A London Christmas

by Roxanne Rustand

  "So you really did lose everything, then."

  "All of my clothes. Everything, including my Kindle, phone, and a new camera."

  "I don't suppose Helpful Derek had suggestions about which electronics brands would be best."

  She perked up. "Why, yes—"

  Then she dropped her forehead on her upraised palm. "You don't even want to know."

  Outside, it was already dark, and her stomach growled. She pressed a hand against it and hoped Sam hadn't heard.

  "I think Tilly canceled your order once your purse disappeared. Fish and chips okay? It's really the only thing good on the menu." He motioned for the waitress.

  "I-I still don't have any money."

  He ordered the food, then turned back to her and shrugged. "You will soon, and you can pay me back. You did scan your passport before leaving the States, right? And upload it to someplace secure? That'll help when you go to the embassy tomorrow."

  She stared blankly at him.

  "Did you do that with copies of your credit card, debit card, and driver's license?"

  "Um..."

  A little muscle under his left eye began to twitch. "Okay, did you leave that information with anyone back home?"

  "No," she said in a small voice. "I'll certainly know better next time."

  He huffed out an impatient sigh. "Did you arrange traveler's insurance of some kind?"

  She was beginning to feel a little irritated, both at herself and this stranger who clearly thought she was an idiot.

  "This is my first trip abroad. I thought I was meeting someone who really cared for me, so I never imagined needing to prepare for trouble," she retorted. "I thought I was going to be with him for the next three weeks and either go home, or he would help me find a way to stay."

  Sam snorted. "He was more than helpful, I'd say. You know, some road service auto and homeowner's policies will cover theft while traveling and even extra expenses. You should check. Some credit card companies will help travelers, too...so things might not be that bad after all.

  "So about my passport...will this be a huge deal?"

  "Tomorrow first thing, you should call for an appointment at the U.S. Embassy. It's just over in Mayfair, near Grosvenor Park. I could be wrong, but I think everything is digital these days, so they could pull up your photo to see you are who you say you are...and look up the passport number, too. But they can help you figure things out, but it will cost you, and might take a while. No matter what, you'll possibly be stuck in London a couple days."

  When her fish and chips arrived, she felt his amused gaze on her when she poked a fry at the little cup of smashed peas nestled in the basket.

  "Mushy peas. All of the pubs include those with fish and chips. I have no idea why, but apparently it’s a rule."

  They seemed to be lightly cooked frozen peas, still bright green, lightly mashed. "Maybe they're a garnish?"

  "That's a side dish," the waitress said as she passed with a tray of tall Guinness glasses. "Some people put them on the fish or eat them as they are."

  The chips were American-style french fries, really, but a little thicker and softer. But the fish was moist and tender, the light coating crisp and flavorful. "This fish is delicious. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. The food on the plane wasn't all that great."

  "You do know it's going to take a lot of time, trying to sort everything out," he said, watching her polish off the last chip in the basket. "Besides a new passport, maybe you can get a replacement debit or credit card sent here, and/or a cash advance. And you need to cancel every card that was in your purse. Do you have all of your usernames and password memorized?"

  "Um..."

  "If it was me, I'd also alert the credit reporting agencies, in case of identity fraud. If your pal does this sort of thing as a career, he might already be opening accounts in your name."

  She'd known all of these things, of course, but hearing them spoken aloud just made her feel worse. It was as if she'd been teetering on the peak of anticipation and excitement and was now plummeting toward the depths of despair.

  "You look a little pale. One good thing—you'll be able to pick up a cheap prepaid phone at a store, though. The Asda stores here are like Walmart's back home." He looked at his watch. "It’s probably too late for tonight, but if you want to work on canceling your cards you can use my phone."

  She summoned up a smile. "Thank you."

  "You know...you could change your plane tickets and head home as soon as you have a passport," he said slowly, giving her a measuring look. "But it would cost a lot to change and you wouldn't even get to see London. You might as well stay the whole three weeks."

  "Right. Except that I've spent hours reading travel guides and researching London on the Internet, and know that I can't possibly afford it. I thought I would be staying with Derek's family."

  His faint smile and intent look now reminded her of a leopard stalking its prey.

  "I have a bit of a problem and could use some help," he said slowly. "Maybe we can work something out that will help us both."

  Yep, and now that leopard thought it could pounce and take advantage of her situation. She stared at him in alarm. "If you think for one minute that—"

  He held out both hands, palms up. "Believe me, you aren't my type, and anyway, I don't generally go for older women. You are more than safe with me."

  Older women! She took a long, hard look at him. His firm square jaw. Straight nose. Compelling, warm brown eyes shaded by the kind of long, thick eyelashes she couldn't even achieve with mascara. Nothing about him altered her first casual estimate that he was in his mid-thirties.

  "So what are you, around forty? Forty-five?" she asked with an innocent smile. "I'd guess a little older, but that girlfriend of yours seemed awfully young. She reminded me a lot of my older sister."

  He threw back his head and laughed. "Touché. Okay—that was my awkward attempt at reassuring you that you are safe with me. What I was going to say is this. My girlfriend was working as my assistant on this trip, but I broke my ankle yesterday and now she's walked out on me. Just a few minutes ago, in fact."

  Cait regarded him with growing suspicion. "You need an assistant?"

  "I'm a photographer. I came over here from Chicago to finish an assignment due this month. I could've handled it alone, but—" He shrugged. "Now that I'm laid up, there's no way. I can't manage driving with a cast, or hike over rough ground while managing a cane and carrying camera equipment. So how would you like a temporary job?"

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning, Cait called for an appointment at the embassy and—thank you, Lord—they'd been able to squeeze her in during the late afternoon.

  She'd managed to navigate to the U.S. Embassy on the London bus system, after a few false starts and no small amount of anxiety about being in a foreign city alone. Her new passport would be ready in a day or two.

  The police had promised to review the pub's security video and get back to her, but she doubted her thief would be very high on their list. Still, they'd given her a copy of their report to show the embassy, and to fax to her bank and credit card company as proof of what happened. Now both old cards were canceled and the replacements were being sent via Global Priority.

  Not that she'd be flush with cash or dare run up charges on a card.

  This had been a spur of the moment trip—an invitation to romance and adventure while she was between jobs, and the cost of the last minute plane tickets had nearly taken her breath away. That, and the expenses of moving to a little rental house closer to her new job, had seriously depleted her liquid assets.

  Which left the option of...Sam. Who wanted her answer by evening.

  With her newly battered heart, she had no interest in finding someone new—possibly never again. Especially not some itinerant photographer who traveled the world, leaving girlfriends in his wake, and who looked as unkempt as someone living under a bridge.

  But he was also the only person she knew i
n this entire country, and the pay would help with her expenses. So what was the harm in taking a chance?

  If he proved too difficult, she could simply walk away.

  She settled deeper into her seat by the window on the bus trip back to the pub and watched in awe as the bus passed historic cathedrals. Parliament. Famous parks and statues and museums. Places she'd only seen in books.

  Places Derek had promised she'd see firsthand.

  Pushing aside a cascade of emotions on that score—anger at her foolishness most high on the list—she rubbed the side of her fist against the bus window and cleared away a circle in the frost building up on the window, her excitement growing.

  This was London—a place she'd always dreamed of visiting.

  At Christmas, her favorite time of the year.

  And this was a chance of a lifetime to do something just for herself.

  VEHICLES JAMMED THE streets and the sidewalks were packed with pedestrians as Sam led the way to one of the British Red Cross charity shops a few blocks from the pub. After the third time Cait was helplessly swept back into the crowd behind them, Sam tucked her arm in his and slowed his pace. Even with a crutch and a cast, he walked faster than she did.

  "Is the traffic always this bad?"

  He glanced down at her. "You should see it in the summer—tourist season is a bear."

  "Do you come here often?"

  "Cities aren't really my thing. I'm more into nature—wilderness, wildlife." He steered her around a street vendor selling souvenirs. "But this project came up—good money, and I figured it might be interesting. It was," he added ruefully, "until someone bumped me from behind and I fell off a high curb. That took care of my plan to go over to Klosters for skiing after the holiday."

  "What are you photographing here?"

  "Christmas in London. The lights, the decorations, festivities. The author of the book was over here last year, but now that the written part is done, she realizes that she needs a lot more shots—better than the snapshots she'd done herself. She made me a long list."

  "How far along are you with your photos?"

  "Half. I still need to do Trafalgar Square, Regent Street, Carnaby Street..." He stopped at a street corner to check the street signs, then directed her to the right. "Seven Dials, Covent Garden and Harrods. Also, a few dozen shots of some little villages out in the country. Which is why, I hope, you've decided to help me out."

  After hearing his list, she was hooked. "You just got yourself an assistant. Those are all places I'd love to see."

  He slowed in front of a small white storefront with everything from Victorian jewelry to Wellington boots in the window. "Here you go. Good luck. I think I'll just sit in that man chair over by dresses."

  The store was closing in forty minutes, so she had to hurry.

  She headed straight for the clothing racks, checking sizes and prices, and lugged an armload to try on in the dressing room. Thank goodness for resale shops, especially here in London.

  Sam had given her a loan of fifty pounds last night. After using cheap public transportation to the embassy and having just coffee and a scone at lunch, she hoped she'd have enough money left to buy a few clean outfits, flannel pajamas, and then some light meals until her debit card arrived.

  "Wait a minute." He peered at what she'd draped over her arm and shook his head. "Really. You want to buy those things?"

  "What's wrong with them?" She fingered through the items. "Sweatshirts. Sweaters. Jeans. Some nice long skirts."

  "Wear that stuff and it will look like you're going into mourning."

  "I've been in one set of clothes since going to the airport in Minneapolis, and anything will be an improvement. Anyway, I like gray, browns, and blacks."

  He eyed her critically from her black leather boots to her gray mid-calf skirt and matching sweater. "That's what you're wearing now."

  "And I think it works with my hair color. It's not easy, with coloring like mine." She glanced in the full-length mirror on the wall by the dressing room door. Her auburn hair picked up the bright fluorescent lights overhead, making it look a shade lighter, and the freckles over her nose stood out in sharp relief under the unforgiving, harsh light.

  Makeup. She definitely needed to buy some fast, to replace what had been stolen. Right now, she looked like she was barely twelve.

  He awkwardly rose to his feet by bracing himself on his crutch and limped to a rack of sweaters. "What size are you?"

  She hesitated, embarrassed.

  "It doesn't matter to me. Just shoot me a number."

  "Probably twelve. But Large in sweaters."

  He thumbed rapidly through the rack. Pulled out some colorful sweaters, skirts, and slacks. Studied them, then put half of them back. "Here—try these."

  Red? Purple? What could he possibly know about what would look good—especially with her wild hair? So far, she'd only seen him only in baggy sweatshirts and jeans, so his personal fashion sense seemed to be at roughly zero.

  "Please," he added.

  She grudgingly added his choices to the stack over her arm. "It's going to be a waste of time," she grumbled. "But I guess it's your money."

  She came out with the outfits she'd chosen, one by one, to check herself in the mirror. A nice, sedate wool skirt. Gray slacks. Mom jeans with plenty of room if she had to tramp around in the country with camera gear.

  His elbows braced on the arms of his chair and his fingers steepled, Sam idly watched her and offered biting comments about the drab shades, unflattering lines.

  "What are you, a fashion designer in your spare time?" she shot back after his latest critique.

  "Nope. But I worked in fashion photography for about five years. I had to listen to tirades about nuances of color, flow, fit...the list went on and on. It made me appreciate nature photography all the more. Never had a squirrel complain. Ever."

  She was down to the clothing he had chosen. Though she knew it was a waste of time, she went into the dressing room one more time.

  She stepped out a minute later, feeling her cheeks burn. "This really doesn't—"

  The well-dressed older woman sitting at the cash register leaned forward to take a look. Her jaw dropped. "Good heavens. Who would have guessed?"

  Cait stood at the mirror and slowly turned to look at her reflection.

  "Finally," Sam muttered. He hobbled up behind her. "Do you mind?"

  Before she had a chance to respond, he reached up and released the clip holding her hair in its usual severe knot. Her long, impossibly curly hair fell to her shoulders with the wild abandon she'd always tried desperately to tame.

  She stared at her black tights topped with a short black skirt. The slim-fitting cherry red sweater was a shade she never would have considered, but it brought color to her cheekbones and brought out ruby and blonde highlights in her hair that she'd never noticed before.

  "This isn't me," she whispered.

  He grinned at her in the mirror. "Oh, yes, it is. You just never knew it."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sam glanced over the other racks of clothing, tossing more pieces to her like a softball player. She watched helplessly as the stack in her arms grew taller. Many of the items were high-end, designer labels that must have been donated by wealthy women supporting the heart association. "I don't have this much money, Sam. I can't possibly—"

  The woman at the cash register tapped a sign hanging on the wall behind her. "Actually, dear—the items were priced at a fraction of the original prices, and now everything is fifty-percent off for the blue and green tags, and seventy-five on the rest. We're trying to move things out faster because we're changing to a new location January first."

  "Purses," Sam said. "Over there."

  "What?"

  "Your purse was stolen, so you'll need something—a purse or a backpack. Right?" he pointed to the far corner of the shop.

  Purses of all descriptions were jammed into three shelves above a display of shoes. She ran her fingertip ove
r a two-toned russet and black pebbled leather bag. Just touching it, she knew it was well out of her league. "This is so beautiful," she whispered.

  The clerk came up beside her and smiled. "You have very good taste. That's a Tod's bag, one of my own donations. It was over fifteen hundred American dollars when it was new."

  Cait looked at her in awe. "How could you give it away?"

  "Very easily. It was a gift from my soon-to-be-ex-husband—a peace offering after he had an affair. It didn't work." She glanced at her watch. "I've got to close up now. The purse is marked at fifty pounds, but the green tag means it's now twenty-five. Let's say ten, if you really want it. I'd just as soon have it out of my sight the next time I come in to volunteer."

  "Oh, my word," Cait breathed. "Yes—absolutely. It will be my favorite memento from this trip, for sure."

  At the cash register, the woman ran the total, then hesitated and pointed out some items on the shelves at the end of the counter. "Your husband told me that you had everything stolen when you got to London."

  Cait flushed at her misconception about Sam. "Um...yes."

  "You might find some lingerie in your size over there. It's all new, in the original, sealed packaging. But you'll have to decide quickly. I need to leave."

  By the time they stepped out of the shop, Cait had three big bags to carry and Sam took the largest one. He shifted his crutch to his left hand and they fell into step as the shop's light turned off behind them.

  "I feel dizzy," she murmured. "I've never done such a whirlwind of shopping in my entire life. And I never dreamed I'd ever own some of those brands, either. How much was everything, again?"

  "No worries. Well below what it could have been. Now you'll just need a suitcase of some kind and you'll be set."

  She glanced at him from under her lashes. "I'm sure it all added up to much more than I can afford. But whatever it was, I'll pay you back. Promise."

  Light snow swirled past the vintage street lamps, dusting the sidewalk with sequins. The evening felt magical. Perfect. She felt as giddy as if she'd just stepped off a roller coaster.