My phone buzzes in my hand. Alastair’s text is a repeat of the one he sent a minute ago: Hey, how was the birthday day?
Me: It was good. I might have made a friend.
Him: Might?
Me: It’s hard to tell.
Alastair: It’s not like you haven’t had friends before, Remi. Don’t build this thing into an insurmountable mountain you’re trying to climb.
I can picture Alastair rolling his eyes as he texts and I stick my tongue out at my phone. He knows this is a big deal to me, dammit, and that’s plain dismissive. Or maybe I’m being overly sensitive because I’m drunk and suddenly sooooo tired. The fact that I can’t tell is enough for me to put my phone down and take my ready meal out of the microwave. I’ve learned something arguing with Rex via text all these years and it’s that it’s easier to be snappy and snarky via text, but it doesn’t mean I should be. I dig my fork in, savoring the bite of roast chicken with gravy, and my phone buzzes again.
I take a bite of peas and two more bites of chicken before I pick it up. There are two texts from Alastair on the screen:
I’m sorry. I’m tired and that came out wrong.
I wasn’t trying to be insulting.
I debate not answering but that’s snarky in its own way, so I say: How was your trip? Are you there yet?
Alastair: Yes, we got here about an hour ago and everyone’s bunking in. We play tomorrow at three.
Which means it’s a relatively early start as those things go. No wonder everyone’s in bed. The crew will need to be up and out by eight in the morning to start coordinating everything and set up.
To Alastair I type: Ah, the glamour of festival life. Good luck with your first set tomorrow. Are you excited?
Alastair: Nervous. I’m sorry to cut this short but I should try to get some sleep, too. First night on the bus and I’ll probably wake up with the crew.
Me: Sure, of course. Good luck tomorrow. Let me know how it goes.
Alastair: xx
I don’t expect more, but…I do. Especially after how fun and flirty our texts have been lately. My phone stays silent and I wait another ten seconds before turning back to my ready meal. The mashed potatoes aren’t very good. They taste like glue. I stab another piece of chicken, but it’s not much better. Now I’m eating glue and cardboard, which, frankly, isn’t worth the effort or the calories.
I toss the whole thing in the trash. I should know better than to eat so late anyway. The reality always falls short of my expectations for how good I think it could be. I glance at my phone, dark and silent on the countertop and I can’t help thinking the same could be said for expectations related to late-night texting, too.
Chapter Forty
Paula calls me two days later as I’m on my way to the gym to try spin class number two. “Hey, are you busy today?”
I glance at the gym bag in my hand. “Not really. Why?”
“I’m supposed to have eight volunteers this afternoon over in Hyde Park, but two of them have flaked out on me. You don’t want to see the BBC Proms and shake a bucket, do you?” Paula hurries to add, “I know it’s hotter than Hades out, so don’t feel like you have to say yes.”
It is hot, one of the first real summer-like days we’ve had. My plans for today – and I use that term loosely – are spin class, a long cool shower, and reading in the shade on my back patio. I downloaded four books to my new Kindle last night – thank you next-day delivery – and have visions of a lazy day spent alternating between swooning in the fictional arms of a duke and dodging a best-selling psychopath. I know, opposite ends of the spectrum, but I haven’t read for pleasure in years and my only frame of reference is teenage me who devoured Stephen King and Diana Gabaldon in equal measure.
My steps slow as the gym comes into sight. “I can do it, but I’m on my way to spin class.”
“Oh, no worries. You wouldn’t need to be there for a few hours.”
“Or immediately for some pre-Proms set up is really what you’re saying?” I ask,. “If I’m going to do this for you, you’ve got to give me an out on the spinning.”
Paula’s laugh is deep and rich. “Ah, I see. Well, in that case you need to meet me at McDonald’s for lunch first. We can’t be expected to do this without sustenance, after all.”
“Now you’re talking.” I grin. “Although I hate McDonald’s. Can we go somewhere else?”
“As long as it doesn’t cost me more than a tenner, I’m in. My budget didn’t account for our night out, so I’m a bit skint until payday,” Paula says.
Shit. I feel guilty, even though it was Paula’s suggestion to go out in the first place. “Oh, right. I’m sure McDonald’s will be fine.”
“The nonprofit life, right?” Paula sighs. “I’ll be at Hyde Park in an hour. Meet me by Speakers’ Corner.”
She doesn’t wait for me to confirm before hanging up and when my phone buzzes in my hand I look down expecting a post code or a location pin because I’m not sure if Paula thinks I’m really that hopeless. Instead I see a big pink bouquet of roses with the word wedding and a question mark scrawled over the top, compliments of Bea.
I’m still staring at the bouquet when my phone rings in my hand. As soon as I answer, Bea says, “So?”
“So what?” I’m a bridesmaid, but it’s not like Bea and I are tearing up the phone with wedding talk. This is completely out of left field.
“What do you think about that as a wedding bouquet?” she demands.
“Um, it’s fine? What do you think about it as a wedding bouquet?” I don’t think there’s a right answer, but based on Bea’s sigh I gave the wrong one. I shift my gym bag up on my shoulder and start towards the tube station.
“It’s fine. That’s exactly the problem. My mom has already sent the photo to Jasper’s mom and now they’re acting like it’s a done deal.” Bea sounds like she’s stomping her foot, but hopefully it’s her shoes on hardwood floors.
“If you don’t like it, change it. You’re the bride.” I have next to zero firsthand experience with weddings. I’m pretty sure what the bride wants, the bride gets.
“I don’t mind having the argument with my mom, but I didn’t want to bring Hannah into it. Now it looks like I’m being flighty.”
“You’re the least flighty person I know.” Understanding starts to dawn on me about why Bea’s called me instead of one of the other bridesmaids. Because, truthfully, I’m the least flighty person I know. I always have been. My voice softens as I say, “You’re allowed to want what you want, you know. Someone else making a decision for you and you standing up for yourself isn’t flighty. It’s making sure you get what you want.”
Jed’s stern expression flits through my head as Bea lets out a long breath. “Thank you. I know it’s easy for you, but sometimes I need to hear it, you know?”
I shake my head. “I wish it was as easy for me as you think it is, but I’m more than happy to remind you. Anytime. Anywhere.”
“Thank you.” Bea sighs again. “We’re at the stage of wedding prep where my mother is driving me to drink daily, so I’m going to be taking you up on that.”
“Anytime. Seriously.” I continue, “Should I get my mom on the case to distract her?”
“No, I’ll just end up getting my mom’s texts at two a.m. instead of midnight.” Bea laughs. “Speaking of your mom, she confirmed that you’re bringing someone to the wedding?”
“I responded with a plus-one, remember?”
“I do. I’m wondering if it’s anyone special?” Bea’s voice changes as she says the word special.
“Maybe? It’s newish, so I’m not sure yet?” I mean, Alastair himself isn’t new. But what’s happening between us now is.
“You’re sure you want to subject him to your family? He must be special.” Bea laughs and it sounds more genuine this time.
“He is, I think.” My stomach twists, thinking of Alastair. We’ve smoothed things over since our conversation on my birthday night and I’m back to a low to mediu
m level of missing him. Low if I’m distracted, medium when I actually let myself admit it.
“Well, I can’t wait to meet him,” Bea says. Then she asks, “How does he feel about purple?”
We talk for a few more minutes as I walk towards the tube. I offer Bea a few more reassurances about standing up for herself and make her promise to text me after she’s talked to her mom. Then, before I can second guess myself, I text Alastair: I’m thinking of you today.
His response is immediate: I’m thinking of you too. Miss you like crazy, babe.
My stomach twists again, but this time it’s with pleasure at the unexpected endearment. I would have thought I’d get annoyed by a word like babe, but nope. I type a quick Me too and dart down the steps to the tube, a smile plastered to my face.
Chapter Forty-One
Standing at Speakers’ Corner as concert goers pour into Hyde Park waving my bucket is exactly the opposite of the afternoon I had planned for myself. It’s loud and hot, with no shade in sight. My arms are red from the sun, sweat trickles down my neck, and my bucket is so heavy and full of change that I’m pretty sure I’m getting a blister on my palm. I’ve also never laughed so much in a single afternoon and I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.
I’m bucket-waving with Paula and her colleague Tilly, who’s started a wager between us to see who can collect the most donations. Her friendly competition and approach to asking for donations from the people streaming into Hyde Park are at least half the reason why my bucket is so heavy. The other half is people coming right from the pub and the glorious sunshine. London is never more generous than on a bright, sunshiny day.
“Tilly, your turn. Do you think this guy coming towards us is good for three pounds?” I ask, nodding towards the blond guy in preppy plaid shorts.
She nods, then calls out, “Hey, you. Guy in the Crew plaid shorts. Yep, you. I bet you took the bus here, yeah?”
The guy in the plaid shorts takes a step closer and shrugs. He’s in his twenties, carrying a cooler. He’s the kind of guy I’d assume wouldn’t donate a single pound and let walk on by, which is exactly why I targeted him for Tilly. If anyone can get him to donate, it’s her.
“I took the bus here, too, and my Oyster card paid the fare, so I had an extra few quid to throw in my MacMillan bucket to start things off. How about you?” Tilly asks. She’s short – I bet she’s barely five feet tall – but her voice carries and now a few of the guy’s friends have come over to see why he’s stopped. She’s also gorgeous – cropped black hair and big dark eyes with eyelashes she’s currently batting at her growing audience.
“Sorry. Don’t have any coins,” Crew shorts guy says.
Tilly furrows her black eyebrows and looks to one of the friends standing nearby. “Who let this man out of the house without change for MacMillan? The first rule of BBC Proms is you always bring coins to give to the Proms charity.”
“Richard’s a knob,” one of the friends says, jabbing him in the ribs.
“Richard? Is that your name?” Tilly asks Crew shorts guy.
He nods and looks embarrassed. She places her hand on his arm and says, “Richard. Are these your friends?”
He nods again and shuffles his feet.
“Are you going to let them call you a knob without making one of them put money into my bucket?” Tilly asks. Then she raises her eyebrows as she says, “And I don’t mean that in any kind of inappropriate way, in case you were wondering.”
Richard turns bright red and turns to the friend who called him a name and says, “You got any pounds for this lovely lady and her bucket?”
Tilly bats her eyelashes some more at the friend and says, “Oh, Richard, you are a gem.”
His friends dig in their pockets and end up stuffing at least twenty pounds in Tilly’s bucket. As they walk away, she says, “And the whole adage that you attract more flies with honey proves itself true once again. Who’s up next to do some solicitation?”
I laugh. “That doesn’t sound quite right.”
“And yet it’s so apt.” Paula nods towards the right. “Remi, the tall handsome black guy for ten pounds at ten o’clock. Come on. You can do it.”
I’m the worst one of us at doing this, but I learned early in the afternoon that saying no meant Paula picking a far worse target later on. I take a deep breath and follow Paula’s gaze. Where my jaw drops open. Because staring right at me is Rex. And not work Rex, but casual, tailored-shorts-and-polo-shirt Rex. With a super-hot date, also wearing tailored shorts and a polo shirt.
He speaks first. “Remi. It’s good to see you.”
“Rex.” For everything I’ve thought about saying to him since the night of my birthday party, I can’t make a single thing come out of my mouth.
Paula and Tilly move slightly closer as if in solidarity, which makes me feel a bit better.
“I didn’t realize you volunteered for MacMillan,” Rex says.
“It’s a new thing,” I say. My voice sounds strangled and I clear my throat and try again. “I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you were a classical music fan.”
“I’m not.” Rex has the grace to look sheepish. “Craig thinks I need to expand my horizons.”
Craig – who’s been watching our exchange intently – steps forward and shakes my hand. “Craig Nelson. Nice to meet you.”
He has an English accent, which surprises me, especially given that they look too familiar for a first – or even a third – date. Aloud, I say, “Remi Cooper. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Judging by your accent, you’re not from around here.” Craig smiles. His teeth are toothpaste-commercial white.
“No.” I know I should elaborate, but Rex is smiling, too, like this somehow means everything is forgiven and forgotten between us and I can’t make that leap. I give Craig a bright smile in return and say, “So, which one of you are going to donate ten pounds to Macmillan today?”
“Ten pounds?” Rex raises an eyebrow. “That’s a little steep for a bucket collection, isn’t it, darling?”
His tone is no different from how he normally speaks, but after not being in constant contact with him for several days, arrogance is the only thing I hear. Judging by the way she stiffens next to me, Paula hears it, too. Although it’s Tilly who says, “Surely you can afford ten pounds? Your belt alone is worth at least forty times that.” Tilly gives a fake laugh. “I took fashion merchandising for A-levels and I recognize a Tom Ford when I see one. Good taste, by the way.”
“Thank you.” Rex’s smile turns brittle at the corners, but he digs in his pockets, pulling out a twenty-pound note. Waving it in his fingers he says, “What’s in it for me if I donate?”
“The satisfaction of knowing you’re supporting a great cause,” I say, and I can’t help smiling as Rex rolls his eyes. “You’ve given far more for far less and you know it.”
“I have, indeed.” His expression softens and he folds the bill and slots it through the top of the bucket. “There you go. And, by the way, Moira is pleased with how well everything is going with Wells.”
“It really doesn’t have anything to do with me at this point. He’s on tour and it’s going well. It’s all him.” I shrug, hoping that can signal the end of the conversation. I don’t want to talk about work, and I definitely don’t want to talk about Alastair with Rex.
But nope. Craig pipes up and says, “Alastair Wells, right? I saw his video. Rex said you were his publicist.”
I feel both Paula and Tilly’s eyes on me and I wish I’d brought up Alastair the other night over drinks after all because now it feels like a conspicuous omission. To Craig I say, “We’ve been working together, yes. What do you do?”
Craig opens his mouth to respond, but Rex is the one who speaks. “And on that note, we need to go find our spot.” He puts a hand on Craig’s shoulder and gives me a curt nod as he steers Craig away. “Remi. Always a pleasure.”
Nobody speaks until Rex and Craig are out of earshot, then Till
y says, “Was that weird? Because it seemed really weird?”
“It was weird.” I let out a long sigh. “Sorry about that. I’m on a leave of absence from my job and he’s kind of my former boss.”
The word boss tastes bitter in my mouth. Before all of this crap started about L.A., I would have never used that word in relation to Rex. But when someone pulls rank the way Rex and Jed have, there’s no other word for it.
“Well, he looked uncomfortable seeing you here, if that’s any consolation,” Paula says, grinning.
“Totally. And that Tom Ford belt is a fake,” adds Tilly. I laugh loudly in surprise and she adds, “But let’s talk about Alastair Wells.”
“Yes, let’s,” says Paula, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why do I get the feeling you’re more than just his publicist?”
I hesitate. I could play it coy and be vague. Or downright lie. Old me would have lied, thinking it’s no one’s business and personal relationships are just that. Personal. Then again, old me had very few personal relationships to speak of – and fewer friends. So I take a deep breath and say, “Well, it’s kind of a funny story.”
Chapter Forty-Two
One of the problems with being on a work sabbatical is that you can take the girl out of work, but you can’t take work out of the girl. Case in point? I’m on my laptop Googling local press on Alastair to send an update to Moira. I spoke to the man himself last night but I can’t really include the things we talked about in any kind of professional update.
Although, that said, our phone call wasn’t long enough to really get hot and heavy. He was going off to get food as soon as Theo came back. I don’t know who Theo is or where he went, but his delay was my gain. Alastair and I managed to sneak in an I miss you or four, with a tease of what’s to look forward to once we do see each other again. Hint: it involves a lot of mouths in various places.
Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1) Page 19
