by Parker Swift
“Does that bother you? I mean, that you couldn’t ever inherit Humboldt Park or have the title or anything? Does it feel unfair?” Again Emily was shaking her head before I even finished.
“No. Of course it’s sexist and archaic and all that, and I do believe the whole thing is a bit vestigial—how could you not? But honestly, it’s a bit of a relief. For Dylan’s whole life he’s been groomed, handled differently, followed. His life is under a microscope. It’s like he was a future duke before he could be anything else. I always felt a bit bad for him actually.”
I nodded my head. It made me sad to think about that side of Dylan’s life, and it just made it seem more like a miracle that he was the amazing person he was and not a complete ass. Although, now that I thought about it, he did have the reputation of being the most difficult architect to work with in the northern hemisphere.
“I will say that it seems pretty intense from where I sit.”
She nodded but wisely and properly chose not to go further.
“So you’ve never really had to deal with this HELLO! magazine crap?” I finally asked.
“Not really. Like I said, only occasionally, at holidays and things. And I don’t really date in this scene, so it never happens there.”
I could actually feel my eyes light up. “Wait. Emily, are you seeing someone?” Emily was twenty-two and graduating from college soon. Of course she dated. But if you talked to Dylan, who of course was the only one in their family I spoke with, you’d never know it.
She paused. “Let’s put it this way. I’m not single, and I’m not not single. And I don’t go for guys that I want my father or brother to know about.” She was half smiling while she said it, and now my curiosity was really piqued.
“Emily—”
“Sorry, Lydia. You’re sharing a bed with the number two enemy of my love life. We’ll have to get to know each other a lot better before I drop any more hints.”
I laughed out loud, a release I needed. “Got it. Fair enough. You’re a canny one, aren’t you?”
She laughed at that but also gave me a wink. Something told me Emily was not to be underestimated. “So,” she said, “tell me about this store of yours.”
I told her all the details I could about the design and the approach, the long-term plan, and, to my surprise, she was riveted.
“You know,” she said, “you might want to think of a concierge service.”
“A what?” I asked, suddenly panicked that maybe there was some obvious feature I’d missed.
“Well, Hannah originally wanted a private studio, right?”
I nodded in affirmation.
“But now it’s a flagship store, which in some ways is the opposite, at least in terms of the elite being able to feel elite.” She was totally right. “So that doesn’t completely solve Hannah’s problem of the increase in orders from people like Amelia Reynolds,” she added, making a gagging gesture that made me laugh out loud and kind of shocked me coming out of her posh mouth.
“You know, you’re right.”
“A concierge service would be like a private VIP aspect of the store, appointment only, certain designs only available that way, etcetera.”
“Emily, that’s kind of genius.”
“Eh, I’ve been around.”
“No, seriously, I think I should bring you on as a consultant or something.”
“Not necessary. Just promise me you won’t tell Dylan that there is anything to even be hinted at regarding my love life. Fair?”
“Deal. But there is one other request,” I added quickly.
“Oh?”
“Come to Dylan’s for Thanksgiving dinner?” I looked at her expectantly as she sipped her wine. “It’s in a month, a Thursday night. I’m going to do the whole American thing—turkey, pie, maybe even some pilgrim decorations. They were, after all, your people. I’ve invited my friends from work as well, and Dylan’s friend Will. Please come.”
Emily gave me the warmest smile. “I’d love to.”
“Good,” I said, and I looked down to realize our plates were empty, which meant the whole purpose of this visit was about to begin.
“Okay,” she said, zipping up her fancy handbag, “let’s do this. Tea with Her Majesty.”
“Right,” I said. “Thank god you’re here. This is one area where I have zero confidence in how I should dress, and I don’t think anyone else at my office has any idea either. And Dylan—”
“All Dylan has to do is put on a more conservative tie. You’re a totally different story.” Emily dropped her bills on the table next to mine, and we headed for the door. “First stop, Harvey Nichols.”
“Okay, but remember,” I said, climbing into the back of the Jaguar. It was raining, and Frank held the umbrella over our heads while we ducked in. “I don’t have the Hale budget. We need ‘good enough for Her Majesty’ on a second assistant’s dime.”
Settled into the car, Emily pulled out a black credit card. “Ah, but we do have the Hale budget. Dylan told me to use his credit card.”
“First, do you mind if I ask why you have Dylan’s credit card?”
“Oh, there was this one time I went to Chamonix over school holidays. It was my first time abroad without our parents, and he wanted me to have a backup emergency card in case I got into any trouble I wouldn’t want to tell our parents about,” she explained as she tucked the card back into her wallet. “He might see me as an infant half the time, but he really does take care of me.”
I thought for a moment about what it must be like to have a sibling. I’d always thought Daphne was like that, and she was, to some degree. But sharing your parents was a whole other thing—the enormity of having another person who knew your family life as well as you did, of sharing that with someone, settled over me. I was so happy for Emily that she had Dylan. Happy for Dylan too.
“Okay. Well, more importantly, no. I don’t allow Dylan to buy me clothes. He knows better,” I said reflexively.
“He’ll be furious if I let you pay. Dressing for the queen is no joke.” To be fair, Emily did look a little nervous, and the truth was I wouldn’t even be seeing the queen if it weren’t for him. I thought of what Daphne had said, that I didn’t let people take care of me, and I figured fuck it—if there was ever a time to let Dylan spend his money on me, this was it.
“Lydia, I really think you should let—”
“Okay,” I said, taking a deep inhale and letting myself smile at the idea of this shopping trip. Emily had been looking at me, ready to argue, but she stopped herself and smiled.
“Good,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “Now let’s do this.”
Shopping with Emily was an entirely different experience. The girl was like a ninja, expertly eyeing, selecting, and dismissing with only a glance or sometimes a quick touch of a garment. She nixed one dress I found because it was too short. “Think about sitting with your legs to the side—that will show way too much thigh.”
“Right,” I said and kept digging.
She nixed another for being too bright. “This is the queen, not a rave.” Another for having straps too narrow. “You want your bra straps to peek out?” No. No, I did not.
Another for being too low-cut. “Remember, you’ll be bending to curtsy, and she does not need to see your cleavage.” Oh, Christ. All of a sudden I had flashbacks to the ridiculous and clearly failed attempts at my curtsey with Fiona. “Don’t worry, we’ll cover that later.” Thank god.
After three hours of scouring the racks and trying on various skirt suits and dresses with jackets, Emily shrieked from a far corner of the store. She came running towards me carrying a black-and-white garment flapping around on a hanger.
“This is it. Put those down,” she said, indicating to the maybes I’d been carting around.
When I emerged from the fitting room, I had to agree with her. It was one of those rare finds. A one-off, only in my size. The A-line skirt came to just above my knees, and the dress had a high neck and three
-quarter sleeves. It was a warm white with black naturalistic flowers growing from the waist up the bodice and down the skirt. It felt almost Victorian in the pattern, but it was high fashion and modern. And it fit me like it’d been made for my body. I looked at the price tag and gulped when I saw it was nearly thirteen hundred pounds—the sale price. I didn’t tell Emily, but knowing it was on sale made the whole thing easier to swallow. I may have been letting Dylan pay for that dress, but taking the thriftiness out of this Brooklyn girl was going to require more than one shopping trip.
“I love it. I mean, I really love it.” I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t believe how great I looked. It was one thing to feel like this when I was standing in Hannah’s studio being gussied up by professionals, but when I saw this kind of dress on me in a regular old fitting room it was almost alarming, like one of the first real signs that dating Dylan and everything that meant for my personal life was real. I was really going to meet the queen. With my boyfriend. Who was a marquess. Holy shit.
Chapter 11
An hour later the garment bag was hanging off one of the chairs in my kitchen, and Emily and I were collapsed on my couch.
“Good. Now, you have black heels, right?” she asked, looking at me in a way that suggested she was trying to tell me what shoes to wear but disguising it as a question. It was kind of lovable actually.
I nodded, thinking of the Manolo Blahniks Dylan had gotten me for my birthday.
“I seriously don’t know how I could have done this without you,” I said, sipping from a glass of wine. A bottle of the good stuff Dylan had hidden away in my house.
“You’ll do fine. She’s actually really nice. Kind of like a really reserved grandma. Only, you know, with way more power and some gravity-defying hair.”
I laughed, and it started out like a normal chuckle. But I was so tired, I’d had just enough wine, and I was worn out enough that it turned into one of those belly laughs I couldn’t control. I heard myself uttering nonsense like “curtsy” and “cleavage” and “grandma” and just laughed. Emily thought I was nuts at first, but the thing about laughter is that it’s contagious, and within minutes we were both crying.
“I really like you, Emily,” I sputtered while catching my breath and wiping a laugh tear from my cheek.
“Aww, that’s so American of you, telling me that! I like you too.” I was pretty sure Emily and I would have been friends no matter how we met—it’s just that we probably never would have met otherwise. “So are you seeing my stuffy, cranky older brother tonight?” she asked.
“Who knows?” I said. “I mean, yes. He’s coming over, but lately I’m asleep when he comes home.”
“He’s been awfully busy lately, hasn’t he? Although not nearly as hostile, which is probably due to you. Thank you for that.”
“No problem.”
“Father’s been taking him to task. The two of them always seem to be seething at one another.” Emily’s eyes were closed while she talked, her head leaning against the top of the couch. We were both destroyed by our afternoon shopping. But I couldn’t help wanting to know more. I wanted to probe, to get her to tell me everything, but I knew that would just put her in an awkward position.
“He’s taking me to Humboldt Park tomorrow,” I said and looked at her for her reaction. Her eyes opened and her eyebrows rose. “I haven’t seen your parents since the party at the Savoy.”
Emily leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees. “Don’t let them intimidate you, okay?” she said, but before I could press her for more information her cell phone rang. While she chatted on the phone, I brought the dress upstairs and poured some more wine.
“I’ve got to be off,” she said, and she was smiling. I’d bet my left arm it had to do with whatever mystery guy she was dating or not dating. She came over and kissed each of my cheeks. She was already at the door when she added, “And don’t fret about tomorrow. Dylan will be with you, and he’d probably murder our parents if they treat you with any less respect than you deserve. I’ve never seen him so protective before. Well, at least not with anyone other than me.”
* * *
I realized that I hadn’t checked my phone in hours, so I took it from my bag and began scrolling through the notifications. I’d missed a few calls from work, a text from Josh, and texts from Dylan.
FRIDAY, 1:15 pm
Emily just texted. Finally letting me buy you a dress, are you? Did I just cross over into an alternate universe?
FRIDAY, 3:56 pm
Home at half 7. Don’t eat. I’m cooking you dinner as a reward. XX
Dylan cooking? That was a surprise. I texted him back.
FRIDAY, 5:26 pm
Well, hurry up then, Hale. I’m hungry! XX
It was only five thirty, so I had some time to recover from the day. I was beat, and all I wanted to do was collapse and watch the episodes of The Bachelor that Daphne had put on DVD and sent over to me. Which was exactly what I was about to do when the doorbell rang. I looked out the window, and it was pouring rain. Whoever was out there was getting soaked, so I jumped up to get to the door.
“Michael!” I said, probably sounding more surprised than was polite.
We’d spoken once or twice in recent weeks—about the package at my door, which Frank had picked up, and he’d called about what he thought might be an animal in my yard—but I had only seen Michael once since that evening when he’d come by only to have me rudely shut the door in his face. Dylan had forced us to retreat to his house to escape my neighbor’s attentions, which I still found absurd. He was a sweet guy, and harmless, I was sure.
“Um, come in,” I said after too long of a moment. He was getting completely drenched on my doorstep. I stepped aside, and sure enough, a puddle was forming beneath him. “Do you, um, want a towel? Are you locked out or do you need anything?”
Michael stood there, dripping, looking sheepish. Was it really raining that hard out? I looked past him to the window.
“Coffee? Can I get you coffee or tea?” Was he okay? I couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t saying anything. Another moment went by. It was getting awkward.
“I’ve been standing outside your door for a half hour,” he finally said.
I looked at him, confused.
“Trying to get the courage to ring the bell,” he continued.
I looked him over and only then saw the hard copy of HELLO! magazine in his hand. Even from the side and even soaked I could tell it was turned to the page with the pictures of me and Dylan from the hotel. Oh god, had he really not known about me and Dylan?
“Michael—”
“No—” He stopped me and looked up. “I’m sorry for being awkward. This is terribly rude. I’ve been rather foolish, haven’t I? And I wanted to apologize.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Michael—” But he held up his hand.
“I like you, Lydia. Obviously. But had I known that you were involved with Dylan Hale,” he said, rubbing his forehead with his hand. He suddenly looked up, slightly panicked and looking around. “Oh god, he’s not here, is he?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I’d like to think I would fight to date you no matter what, but I fear I don’t stand a chance against a man like that.”
“Michael, that has nothing to do with it. You’d stand a chance with any girl, and any girl would be lucky to have you fighting for her.” I could see his chest letting down, his sigh of defeat. “Dylan is the person I fell in love with, but it’s not about power or money or anything. It’s just…I’m sorry.”
“You love him?”
“I do.”
“Will you tell me if you break up?”
I smiled halfheartedly. “Sure. But, Michael, I think you can do better than being someone’s rebound. Don’t you? You’re a catch.”
Michael looked up through his sopping brow and smirked a little. “You think so?”
“Of course!”
He smiled and then looked back down at th
e magazine in his hands. “You two look good together.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I couldn’t help feeling that those pictures didn’t tell the whole story. They showed us flirty and lovey, but they didn’t reflect how I felt at the moment. I was in love, but I also felt far away from Dylan, and that feeling was nowhere to be seen in the pictures.
“You sure you don’t want some tea? Or a towel?” I asked as Michael started to head towards the door.
“Nah, that’s all right. Thanks for letting me in.”
“Of course! Hey,” I said, stopping him. “You should come to our Thanksgiving dinner. It’s at Dylan’s in a few weeks.”
“Really? You don’t think that’d be awkward? Is that really a good idea?”
It would definitely be awkward, and this was probably a horrible idea. “Of course!”
Dylan would just have to get over it. Where I came from, everyone was invited to Thanksgiving. Especially soggy, sad guys on your doorstep whom you’ve just rejected.
* * *
“You bloody invited him to dinner?” Dylan was trying not to yell, but he was kind of yelling. Or was on the verge of it—he was using his big bad architect voice.
“Where I come from, everyone is invited to Thanksgiving,” I said, going to the refrigerator for the wine.
“Wait, since when are we hosting Thanksgiving dinner anyway?” he asked, rummaging through my cupboards for clean glasses.
“I emailed you about this on Thursday. You said okay.”
“I did?” He had the glasses in one hand and was rubbing his temple with the other.
I couldn’t believe him. “Seriously?”
He turned around. “No, rather, I do remember that now. Sorry—it’s been a hellish week.”
I went up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my cheek on his T-shirt. He’d worn dark jeans and a faded grey T-shirt under his leather jacket to work today, and I loved it when he was all relaxed. At least relaxed looking.
“It will be fine—it was the generous thing to do, invite him.”
