Cloche and Dagger (3 page)

I whirled around to find Harrison standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at me as if he thought I was a couple of slices short of a loaf.

“I didn’t mean you,” I said.

“Because there are so many other people here for you to be talking to,” he said.

“No, I . . .” I paused. There was no way that saying I was talking to the bird wasn’t going to sound nuts. I knew this was one of those “better to shut my mouth and be thought a fool than to open my mouth and remove all doubt” moments. “Never mind.”

“Fine,” he said. He pushed off the doorjamb. “I put your bags in the pink room, the one that overlooks the back garden. Viv said that is your room when you’re here.”

I smiled. My room was still pink. Mim had let me pick out the paint color when I was twelve. I’d been at the peak of my girly-girl stage back then and the pink, if I remembered right, was a sort of retina-searing pink found only on Vegas showgirls and candy.

Harrison reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “My number is on here if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I realized that while I was uncertain about him, and he really wasn’t the friendliest person I’d ever met, the alternative was that I was going to be completely alone. Surprisingly, that had even less appeal.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

He looked surprised. “You want to go to lunch? I thought you’d be knackered from all of the traveling.”

“Well, a girl has to eat,” I said.

“I suppose we could do that,” he said.

His enthusiasm for spending time with me really bowled me over, I have to say. Fortunately, my self-esteem was swirling in the bowl already so I wasn’t put off by his less-than-enthusiastic response. Besides, I really felt like I needed to know more about Viv’s absence and he was my best source.

“Excellent,” I said. “Let me just go freshen up and we can go.”

He opened his mouth as if about to announce an abrupt change of mind, but I dashed through the doorway that led upstairs, not giving him the opportunity to rethink the plan.

I pushed open the door at the top of the steps and stepped into Mim’s sitting room. This had been my grandmother’s favorite room in the house. Squashy furniture done in blue suede—yes, she was very partial to blue—bookcases that were full to bursting along one wall; an oval rag rug over the wooden floor and a large flat-screen television on the wall opposite the largest couch. This was the room where Mim spent most of her evenings.

Lace curtains covered the windows where houseplants sat on narrow shelves built onto the windowsill. It even smelled just like it used to, of lemon furniture polish and gingersnaps. I was hit with a longing for my grandmother so sharp and so deep that I gasped. I missed her no-nonsense ways and her ability to always move forward no matter what challenge life handed her. I know she would have scolded me severely for getting duped by a married man, but she also would have been able to lessen my shame with a few words of perspective and lessons learned. She was good like that.

I pushed my sadness down and strode through the room, through the kitchen and the dining room to the hallway. Here there were two doors, one that went into Mim’s bedroom and the other that led to the uppermost floor where the two bedrooms Viv and I used were located. I knew Viv had moved into Mim’s old bedroom a few years ago. It made sense since she lived and worked here. I wondered if she had done anything to her old room or if she kept it as a guest bedroom.

I opened the door and hurried upstairs. A small foyer split the two bedrooms, and I glanced into the one that used to be Viv’s to see that it was neatly made up as if awaiting a guest. I turned and went into my old room. Wow!

How had I forgotten how pink my room was? In fifteen years, the paint hadn’t faded at all. Not only that, but my Spice Girls poster—Viv and I had both been fans back in the day—was still on the closet door as if waiting for me to break into my dance moves and belt out “Wannabe
.”

When Viv and I worked out our routines, I was always Ginger Spice because of my red hair and even though she’s a blonde, Viv was always Scary Spice, well, because she is.

I saw my bags sitting in the middle of my room and felt a shot of horror that Harrison had seen my room, still trapped in adolescence. Somehow this was worse than having him walk in on me in my underwear.

I quickly grabbed a change of clothes and my bag of makeup and went into the bathroom that separated the two bedrooms. A glance at the mirror told me that I looked as if I’d carried every one of the five thousand miles I’d just traveled on my face. Ugh! Small wonder Harrison had seemed less than enthusiastic about having lunch with me: I looked like a refugee and not a well-groomed one. This was going to take a major overhaul.

When I stepped through the door and back into the shop twenty-five minutes later, Harrison looked me over.

“I was beginning to wonder if you meant lunch today or Thursday,” he said.

“Today,” I said. And wasn’t that just the cleverest quip back at him? I blame jet lag. I was definitely not at the top of my game.

“Shall we then?” he asked.

I unbolted the front door and led the way out. I turned and locked it after him.

“The Earl of Lonsdale is just down the road, and it is more of a locals’ haunt,” he said. “Are you up to it?”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Walking will feel good.”

We walked side by side. Harrison kept his head up and his gaze at the horizon as if oblivious to my presence. I was getting the sneaking suspicion that he didn’t like me much but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why.

“It’s weird to be back here,” I said. If he heard me, he didn’t acknowledge it. Undaunted, I forged on. “I’ve changed, but the shop hasn’t and my room certainly hasn’t.”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I had switched into my wedge heels to be taller but I still only came up to his ear. Still he ignored me. Now his dislike for me was becoming less of a suspicion and more of a fact. As far as I knew it was completely unwarranted, so I kept up my jabber, hoping to goad him into at least blinking at me.

“No, I guess as much as things change they also stay the same,” I said. “Same old Portobello Road, same old antique shops and bookstores, yep, not many changes of note.”

“Clearly, you aren’t looking at things very closely then, are you?” He stopped walking and turned to face me, heedless of the other pedestrians who were forced to walk around us.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He looked torn between irritation and amusement, but at least he was looking at me and really seeing me. It was a vast improvement on the man who refused to acknowledge me a few moments before. My vanity really didn’t like for me to be ignored.

“I was inaccurate with you before. We have met,” he said. “Seventeen years ago, in fact.”

“We did?” I studied his face. In addition to the pretty eyes, he had a nice square jaw, full lips and arching eyebrows. I was quite sure we could not have met because he was handsome now so he must have been cute back then and I was not one to forget a cute boy, especially back then.

“Yes, Ginger, we’ve met,” he said. “In fact, I asked you to go for ice cream with me but you stood me up so that you could chase after a dodgy football player.”

My heart fell into my shoes with the speed of an express elevator. It was the nickname “Ginger” that brought it all back to me. There was only one boy who called me Ginger despite my attempts to get everyone to call me that. Hey, I was a kid and I thought it made me sound cool. I blinked at him as the recognition kicked in.

“Harry?” I asked.

“It’s Harrison now,” he said. His tone was as dry as dust.

He turned to continue walking, but I grabbed his arm and turned him back to face me. I studied his features closely and then I shook my head.

“No, seventeen years ago, I was ten. I’m quite sure I could not have had a date with you as I was entirely too young,” I said. This time I was the one who turned and started walking.

“It wasn’t a ‘date’ date,” he protested. He stopped me with a hand on my elbow. “But it was supposed to be the two of us going for ice cream, but you threw me over so you could stalk some older, and may I say inappropriate, boy.”

“No, I think you must be
inaccurate
again,” I said.

His lips twitched as if smacking away the smile that wanted to surface.

“Sorry but no,” he said. “On this I am perfectly clear. One does remember the first girl who breaks one’s heart, you know.”

He said it so sincerely that I felt my breath catch. He had to be teasing me.

“No, I don’t believe you,” I said. I tossed my long auburn hair over my shoulder and resumed walking.

Now here’s a little trick I’ve learned while watching my mom manage my dad my entire life. Quite simply, she has taught me that you will often get what you want much faster if you flirt. Yes, I know you could argue that it throws back the women’s movement a century or two, but I prefer to think of it as a management skill, where the person on the receiving end of my attention enjoys being made to feel good, and I get what I want.

In this case because I knew very well that ten-year-old me had blown off Harry Wentworth in favor of chasing some stupid soccer player whose name I couldn’t even remember, I was angling for forgiveness.

“How can you not believe me?” he asked. He fell into stride beside me. “I was a crushing twelve-year-old, who showed up at your grandmother’s door ready to take you out for ice cream, only to discover that you’d gone off with your cousin to chase someone else.”

I felt a spasm of guilt at how badly I’d treated him. Had I really been such a thoughtless girl? It appeared so. Given the recent events in my life, I had to conclude that the public humiliation I had just suffered was just what I deserved in the cosmic sense of karmic payback, and apparently, my transgression had accrued some serious interest.

“No, that’s just not possible,” I said.

He looked exasperated enough to throttle me, so I stopped walking and gave him a small smile.

“I would never have stood up a boy as handsome and charming as you,” I said. “I’m quite sure of it.”

His ruddy cheeks flushed a deeper color at the flattery and he no longer looked like he wanted to choke me. Instead, just as I’d hoped, he looked charmed and disarmed.

I rested my hand on his chest and leaned in close. “Whoever that horrid girl was who stood you up, well, you can be sure she regrets it now.”

His mouth quirked up in the corner and this time he gave in and grinned. Then he leaned in close to me and said, “You’re incorrigible as always.”

“See?” I asked. “Nothing changes.”

• • •

We settled into a snug, wooden booth with high walls, at the Earl of Lonsdale, and I immediately ordered a pint of Sam Smith’s Nut Brown Ale and the cottage pie. There are certain things you just can’t replicate in Florida, like real pub grub, and cottage pie was one of my favorites.

We were served quickly, and Harrison watched me as I ate with the gusto of a woman who enjoys her food. I really do. When I had demolished half of my plate and could slow down enough to actually taste my food, I glanced up to find him studying me.

“What?” I asked.

He just shook his head. I had a feeling that, although I’d been forgiven, mostly, for standing him up in our youth, he still hadn’t made up his mind about me. I decided not to take it personally.

“So, when do you suppose Viv will be back?”

“No idea,” he said.

“A day?” I persisted. “Two?”

“Scarlett.” He said my name as if talking to someone who was slow, and I realized I preferred that he call me Ginger. I liked the way it sounded when he said it in his charming accent, but given our history, I really couldn’t go requesting that, now could I?

“Yes, Harry,” I said. Naturally, I used his old nickname to goad him, just a little bit.

“It’s Harrison.”

I had a feeling he’d be saying that a lot to me, but I nodded politely as if I got it.

“Viv is like, well, you,” he said. He paused to take a sip of his Taddy Porter. “So, there’s really no way to know when she’ll return.”

“What does that mean exactly?” I asked. “That she’s like me?”

“Well, you and your grandmother and Viv all share one particular trait,” he said. “My uncle and I have discussed it.”

“You have, have you?” I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. “And what trait would that be?”

“You all severely lack impulse control,” he said.

I chewed thoughtfully on a bite of pie. Then I shook my head.

“I disagree,” I said.

He raised his eyebrows.

“You do? Well, your cousin just up and left with no word other than for me to collect you. What do you call that?”

“That’s just Viv’s way. You said it yourself.”

“Indeed, I did, but that doesn’t mean it’s normal. And your grandmother—”

“What about her?” I cut him off. He was treading on sacred ground there.

“My uncle said she was a wild one,” he said. “Is it true that she threw champagne in Sir Roger Dunmore’s face?”

“Hmm,” I hummed noncommittally. That tale was definitely in the family lore; we seldom discussed it.

“Or that she fashioned a hat with a big fat grouse on it for Lady Tidwell?” he asked. “A grouse that, if one looked closely, which the unfortunate Lady Tidwell did not, was seen to be laying an egg?”

I put down my fork and studied my fingertips as if inspecting my manicure for chips. Yes, that was another tale we did not discuss.

“And then there’s you, Scarlett,” he said.

I put my hands on the edge of the table as if to brace myself from an incoming blow. I glanced up, forcing myself to meet his gaze. I owned my bad behavior and I would not flinch from whatever he had to say about it.

Still, the mortification from last week scalded my cheeks. He must have seen the silent suffering in my eyes, because he reached across the table and patted one of my hands.

“The bloody bastard got off easy if you ask me,” he said.

I felt my entire body sag with relief and then I laughed.

“Thank you,” I said. My voice came out a little choked up and I swallowed hard.

I hadn’t spoken to anyone about the situation except Viv. I’d even fled the States without talking to any of my friends. It was nice to have someone, a virtual stranger, in my corner, especially when the social media outlets had portrayed me as a deranged-stalker type.

“Still, it proves my point, yes?” he asked. “No impulse control.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll concede your point, but only because you’ve been very nice. Now, back to business. What should I do if Viv doesn’t return soon? I don’t know anything about running the shop.”

“Well, today is Monday so the shop is closed,” he said. “But Viv has loads of special orders that need to be picked up, so you can’t stay closed indefinitely. You’ll have Fiona to help you.”

“Fiona?” I asked.

“Pardon me.” A young woman approached our table. “Sorry to bother you, but could I have a picture with you?”

“Me?” I asked. I glanced behind me to make sure there wasn’t someone lurking in our booth that she was talking to. “I think you have me mistaken for somebody else.”

“Oh, no, you’re the American, yeah? The party crasher? The one on the Internet? My mates and I love what you did,” she gushed. “You made a stand for women everywhere against lying, cheating ba—”

“Did I?” I interrupted her before she launched herself into a tirade. I looked at Harrison. “This is new. The last I heard the media was portraying me as a lunatic.”

“They were!” she exclaimed. “Right up until those other two girls he was having a bit on the side with popped up.”