by Parker Swift
“Yup yup. I heard. How’s it going over there? Any problems?” He was leaning on the wall now in an inviting way, as if to offer his services should I have any needs. He was flirting, and the truth was that while he seemed harmless and it was always nice to be flirted with, it was starting to make me feel guilty, like I was being disloyal to Dylan, which was of course ridiculous. In fact I should probably flirt back. I needed some anchor out in the world to stop me from falling into Dylan-land any faster than I already was.
“Not one. It’s a great place,” I said, trying to keep the conversation polite. I couldn’t bring myself to fully engage, but I needed to make some effort. “Have you lived here long?”
“A couple of years. It’s a fabulous neighborhood. Have you been to the Market yet?” I shook my head. “It runs most days, but Saturday is the most frantic, of course. Bloody insane, really. It’s quite a giggle if you can stand the crowds.”
“Of course I’ve heard of it. I’ll check it out soon,” I replied before he had the chance to invite me to go with him. “So, what do you do, Michael?”
“Ah, just a boring old finance schlub I’m afraid. Nothing sexy. But you know, it pays the bills.”
“Finance will do that if you’re not careful,” I said, leaning on the wall. “Have you always lived in London?” We made small talk for a bit, and then I was grateful to hear my phone ringing inside. “I should get that.” I took the opportunity and excused myself.
I’d have to remember Michael. Maybe I couldn’t muster the excitement about him now, but I had a feeling I might need a rebound in the near future, and he could be just the ticket.
* * *
The phone call had been the Franklins, but I was too tired to talk to them. I had a feeling they were going to want a rundown on everything, and really I just wanted to bask in the evening by myself. I broke out the laptop and decided to do a little Internet research on Dylan.
I did an image search and scrolled through recent pictures. He looked to be honest about not having relationships. Most of the pictures were of him alone or occasionally with his sister, exiting a restaurant, a hotel, or his car or attending some kind of event. Jesus, this guy must own thirty different tuxedos. The related articles seemed to speculate about his relationship status or flag him for being an eligible bachelor attending society events. I scrolled past the articles about the Hale family lore, bypassing family photos and logos for Hale Shipping.
The cover of a big coffee table book of Dylan’s work showed up repeatedly. There were also a zillion pictures of his buildings, all of which were modern and beautiful, revealing actually. Whatever emotions Dylan kept at bay in his personal life he clearly poured into his work. I studied the detailed shots of the museums, hospitals, office buildings, and astounding private residences he’d designed. I read about his fearsome reputation—apparently he was known for being completely uncompromising in his designs, which came as no surprise. There were stories of him walking off half-finished projects without a second thought. It appeared from these design blogs that people either worshipped him or considered him arrogant and impossible.
I continued clicking on various links and began to form a picture of this young but shockingly accomplished man. He was a member of all sorts of arts and design organizations, on the board of the Green Building Initiative and several charities and hospitals. There were as many pages outlining his illustrious and aristocratic heritage, complete with family crests and pictures of enormous country estates. Dylan was clearly a tabloid favorite, and I was beginning to feel like an idiot for not knowing about him before I’d met him, but his efforts to retain his privacy seemed to have paid off. I had yet to stumble across anything that would really enlighten me about him.
But as I scrolled down the fifth page I found some younger photos of Dylan. While he was apparently no stranger to the press, there had clearly been a time when he was making the British news on a daily basis. These weren’t red carpet photos—these were paparazzi shots.
I was seeing shot after candid shot of a younger, longer-haired Dylan, followed by picture after picture of whom I swore was Princess Caroline, the eldest granddaughter of the queen and a total knockout. And plenty of them together. I clicked on one of the corresponding links and found myself face-to-face with evidence very contrary to Dylan’s no-normal-relationship rule:
PRINCESS CAROLINE ENGAGED TO WILD GUY DYLAN HALE.
I stood up immediately, dropping my laptop on the table. He’d been engaged? To a fucking princess? Why was this so upsetting to me? I guess I hadn’t realized just how public a figure he was. I read through the headlines and corresponding news articles.
“Princess Caroline Going through a Bad Boy Phase,” paired with a picture of the Princess in a floaty flirty dress with Dylan next to her in that amazing leather jacket.
“Queen Furious About Nudies With Dylan” above a photo of Caroline and Dylan on a sailboat somewhere sunny and with black bars covering their nether regions.
“Palace Confirms Royal Engagement” with a professional posed photo of the two of them, looking weirdly stiff and uncomfortable.
The articles described Dylan as an aristocratic, out-of-control bad boy. A loaded and irresponsible architecture student lucky to still be enrolled. In short, the opposite of the Dylan I’d been getting to know. I read about antics in clubs, run-ins with the police that seemed to bear no consequences other than being written about by the press. And tons and tons of pictures of him cavorting around town with Princess Caroline, often looking drunk or hungover. It was a totally different man. This was not a guy who started his own business and took the architecture world by storm. There was nothing in charge or in control about the man in these pictures. The dates on the articles were from about seven years earlier. What had happened?
I kept scrolling, and then came across “Engagement Off, Caroline Mourns” accompanied by a picture of Caroline in enormous sunglasses, head down, walking through Knightsbridge. Is this why he wants so much control over his relationships? Had they been in love? Had she broken his heart? Had he broken hers?
A few more articles displayed images of Dylan or Caroline alone, photographed by paparazzi in various situations, all speculating at the cause of their demise. I couldn’t help it, and I had no right, but jealous bile rose in my throat. He wasn’t mine to mourn, and she didn’t seem to have any hold on him, but this all felt like too much. I mean, a princess? What had I gotten myself into? How could I possibly compare?
I poured myself another glass of wine, ran myself a bath, and sank into the hot water. In the span of twenty-four hours I’d gone from feeling euphoric, optimistic, and on top of the world in this new city, to feeling strangely alone and exhausted. Maybe it was Dylan, maybe it was my new fast-paced job, or maybe it was jetlag, but I just needed to cry it out.
* * *
By morning I had recovered my resolve. I wasn’t going to let Dylan’s past haunt me. I wasn’t sure if I was going to ask him about it or not, but I was going to do my best to push the feelings aside. The past was the past. If I thought about it for too long, a zillion questions came into my mind about how and why he’d gone from being someone who would be engaged to being someone who didn’t even date, and from being someone who had apparently been barely staying in school to being someone who was internationally renowned at his job. My mind would run wild with stories if I let it.
Maybe the Queen paved his way when she thought he was going to marry her granddaughter, maybe everyone all of a sudden wanted the husband of the future Queen to be their architect even if he was a party boy, or maybe this was just how life as an aristocrat worked: You could completely and irresponsibly blow off your youth and still land on top.
But none of this seemed like Dylan, and the truth was I couldn’t know. And the real question I was trying not to ask myself was: If he actually is capable of a committed relationship, why is that such an impossibility with me?
So, right.
Back to trying not
to think about it.
By my trip to the office that morning, my third official trek to work in London, I was starting to feel like one of the pack, cramming onto the tube, making sure the belt of my trench coat and my bag were tucked in before the doors closed, and offering my seat to pregnant women. Today was cool and blustery and giving a hint of the English fall to come, which suited my more subdued mood.
When I got into the office at eight thirty, there was a note on my desk to call Hannah on her cell.
Hannah answered on the first ring. “Lydia.”
“Yes, Hannah. How can I help?”
“There are two important client appointments today at the same time—people I’m dressing for the event tomorrow night. The first is someone you may not have heard of, being an American and all, but she is a big deal over here, so brace yourself. It’s Princess Caroline.”
Chapter 13
Shit. Seriously? I hiccupped slightly, but recovered quickly. It was a huge deal for Hannah, no matter my own quickly shifting feelings about the royal family.
“Oh, wow. Is that the first time she’ll be wearing you?” I tried to disguise the slight panic in my voice.
“It is,” she said. “The second is also a wealthy and very important client and the daughter of a Baron and all that, but, well, not royalty. An ‘it’ girl, so to speak. I’ll need you and Fiona to meet her at my studio. Her stylist will be with her, so you’ll just have to show her the gowns, which I’ve left on a rack with her information on it. Then Fiona can help you process the sale.”
“Of course.”
“Great. It’s at ten a.m., and Fiona knows how to get there.”
* * *
At 9:50, Fiona let us into Hannah’s sprawling studio on the third floor of a building nearby. There were several covered racks designated for Fashion Week, but there was another rack near the door holding only four dresses. As I approached I saw a sign hanging off the rack: Amelia Reynolds, in bold print atop an empty sales slip.
Why was that name familiar?
Moments later, in walked Miss Cream Sheath Dress from the party in Canada. Amelia. Oh god. Seriously? I immediately hid behind the rack of gowns, pretending to look them over. Surely, she wouldn’t recognize me, but I just needed a moment to recover. I don’t think I’d ever realized I had a jealous streak before, but it was certainly getting a workout now, and my self-doubt was blossoming right along with it.
Behind her entered a muscular—and very gay—man, who introduced himself as Rocco, Amelia’s stylist. Rocco? Did becoming someone’s stylist require you come up with a bullshit name to go along with it? Ugh, my bitchiness was rising right to the surface, and I needed to quell it fast. I decided to hang back and watch Fiona work. I rehung dresses and brought new ones from the rack. Amelia examined herself in the mirror wearing a pale blue gown, very low-cut in the front. On her figure it actually managed to look slightly gauche, which I hadn’t thought possible for one of Hannah’s gowns. She was too buxom, and she was overwhelming the dress.
She turned to Rocco. “What do you think? Is it too much?”
He scoffed. “Do you want him drooling?”
“Obviously, but I don’t want to appear desperate,” she replied while pouting at him in a false coquettish way.
“Mmm. Yes, well, it’s a difficult balance to strike. Hale doesn’t strike me as someone who would fall for the whole boobs-spilling-out thing, darling—it’s just not a very Dylan thing to do. I think you should go more subtle.”
I froze and my eyes went wide. Fuck, Dylan was going to be at this party? With Caroline and Amelia?
My anxiety shifted into high gear. And even as it did, the ticker tape across my brain was reminding me that I had no right to be jealous, that he hadn’t promised me anything. Dylan had ushered a level of internal drama into my life that I’d never known before but with which I was becoming all too familiar. Sure, my life with my father had been challenging, and it certainly had included its own share of drama, but I’d never felt so raw, stripped of any armor. Fiona interrupted my rumination and sent me a side glare, as if to say, What the hell? Are you going to help me, or what?
I took a deep breath and brought over the next dress.
Amelia continued, “I could, and I mean, I know you’re right, but I just…Well, I have to feel and look fabulous. I just have to.” She shimmied out of the blue gown and barked over her shoulder, “This is wretched! I need something else.” Her attention never left Rocco. “He’s been looking even better lately. I heard he’s been training with some ex-military something or other. Have you noticed?”
I brought her the next gown, which she swiped out of my hands without ever looking at me. This woman was literally the worst, but she was also, even I had to admit, rather stunning. Seeing her in her underwear made me cringe. She had a flawless body, was about five inches taller than I was, and exuded a finishing school polish that I’d never be able to pull off. Her arms were perfectly defined, suggesting long mornings with a private trainer, and her strawberry-blond hair was shiny and long and perfect. I could just imagine that someone named Franco had probably signed her head somewhere, marking his accomplishment. Her designer underwear fit her perfectly. I felt like a troll all of a sudden. She slid into the raspberry-hued dress, far more elegant, with off-the-shoulder draping.
“Meems, you’d have to be blind not to notice him,” Rocco said. Meems? Blech. “Ahh, this is better I think. Less is more, and all that. And you still have a fabulous tan from your safari.”
Hah! Humanitarian work in Tanzania, my ass.
“Did I tell you his mother called me again? She is obviously trying to bring us together,” Amelia said with pride, as though having Dylan’s mother on her side made her a shoo-in for the next Duchess of Abingdon. Although, having Charlotte on her side was certainly more than I had.
I was supposed to be invisible. I was supposed to use the back entrance, and was driven home early in the morning before anyone else was awake. All I had was fuck-buddy status with a clear indication that nothing more would ever come of it.
Rocco leaned over, resting his chin on his palm, and replied to her, “Well, that, darling, will only work if he cares what his mother thinks. Does he strike you as a mummy’s boy?”
Amelia looked dubious. “I didn’t think so.”
“Do you think chandelier earrings? Or a necklace instead?”
Her stylist eyed her critically while she continued, “Well, regardless, he can’t remain a bachelor forever, and his parents aren’t the only ones getting impatient. He’s always been stubborn, even when we were kids, but he’ll come around. It’s well and good to have his youthful fun, but if there’s ever going to be an eighteenth Duke of Abingdon, he’s going to have to start taking his position more seriously, and I’m going to be there when he does.” She interrupted herself to consult with Rocco again. I had become literally frozen in place as I took all this in. She sighed and finally stilled in front of the mirror. “Well, what do you think?”
Her stylist gave a final appraisal and then confirmed, “Yes, this is the one. It makes your skin look divine, Meems.”
Amelia shrugged out of the dress and practically tossed it at Fiona. “This one. Have it delivered to Brown’s Hotel. By noon tomorrow—not a minute later—or don’t bother.” She dressed, gathered her things, and finally approached where I was standing by the exit. She met my gaze and paused, looking puzzled for a moment, but continued walking out, never directing another word to either Fiona or me. I wanted to throttle her. First for being able to openly desire the man I couldn’t get off my mind and second for treating Fiona and me like scullery maids.
I excused myself to use the toilet as Fiona finished up the details. Leaning against the sink, I took deep breaths and tried to figure out what the emotions swirling inside me were. Jealousy? Unfortunately, yes. Possessiveness? Again, yes. I definitely felt possessive. But also, sad. She was obviously trying to orchestrate Dylan’s life, and she wasn’t alone in it. I wasn�
�t actually worried that Dylan Hale, the man who seemed to negotiate with no one and brooked no disappointment, would allow that, was I? And she’d known him as a kid. Suddenly I felt like such an interloper, like such a foreigner. This wasn’t my world.
Worst of all, if Amelia knew what she was talking about, Dylan would be at this museum party with both of these women. I hated this feeling. What had been Dylan’s excuse for keeping us a secret again? Something about protecting me? I was beginning to understand Dylan’s desire for control. This sucked. It was seeming more and more likely that I was a fun thing on the side, and he didn’t want me to get in the way, especially when women like Princess Caroline and Lady Amelia Reynolds were floating in the mix. And you know what? I felt my resolve building from deep within me—that was fine. He could be my something on the side too, right? I wasn’t going to let any of this take away from the other night with him. I’d just have to keep all these feelings buried. Not let deeper feelings—the ones that I knew lingered terrifyingly close beneath the surface—take hold. Just have my fun. I could do this.
* * *
The rest of the day flew by in a haze of preparations. At five thirty, Josh, Fiona, and I were all in the reception area chatting, coming down off the day. Fiona all of a sudden remembered our morning. “Hey,” she said, looking directly at me, “what happened this morning with that client? You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
“Oh, you know,” I started, figuring out how I’d bend the truth. “I realized halfway through her appointment that I’d actually met her, or not met, but seen her this past summer on vacation in Canada. Isn’t that weird? It just took me by surprise is all.”
“Where were you that you were hobnobbing with the important and beautiful?” asked Josh, all of a sudden very interested. “Do you have a secret exciting life we don’t know about?”
Oh, if only he knew.
“Hah! Hardly. No, I was babysitting this whole summer for a family from New York, and they are the well-connected ones. I was one hundred percent the help. I promise.”
