Star Promise

by G. J. Walker-Smith

  Double-checking the measurements was my plan, but my brother is a dick. If I’d known that a task as simple as measuring up a room required an explanation, I would’ve asked Bridget to help me do it.

  “So what happens if they differ from the plans?” he asked, clueless.

  “We’ll have to get new ones drafted.” I handed him the end of the tape measure and ordered him to stay put.

  “More delays,” he muttered.

  “We’ve got to do it right, Ryan.”

  He might’ve agreed, but my phone rang before he had a chance. I had to answer it – I was on my father’s time, not mine. The measuring got put on hold while I undertook a complicated conversation with a client, doing my best to pretend that the contract in question was on a desk in front of me.

  The next call came just a minute later. As soon as I saw Dad’s number on the screen I hit the end button. It happened three times before Ryan questioned it.

  “It’s Dad,” I explained. “He’s hunting me down. He has no idea where I am.”

  Ryan had always considered my decision to take a job at our father’s firm to be idiotic. He also knew that as far as told-you-so moments go, that one was off limits.

  I read the measurement on the tape as he pulled it taut, then wrote it down. “How does Charli feel about you working for him?” asked Ryan.

  “She knows he’s a hard taskmaster,” I replied. “She understands.”

  That was only half true. She knew better than anyone that he was hard to please, but she wasn’t the least bit understanding when it came to my decision to keep working for him.

  “She knows you’re unhappy there, Adam.”

  I told him to drop the tape and began reeling it in. “Has she said something?”

  Deep down, I already knew the answer. Ryan and Charli had a strange rapport built on sarcastic digs and snarky insults, but it worked. Charli often confided in him, and although he’d never admit it, she was sometimes his sounding board too.

  His answer was vague but telling. “Once or twice.” We met in the middle of the room. “You should look for something else,” he added.

  “It wouldn’t matter what firm I worked at, Ryan. I hate the job. I hate everything about it,” I muttered. “I might as well stay where I am.” It was easy to admit my professional discontentment to Ryan. Perhaps it was because he understood what I was up against.

  His suggestion that I quit and take on the project manager role at the club fell on deaf ears, despite the fact that it was his best sell. “You could quit your job, work the hours you want to, see more of Bridget and Charli –”

  I cut him off. “Don’t bring my girls into this.”

  “Just think about it, okay?”

  “I don’t want to commit to anything new.” The excuse that followed was more wishful thinking than anything. I blamed it on the fact that Charli’s contract at the gallery was up for renewal, and I wasn’t sure if we’d be staying in New York.

  The truth was, Charli had only mentioned going home in passing. My desire to escape my city was growing undeniably stronger, but if she made the call to stick it out for another year, I’d support her.

  Falling head first over Charlotte happened hard, fast and without any permission. It was too much to deal with at twenty-two, and I hadn’t played fair because of it. Giving her the time she needed to build her career in New York went a little way toward making it up to her, and even on my worst day it felt good.

  I was now the man who could tell his wife that he’d go anywhere with her, do anything for her, and mean every single word of it.

  27. RESEARCH

  Charli

  Most of the wicked deeds I carried out were planned, but occasionally I’d do something shady without realising it. Calling Adam at work with the promise of amazing news, and then making him stew all day before finding out what it was wasn’t kind.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d jump to baby-related conclusions, which made for an awkward conversation when he got home, mainly because my exciting news wasn’t actually that exciting.

  “Nothing to do with a baby,” I said sheepishly. “I solved your man-tights problem.”

  He jingled his keys in his hand. “That’s it?”

  “Yeah. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  After a long moment of more jingling, Adam dropped his keys on the counter. “If by solved, you mean called Mom and told her we’re not going, I’m very pleased.”

  I hadn’t even come close to talking him around. “I won’t force you,” I said bleakly. “I’ll call and cancel. We’ll just make a donation or something.”

  He grabbed my arm and hauled me in close. “No, don’t,” he said quietly. “I know you’re looking forward to it. You don’t need to cancel.”

  I yanked the end of his tie, pulling him down to my level. “I offered to cancel your place, Boy Wonder, not mine,” I teased. “I’m not giving up the opportunity to wear that dress.”

  I felt his laugh on my lips. “I’ll go, Charli,” he yielded, “depending on how you solved the man-tights problem.”

  I leaned back, wiggling my eyebrows at him. “Do you want to see?”

  “What else would I want to see at ten o’clock on a Thursday night?”

  The distance from the kitchen to the living room is ridiculously short, and if you’re in a rush, you can get there in less than ten steps.

  I grabbed the shopping bag off the couch and waved it at him. “You know what your dad always says to me?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted and he puffed out his chest. “Stop talking nonsense, Charlotte.” His French accent was faultless. “Stay home, raise my granddaughter and be a good wife to my son.”

  “Yes.” I could barely speak for laughing. “He says all those things, but he also says that over-thinking ruins your mind.”

  He frowned, but his smile remained strong. “He does?”

  “Yeah. The costume your mum bought is dead on for the period, absolutely perfect, but I think she over-thought it.”

  Adam screwed up his face, probably picturing the tight-fitting velvet waistcoat and white breeches in his mind. “It’s ridiculous and I’m not wearing it.”

  “I know. That’s why I did a bit of research.”

  “And what did you come up with?”

  I took a pair of beige linen trousers out of the bag. “If you jump forward to 1820, Cossack trousers were all the rage,” I explained. “They’re long and manly,” I added in a rumbly voice that made him laugh.

  I held them out to him. “Ivy made them for you.”

  His verdict wasn’t exactly heart-warming, “I’m still going to look like a dick, Charlotte.”

  I dropped the trousers, took the few steps necessary to reach him and slung my arms around his neck. “But you’ll be the only dick in long pants, monsieur.”

  Adam kissed me. “I’ll wear them for you,” he said. “Then we’ll burn them.”

  ***

  I hid the pants at the top of my closet, fearful he’d burn them before the ball. I dragged them out on Saturday night and refused to leave the bedroom until he was dressed.

  I quickly decided that Adam Luc Décarie would’ve made a fabulous French nobleman back in the day – one who was constantly surly and antisocial.

  “I feel stupid.”

  I turned him around. The tails of his coat ended at the back his knees. I had no idea what sort of insecurities men dealt with while wearing fitted pants, but from a woman’s perspective the tails hid all.

  “You look lovely, Daddy,” came a little voice from the doorway.

  His shoulders drooped. “Lovely” is not a good word when describing a man in period costume. “Thanks, baby,” he muttered.

  I turned to Bridget. “Daddy looks rugged and handsome, don’t you think?”

  She took a flying leap onto our bed. Her reply came mid-bounce. “Very drugged and handsome.”

  At least his discomfort wasn’t physical. The sexy, lacy black corset was the u
nsexiest thing I’d ever worn in my life. Even the process of putting it on was a little off-putting. Both of us were clueless, but thanks to a five minute YouTube tutorial on his phone, Adam worked it out.

  “Can you still breathe?” he sounded worried. “I might’ve done it wrong.”

  I stumbled back as he tugged on the laces. “I don’t need to breathe,” I wheezed. “I just need to look pretty.”

  Making sure the little girl trampolining on the bed didn’t hear, he whispered in my ear, “You look prettier without it. I hope it’s easier to get off.”

  My giggle was quiet, but Bridget didn’t miss a trick. “Don’t laugh at Dad’s dumb baby pants,” she scolded.

  Adam threw his arms up. “That’s it,” he announced. “I’m not going.”

  28. UNCOOL

  Adam

  Leaving the house looking like an eighteenth century moron was not one of my finer moments, but I did it. On the plus side, the woman on my arm was the belle of the ball.

  Charli looked tiny but huge all at the same time. The skirt on her dress had about a hundred layers to it, and I checked three times to make sure Bridget hadn’t smuggled her way in underneath it. I knew it wasn’t a likely scenario. She was holed up at Ryan’s watching her mermaid movie, which would’ve been my dream night out at that point.

  The ball was at the Parker Royale Hotel. The family of my former best friend owned it, and the foyer we stood in was the exact spot that our friendship had ended with a few punches to his face five years earlier.

  I hadn’t thought about Parker in a long time. The last I heard, he was practising in a big firm somewhere on the west coast. I hoped he was doing well. I wasn’t interested in knowing him again, but the urge to punch his lights out was long gone.

  “I remember this place,” Charli said from the corner of her mouth.

  “Fondly?” I teased.

  She flashed her most wicked grin. “Not particularly.”

  I couldn’t help glancing around as we made our way across the foyer, and the highly inappropriate smirk on my face was impossible to kill. There were at least twenty miserable looking men wearing emasculating knee-high breeches. As far as beige linen trousers went, mine were rocking.

  “You’re beautiful, Charlotte,” I murmured. “And ten times smarter than any woman in this room who forced her man to wear tights.”

  She hooked her arm through mine. “You’re mighty cocky, considering you’re the odd man out,” she teased. “If we were really back in the eighteenth century, they’d be mercilessly mocking you right now.”

  I stepped in front of her, forcing her to a stop. “Why, Charlotte?”

  “I told you.” She picked at the buttons on my coat. “I researched it. Cossack trousers were very uncool. I just talked them up so you’d wear them.”

  I squinted down at her, playing along. “How uncool?”

  “They wrote poems about them.” The rhyme that tumbled out of her mouth was effortless. The accent she used was not. She sounded like a drunken pirate. “Some folks in the street by the Lord make me stare, so comical droll is the dress that they wear. For the gentlemen’s waist is a top of their back, and their large Cossack trousers that fit like a sack.”

  The world through Charli’s eyes was phenomenal. I couldn’t always live there, but I visited often.

  “Arr, me hearties,” I added.

  Her head fell forward, burying her laugh in my chest. The casual hold I had on her was nothing out of the ordinary, but a quick look around the foyer reminded me that it probably wasn’t appropriate considering the company we were in. I held her hands and took a step back.

  Charli took no offense. “We should go inside.”

  I was seconds away from agreeing until I took one last look around the foyer. In a blow that I felt, I locked eyes with Olivia. I knew she’d be there, but it didn’t making seeing her any less unpleasant.

  She was travelling solo, sashaying across the marble foyer as elegantly as she always did, despite the big dress she was wearing. Judging by her expression, she wasn’t thrilled to see me, either. I could feel the poison in her glare, but that wasn’t the damaging part. The bigger picture was far more disturbing.

  She had to look past her daughter to get to me, and she did it with absolute ease.

  29. LA LA DEFICIENT

  Charli

  The foyer gave no hint of the extravagant event taking place in the ballroom. It looked nothing like the cheesy Christmas party we’d attended there years earlier. I knew Fiona must’ve had a hand in decorating the tables: there was an excess of cut flowers on all of them, and the settings were perfect.

  Weaving through tables while wearing a wide dress was like navigating though a maze in the dark. Terrified of knocking something over, I impolitely clung to the tails of Adam’s coat for direction. Fiona and Jean-Luc were already seated when we made it to our table. I was trussed up like a Christmas ham underneath my heavy dress, but the queen certainly wasn’t wearing a corset. Her ivory chemise gown was free flowing and far more forgiving. Fiona should’ve been relaxed and cool, but she was flapping a paper fan in front of her face as if she was on fire.

  Despite her odd conduct, it was Jean-Luc who stole my attention. His navy blue coat was velvet with a line of brass buttons down his chest and a ruffled shirt poking out at the top.

  The king was undeniably handsome, and like Ryan, he knew it. Not a man in the room looked so much at ease, strengthening my theory that he truly was Lord Muck.

  “Sit, my darlings,” urged Fiona, almost whimpering.

  Adam pulled out my chair and I sat, studying the queen the whole time. She didn’t look good. “Are you alright?” I whispered.

  “No, Charli,” she miserably replied. “My wig itches and it’s terribly hot in here.”

  Her hair should’ve had its own postcode. A huge arrangement of brunette curls was piled on top of her head. Another heap trailed down her back. Pulling it off would’ve brought her instant relief, but she was much too vain to do it.

  I tried taking her mind off her discomfort. “You look beautiful,” I said. “I love your dress.”

  She smiled. “Do you love yours?”

  I looked down at my gown. “Yes. I’m going to wear it for the rest of the week.”

  Jean-Luc tutted as if I’d said something ridiculous enough to bring shame on the family. It was all the encouragement I needed to rattle his cage. “I like your tights, J-man,” I quipped. “They suit you.”

  Adam’s chuckle earned him a swat of his mother’s fan. My punishment was far more brutal. Jean-Luc stood, extended his arm like he was checking the time on his watch, and then asked me to dance.

  “I don’t dance,” I replied.

  “I’ll teach you,” he shot back.

  “Oh, fine,” I grumbled, gathering my skirt as best I could. “Who am I to defy the king?”

  “Lèse-majesté is probably one of your lesser crimes, Charli.”

  I looked to Adam for a translation.

  “Treason against the king,” he said simply.

  There was no point denying it so I left it at that and begrudgingly accompanied him to the dance floor.

  ***

  Jean-Luc was too polite to call me out on my dire lack of dancing skills, but he gave up trying to give me instruction after just a few minutes, content to let me concentrate all my efforts on not stepping on his feet.

  “Do you like events like this?” I asked.

  “They’re important to Fiona,” he replied. “Her charities do a lot of good work. It’s important to show support.”

  “A bit different to the Odeon theatre days, eh?”

  “Quite,” he agreed, briefly dropping his head to smile at me.

  Conversation lulled, but it wasn’t weird. I suspect Jean-Luc enjoyed the peace. When we turned, I looked across at Adam and Fiona. Adam looked like he’d rather be at home with a good book and Fiona looked miserable, still flapping the fan to cool herself down.

  I turned back
to the king. “Jean-Luc, have you ever heard of Jean-Pierre Duvelleroy?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “He was a fan-maker,” I replied. “When he was twenty-five, he established his own fan house in Paris.”

  With a firm hand to my back, he spun us around. “Fascinating,” he said, not very sincerely.

  “I thought you appreciated ambition.”

  “Indeed I do,” he agreed. “Tell me the story of our friend, Jean-Pierre.”

  Never before had my father-in-law shown a skerrick of interest in any of my tales. I tried to find reason for the change of heart. “Are you drunk?” I wondered.

  “Not yet,” he replied, spinning us around again.

  “He started his business in the 1820s,” I began. “The only problem was, fans had gone out of fashion after the French Revolution.”

  “Not a bright business venture then, was it?”

  “He had vision,” I told him. “Jean-Pierre was convinced that they’d come back into style. He struggled along for two years before he got his big break.”

  The music stopped and so did we, but the conversation kept going.

  “A duchess friend threw a grand party to bring him luck. For the quadrille, all the women sported his fans,” I explained. “And that’s all it took. Fans came back into vogue, and Jean-Pierre was a huge success.”

  Another song started, and Jean-Luc reached for my hand again. If anything, my dancing was getting worse, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I don’t understand why you retain such mindless information, then choose to bring it up whenever the urge to be odd hits you,” he said, frowning down at me.

  “You’ll never understand me,” I grumbled. “You’re La La deficient.”

  “Continue,” he grunted. “Silly girl.”

  I squeezed his hand, mildly hopeful of breaking his fingers. It didn’t work so I tortured him with my words instead. “Jean-Pierre developed a communication system – a secret fan language.”