by Aven Ellis
I look up from iPad to the digital picture frame we have on the kitchen counter, and watch for a moment as the memories of our life flip by. I can’t help but smile at each of them, hardly believing how my life has turned out.
I see the picture of me and William at our wedding reception at Claridge’s. I am wearing a form fitting Vera Wang gown, and a diamond-studded headband that William gave me on our wedding day. He looks as gorgeous as ever in his Burberry tux, and the background around us is so beautiful—all white flowers, linens, soft candlelight. But the smile on his face—the genuine, bright, ‘I am so in love’ smile—is what still melts my heart, even though it has been six years since that day.
I see our honeymoon in The Seychelles, where William rented a private villa for us to retreat in luxury and complete privacy. Then photos of this beautiful Victorian home we bought in London. It dates back to 1851 and is four floors, made of Portland stone and brick, and has a spectacular private garden. We both knew when we walked in the front door that this home was it. This was the home we wanted to spend our lives in.
After all the pictures of our home, photos of William with our black labs, Charlotte and Churchill, when they were puppies, pop up, then pictures of us skiing in Aspen, pictures of us at company functions, then—
Splat!
I look up from the picture show to the highchair, where Gemma has thrown her bowl of Cheerios upside down on her tray.
“Is Mommy not paying attention to you?” I ask, walking over to her and taking the tray off.
“Mm, mm, mm,” Gemma babbles, giving me a big two-toothed smile.
I smile back at my beautiful little girl and pick her up. I kiss her chubby cheek and inhale her wonderful baby scent. She is all of eight months old, with brown eyes and curly red hair. I put her on my hip and go back to my pot, stirring it once again.
I hear the back door open. Charlotte and Churchill are barking and I hear their paws on the hardwood floor, racing toward the kitchen.
“Mummy! We’re home!” a tiny voice yells out.
“In the kitchen, Valentine!” I call back.
I wait for a few minutes, and I can hear William talking about taking off their boots and coats. I watch as four-year-old Valentine comes into the kitchen, with her twin, Phillip, right behind her. Valentine was named after the holiday of our first date in Chicago, and Phillip is William’s middle name.
Sometimes I look at them and still can’t believe it.
We had twins.
And, somehow, they managed to survive—and thrive—in spite of me and William’s being first-time, shell-shocked parents who didn’t have a clue as to what to do with one baby, let alone two!
“Mummy, I’m hungry,” Phillip says, climbing up into his chair at the table.
“I want milk, Mummy!” Valentine says, going to her chair.
“Is that how we ask Mummy for something, Valentine?” William asks, bringing up the rear.
I smile at him. He always takes the twins for a walk when the weather is decent, and that is their daddy time. “Is that curry I smell, darling?” William asks.
“I thought it would be most appropriate on a chilly day.” I smile to myself, thinking of how we have kept that phrase our entire relationship.
William pauses by Valentine’s chair. The resemblance between William and the twins is just stunning. The three of them all have dark brown, wavy hair and light blue eyes. Gemma is the image of me, of course, and nobody was more thrilled than William when her hair started growing in red.
“Valentine,” William says, “I believe we say ‘please’ when we want something.”
“Please, Daddy!” Valentine calls out cheerfully.
“Thank you,” William says, opening a cabinet and getting two cartoon character plastic cups.
I sigh happily as I watch him. We don’t have a full-time housekeeper or nanny. We have a housekeeper come a couple of times a week, and I have a sitter part-time so I can work on the book, but we decided we would do this on our own.
And we have.
William delegates at work more than ever, but if he does work at night, he makes sure not to schedule anything the next night. Travel is limited to not more than a few days away from home at a time if at all possible. I gave up my job at Beautiful Homes Network after the twins arrived and switched to freelancing, so I was still writing but on a manageable scale with two babies in the house.
William pours two cups and hands one to Valentine and one to Phillip. Then he walks over to me just as Gemma is about to pull my headband out of my hair.
“No, Gemma, only Daddy is allowed to take out Mummy’s headbands,” William says cheerfully, taking Gemma from me and giving her a big kiss.
I laugh and William kisses my cheek. “You smell good, darling,” he whispers sexily in my ear. “Have plans later this evening?”
“Hmmm,” I say, stirring the curry sauce. “Well, I might be available after seven o’clock,” I suggest, knowing that is when all the children are tucked into bed.
“Might?” William asks, his beautiful blue eyes shining at me.
“Well, I do need to review some recipes for the book.”
“Very important,” William says, smiling.
“However,” I say, grabbing a tasting spoon and giving William a sample, “I think I could have a glass of wine with you and keep the manuscript for tomorrow when Lizzie gets here,” I say, referring to our sitter.
“Just wine?” William teases, cocking an eyebrow. He samples the curry and nods. “That’s it, darling. This sauce is perfect.”
“Thank you,” I say, taking his spoon and putting it into the sink. I turn and flash him a grin. “Wine and other things are on the agenda, my love.”
“Mummy!” Phillip shouts, “I’m hungry!”
“Just like his mum. Bossy,” William teases.
I teasingly mouth “Shut up” to William and turn to Phillip.
“I have some rice and chicken cooking for you, sweetheart. In the meantime, you can have some yummy veggies and dip while you wait.”
I go to the fridge and get out the tray I have already made with cut up veggies and dip for the twins to eat. I put it down on the table and am greeted with “Thank you, Mummy!” and I can’t help but notice, that despite our summers in Chicago, these children are 100 percent British, just like their father.
I turn around and see William gazing at me with nothing but love in his light blue eyes.
“You are such a good mum,” William says softly.
I reach over and brush my hand against his face, my fingertips grazing his gorgeous cheekbone. “And you are a good daddy, William Cumberland.”
“I love you,” William says.
I sweep an errant curl off his forehead. “I love you more.”
William presses his forehead against mine. “How did I get so lucky?”
I laugh as my lips brush briefly against his. “Well, you bought a TV network in America, and ended up with a wife in the process.”
“Best bloody purchase I ever made,” William declares.
Gemma squeals loudly and we both laugh.
“See? Gemma is going to be our business woman,” William says, grinning. “She knows when Daddy makes a brilliant deal.”
I laugh and go back to the stove. William carries Gemma over to the table and sits down with her in his lap, sharing the veggies with Valentine and Phillip.
This is what I live for, I think, looking at the table. Moments like this with my children and the man who makes me the happiest woman on earth. We have a beautiful life here in London, one I never could have anticipated. I never would have dreamed as a student at Northwestern that I would be a writer. That I would be living in London. That I would have twins and then another child and be completely fulfilled as a
blogger, author, wife, and mother.
And married to William. Not William Cumberland, the badass mogul billionaire, but William, who still brings me coffee in the mornings, edits my writing, and tells me he loves me more times a day than I can count.
The Bossy American, I think happily, is one very lucky lady.
Thanks to a little thing called Connectivity.
Coming Soon from Soul Mate Publishing:
Chronicles of a lincoln park fashionista
by Aven Ellis
Recent college graduate Avery Andrews is ready to begin a new life in the big city. She’s landed an apartment in Chicago’s famed Lincoln Park neighborhood—and has her eye on the cute commodities trader just a floor above.
If Premier Airlines knew about her fear of flying, they never would have hired her to be their marketing coordinator, but it’s not like Avery needs a lifelong career. Right now she simply wants a job to pay her bills . . . and fund a few little shopping excursions on Michigan Avenue, too.
Her new lifestyle comes with a hefty price tag, as Avery is not only faced with paying a ridiculous rent but finds she’s labeled a Lincoln Park Fashionista, one of the vacant, husband-hunting women who live in the area. Avery resents this stereotype. So what if she doesn’t want a lifelong career, and she loves fashions she can’t afford, but that doesn’t mean she is vacant and spoiled, does it?
When an opportunity to participate in a documentary arises, Avery finds a two-fold solution to her problems. She’ll earn some extra money, and the documentary will show her as a serious career woman, dispelling that horrible Fashionista label for good.
Any time the camera is on, Avery attempts to be a motivated professional woman. But when she is challenged by Deacon Ryan, the mysterious cameraman assigned to cover her story, Avery finds herself wanting things she was never supposed to want—like a lasting career—as well as Deacon. And Avery might just gain more from the experience than a perfect career image and extra cash to put in her Tory Burch wallet.
