Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  I tried to ask Donna how that works given Alastair is, well, semi-famous, but she didn’t bite. Just brushed it off like I asked how it works because he’s an accountant or something equally blasé. Which means he’s either been here long enough that his musician persona is invisible, or he plays it off like no big deal and, thus, his musician persona is invisible. The latter sounds a lot more likely, but I chalk it up to another question Donna wouldn’t answer. When I asked how long Alastair’s been in town, she shrugged and acted distracted by a clipboard on the bar.

  At least Alastair has people looking out for him, which is more than he had when we met. He had an older brother he was close to, but Liam was busy building a life for himself as a hotshot lawyer, which meant their visits were sporadic at best. His parents were across the country and out of touch in every possible way. I don’t think they knew he had a tutoring job, and I know for a fact they never knew about me until Alastair asked them for his grandmother’s ring. Then they flew to New York to meet me – and to deliver the ring – although I didn’t know about the ring at the time.

  I’ve met exactly two people in Fenchurch and both of them are determined to tell me as little about Alastair as possible. Donna’s been a little more forthcoming only because I told her Alastair and I were old friends from college and I was hoping to find him to catch up since I was in town. Not exactly a lie, but only about one quarter of the story.

  I push the bike out from under the eave of the shed and onto the sidewalk, glancing up at the sky as I do. Damn rain. Damn British weather. Damn Alastair. And Rex, too, while I’m at it. By the time I hop on the wide leather bike seat – which is wet, thank you very much – I hate everyone and everything.

  A condition not helped by trying to navigate a two-hundred-pound bike when I haven’t ridden a bike my whole adult life. When I was twelve, sure. But since then? Let’s just say that tiny little hill in front of the Swan with Two Necks feels like climbing Mount Everest as I push down on the pedals as hard as I can. Of course, my stupid wellies slip off the stupid pedals and I scrape my stupid shin, which hurts enough through the rubber that I squeeze my eyes shut in frustration and bite my lip.

  When I open them a second later, I see a woman and her toddler hurrying down the sidewalk towards me, so it’s a good thing I didn’t curse. But I probably should have. Unfortunately, looking at them means I’m aiming right for them because I can’t manage to steer the bike. I have to actually shout a frantic ‘watch out’ that sends them scurrying into the road while I try to get myself back on course.

  Thank God the hill is short. By the time the road flattens, I’m breathless and slick with sweat under my T-shirt. Not helped by the anorak that feels like one of those rubber tops people wear when they’re trying to lose water weight. And yes, before you ask, I’ve tried one. Once. I was invited to an Oscars party and my dress didn’t take into account premenstrual bloat. So, for two days before the party I wore a stupid rubber top nonstop and did exercise videos in my living room. It worked for me then.

  Now? Not so much. I feel disgusting and it’s only getting worse as the rain picks up again. I’m thinking about giving up when I see the sign for Carrs Lane. Alastair’s place is down on the right, Donna said. Right past the sheep field, because, obviously, that’s a landmark.

  But sure enough, I see a field full of sheep at the bend in the road. Poor damn sheep. A handful of them huddle under a tree, but the rest seem oblivious to the rain, which I don’t understand at all. I’m giving the big sheep under the tree a nod of commiseration – he’s staring right at me, I swear – when a truck comes barreling around the corner.

  Right through the puddle stretching across the road.

  The puddle I’m on the edge of at this very minute.

  It’s actually not the truck that soaks me, but the horse trailer that follows it through the puddle. It throws up an arc of water so big the sheep under the tree run. I slam the brakes of the bike on and stop in the middle of the puddle. Mostly out of shock, but also because I expect the driver to stop too. I’m on an otherwise deserted country road riding a granny bike wearing a bright yellow anorak. There is no way he didn’t see me.

  And yet.

  The truck and horse trailer rattle down the road, leaving me dripping in the middle of the puddle. If I wasn’t so mad, I might cry. In fact, I might cry anyway out of sheer frustration because I’ve been known to do that. Not in a long time, but if ever there was a moment…

  I take a deep breath. Then another and look down at my legs. The water didn’t hit my face – which is good because that would be seriously disgusting – and Donna’s rubber coat kept me dry to mid-thigh. The biggest casualty is my knees, which are soaked through to the skin. But as long as I don’t take off my coat, you can’t really tell. It looks like I’m wearing really dark jeans. Alastair will never be able to tell.

  Because it’s not like he’s going to invite me in for tea. I fully expect that any conversation we have is going to either be in his driveway or on his front porch. Before I saw him yesterday, I maybe would have assumed he’d be hospitable, but not anymore. I’m not even sure he’ll answer the door.

  So it sure as hell doesn’t matter what I look like, does it? I’m not here for a reconciliation. This is strictly business. Sure, I’d feel better if I didn’t look like a drowned rat, but it still beats the time I had to do a live video call with Mr. Pop Star himself, Zayne Rees, while recovering from having my wisdom teeth out. I looked like a chipmunk and didn’t sound much better. The only saving grace was that I wasn’t the one who called the reigning queen of Hollywood a bitch on a hot mic and he was too focused on his “image crisis” to notice me.

  It occurs to me that if Rex and Jed are somehow trying to change the terms of our already-unequal partnership, that’s another point in my favor. I can’t count the number of times I’ve worked when I’m sick. And being out of the office on vacation? When Blackberries were all the rage I had two, and they came with me everywhere. Even this trip up here is above and beyond. I almost never go beyond the limits of the London tube system unless there’s a plane involved.

  I start a slow pedal again and see the roof of Alastair’s place – or what I assume is Alastair’s place –beyond a big tree. I can’t see any actual details until I get close, but when I do my heart does the same weird stutter it did last night. This is the kind of place I always pictured Alastair living – a small two-story stone cottage with white-paned windows and a chimney that promises log fires and cozy nights in. The pebbled driveway leads back to a dilapidated wooden barn/garage with the door flung open, revealing the back end of a silver Volkswagen Golf. There’s a clothesline strung between the house and the garage with a lone faded towel sagging in the middle.

  I ease my bike into the end of the driveway and slide off the seat, the low bar between my knees. Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what I’m going to say. Or do. It’s not like Alastair was unclear last night. He doesn’t want to see me and he sure as hell isn’t interested in what I have to say. The fact that his agent is part of the reason I’m here isn’t good enough either.

  For thirty seconds I stare at the big window at the front of the cottage, half hoping Alastair will appear and save me the agony of knocking on the door. When he doesn’t, I swing my (very wet) leg over the bike seat and start pushing the bike slowly up the drive as I rehearse in my head what I’m going to say.

  Alastair, I feel like we didn’t get off to a great start last night. No. Too businesslike. He hates that. Correction: hated. I don’t know what he hates now.

  Hey there. Surprise! Definitely not. I’m not sure I could muster up the required cheerful smile and he’d see right through it anyway.

  I was in –

  I don’t get to finish that thought because suddenly a large black dog careens around the corner, barking like it’s going to take my hand off. I’m not sure which happens first, but I drop the bike and scream, throwing my hands up in the air. The bike misses the dog, who�
�s still barking and crouching down now like it’s getting ready to pounce. My hands are empty. I have nothing else to throw. If the dog comes at me, I’m dead.

  I try to remember what you’re supposed to do when confronted by a vicious dog, but I can’t. I can’t even remember my own name until I hear a sharp whistle and Alastair’s voice saying, “Ziggy, no. And Remi, what the hell are you doing here?”

  Chapter Seven

  Alastair sounds annoyed, but the expression on his face is way worse. His eyes are narrow and his mouth is a thin line. I see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat like he’s swallowing down something vile, but I can’t tell if it’s the words he’s holding in or his reaction to the sight of me in his driveway. If I had to guess, I’d say it might be a bit of both.

  Shit. Another thing not going as planned. I open my mouth and close it again. When I speak it’s filled with resignation because I know when to cut my losses. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave if you ask me to.”

  Alastair lets out a sigh and shoves his hand through his hair. It’s messier today than it was last night, but he still looks pretty great. Then he shakes his head. “What kind of person would I be if I let you do that?” He sighs and turns towards the house. “Come in.”

  I pull my bike up and follow but leave a wide gap. Although Ziggy is by Alastair’s side, his gaze is firmly trained on me. Well, one eye anyway, because now that I’m not fearing for my life I realize the dog only has one eye. I’m not sure if that makes him more volatile or less, but I’m not taking any chances. “Um, your dog?”

  I don’t have to say anything else. Alastair rolls his eyes. “He’s fine. He won’t attack unless I say so.”

  “Oh my God. Are you serious?” I angle the bike in front of me again.

  “Unfortunately, Ziggy doesn’t even know what the word means.” He points to the garage. “You can lean your bike inside the garage.”

  He pronounces it gar-ij, which throws me for a second. Then I remember where we are. Because for a second – one-eyed dog and sexy hair aside – I was transported back a dozen years or so to a different driveway. Then it was his house, too, and me showing up unexpectedly. I’d driven six hours up to Ithaca from Manhattan to surprise Alastair for the weekend in the brand-new red Honda Civic I’d bought with my first bonus. I was in town for less than an hour.

  I wonder if Alastair is remembering that weekend, too. But he turns towards the house so I can’t see his face, and I have no choice but to make my way into the barn/garage with my granny bike. I lean it against the wall and take a deep breath before crossing the five steps to the back door and giving it a gentle knock.

  Ziggy barks furiously again and I jump, despite the wooden door between us. I’m afraid of dogs. I’ve always been afraid of dogs. It was a point of contention between Alastair and me back in the day, so him having one doesn’t surprise me in the least. I just wish I didn’t have to actually see it. Or be within five hundred yards of it.

  Alastair pads back to the door – he’s ditched his shoes somewhere in the last two minutes – and pulls it open. I shake my head. “Can you please call off your dog?”

  “Sure. Down, Killer.” He doesn’t crack a smile. Ziggy doesn’t stop barking.

  “Not funny.” I muster up a pleading smile. “Please.”

  He lets out a sigh and snaps his fingers. “Ziggy, bed. Go.”

  The dog stops barking and gives me a look like he knows I’m the one responsible for his banishment and he’s not going to forget it, but he skulks away. I take a deep breath and this time when I smile it’s a little more genuine. “Thank you. Sorry about that.”

  Alastair shrugs and turns away, leaving me to step over the threshold into a warm cozy kitchen. There’s an AGA in the corner – which I recognize from Build a New Life in the Country – and a small wooden table in front of the window. The counters are a glossy wood and there’s a small red ceramic teapot in the dish drainer. It’s all so domesticated that for the first time I think about Alastair’s life. His real life. Not his semi-public one.

  No one has mentioned a girlfriend/wife/partner, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have one.

  I cross my arms over my chest and clear my throat. “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Alastair shakes his head like he knows I’m not sorry. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “That would be great. Thank you.” I’ve lived in England long enough to realize that offering a cup of tea is default politeness. It doesn’t mean someone likes you or particularly wants you to stay. It means you’re in their home. Hence, tea. So I have no illusions that Alastair wants me here. He’s simply offering me the same courtesy as he would the dishwasher repair person. But if it buys me fifteen minutes of his time, I’ll take it.

  “Here. I’ll take your coat so it can dry,” Alastair says as he moves around the kitchen, filling a silver electric kettle and setting it on top of its base. I peel my coat off and hold it out gingerly. It’s not that wet, but it was hiding how wet the rest of me is. Which Alastair notices straight away. “Christ, did you swim here?”

  “No. I fell victim to a rogue puddle because I was distracted by the sheep.” I roll my eyes because that sounds weird. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re soaked. I’ll get you a pair of tracksuit bottoms and throw your jeans in the tumble dryer. They’ll be dry in twenty minutes.”

  That’s more time than I let myself hope for, so I nod. Plus, wet skinny jeans are exactly as uncomfortable as you’d imagine, so getting out of them sounds amazing. “Thank you. That would be terrific. I’ll slip off my wellies and take you up on that if you don’t mind.”

  “Sure. Come on through when you’re done and I’ll go dig something out.” Alastair turns and leaves without waiting for my agreement.

  Which is fine. This whole situation is FINE. Except Alastair hasn’t looked me in the eye once. He’s being super polite, but I’m pretty sure he’d be the same towards anyone. And let’s face it, I’m no one to him. Not anymore.

  And likewise. I push my shoulders back. It’s not like I’ve sat around pining for my first love for the past twelve years. I haven’t. I’ve been damn successful, and if that’s come at the expense of my personal life, well it’s not like it’s too late. Lots of women wait to get married and having babies at forty is commonplace. I’m not even sure I want those things. But seeing Alastair reminds me that I did want them. Once. When I thought I could have it all.

  I chastise myself for being dramatic, making a face at my reflection in the mirror on the wall next to me – bonus points for putting my hair in a ponytail today – and push the door of the kitchen. When I step through, I’m obviously in the room where Alastair spends his time. There’s a log burner, a big gray sofa with a red plaid blanket strewn across it, and a guitar propped against one end. On the low trunk that doubles as a coffee table sits sheet music and pencils as well as an iPhone and headphones. Next to the couch is a red overstuffed chair where Ziggy lies looking at me. He’s not moving or growling, but the minute I notice him, his head picks up and he trains that one eye on me like an assassin finding his target.

  “Dogs know when you don’t like them, you know.” Alastair’s voice comes from my left and I turn my head halfway, because I’m not quite willing to turn my back to the dog.

  “I don’t dislike your dog in particular. He shouldn’t take it personally.”

  I’m glad I’m looking at Alastair because a trace of a smile flickers over his face. God, I forgot that smile. And how it made me feel - like I downed a shot of really good whiskey after spending two days sweating it out in a rubber top. Even my face flushes.

  Judging by the way his eyebrows disappear under his hair, Alastair notices my reaction. Because of course he does. He holds out a pair of navy track suit bottoms and says, “The loo is the first door at the top of the stairs. Go ahead and change and we’ll get your clothes dry.”

  I take the sweats from his outs
tretched hand, being careful to avoid any physical contact because somehow I don’t think that would be a good idea. “Thanks. I’ll be right down.”

  I don’t wait for his reply before jogging up the stairs. All of the doors are closed except the one right in front of me and I wonder if that’s intentional, but then dismiss it. Closing doors is very British. I do it myself at my Highgate house.

  I close the door to the bathroom gently behind me and let myself look around as I start peeling off my wet jeans. The bathroom is standard – there’s nothing here that gives away anything about Alastair or anyone else who might live here. Which, I realize, is what I’m looking for. This is a big house for one person and it doesn’t feel like a bachelor pad. I’ve seen how Alastair lives when he’s on his own and, well, it’s not like this.

  My phone falls out of the pocket of my jeans as I shimmy them down my legs and I pick it up, shooting off a text to Vera before I can second guess myself: Does Alastair Wells have a girlfriend/wife/SO?

  I tell myself I want to know what kind of obstacles I’m dealing with and it’s mostly true. If there’s someone keeping Alastair here, it’s going to be that much harder to convince him to come to London to perform, never mind go out clubbing afterwards and be photographed doing it. I only have the time that my jeans are in the dryer to convince him, and knowing what I’m up against is key.

  Vera’s text comes through and says: No. Had GF but broke up earlier this year. No one since. Why I feel relief has everything to do with the reason I’m here. It’s completely unrelated to the warm whiskey feeling spreading through my stomach again.