Honeymoon Alone: A Novel

by Nicole Macaulay

  “Oh,” I say, blushing instantly. “Of course.” I walk back toward the fire and sit by the coffee table. I unscrew my mascara once again, and look at myself in the mirror as I apply it. All I can hear is the crackles in the fireplace, the shower running and muffled, hushed tones coming from the kitchen where Kiki is still hunched over, her back to me.

  The poor girl. From the moment I met her, she’s just seemed so lonely. I’ll have to make sure to get her information before I go home so we can keep in touch.

  “All set,” she finally says. She looks much more relaxed now that she made whatever phone call she came here to make. “Thank you so much.”

  “Great,” I say, standing. I walk toward her. I smile at her and wait until she looks at me. “Any time.”

  “I’m so glad I met you,” she says. And there it is. That look. Like she’s sad even though she’s saying something really nice.

  “Me too,” I say, touching her shoulder encouragingly. “Are you going to the New Year’s Eve Party tonight?”

  She nods nervously, like I just asked her if she’s going to attempt to go into orbit without oxygen.

  “We can hang out together,” I suggest, hoping she’ll get excited or something.

  I’m not even sure she heard me though. She opens the door in a daze and looks across the hallway at her door. “I should get back,” she says quietly.

  And then she’s gone. Just like that. I turn away from the door, but stand in the kitchen, unmoving, thinking about Kiki. Honestly, what is her deal? One moment she’s begging me like she’s sixteen years old to have lunch with her, to go shopping with her, to spend time with her. And at other times, she just seems a million miles away in some strangled emotional battle with herself.

  “Who was that?” Cary asks, walking out of the bathroom, showered, shaved and dressed.

  “No one,” I say, brightening. Cary’s ready for breakfast. Which means he’s going to tell me what happened last night. “Let’s go.”

  Polly’s hanging decorations as we pass through the lobby and past the ballroom. Oliver is nowhere to be seen.

  “I don’t get it,” I say to Cary as we step outside into the frigid air. It’s not nearly as cold yesterday and a good deal sunnier. “The Chaizer is relatively small compared to some hotels. Why does it host a big New Year’s party?”

  “Didn’t you read the pamphlet?” Cary asks, putting his arm around me as we wind our way down Kensington High Street toward the restaurants in search of a breakfast spot.

  “What, you did?”

  “It’s been on the desk the whole time. I like to know where I’m staying.”

  “What did it say?” I challenge him.

  “Just that The Chaizer is kind of a big deal,” Cary says shrugging. We stop to browse a menu but keep moving since it looks a little pricey. “I’m surprised you didn’t see the story, actually,” he adds. “It’s pretty romantic.”

  “Do tell,” I encourage him playfully, gazing up at him as we walk.

  “It opened in 1930 or ’31,” he says slowly, uncertainly. He shrugs, giving up. “Well, it was around the time of the Great Slump anyway – or as we call it, the Great Depression. The owners – a middle-aged husband and wife who were very wealthy…had apparently seen a young couple forgo a honeymoon since they couldn’t afford it. They opened The Chaizer in London, Venice, Madrid and Paris – their favorite places. The concept was very cheap but nice honeymoon accommodations in the name of love and love alone. Since the grand opening was on New Year’s, they threw a big party on the first anniversary and it’s been going on ever since. It’s by invitation and obviously open to guests as well.”

  I look at him suspiciously. “And you did not just make that up?”

  “Scout’s honor,” he says smoothly, as we find a restaurant finally. “The only one still open is the one in London. It’s much more expensive now, too. I guess the ‘in the name of love and love alone’ concept died when the owners did,” he says wryly, wrinkling his nose like he regretted the joke the moment it escaped his lips.

  “So all the other locations closed but they still have a big to do about New Year’s?”

  He nods. “It’s their claim to fame.”

  Once we give the waiter our order, I lean forward, my hands crossed, resting on the table, and fix Cary with my most interested – yet casual – look. “What happened with Anne?”

  He chuckles and shakes his head at me. “You’re relentless.”

  “Listen, you owe me a little something.” I say desperately. “If it weren’t for me, she might have taken back her offer to go out altogether. You were that slow.”

  He nods. “I’ll give you that,” he agrees. “I did not think she was there to ask me out. I had honestly given up on her. I thought she was dating that guy in Paris and – I don’t know. I decided she was a friend. Nothing more. And I let her know it.”

  “You what?” This isn’t shaping up to be the next great love story for the ages like I’d hoped.

  “Calm down,” he says. “I mean, I told her yesterday morning. We had a workshop for two hours and I went, did my part. No flirting. No extra moments. No idle conversation.” He smiles, remembering. “It was hard, actually. But I did it. And after class she did ask me if anything was wrong. And I just told her that everything was fine. That she was a great teacher and friend – and when I head back to New York in a couple of days, all her advice will come in handy.”

  “How did she react?” I ask, sipping my coffee and staring wide-eyed at Cary. Because, while he’s six foot two and handsome in a rugged sort of way, I know he’s not that tough. Especially when it comes to Anne. He’s been like a schoolboy this whole time over her. For him to put her off like that could not have been an easy task.

  “She didn’t seem happy,” he admits. “But, it honestly didn’t matter anymore. Coming here, knowing it was not going to lead to anything was hurting me.”

  “So she came to her senses,” I gush, “and asked you out. She let you know she was interested. Yours for the taking if you still wanted her.”

  He roars with laughter at that, throwing his head back. “Your head is honestly up in the clouds, I swear,” he says, once he’s controlled himself.

  “Well, it’s true,” I argue, defensively crossing my arms. “I was there. She came to make a move.”

  He smiles coyly. “Oh she made a move, all right,” he concedes devilishly.

  “Were the tickets for real? Or were they just a ploy to get you alone?”

  “They were for real,” he says slowly, looking amused at that question for some odd reason. I thought that it was a perfectly logical thing to ask.

  “Okay,” our waiter says, sidling up to us with our dishes. “Fruit salad and wheat toast for you,” he says, placing my dish down in front of me. “And eggs over easy, toast and bacon for you,” he says to Cary, placing his dish down. “Enjoy.”

  “Well, then what?” I ask, as I lather strawberry jam on my toast.

  Cary smiles. “We went to the show and she was very nervous,” he remembers, his eyes crinkling. “I honestly felt bad so about twenty minutes into the show, I took her hand. After that,” he says, his voice dropping to an almost husky whisper, “it was electric.”

  I swallow my toast. “Electric?” I ask, confused.

  “We’ve been friends for six years. Good friends,” he explains. “We’ve never held hands. We’ve barely touched, except for flirtatious little swats and taps. Hugs and kisses in greeting. It’s always been friendly, and it’s always been more or less how we are with everyone else. This – this was a new level. Jeez, I could barely breathe. It was electric.”

  My heart feels like it’s swelling inside my chest with total joy for him. I can see a look in his eyes. A new look. And I love it.

  “We were supposed to go and have dinner. When we left the show, though, she was cold. It was freezing outside last night.”

  “I know,” I agree softly, my cheeks flaming at the memory of my own late
night walk outside in the cold.

  “I put an arm around her to keep her warm and she looked up at me. I guess she didn’t know that I’d…be so forward so soon. But when she looked up,” he says, looking at some invisible spot between us, clearly back in the moment. “Our faces were so close. So I bent down and kissed her.”

  “Oh, Cary,” I squeal excitedly. “Good for you.”

  “I kissed her with six years of pent up emotion,” he adds, smiling, finally letting his absolute elation at the turn of events yesterday shine through his eyes. “I kissed her like my life depended on it.” He taps the table and I jump at the sudden thump that causes our silverware to clank against the dishes. “I kissed her in a way that warmed her right up.”

  “Sounds like a good kiss,” I say after a moment. My heart’s racing at the thought of this kiss and it didn’t even happen to me. I just pictured the whole scenario in slow motion and black-and-white! “What did she say afterward?” I finally ask.

  He laughs and grabs his fork. “She cancelled dinner,” he says and then he begins eating his eggs. “That, my dear, is all you’re getting on the subject.” He winks at me playfully. “I want to hear about your night.”

  I open my mouth, but close it again. I don’t know where to begin. To be honest, I don’t really want to relive it. After hearing about Cary’s AMC movie channel smacker, I am a little embarrassed about what happened last night outside Filthy McGee’s. I mean…it doesn’t sound so promising when a guy kisses you and then can’t stand to be around you for a second longer.

  “What?” Cary says, the lightness leaving his expression. Concern creases his features as he puts his fork down and tries to get me to look at him. “Lucy.”

  I finally do. I look up at him and roll my eyes. “It was nothing,” I say quickly, moving my hair behind my ears.

  “What was nothing? Did something happen last night?” Now he honestly seems a little worried.

  “Oliver and I…kissed,” I explain hastily.

  The moment the words are out of my mouth, Cary’s brow clears and he begins to smile. “I told you—“

  “It wasn’t anything like your kiss last night,” I add. “He broke off the kiss, put me in a taxi and basically ran off with his tail between his legs.” I shrug. “Not exactly going to make us runner ups for kiss of the year.”

  “Was it a good kiss?” Cary asks, deadpan.

  I nod, feeling a little embarrassed. I’ve barely divulged anything to him and my stomach’s in knots, my throat feels tight and I can’t seem to find the words to describe how I feel about any of it.

  “You do realize why he ran off, don’t you?” Cary asks, leaning back in his chair, serious as ever.

  I shake my head. “He seemed dazed when he pulled back. A little nervous, confused, and something else,” I say, furrowing my brows, my eyes darting back and forth, searching. “I can’t put my finger on—“

  “It’s because of all this nonsense,” Cary says, almost angrily. “He likes you, Lucy. It’s obvious.”

  I gaze dreamily at Cary. “I don’t remember Prince Charming putting her in a cab,” I joke.

  “He thinks you’re married,” he says impatiently. Suddenly he’s acting like our dumb charade is, well, dumb. Cary, who’s been the biggest cheerleader of the plan since he arrived at The Chaizer and made the whole thing up to boot! Not that anyone really bought it.

  “Come on, Cary,” I retort, putting my toast down and resting my elbows on the table. “He can’t honestly think that we’re married. I am sure you’re a great actor, but neither of us has really pulled off an Oscar-worthy performance.”

  “I think we’ve done okay,” he says, wounded defense written on his face.

  “I think we phoned it in,” I say gently. “The fact that last night we were both out kissing other people is kind of a testament to that fact.”

  “Maybe he isn’t sure if we’re married,” he admits. “But he knows that you’re lying about something. You are right about that. And I can tell you,” he says, squinting his eyes and leaning forward toward me. “He’s lying about something, too. That is why he ran away.”

  “You lost me.”

  He sighs and puts a hand through his hair. “He likes you. He kissed you. But this thing that you’ve both left unsaid, this something that is hanging in the air, what you’re not telling him and what he’s not telling you…that is what came between you last night.”

  I nod, considering this. It makes sense. Oliver’s been trying to pull the truth out of me since the second I arrived. And it’s such a lame truth.

  “If he’s at the party tonight,” Cary says, cutting through my thoughts like a knife, “just tell him everything. Tell him how you feel. Tell him that we aren’t married. Tell him that you like him. And end this trip knowing that you came out here and really went after what you wanted.”

  I look at him wide-eyed. Tell Oliver everything?

  “I’m telling you,” he says after a long moment. “It’s the best feeling.”

  swear, these boots are going to get me killed. Every fifth step I take seems to result in a slight stumble. But they look so good with my emerald green and silver vintage dress – the one I bought when Cary and I went shopping. That feels like ages ago. I have to wear these boots. These are my London boots. They are the boots I was wearing when Oliver kissed me last night. And they are the ones I will wear tonight for good luck.

  As I put the finishing touches on my makeup, I see Cary’s reflection in the mirror as he walks up behind me. Through the reflection, he takes me in and lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

  “You look beautiful,” he says. He squeezes my shoulders gently and I turn to really look at him. My breath catches because he looks absolutely unbelievable. In gray pants and a black button down, he looks like he just stepped from the pages of my favorite fairytale story to attend the ball with me. Or, more accurately, the pages of GQ. “So do you,” I finally say. “Is Anne coming tonight?”

  He nods, trying to stifle a smile. His fingers graze the tips of my hair and he looks at me curiously. “Straight?” He suddenly looks around the room nervously and breathes in dramatically.

  I swat his arm. “There’s no fire,” I say defensively. “I happened to get it straightened by a professional down the street.”

  He laughs. “A very safe choice.”

  His phone chirps and he grabs it from his pocket, walking away as he answers. I walk to the fireplace and plop myself down on the couch, resting my feet on the coffee table. I grab The Cat Who Went to Paris from the end table and open it, but I close it immediately. I can’t concentrate. We’ll be heading down to the ballroom at any minute now. Entering the party.

  Oliver could be there.

  Oliver, who I kissed last night.

  Oliver, who I plan to tell everything – the moment I can get him alone.

  My stomach coils itself into endless knots as I stare dazedly at the dancing flames in the fireplace.

  In a flash, I remember it all. That night – the night of Marian’s wedding – I felt something inside at that crazy psychic’s ramblings. She talked about signs. She talked about fate. She seemed to stare right into my soul.

  I know. It sounds nuts. I know.

  But that night as I’d lain in my bed, I’d felt an emptiness and a longing so strong that it ached. I so wanted to believe her.

  Maybe that was enough. Maybe it was enough to just believe in something like that. Something intangible and just so promising. So I did. I believed in those signs from fate. I believed in taking chances. Just like she said.

  That night was perfect because of that. Because I believed. And I paid attention. I changed.

  But now…I can’t leave everything to fate, can I? If I want something, then I have to step up. Be honest. I have to grab it for myself.

  And anyway, it’s all so silly. I’m sure Oliver will understand. Right? If he really likes me at all, he’ll be relieved that I am a single woman who just told a little white
lie.

  I look over at Cary as he approaches me, clutching my book to my chest.

  “Shall we?”

  We walk into the dimly lit ballroom and my nerves take a backseat for a moment as I look around, taking in the scene of The Chaizer’s New Year’s party. I’m impressed. It looks immaculate. The silver and black cut-out stars I’d seen Polly stringing at her desk are draping the windows and hanging in various spots, their shimmer matte catching the warm lighting causing them to twinkle a little. Everything seems to be cloaked in black and silver. A crystal chandelier hangs low, setting a romantic tone to the room, which just today looked like a normal room. At the center of every table, which is covered with black tablecloths, are black candelabras filled with silver pillar candles. The hors d’oeuvres tables are topped with clear vases filled with silver balls. The only color in the room seems to be coming from the Christmas tree in the corner, which is adorned with turquoise and silver balls.

  As I step further into the room, I notice a champagne fountain in the far corner. The gold bubbly liquid spills into a mountain of toasting flutes. Loads of people are already here. There must be nearly one hundred guests at this party. The women all look so trendy and sleek in their cocktail dresses, while the guys look cool and sophisticated. So many of the partygoers are sporting Happy New Year’s hats. I can’t believe it’s already New Year’s Eve. Another year is almost behind me, and at the last moment, this one became a pretty interesting one.

  I make my way over to the hors d’oeuvres table. As I grab a cracker with cheese, I jump, noticing the ice sculpture in the corner – two swans forming a heart with their necks and faces. This place really does go all out for this annual shindig.

  “Seriously?” Cary asks, sidling up to me, his gaze fixed on the ice sculpture. “Love birds to decorate the ballroom of this love nest?” he asks incredulously, shaking his head.

  “You said it was a big deal,” I say, looking at him, nibbling my cracker.

  “I had no idea,” he says, grabbing a cracker and cheese himself. He leans against the table and looks out at the dance floor.