I don’t tell her not to because, even though I can’t really see making donuts a regular thing, the one I just ate wasn’t bad. And the sugar buzzing through my veins lasts long enough to get me to Jed’s office in Shoreditch while I’m still feeling pretty good.
Until I take the elevator to the fourth floor and Jed’s assistant – Lyndsay, a fifty-something woman with short gray hair and a loathing for what she calls the “breakdown in communication between people today” – gives me her fish lips look. You know the one – a cross between a pout and a pucker that’s supposed to express surprise or dismay. I’m not sure what this one is trying to communicate until she says, “Remi. Jed is not expecting you.”
“I realize that. I’m stopping by to tie up a few loose ends from our conversation on Friday.” Despite – or perhaps because of – her fish lips, Lyndsay is a pretty good gatekeeper, but I wheel my suitcase against the wall as if I plan on staying.
“He is not available. I am sorry.” She’s not sorry. Her fish lips are a thin line now and her lack of contractions are a sure sign she’s uncomfortable. Lyndsay isn’t relaxed at the best of times – which is something coming from me, I know – but her speech is always a dead giveaway. When I first met her, I thought maybe English was her second language, but her accent is posh enough to rival the Queen of England’s, and I’ve heard her speak more informally after hours. But in the office? Maximum syllables, all the time.
“Is Rex available then?” I raise my eyebrows. I’m not sure Rex is here, but I’d be willing to bet a donut on it.
“I do not know. Please wait here.” Lyndsay rises from her chair and strides down the small hallway to the closed door on the left.
I watch her knock and enter, closing the door softly behind her, and count to fifty-seven before she comes back out and says, “Rex will see you.”
I nod once and throw my shoulders back as I march to Rex’s office, pushing the door open without knocking. Rex sits behind a large black desk and doesn’t look up as I enter, instead waving to the cream-colored chairs in front of the desk, saying, “Take a seat, darling. I’ll be right with you.”
I perch on the edge of the chair because standing feels confrontational, and I don’t want to be that direct. Until he looks up and the first thing I blurt out is, “I’ve given a lot of years to this company, and I don’t like how this L.A. thing has been broached at all. If you and Jed have already decided I’m moving or I’m out, I’d appreciate you saying it directly.”
So much for not being direct.
“I told you Friday night, darling –” Rex starts.
“I know what you said Friday night. It doesn’t answer my question.”
Rex doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his shoulders drop and his face falls. I know what he’s going to say before he says it, but when he opens his mouth, it’s still a shock to hear. “You know how much I adore you, but we need to think about the future of the firm. If you don’t move to L.A., your future here is uncertain. I’m sorry, but we need someone there to maximize our exposure, and as I said on Friday –”
“As I said, I heard you on Friday loud and clear.” I stand up, pushing the leather chair back. “I wanted to be sure I had all of the information before I left. I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“Where are you going?” Rex asks.
Another time, I might make a joke about going to visit Alastair to try to talk him around. Or hint that Alastair and I have history and that’s become more odd and confusing than I thought it would. But now I say, “I’m going out of town. I can take it as vacation time if you prefer.”
Rex shakes his head, his eyes closing. “It doesn’t have to be this way, darling. You know that.”
“What I know is that you’ve backed me into a corner with only one way out. So I think it does have to be this way, actually.” My voice comes out way sadder than I intend it to.
“Fine.” Rex rises from his chair and tips an imaginary hat at me, saying, “Have a good trip, Remi.”
And I can’t help noticing he sounds sad, too.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The difference between this trip to Fenchurch and my last trip is night and day. Last time I thought about work almost the entire way, including the cab ride. This time, I can’t concentrate on the free newspaper I picked up at Euston station for longer than one article. On the plus side, the article is a “Stars – They’re Just Like Us” sighting of Greyson Vaughn walking down the street carrying a pizza box. On the minus side, the writer makes a snarky comment about how Greyson should consider switching slices for salads, but anyone with half a brain can see the lump in his sweater is from the scarf he has wound around his neck. The fact that he tucked it inside his sweater is a poor fashion choice, though, and I snap a photo of the article to send to his agent.
I pull up my messages and attach the photo, but that’s as far as I get. Because Max, Greyson’s agent, will mention it to Greyson, who will either laugh it off or get defensive. Either way I don’t want to be responsible for something that petty. Last week I might have done it. Now, it leaves a sour taste in my mouth and I can’t help thinking that this whole new leaf thing feels way bigger than a donut and a new sweater.
The thought preoccupies me the rest of my journey and when the taxi drops me off at Alastair’s, I’m a little relieved that my first reaction to Ziggy barking on the other side of the kitchen door is still fear. Although it’s followed quickly by an eye roll as he starts wagging his tail once he catches my eye. He’s moved on to a full body wiggle by the time Alastair opens the door, grinning as he says, “Welcome back. It’s great to see you again.”
“It’s great to see you, too.” He looks amazing, and his smile is so full of genuine pleasure it makes me feel warm all over.
Alastair reaches for my suitcase at the same time I try pulling it across the threshold. He ends up covering my hand with his, which makes me feel warmer. My first thought is to jerk my hand away. Followed very quickly by my second thought, which is that Alastair isn’t jerking his hand away either. Although when I look up at him we both have a deer-in-the-headlights look on our faces.
He moves away first and my stomach settles, but I still feel a bit wobbly when I say, “Have you told Ziggy I’m not here as his dinner?”
I glance at Ziggy, who Alastair must have commanded to sit while I was gaping at him all starry-eyed, though if he did, I missed it. I silently promise Ziggy a treat for using him to hide how flustered I am from such a simple connection. I have a feeling he might understand.
“I’ve been telling him, but there are no guarantees.” This time he gestures me in and reaches for my suitcase only once I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen floor next to Ziggy. I reach down to pat his head as I shrug off my coat and am rewarded by him licking my jeans.
“Yuck. Why? Why does he want to lick my clothing? This was not in my dog research, I’ll have you know.”
“He likes you.” I’m not imagining the way Alastair’s smile turns self-conscious, but then he says, “And you were probably wiping your hands on your trousers on the train. Let me guess. Pizza or protein bar?”
“On the train? I didn’t have anything. But I did have a donut this morning.” It shouldn’t feel like a big admission, but it does, even though when Alastair knew me, I ate donuts. Of course, I also ate pizza, so…
“That will do it. Ziggy loves a glazed donut as much as the next dog,” Alastair says. “Do you want a cup of tea and you can tell me what’s going on with you? I’ve been worried about you.”
I’m not sure how I feel about that, but I don’t have to decide right now. “I’d love a cup of tea, but that’s probably a conversation for whiskey.” I shrug and hold up my hands. “Still not too late to send me to the Swan with Two Necks, you know.”
“No chance. But the whiskey will have to wait. My mum should be here with Sarah in about ten minutes if you want to get yourself settled first?”
Right. Alastair’s real life is going t
o come walking in the door and it would be better all around if I wasn’t standing in the middle of the kitchen downing a glass of whiskey.
Alastair carries my case up to my room, the second door on the right at the top of the stairs, and leaves me alone to take it all in. There’s a white-washed wooden headboard on the double bed, which is covered with a blue-and-white flowered duvet. The dresser is a dark wood and the top is bare, save for a small blue glass jug of water with a glass beside it. I always have a glass of water by my bedside table and Alastair either remembered that or he’s being a good host; either way, it makes me smile.
Oh, boy. I’ve been here five minutes and I’m already romanticizing him. That doesn’t bode well for the next two days when I’m staying in his house with him. Alone together during those long hours when Sarah’s at school. Ugh. I can’t let myself go there. He’s waved the white flag, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bed sheet. Plus, Alastair’s a client and I have a hard and fast rule about that. Of course, he probably won’t be a client for much longer, but that’s another complication, isn’t it?
My resolve wavers as I hang up the long black T-shirt dress I brought and my ivory silk nightgown falls on the hardwood floor. It’s a mid-thigh chemise with lacy straps, straddling the line between virginal and sexy. When I packed it, I told myself I didn’t have any kind of seduction in mind, although holding it now – in the middle of the bedroom floor – I don’t know how I lied to myself with such conviction.
I hang the nightgown on the hook on the back of the bedroom door and turn to the rest of the items in my case. I packed light, but I still hate living out of a suitcase and I yank the dresser drawer open, grabbing a handful of underwear. Meaning I’m not looking when the drawer flies out of the dresser and crashes to the floor, narrowly missing my foot by two inches.
Before I can bend down to pick it up, I hear feet on the stairs and there’s a knock on the bedroom door. “Remi? Are you okay?” Alastair asks, pushing the door open the rest of the way.
“Sorry. I don’t realize my own strength, I guess.” I look down at the underwear still in my hand. “I was putting my things away.”
“No worries.” Alastair picks up the drawer and slots it back into the dresser, then reaches down and grabs a small photo book from the floor. He hands it to me, his fingers brushing mine. “Wow, I forgot this was in here. Do you remember this?”
I turn it over in my hands and flip it open with a gasp. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you still have this.”
Should I read anything into the fact that Alastair has a photo album I made him from our long-ago weekend in Toronto? The weekend he asked me to marry him?
It’s stashed in a drawer in the spare room. But still.
I flip through the pages. Us in front of our hotel, the view from CN Tower, the taxi driver who took us back to our hotel after we’d gotten hopelessly lost. Alastair on bended knee in the Distillery District and me with my hands over my mouth. He’d asked a guy to take our photo and I hadn’t wanted him to. “I was so cold and didn’t want to even stop here, do you remember?” I ask softly. “You were so determined to get a photo and I was not having it. I can’t believe you still proposed.”
“Are you kidding? I was so nervous I didn’t notice you whinging.” Alastair smiles.
I can’t help smiling in reply, but it fades as I gaze back down at the photograph. “These photos make it seem like this was only yesterday.”
“Remember the restaurant we went to?”
“You mean the one where I had that big glass of red wine and almost fell asleep at the table?” I make a face. “Seriously, I’m not kidding. It’s kind of a miracle you proposed.”
“Well, that was after I proposed, and it was really warm in there with the fire, so I think you get a free pass.” Alastair’s smile is gentle. “That was a great weekend, wasn’t it?”
“The best.” We hadn’t talked about marriage. I hadn’t thought about it. I was a college senior and he was only a sophomore – it wasn’t like there was any hurry. Alastair planned everything down to the last detail, whisking me away to Toronto for Thanksgiving weekend, and when he asked me, saying yes felt right. Like the most natural thing in the world.
I take a step closer to reach for his hand, but then the door slams downstairs and Brinley calls, “Al? We’re home.”
Followed by a girl’s voice saying, “Dad?”
“I’ll be right down,” Alastair calls. Then he turns to me and squeezes my hand. “You ready to meet Sarah?”
No. Not even a little bit.
I squeeze his fingers in return, hoping it feels more reassuring than anxious, and nod. “Sure. That sounds great.”
Ready or not, here we go.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sarah doesn’t like me. Hate might be too strong of a word, but then again it might not. I’ve been here for three hours and she hasn’t spoken to me directly once.
Not that I haven’t tried. I’ve asked her about school, books, music, Ziggy. The only time she’s answered is when Alastair’s prompted her, and she’s addressed him when she spoke, not me.
After a painfully awkward dinner – Alastair made garlic chicken, green beans, and roast potatoes, and I had two helpings of potatoes, thank you very much – I put my plate in the dishwasher and say, “I promised Amy I’d call her. If she’s not busy, I might go down to work with her for a bit tonight.”
“Sure, no worries. You can take my car if you want,” Alastair says.
“God, no. I don’t drive here.” I must look appalled at the thought because Alastair laughs. Sarah, I notice, does not. I continue. “I’ll ask her to come pick me up.”
“If she’s going to do that, why don’t you work here? We’ll stay out of your way, right, Sarah?” Alastair’s voice turns cajoling.
“Fine.” Sarah’s tone is curt and I can’t help thinking that if I talked to a friend of my dad’s like that when I was ten, he’d have called me on it.
“Hey now, I know you’re grumpy, but I expect better of you, okay?” Alastair’s tone is definitely more parental now.
“Why?” Sarah wheels around, and even though she’s speaking to Alastair, her eyes are on me. “I have my residential tomorrow and you promised we could do something special tonight. But now we have a guest and I have to behave.”
She says ‘guest’ and ‘behave’ with a level of derision I’m not sure even I can muster.
“We will –” Alastair starts.
I interrupt him. “Sarah, I know your school trip is tomorrow and I’m going to get out of your hair, I promise. Amy and I have tons of work to do on your dad’s video anyway.”
“Video?” Sarah wheels around to face Alastair. “You made a video?”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I assumed Sarah knew, but, clearly, she didn’t. And judging by the look on Alastair’s face, he didn’t want her to know.
I’m trying to think of something I can say for damage control when Alastair nods. “Yep, I made a video for ‘Pleading.’ Remi thinks it will be good for me.”
“Well, duh. Your old ones aren’t even online anymore.” Sarah turns to me next. “Are you going to put it on Vaze and Vevo or just YouTube?”
“Everywhere, eventually, but we need to finish it first. Right now we only have a rough cut,” I say.
“So are you, like, a video producer or something?” Sarah’s tone is still cool, but her eyes are wide with interest.
“I’m a publicist, but I work with a lot of actors and musicians and I’ve got a pretty good idea of what works and what doesn’t. Your dad’s video is really good. Ziggy’s in it.” I smile when the dog thumps his tail once on the floor. Compared to Sarah, Ziggy’s been a dream tonight. He hasn’t even licked my jeans again.
“You put Ziggy in your video, but not me?” Sarah puts her hands on her hips and glares at Alastair. “Why?”
“Because ‘Pleading’ isn’t about a ten-year-old girl.” Alastair rolls his eyes.
I know better than to make the suggestion that pops into my head in front of Sarah, and I bite the inside of my lip so I won’t blurt it out. Which is a good thing because the second thing that pops into my head is that Alastair’s fans would never stand for Sarah taking the place of the female lead. It changes the whole meaning of the song.
Alastair catches my eye across the room and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing I am. Before I can signal him not to – assuming he’d understand my signal to begin with – he says, “We’d have to shoot it first thing tomorrow or Thursday afternoon.”
“Shoot what?” asks Sarah.
“It has to be tomorrow. The party’s this weekend.” My voice gets a little high with the realization that, never mind Alastair screwing up his video, holy shit, my birthday party is this weekend.
“What are you talking about?” Sarah asks.
“It’s bright enough by 7:30. We could do it,” Alastair says.
“I’ll call Amy.” Maybe she can help figure out a way to salvage this sudden change of direction.
“Hold up a minute,” Alastair says to me. He turns to Sarah and says, “How would you feel about being in my music video?”
“Oh my God, are you –”
He cuts her off. “From the back with no mention of your name anywhere. If there’s the slightest glimpse of your face, it gets edited out. I’m not joking.”
“That’s fine. I’ll do it.” Sarah clasps her hands in front of her chest like she’s praying.
“You have to be up by seven tomorrow, ready to shoot before you leave for school. If you can’t manage it, we’ll have to figure out something else because Remi is leaving on Thursday.” Alastair glances at me, then back to Sarah. “I know you don’t like getting up in the morning.”
Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1) Page 13
