Love from London (15 page)

Arabella bites her lip. “I know all about that —” her tone had just a hint of Bitchy scent, probably because she’s still — even with me — territorial about all things Piece.

“Let me finish — so that was called off and I rang my dad,” I say (note to self: have started to use words like ring, rang, prat, need to remember I am NOT a Brit). “He then informed me that Mable’s getting a mastectomy the day after tomorrow so I freaked out…”

“Naturally — god that’s really rough — never mind. Let’s be positive and just plan on her getting through it with bells on.”

“Let me finish! But thanks. Even if I pretend to not be thinking about it, I am. Just so you keep that in mind. So then Chris showed up, total surprise, but a relief and laugh.”

“Oh, I want to see him! Where is our boy toy? He owes me an email.”

I check my watch and tilt my head. “My guess is that he’s either asleep or getting some right about now.”

“Rock on,” Arabella nods. “Leave it to Chris to journey all this way to find someone.”

“That’s exactly what he said — and the guy’s American, no less!” I take a deep breath. “Anyway, I gave him the keys to the grotto and figured you wouldn’t mind if I camped out here since you were supposed to be going Dutch and all.”

“You know you’re welcome any time, Love.” Arabella studies my face and wrinkles her brow. “What else?”

“Then, for icing on the cake, Chris tells me Jacob hooked up with Lindsay Parrish.”

“Your Jacob?”

I nod. “I’m still in denial. And that’s not the end of it. Just when I thought I was recovering nicely from news and surprises and a day of tourist traps and trendy eateries, I saw…” I catch myself mid-sentence but nip the pillage in the bud before I get kicked in the ass. Or in the Ash-er.

“What’d you see?” Arabella has her just-between-us tone. “Go on, tell us.” Us, we, the royal we, etc.

“Nothing — I don’t even know what I was saying. Nothing.”

I’m saved from further drilling by the just the way you are boy who introduces himself as, “Nick. Nick Cooper.”

“Wow,” I say. “A regular-sounding name!” I smile at him and he, Arabella, and I head for the livingroom. Someone has swapped Clementine’s record Donovan, and Jennifer Juniper plays while a buffet of Indian food is assembled.

“A regular name for a very irregular bloke,” Arabella says so Nick can hear.

“I’m sure you know by now to take everything this one says with more than a single grain of salt,” Nick thumbs over his shoulder to Arabella.

As I scoop chicken tikka masala onto my plate, Arabella gives me the low down. “I won’t bother you with the details of everyone’s pasts and presents, but just so you know, Nick’s the one I would’ve set you up with.”

“I never asked you to fix me up with anyone,” I say and grab a floppy piece of nan bread.

“I know — that’s why I said
if
. Don’t be so offended — it’s not like I’m suggesting you need fixing up, but he’s a great guy.”

“Not one of your exes, is he?”

Arabella winks at me, “No — not yet!” Then her smile fades and she whispers in my ear, “Speaking of which, Toby and I’ve had a huge row, so if things seem tense, it’s because they are.”

I don’t have time to respond before Toby bounds over, interrupting our whisperfest. Part of me thinks he’s jealous of me — not my stunning good looks or enormous talent, or lack of royal title, but that my friendship with Arabella is fairly effortless. The times I’ve seen him with her he’s been working hard at giving the appearance of being casual.

“Love!” Toby has his social (read: loud and very BBC) voice in use. “Do come and join us. Regale us with tales of Americana.”

This is an empty asking, though, because as I sit down, it’s the typical did you know situation that would happen with any group of old friends — who’s slept with which ex-boyfriend, who was spotted in Marrakesh, and so on.

“The spa there is utterly incredible,” Mini-Elizabeth Hurley says. She’s so pretty and smiley every word comes out like she’s giving check-pluses on a test.

“
Jnane Tamsna
, you mean?” Tobias asks.

“Of course,” Tall blond guy says. It’s as if they’re speaking gibberish, but before I can judge too harshly, I have to remember Arabella’s trip to Martha’s Vineyard with me. We went to Preppy Henry’s house where a US equivalent game of prep school geography and summer-houses hopping ensued, which is just like this conversation.

Tobias leans down to me (like the hired help, I seem to have secured a place on the floor, eating with my plate on the coffee table while everyone else is a tier above me) and explains, “It means ‘big garden’.” Um, gee, thanks.

“Wasn’t it created by Meryanne Loum Martin?” I ask, pulling the name and fact recall from thin air. Just my luck I’d read about it in a recent
Tatler Magazine
at Bracker’s, and luckily my ability to remember seemingly useless facts does come in handy. Everyone’s impressed and Arabella smiles with pride like I’m a toddler who has taken her first steps (toward name-dropping). Nick looks at me out of the corner of his eye while chewing a bite of curry, nods, but doesn’t say anything.

Later, when we’re clearing up the dishes and Mini-Hurley’s making out with the blond guy and another couple are off in Arabella’s room doing god knows what, Nick says to me, “You know, at my house we have a rule about that.”

“Dish washing?” I ask while letting the plates soak in warm, soapy water. I’ll have to clean them tomorrow — even though it’s technically already tomorrow and I have to meet Chris in a mere six hours to say goodbye before he leaves for Heathrow.

“No — name-dropping,” Nick explains and grins. “Mum always thinks it’s elitist and yet can’t help herself, so to rid her of the habit Dad invented a rule whereby if anyone drops a name over lunch or dinner — or breakfast, too, for that matter although we’re usually too tired or hungover to have it happen then — you just fling your spoon onto the ground.”

I laugh. “That sounds like a good plan,” I say. He stands next to me at the sink, our legs touching while I put the rest of the dishes in and he dries the ones I’ve already cleaned.

“Arabella told me a lot about you,” Nick says without facing me. “It’s a pleasure to finally put a face to a name.”

“But not drop it,” I say.

“Right.”

Fast-forward in my head to meeting Nick’s Mum and Dad, to name-dropping and spoon-throwing at his glorious city digs or country estate. Visions of me telling Chris and my dad I, too, have a semi-royal to call my own. Nick flicks a handful of soapy water on face and I can feel the suds sliding down my cheek. With a quick move of the wrist, he grabs a towel and swabs my cheek and chin. Who knew how sexy clean could be. I am my own soap ad.

It’s only when I look into his eyes that I realize I’ve been picturing this whole scene with Asher. Not picturing it, living it. That I’ve mentally substituted Asher for Nick and now, presented with the reality of it, I see its falseness.

“I need to go to bed,” I say. “Sorry — it’s been really nice meeting you.” Then I think that sounds too suggestive, although if Asher’s busy tonguing some girl in his gallery, there’s nothing stopping me from having a romp with Nick. I add, “It’s nice meeting all of Arabella’s friends.”

“Ah, playing it safe,” Nick says. “I respect that — wouldn’t want to actually let me now how you feel, right?” He has a perfect smile. Maybe I should reconsider. It would be easier, anyway, being a couple with one of Arabella’s friends, rather than her off-limits brother.

Her off-limits brother who is standing at the doorway of the kitchen as I contemplate a short term future with Nick Cooper. He’s cute, witty, seems interested, kind, and safe. In mid bend-to-kiss, Nick looks to the side and says, “Hello, Asher. How’s it going?” They shake hands and Asher nods, the silent guy
fine.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Asher says directly to me and turns on his heel and leaves.

Bum-bum-bahhhhh! I can hear the dramatic drum play in my head — talk about a bodice-ripping romance saga right here. If only Arabella could tell me what to do. No, she’d just tell me to hop in bed with Nick, which I would never do. The tension is palpable, and Nick Cooper — lovely boy who came into my life for a brief and shining moment — bids a fond farewell (perhaps not fond, but a goodbye nonetheless with a shoulder squeeze and double-kiss that lingers just a tad longer on the last cheek for emphasis).

Finally, I am alone with my mixed-up self. Before the wondering, the day-dreaming, the whirl of new and nuanced nighttime near-misses can start, Arabella’s yelling at Asher.

“You can’t just bloody come in here and expect a meal — or lend your crap attitude to my party. It’s my flat!.”

“It’s Monti’s.”

“Why do you have to insist on calling her that? Just say
mum
, it’s not like calling her anything else makes her any less related.”

“You do the same thing. Shut up and go back to your posh pathetic party. I only came to get my lens.”

“Next time, don’t leave your shit here.”

“But you live here,” Asher says, getting the last word in while Arabella raises her hand to thwack him on the shoulder. Toby stops her just in time but Asher is more annoyed by him than Arabella’s griping. “Don’t control her.”

“He doesn’t control me!” Araeblla’s voice is at dog-sonic level, which only proves that Asher is kind of right, and Toby does control her somewhat, and she knows this which makes her pissed her off at everyone, including herself.

Asher walks by the kitchen on his way to the guest room. Quickly, I follow, leaving Arabella and her friends in the sibling fallout.

I watch from the guest room doorway while Asher rummages through the large closet, tossing aside old luggage, a few stray hanging bags, a box or two in search of his lens.

“Do you want me to help you look?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond. I go over to the closet and scan the insides in case I’m suddenly gifted with lens-spotting abilities. “Do you want me to help?”

“No,” he says. “I just want…” He pulls me into the closet, presses me up to the wall behind the door and kisses me hard. I kiss him back, and when he pulls away to look at me, asking if it’s okay, I just pull him back and kiss him more. Then I push him away.

“We can’t,” I whisper. “Someone’s going to find out.”

“You’re right,” he says. “But I don’t care.”

“But I do.” Then I look at him. I can’t help myself. His lower lip is slightly wet from our kiss and I need to feel it again, so I lift my face up to him and he does the smoothest maneuver I’ve ever experienced — his arms around my waist, he slides me onto the carpeted floor, dodging the boxes and detritus around us, and gets a hand under my shirt, while never once breaking the kiss.

“I’m impressed,” I say into his mouth when we pause for breath.

“Oh, you like that, do you? I’ve won awards…”

“I’ll bet,” I say. I fight off mental images of him with anyone other than me. Then I have a RJ (reality jolt) and say, “Wait a second.” I push him off me — he’s lying half on the side of my, half off.

“What’s wrong?” He has genuine concern, like he’s upset me or did something I didn’t want him to, of which he’s definitely not guilty right now.

“No, it’s not this,” I point to him and then to me. “It’s before. I saw you at your gallery. I don’t even care if you think I’m stalking you but — what’s her name?”

I expect denial, I expect him to play the dumb guy who says or does anything to get what he wants, but what he says is, “Honestly? Her name’s Celia and she’s my ex. A very sad, confused ex, I should say.”

“So you always get it on with your exes when they show up at your place of work?” I pull my knees up and rest my chin on them.

“Yes,” Asher says, sarcastic in voice but even-keeled facially. “I’m a male escort, actually. She paid me to make her feel wanted and I reassured her that she’s still desirable and…”

“Fine,” I stand up and look down at him. He’s too appealing to resist, so I have to look away while he stares up at me from his position on the floor, one hand on his stomach, one hand behind his head. “You obviously find this all terribly amusing…”

“God, you Americans are so lacking in humor.”

I stand above him, one leg on either side of him. Taking a breath, I allow myself to look down only on the condition that I don’t give in and kiss him. My will-power lasts for less than three seconds and I am back where I was, mouth on his, his hands on my back.

“Love,” he says into my ear. “Nothing except that one kiss happened with her. I think you know by now what my intentions are.”

“No,” I whisper back. “I’m just a classless American — you’ll have to clarify.”

“You —”

Noise from the hallway makes me jump like I’ve been shocked (once, as a kid on a dare, I touched an electric fence — same kind of reaction).

“It must be here somewhere!” I say way loud and back out of the closet shaking my head.

Mini-Hurley and her mate are standing watching us. I don’t think they saw anything but they could have. It’s up for speculation, anyway.

“Found it!” Asher comes out of the closet with a bag held up trophy-like in his hand.

Hurley and Hunky lie down on the bed and we leave them to it — seems like they’ve got enough stamina for everyone and want to make use of each room in the flat.

“Where was it?” I ask Asher in the safety of the hallway.

“The what?” he asks and gently traces a heart shape onto my back as we walk.

“Your lens,” I say.

“Oh,” he stops and pulls the back of my pants so I have to stop lest they fall down. “I wasn’t missing a lens — that was a load of bullocks. I went to your dorm to find you and Chris told me where you’d gone.”

Arabella interrupts. “What’re you still doing here?” she asks.

“Just leaving,” Asher says. Then, to me, he adds, “And that’s
my
shirt, by the way.”

I look down at the blue Henley I chose out of all of Araeblla’s tops and can’t help but feel it’s kismet, if clothing can be considered such. “Do you want it?” I threaten to take it off then and there, which Arabella thinks is cool and defiant but which Asher thinks is hot as hell.

He licks his lips and says, “No. You keep it.”