front.”
“Right. Found them,” she said, opening the door and handing them over.
I replaced the heels she’d originally given me with the others and stood up. Much better.
“Henry, Siena, come look,” Claire ordered, and they both emerged in the doorway. Siena gushed over the shoes.
“You look smashing, Penelope,” Henry crooned.
“Really sexy, doll,” Siena confirmed.
“Just brilliant!” Claire added for good measure, her hands clasped at her chest. “Take care you don’t break too many hearts,” she teased with a wink then smiled.
I studied myself in my mirror.
Oh, there was only one heart I wanted near that day. I just hoped he still wanted near mine.
After showing my guests out with a careful kiss apiece, I spritzed myself with the perfume I wore while I had lived with Oliver and had not worn since because it reminded me too much of him. Giddy with nerves and excitement, I grabbed my gifted bag and locked up my flat.
I timed my breathing to keep from passing out and headed for street level, signaling for a taxi. A few blocks from the event, the line of cars dropping off the odd celebrity was packed. Andy Marks’s show was the third of the day, but the most important. My heart started to race as we neared the drop-off.
“Ticket, please,” a man asked. He leaned into the window. He was wearing a fashion week T-shirt and a pair of headphones with a microphone and carried a clipboard with him.
I handed over my ticket and he flipped through sheets of paper to confirm my name.
“Penelope Beckett. You’re with FACE London?”
“That’s me.”
He opened my door for me and I paid the driver.
“Right,” the rep said, “so stay in this spot here. Someone will signal you when it’s time to walk.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks,” I told him and congregated near three people I didn’t recognize.
Two of them stood cl
ose together and glanced back at me, no doubt wondering who I was. I’m a nobody, I wanted to inform them, but kept my mouth shut. Another man with a fashion week T-shirt approached the couple ahead and signaled them to walk ahead. Cameras flashed incessantly their direction and my heart started to pound anew for a brand-new reason. I hadn’t considered the paparazzi, my thoughts too preoccupied with other things.
Oh crap. I started breathing too quickly and had to force myself to slow down. It’s okay. It’s okay. The mantra ran through my mind. The woman in front of me moved forward.
“Penelope?” a deep voice called out behind me.
I turned around to see none other than Oliver stepping from his Range Rover and handing a set of keys to a valet. I nearly gasped. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Calm. Just calm down. He was dressed impeccably, another one of his three-piece suits, his undercut slicked back. He’d grown a slight beard since I’d last seen him, but it was well kept, trimmed perfectly, and looked like the rest of him, groomed to an impeccable excellence. He was more handsome than I had ever seen him. My body melted right there on the spot.
I smiled at him and he smiled back. I expected him to walk my direction, but instead he turned back and and held out his palm. A tan hand found his and my stomach dropped to the cement below my feet. An unfair, equally gorgeous woman met his side. I wanted to slink away, to hide, and for some inexplicable reason cry until I had nothing left to shed. Instead, I stood tall and took a deep breath.
The woman had long blonde hair, wore a beautiful but too short dress, and her legs continued for miles. I was a good five foot ten with my heels on, but she reached six foot easily. She looked like she better belonged on the catwalk than the red carpet. My stomach flipped over and over when I saw how well they looked together.
I looked down at my thin gold chains and made sure they fell nicely down the V of my jumper. Tossing my hair back as subtly as possible, I lifted my head and met his eyes. My own stung with unshed tears as I took another deep breath to steady myself.