by Nancy Warren
Kit, who was born to be in public relations, eased them into a new subject so fast it could have been greased. “I bet your job is really interesting, being a stand-up comic.”
“Well, it beats keypunch operator, and when I started out, those were my options.”
Kit laughed. “Where do you get your material?”
Funny how everyone asked that question first. She shrugged. “It comes from life, I guess. From looking at something a new way. Like…my feet are killing me in these shoes. I’d like to make fun of Manolo Blahnik right now.”
“Really?” Kit’s eyes shone. “Why don’t you?”
“What, now?”
“Sure.”
The men nodded. She didn’t usually give impromptu performances, but she’d never been a shy person, so she said, “Okay. This is totally raw and if it flops, I don’t want to hear about it. Let’s see. You know, I really got into the business because of Bob Newhart. I love his old routines. So, this is a phone routine.”
She took a breath, steadied herself. “I’m a clerk at Vital Statistics, I’m on the phone and I’m trying to register Manolo Blahnik’s birth.”
She glanced around and they all nodded.
“Blanket?” she whined in a Brooklyn accent. “His name’s Blanket? Isn’t that kind of a crappy name for a baby?”
Some nodding, and mmm-hmming on her pretend telephone.
“Oh, well, well, if it’s his last name, I guess he’s stuck with it. What does it rhyme with?”
Long pause. She loved watching a live audience, even such a small one. She could see their little mental wheels whirring collectively trying to come up with rhymes for Blahnik.
After a good, long pause, she shook her head and said into the telephone, “Does it rhyme with anything in English?”
“Maybe you should spell it.”
“Aha. All right,” her ersatz clerk finally said, wiping her brow with relief. “And what’s the first name?”
She rolled the word Manolo around on her tongue, even as she rolled her eyes to the three people watching her.
“Honey, with a name like that, he’d better be an astronaut.” Long pause. “Or a shoe designer.”
They all laughed, but she thought they were genuinely amused. “That was great,” Kit said. “Did you really just make it up?”
“Sure. If I worked on it I’d make it funnier.”
“You should, then,” Giles said.
“You’re right. I could do a series of short pieces on designers.” She tapped her nails on the bar, thinking. “Anybody got a pen? I have to write this down before I forget.”
Giles passed her a pen that had such a nice heft and feel that it had to be expensive. With the aid of his pen and three more of his fancy business cards, she managed to scrawl down the basis of her new idea.
“Thanks,” she said, when she raised her head. She returned Giles’s pen and popped the four scribbled-on business cards in her purse.
“Wow, that was so much fun,” Kit said, then suddenly frowned. “Um, you’re not going to make fun of our contest are you?”
Startled, she glanced straight at Giles. Why, she didn’t know. He smiled at her reassuringly, giving her confidence that he, at least, didn’t see this whole thing as a joke.
“No,” Irene said. “Of course not.”
They whiled away the rest of the drinks time discussing ballets they had seen. The tally was: Giles had seen pretty much everything performed in London or New York in the last two and a half decades; Irene had seen everything featured on PBS and danced by The Ohio Ballet; Kit’s tally was four ballets since she’d moved to Manhattan. Peter, zero.
“Aren’t you a fantasy winner, too?” she asked Peter.
He glanced at Kit as though he wanted to pop her in his mouth like the olive in his drink. “Oh, yeah.”
“Then what are you doing coming along to this ballet if it’s not your thing?”
He was still gazing at Kit, who was pretending not to notice. “I wanted to try something new. And, for the record, I’m having a perfect fantasy weekend,” he said.
Kit glanced at him quickly and Irene thought there was something very complicated going on between them. Observing people was her hobby as well as an occupational necessity, and she was fairly certain there was more than a fantasy weekend going on between those two.
Interesting.
“Well,” Giles said, “I’m glad that’s settled. Shall we go?”
She rose first. “Yes, Your Lordship,” she said, and curtseyed.
“Actually,” he said, “it’s my elder brother you would address as Your Lordship. I’m a younger son.”
And she, who in her whole life had never been stumped for something to say, was struck dumb.
He really was a kind of royalty. There had to be something major wrong with this guy and she was determined to figure out what before she got carried away with this fantasy thing.
Her silence continued through the first act of the ballet. She barely breathed, she was so entranced. She was glad they weren’t seeing something modern. She wanted a fairy tale, she wanted white, delicate tutus. She wanted Swan Lake.
She barely spoke during the intermission, and when they got to the dying swan scene, the tears ran un-checked down her face since the four items in her clutch did not include tissues. How stupid of her.
She tried to wipe her cheeks with her hand without ruining her makeup job and suddenly Giles reached into a pocket and handed her a big, white, linen handkerchief.
She didn’t even take her eyes off the stage, simply mopped her face and then reached out with her hand and found his.
Wordlessly, he clasped her hand in a comforting hold. She felt warmth and a strange kind of kinship between them. Odd, because they couldn’t be more different, and yet there was something about Giles that she recognized. He was an outsider too, she thought, and as much of an observer of life as she was. She might crack jokes, while he merely watched his world with lazy amusement, but there was still a natural sympathy between them.
“Oh, that was so wonderful. Thank you,” she said when the final bows had been taken and she’d clapped so hard and so long she was verging on carpal tunnel syndrome.
“You’re welcome,” Giles said, looking down at her with a glinting smile.
“Oh, God, you’re staring. Is my makeup a total mess?”
“It’s fine. I’m so glad you enjoyed the ballet.”
“Enjoyed? I loved it so much. If I lived here, I’d go to every performance, I think.” She tried to hand him back his very damp handkerchief but he shook his head.
“Keep it.”
“But it’s monogrammed. The serfs must have worked night and day sewing your initials onto it.”
“There haven’t been any serfs under my family for four hundred years,” he said in that snooty way that charmed her silly. “And my handkerchiefs are made in France. You can blow your nose on this one with a clear conscience.”
“Okay.” She smiled mistily up at him and did exactly that.
She would have sat there all night, probably, staring at the curtain, replaying the ballet. The aisles were crowded as the other patrons made their way out of the theatre, conversation buzzed and cell phones appeared to be surreptitiously turned back on, but she was still lost.
“Well, that was fabulous,” said Kit.
“Wasn’t it?” She turned to Peter. “Did you like it?”
“It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be,” he admitted.
“You, Peter, are a philistine.”
Peter opened his mouth, but Kit laughed softly and put her hand on her date’s shoulder. “Don’t be too hard on him, Giles. He was a good sport.” She kissed him softly. “Thanks. I really enjoyed it.” She turned to the two of them. “The limo will pick us up. You’re eating at Amuse Bouche, right?”
“Yes,” said Irene. “I read this fantastic review in the in-flight magazine.” She glanced at Giles. “If that’s okay with you.”
> “Tonight, I am at your command.”
And when he said them, those campy words didn’t even sound corny. She sighed.
“Are you in a hurry to get back?” he asked, still looking at her with that faint smile that made her feel more like a princess than this fabulous dress ever could.
“No.” She was in the middle of a fairy tale and in no hurry to get out of it.
He turned back to Kit. “I think perhaps we’ll find our own way back.”
“Okay,” Kit said. “I’ll tell the restaurant you’ll be late.”
“Thanks.” Giles gave her his charming smile, and Peter and Kit joined the crowd exiting the theatre. They fit well together, Irene thought.
Then she and Giles left their seats and joined the mass of ballet lovers wearing everything from diamonds and furs to jeans and ball caps.
“Would you like to go backstage and meet the dancers?” he asked softly.
“You could make that happen?”
“Yes.”
She thought about it. Did she want to see those magical creatures up close and personal? Did she want to see the twisted feet and sweat-streaked makeup and reality? “No,” she breathed. “I don’t. I want to remember it as it was.”
“Come on, then. It’s a beautiful evening in one of the greatest cities in the world. We’ll walk.”
“In these shoes?” She raised her foot so he could see the ice-pick heels that were at least seventeen inches high.
“Ah.”
He didn’t say any more but she could tell he had a plan so she hobbled along behind him. The next thing she knew, she was being handed up into a horse-drawn carriage.
Hey, wait a minute, the snarky smart-ass part of her said. This is like a total cliché. God, what if somebody sees me?
Then the horse clopped on its way, she tilted her head back to stare at the trees, the sky and the buildings, and she thought, what the hell.
“What are you smiling about?” Giles asked from closer than she’d realized.
She turned her head and there he was, inches away. “I was thinking what a cliché I am. A middle-aged tourist on a two-bit pony ride in New York. All I need is a collection of I heart the Big Apple shot glasses and I’m all set.”
Giles chuckled. “I adore your honesty.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I think I got as much pleasure watching you enjoy the ballet as I received from the ballet itself.”
“You were watching me?” She’d been so enthralled she hadn’t even noticed.
“You were enchanting.”
“What time is it?” she asked her escort.
Looking vaguely surprised, he glanced at the slim and elegant gold watch on his wrist. “It’s almost ten past eleven.”
“Tell the driver to spring the horse so it can get me home before it turns into a rat, or a pumpkin, or I turn into a pumpkin. I don’t know, it’s been a long time since I read Cinderella. But there are pumpkins involved.”
Giles took her hand. “Why are you so certain this evening can’t be real?”
“Oh, the evening’s real enough, I guess. It’s you who can’t possibly be for real.”
He didn’t look offended, more puzzled. “Why not?”
“Because you are a contest prize. Believing in you would be like thinking the plastic ring in my Cracker Jack box was a real diamond.”
“Do I truly have to prove to you that I am Giles Pendleton?”
“The Honorable Giles Pendleton, whose brother is a lord.”
“But I am those things. I’m also a man.”
She’d never shied from honestly and she didn’t now. “Yeah, well, you may be all those things, but guys with Honorable on their business cards who talk like they’re taking tea with Queen Elizabeth don’t usually go out with me.”
“I see. So it’s not me you don’t believe in, Irene.” Giles said, gazing at her. “It’s yourself.”
For a second, she stared back at him, seeing something like understanding, maybe even recognition. She took refuge, as she always did when her emotions scared her, in wisecracking.
“Really, you should see my usual dates. Don’t get me started. The last time a guy went down on me, we were Rollerblading and I tripped him. I was—”
Giles interrupted her poor-me-I’m-a-dating-disaster monologue by leaning over and kissing her.
For a moment, she was so dazzled she froze; then she found herself quietly enjoying the moment, and the contact. Giles kissed exactly as she’d imagined he would. With restraint and good manners. He didn’t ram his tongue down her throat or maul her. He simply used his lips on hers and when she relaxed into the kiss, he deepened it. She was happily enjoying the simple kiss before she made a startling discovery. Something was happening to her. It felt as if minifireworks were going off behind her eyes—and in other parts of her body.
Maybe it had been a long time—okay, it had been a long time—for her, but she never remembered a simple kiss driving her half-crazy like this.
When he finally broke away, she realized she’d just had the perfect kiss. Not too long, not too short, not too wet, not too dry, but absolutely perfect.
She blinked hazily at him and licked her lips. They were still tingling. “What did you do that for?”
“Honestly? I did it to shut you up.”
“Oh.” She thought about that for a minute while a taxi vroomed by them and then a couple of guys on bikes, and the horse’s bridle jingled slightly. “I talk a lot.”
“You’re funny. I like that about you. And you’re honest, which I find frankly refreshing. You’re also very beautiful, you know.”
She snorted. “Yeah, I’m beautiful like—”
Shockingly, she felt Giles’s hand press firmly against her mouth. “No more putting yourself down. I insist.” He removed his hand.
“I liked it better when you kissed me to shut me up,” she said.
“Very well,” he said. And kissed her again.
They rode in the carriage barely noticing where they went. “How can you possibly be for real?” she asked him finally. “There has to be a catch.”
“My poor, cynical Cinderella,” he said, and touched her cheek.
Before she had a chance to tell him that calling her cynical and patting her cheek did not constitute a full and complete answer to her question, the carriage jerked to a stop and the driver said, “Hush Hotel, sir.”
Giles paid the guy, then helped her down. Then her date once more tucked her hand into his arm and they walked into the hotel. The doorman nodded and greeted them by name as he ushered them inside Hush. Sweeping in on Giles’s arm, wearing her fancy gown and shoes, she did feel like a princess in a fairy tale. Oh, what the hell. For one weekend, why shouldn’t she give her cynical side a minivacation and free her inner princess? That’s what she’d wanted, after all.
“Are you hungry?” he asked her.
“Starving,” she said bluntly.
“Good,” he said. “I can’t bear women who pick at their food as though it’s been poisoned. I like a hearty appetite.”
“Honey, you are going to love eating dinner with me,” she said, deciding that this man was definitely the perfect stand-in Prince Charming. And if she turned back into a stand-up comedienne come Monday, and he turned into an extra from the latest Merchant Ivory production, at least she’d have had a weekend to remember.
Giles was right. She had to stop looking for the trick. There was no trick. She was getting a weekend she’d longed for with all her heart. All she had to do was shut out reality for forty-eight hours and indulge.
In fact, all her appetites were hearty, but if he left her at the door to her suite with a polite kiss on the cheek, she’d still have had one of the nicest evenings of her life.
And if, come Monday, he was the part of the fantasy that turned into a pumpkin, well, she’d deal with it.
11
“DID YOU HATE the ballet very much?” Kit asked Peter. They stood close together on the Hush roof
top. When she breathed in, she caught the scent of jasmine from the garden perfuming the air. Far below hummed the incessant traffic, but up here, she felt set apart from the teeming city, closer to the stars.
“After that facial, the ballet was nothing.”
He didn’t sound all that upset, though. In fact, she had a sneaking feeling he’d enjoyed the ballet more than he was letting on. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her and she let herself lean into his strong chest and enjoy the warmth.
“You smell good,” he murmured against her neck as he planted a trio of kisses at her nape.
“I think it’s the flowers up here that you’re smelling,” she said.
“No,” he mumbled against her skin, sending shivers through her, “it’s definitely you.”
“This is our last night,” she said, feeling her body respond to his even though they’d pretty much exhausted themselves—not to mention half-drowned themselves—in the big tub earlier.
“Is it?” he asked, his lips moving to her shoulder. His breath was warm, his lips teasing.
Was it their last night? She’d been wondering that herself. Maybe there was a way to keep this incredible lover in her life. Except that letting ex-fiancés back into a woman’s life seemed fraught with vague but horrendous possible complications. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I have to think about it.”
His lips curved against her shoulder and she felt his chuckle rumble through her. Then he raised his head and his eyes glinted down at her. “You have to plan it out, you mean. With a Venn diagram?”
His guess was close enough to what she’d been thinking that she huffed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m seeing a white board, and several colors of pens. Purple to write down the pros of letting me back into your life. Black for the negative reasons. Yellow for neutral factors. Am I close?”
She shrugged. She wasn’t about to lie. And if she’d spent some of the time he was at the spa amusing herself with a few pens and her white board, she really didn’t see why she had to share that information.
“Maybe I can help you make your decision. Let’s make a list now.”
“That’s silly. Besides, I’m hungry. Dinner will be brought up whenever we call for it.”
