Up for Love in London

by Willow. Bonaire

  “I’m pleased that you approve. What do you think of your hotel?”

  “The design is fabulous…but I did have problems with my room key. So I had to wait, and then…” I must sound like a spoiled brat as I recount my experience checking into the hotel. “But it turned out fine as the room they finally give me is spectacular.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  My mouth drops open and he laughs. “Oh no, do you own that place too?” I roll my eyes. “I suppose I’m now guilty of accepting a hotel room from a strange man?”

  “Just an upgraded hotel room.” He reaches across the table and places his hand on mine. “I could almost see a little light bulb turning on over your head, Lauren. You should never play poker.”

  “I’m not a gambler. Well, not usually anyway.” Charles fills my glass again, though I notice he’s hardly had more than a sip or two. “That’s why I have a back-up career, rather than just being a flight attendant. I’m also an interior designer.”

  “Very smart. The airline business is quite a gamble these days, but so is design. Fashions change so rapidly.”

  “But good taste is always in style. Like that dress.” Except that it comes out sounding more like “dresh.” Oh dear, I’m slurring. I haven’t slept or eaten anything and the Champagne has gone straight to my head. “I think I need a nap.”

  “My driver will take you back to your hotel. What time would you like to meet for dinner?”

  I don’t recall agreeing to have dinner with Charles. I start to calculate nap time and getting ready when I remember. “I’d love to but I promised to meet the crew for happy hour at six.”

  “I could pick you up after, how about 7:30 - or 19:30, as you airline people say?”

  “Perfect. My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon, so I can stay in bed later in the morning.” God that must sound forward.

  A quick text message on his Blackberry and a stately navy blue Bentley rolls up to the door. The car is old school but I appreciate the contrast of his modern and traditional attitude. It’s sapphire blue, almost black and the driver opens the door for me.

  Charles’ lips lightly brush my cheek as he helps me into the car. “I’ll be there at 7:30 sharp, but if you need some extra time, here’s my private cell number.” He tucks a business card into my pocket. The door has barely shut when the driver accelerates, weaving expertly through the side streets and back to my crew hotel.

  CHAPTER 4 ~ Dinner & Dessert

  It seems I’ve scarcely closed my eyes when the alarm rings. At first, I’m a bit disoriented. It’s pitch black in my hotel room and I haven’t closed the curtains. Is it morning or night? I turn the buzzer off and roll over in bed, wondering if the morning was a dream. Charles’ business card on my night table confirms it was real.

  I leap out of bed, eager for our dinner date and surf through my luggage for something to wear. I normally pack a few different outfits as flight attendants need to be prepared for anything. I could go to the airport, expecting to fly to Munich and end up in Martinique. I did bring an extra black sweater and slacks and a pale pewter wrap dress, which looks great with my blue-grey eyes. It’s what I eventually select.

  The sleep has restored my enthusiasm and Charles’ attention, my faith in men. I shower quickly, using the hand-held spray so I don’t have to dry my hair again. This time, I try the lavender body lotion. It feels refreshing against my skin and is a perfect complement to the cucumber soap.

  I’m getting dressed when I notice a red light flashing on the phone. Maybe Charles has called to cancel? But it’s a message from Olivia, wondering where I am. We’d planned to meet at 6:00 at the bar and it’s now 6:20. I rush along and it feels like deja vu when I examine myself in the full-length mirror – all-black and grey with red lips and nails.

  The lobby bar is dimly lit and packed with crew members, chatting, laughing and of course, drinking. Our pilots take credit for introducing the happy hour concept to the U.K. and I don’t doubt they had a hand in it, knowing how much they enjoy a bargain. Flight attendants are the same way, though we’re a bit more subtle in our approach.

  I look around the sea of vaguely familiar faces. It can be difficult to recognize crew members out of uniform or as Richard likes to say, “You look different with your clothes on.”

  Olivia waves me over and flags down the bartender. “Two dry white wine, thanks, love. Lauren, how was your morning?”

  “Exceptional and the evening promises more of the same. Remember the handsome passenger in first class? I bumped into him downtown and he’s invited me for dinner tonight.” I left out the details about our steamy encounter in the changing room and the dress he bought me. I’m not sure why, but there was something sweeter about that whole encounter than I could ever convince anyone of.

  “Heartbroken or not, you certainly are a man magnet. Congratulations darling.”

  “Congrats on what?” Richard steps in and gives us both a quick kiss.

  “Congrats on Lauren’s date with 3C.”

  “Already? No flies on you Lauren. Well, go for the gusto and if you have the opportunity, shag that Mr. Sterling for all he’s worth. I know I would.”

  “Richard, you’re so bad,” and I slap his arm playfully.

  “That’s part of my charm. Look ladies, there’s Jennifer. I think she’s alone, but not for long.” Sure enough, she was holding court on the armrest of a lounge chair, surrounded by a table of older-than-middle-aged pilots.

  Richard must have caught my seething expression. “Oh relax Lauren, I don’t think Brad is going to join her, but the first officer might.”

  “I hope she sees Charles picking me up in his Bentley. That would be a nice image for her to convey to Brad.”

  Olivia’s eyes flashed. “Or even if Jim saw you... what time is Charles meeting you?”

  “7:30.”

  “Richard and I shall arrange it, won’t we darling?”

  “Of course, anything for our dear Lauren.”

  We clink glasses and Olivia takes a hearty sip while I try to make one glass of wine last for an hour. I’ll be having cocktails with Charles later and I’d like to keep my wits about me, at least for a short time.

  ~

  It’s only 7:15 but I’ve been checking my watch so often I feel as though I’ve hardly enjoyed myself. There’s so much action at the bar, I don’t think anyone has noticed. My glass is almost empty, so I may as well step outside. I wave goodbye to Olivia and she gives me a thumbs up in return.

  I’m standing under the canopy when the Bentley pulls in. The car attracts a lot of attention but so does Charles when he steps out. He’s just so handsome. After kissing me on the cheek, he murmurs a quick, “Hello, darling, you look ravishing,” in my ear, and opens the door for me. It’s a bit odd to be sitting in the left front seat without a steering wheel. It reminds me of the Absolutely Fabulous gals in France and I have to suppress a giggle. Though I know Brits drive on the left, I suppose I didn’t notice it earlier when I was in the back seat.

  Now I can divide my time between drooling over Charles and the car. This is a truly classy vehicle, the sort of machine that screams old money and plenty of it. The dashboard is fashioned from polished burled oak and the cream leather seats are immaculate.

  I’m feeling slightly uncomfortable and maybe a bit insecure, so I start to babble about the car. “This is a beautiful machine, Charles.”

  He smiles at me and nods. “Bentley Continental R Mulliner, 2003. One of the last ‘real’ Bentleys. I have other cars, but I’m really attached to the old girl.”

  “It looks very…”

  “Expensive?” His eyebrows raise and I know he’s having fun with me.

  “Well, yes, I suppose.” I was thinking “bloody expensive,” but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “It seems you’re a woman who loves beautiful things.”

  “More than that, I appreciate the skill and artistry that goes into creating them.”

  We cruise throug
h the streets of London, past lush grounds with stately homes. The rain has stopped but the streets are slick. The Bentleys’ wipers swish on occasionally, clearing the spray from cars ahead.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To a special place. I hope you like French food?”

  “Of course, who doesn’t?”

  “I noticed your barrette earlier – it’s from Printemps, isn’t it?

  “You’re very observant.”

  “It’s the only place in Paris that sells them. My sister is a fashion designer. She dabbles in accessories and jewellery as well. She designed that piece as an exclusive for the store.”

  “Small world,” I murmur. I wish he wouldn’t keep taking me back to Paris, though it bothers me less and less.

  “Indeed. Do you fly to Paris often?”

  “In the past, yes, though I think it’s time for a change. I might choose London instead.” I glance over at him. He’s still looking straight ahead, and I’m able to check out his fine profile. His expression remains the same though I think I detect a curve forming at the corners of his mouth.

  His eyes scan the rear view mirror and then he turns to look at me. “That would be lovely.”

  My first impulse is to look away but I hold his gaze and smile. He places his hand briefly on my knee before taking the wheel again and turning sharply into a dimly-lit side street.

  The number of luxury cars lining the block tells me this is no ordinary dining establishment. Charles expertly steers the big vehicle into the only available parking spot and turns the ignition off. When he steps out, I notice the valet greets him by name. I wait until he opens my door and offers his hand to me.

  “Thank you,” I say softly.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Mr. Sterling, shall I leave the car here, as usual?”

  “As usual, Lewis.”

  “Right. Enjoy your dinner sir, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Lewis, we shall.”

  I smile at the young man, then quickly survey the restaurant’s exterior before Charles sweeps me inside. It’s all red brick and shiny green ivy. Wrought iron gas lamps flicker seductively on either side of a tall, oxblood-lacquered door. It’s pure Georgian, no faux-French chateaux here, so the owner must be confident in his chef. Inside the foyer, a crystal chandelier glitters, its lights reflected in bevelled French glass doors giving a hint of what lies beyond.

  We step inside and the transformation is complete. I feel like Cinderella at the ball, even though I already have my Prince Charming. I sense Charles looking for my reaction and I’m not ashamed to let a whispered Wow escape my lips.

  It’s a grand area, accented with ornate plaster mouldings and pale creamy walls. A real fire blazes in the limestone fireplace, creating warmth and intimacy. Crystal wall sconces topped by dainty silk shades cast a romantic glow.

  The rooms are elegantly divided by unobtrusive wait stations and discreet partitions, so I’m unable to see the entire space at once. I thought most diners would be couples, but as we follow the maître d to a quiet corner, I recognize a few prominent businessmen and politicians.

  I’m not surprised that we’re seated at the most romantic spot. It’s at the far corner of the restaurant, in a private alcove, with a view outside to a walled garden. Strands of tiny white twinkle merrily as they weave through trellises and evergreen topiaries. A light snow begins to fall.

  Like the other tables, ours is dressed in soft white linen that drapes to the floor. A single rose rests in a short silver vase, no shrinking bud but a lusciously full bloom, its pure white petals singed with coral. “It’s magical,” I say to Charles, barely able to contain my enthusiasm.

  “I knew you’d enjoy it,” he says and places his hand over mine.

  Immediately, a bottle of Champagne and two crystal flutes appear. I’m admiring them as the waiter expertly fills them.

  “Baccarat,” Charles says. “The glasses, not the Champagne.”

  “Of course,” and I smile. Although I appreciate his knowledge, I don’t need a lesson in crystal or fine dining. I’ve been around the globe a few times.

  As if reading my mind, he quickly apologizes. “Just confirming that I knew what you know.”

  I have to laugh at that. “Do you always try so hard on a first date? I’m sure you don’t need to.”

  “No and it’s very rare that I even want to.” He raises his glass and proposes a toast. “To a magical evening.”

  One evening sounds a bit short-lived to me but if I only have one night with the prince, I’m going to make the most of it. “To a magical evening,” I agree.

  ~

  Charles places our orders. The meal starts with a quartet of perfectly chilled oysters, still wearing the slightly salty mantle of the sea. Over the next hour and a half, I savour the most sublime and seductive meal I’ve ever tasted. Beetroot-filled ravioli with tidbits of seared foie gras, a palate-cleansing sorbet of papaya and kaffir lime before a perfectly proportioned main course of duck confit.

  “A step up from last night,” I say with a smile.

  “In my grandfather’s day, one ate like this in first class. Well, not quite like this.”

  “It must have been exciting to fly when the whole experience was new.”

  “Yes, but in those days, England and Europe were still recovering from the war. Depressing, I would think. For those with means, the world has more to offer now.”

  I smile again. I don’t have “means” but I’ve tasted the good life. I don’t take it for granted.

  “Of course,” he continues, “for those with curiosity and imagination, the world always has a great deal to offer.”

  “If imagination is the same as daydreaming, I’m a virtuoso,” I said.

  “And what do you daydream about?”

  The way he says it makes me blush. To distract his attention I start talking about my interest in designing, how I used to sketch fantastic mansions when I was a teenager, complete with turret rooms and rivers winding through. He laughs and tells me about places he’s been that were almost that extravagant. I’ve traveled, but Charles has seen so much more. I find that very appealing. Dating men who’ve barely left their hometown, even if that town is a major city, always feels like a step backwards. Maybe that was Brad’s appeal, as a pilot. If so, Charles has him beat by a longshot.

  Slowly we reveal ourselves - at least the part of our personalities we deem most attractive. No one wants to know about a sad family life, financial failures and messy affairs. Even the rich have their dirty secrets, as hard as the media might try to ferret them out.

  I try to present myself in a favourable light – curiosity and imagination, as he said - while still harbouring self-doubts about my suitability as a girlfriend for a man like Charles – handsome, well-bred and immensely rich. I remind myself that the grandmother of the future King of England was once a flight attendant.

  Charles listens attentively. He teases and taunts, questioning me about passengers, layovers and my favourite destinations.

  “Do you find it difficult to maintain a relationship when you’re away so often?” he asks.

  “The old saying – ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ - may have a grain of truth in it. I like to believe that people in love can surmount any challenges.” I take a sip of Champagne, and notice how handsome he looks in the candlelight. “And overall, flight attendants have more free time than someone who works a regular nine-to-five job. You also travel a lot and probably work very long hours. Has that affected your relationships?”

  I expect him to answer “Touché” but he takes time to think before replying.

  “It has and it hasn’t. In my situation, the media is more of problem than travel or work. My personal life is always under scrutiny.”

  “It sounds like the airline industry. Everyone knows what everyone else is doing. But with me, it’s not usually malicious or gossipy, it’s just conversation and concern for your colleagues’ welfare. No one passes judgement
. Well, not often anyway.”

  “So you’re used to being under the microscope as well?” A smile forms at the corners of his lips and I wonder if he’s joking with me.

  I answer honestly, nonetheless. “In a way, yes. I’m not saying that I like it, only that it’s a familiar situation.”

  He nods in agreement. “I’m sure we have many other things in common.”

  I wonder if that’s a standard line for him, having heard similar ones before. Am I just a quick conquest or is he really opening up to me?

  My musings fade with the appearance of dessert - one plate with two silver forks. A perfect square of miniature dark chocolate cake decorated like a jewellery box. I allow my mind to wander into the future. Wouldn’t it be delicious to open a box like this and find an engagement ring inside? The thought makes me smile broadly at my own ridiculous fantasy and Charles pulls me back to the here-and-now when he touches my hand.

  “You like chocolate, I gather?” He thinks I’m pleased about the dessert.

  “Oh, yes, who doesn’t?” I’m still beaming at my deception as I enjoy a first bite. Even though the waiter is silent and skillful, the arrival of coffee signals that the night is coming to an end.

  I take a few sips and stifle a yawn. Charles glances at his watch.

  “I know how horrid jet lag can be.” He leans over and lifts my chin with his finger, directing my gaze into his deep blue eyes. “I’m going to drive you to your hotel.”

  My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Just like that? My mind works furiously for an excuse to linger with him but he insists on taking me back. I wonder if he has a later date with someone else. After all, it’s Saturday night and he’s probably one of the most eligible bachelors in London. He motions for the bill, signs it with a flourish and the next think I know, we’re inside the Bentley.

  He drives with focus, barely speaking for the first few blocks until he drops a bombshell.

  “When is your next trip to London?”

  It’s a casual question, but for me, the implications are immense. “Next weekend,” I answer, perhaps a little too quickly. He doesn’t reply and I sense he’s considering his response, manoeuvering the heavy vehicle through twisty roads while occasionally glancing my way.