by Lily Flowers
Blaine, for his part, jumped to his feet and ran in the direction of the afflicted editor.
“Dude, chill! I was only joking! They questioned us for a few minutes and ran a background check on Irving, then they gave us full clearance to fly,” Blaine called after Trey, adding as a whispered aside to Helena, “Of course, if a certain author/editor wanted to steal away with me to the nearest private room available, I’d be more than pleased to oblige her—and, for that matter, to satisfy her thoroughly.”
Helena froze, watching with wide eyes as Blaine continued blithely on his way; strolling off in the direction of a still stricken Trey.
“He didn’t just say that, did he?” she mused silently, her heart pounding in her ears as she turned to face a watching Irving Birnbaum.
Irving just shot her an empathetic stare and said, “I tell ya, Helena, sometimes I really stop and wonder about these people we work with every day at Elmhurst Publishing. A pretty strange lot, they are.”
“At least,” Helena agreed, crossing the room to plop down in a chair beside the only co-worker she clearly understood right now—and considering that said co-worker was one Irving Birnbaum, that was a pretty damned scary fact.
“What do ya say, Irv,” she crossed her arms before her, bowing her head to her chest, “I say we both take another, way fortifying nap. If nothing else, as a means of self-defense?”
Helena’s awkward, self-induced dream state continued moments later, as their reunited group boarded the plane that would take them to London, England; and throughout the duration of the long flight that followed. For while she held hands and exchanged soft, sweet kisses with an ever affectionate Trey, she kept sneaking stray glances at Blaine; the man who sat across the aisle from them, his own hand covering Irving’s—not in a romantic gesture, Helena figured, but just to make sure that the dude didn’t move, speak, or do anything else that might disrupt the peace and sanctity of their flight.
The looks he shot Helena, in sharp contrast, seemed very romantic indeed; and criminy, they turned her on and freaked her out in equal measure.
“He’s giving me those saucy, steamy, narrow eyed looks he usually directs at the camera, when he shoots his romance novel covers,” she mused, “And instead of appropriately heaving my bosom and leering in return, I’m giving him the very unsexy ‘zombie deer in high wattage headlights’ look.”
If all this had transpired just a year ago, she figured, she would have been thrilled to even meet Blaine Bennington—let alone be the subject of his blatant and very sexy flirtation. Yet now that she had met Trey—another dream man who she never thought she’d meet, let alone have a chance with—she felt compelled to reserve her affections and attentions solely for him.
Silently chiding herself for even considering or placing any importance on Blaine’s advances, she turned in her seat with a purposeful flourish and clutched Trey’s hand; smiling into his eyes and leaning forward to touch his lips with a soft, sweet kiss.
“I can’t wait for our first night in London, babe,” she whispered.
Trey beamed.
“I can’t wait,” he whispered in return, cupping her cheek in an affectionate hand, “for the rest of our lives.”
Chapter Seventeen
Hours after leaving rainy, overcast New York City, Helena and crew landed on schedule in rainy, overcast London; prompting Helena to turn to Trey and proclaim, “I swear, Trey, I’m going to set the next book I write in Miami, Florida, just so we can escape to someplace sunny to stage the cover shoot.”
Trey arched his eyebrows.
“So you plan to pen a Victorian era novel,” he said, tone low and deliberate, “set in Miami, Florida.”
Helena thought a moment, then nodded.
“Hey,” she reasoned with a grin, “It’d be an original.”
Her spirits lifted moments later, as Trey rented the car that would serve to transport them down the roads and avenues of London town; mumbling all the while about having to drive on the wrong side of the road.
“It’s OK, babe,” Helena reassured him, punching his shoulder with aplomb. “Somehow in life, I’ve always felt like I was driving down the wrong side of the road.”
“That’s strange,” Irving chimed in, adding with a shrug, “I always have too. Funny, that.”
After piling all of their luggage into the back of their car, the group took a quick tour through the streets of greater London; grinning at the whimsical amusements and thriving businesses of Piccadilly Circus, marveling at the vision of double decker buses and at the rows of classically designed, Victorian style homes and shops that stirred Helena’s creative juices.
“Good thing I brought along a notebook,” she told her friends, gripping her Ready for Hillary pen with definite purpose as she turned to a clean page in her Hello Kitty notebook and started to write down some indecipherable notations, while her co-workers looked on in apparent awe—intermingled, or so she thought, with just a wee bit of terror. “I can steal all of this cool stuff I see, describing it word for word in the settings of my stories, and readers might think I’m actually creative or something—coming up with all of these cool and majestic backdrops for my Victorian era tales.”
Trey chuckled.
“It’s just a darned good thing that we plan to sell your book in printed form, as opposed to its original, handwritten variant,” he pursed his lips, his gaze drifting from the road before him for just a moment to consider her rather exquisite short hand with wide, disbelieving eyes. “I tell ya one thing, babe—you never have to worry about anyone stealing your work.”
Irving laughed.
“Seriously, is that your handwriting?” he asked, adding with a light chuckle, “I thought I was just going crazy or something.”
Reeling for just a moment at the irony of his statement, Helena shook her head and said, “Yes it is my handwriting and no, it is not short hand,” she told him. “I call it Helena Hand. I have a language all my own.”
“And it’s a delightful language.”
Helena’s head shot up at the sound of a kinder, softer voice; one that belonged to the blond bombshell seated in the front row passenger seat.
“I think your handwriting is beautiful, Helena,” Blaine praised her with a wink, adding with a pointed glance in Trey’s direction, “And personally, I don’t happen to think it’s very gentlemanly to criticize a lady’s penmanship.”
Helena took in her breath, watching with wide eyes as Trey once again shifted his gaze from the road before them; this time to pin Blaine with a cool, assessing stare.
For just a moment the two stared at one another in what seemed an act of silent confrontation; prompting Helena to start mentally whistling the signature theme song to “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”
“Except in this scenario, both parties are good,” she mused, adding with arched eyebrows, “And neither one of them could be called remotely ugly.”
The wave of tension that suddenly consumed their car did not go unnoticed by Irving Birnbaum, who sat opposite Helena in the back seat.
“Um, you know what? I haven’t taken my afternoon meds yet today!” he exclaimed suddenly, waving his arms wildly before him as he added, “I think I might just start acting really odd and unbalanced right now. Oooga booga, woo woo!!!”
Helena, for her part, used a more logical approach to diffuse the situation.
“Trey,” she spoke up, “While I fully realize that the United Kingdom comes with its own set of driving rules, I’m pretty sure that you still have to actually keep your eye on the road before you while you navigate the roads—especially when one considers the fact that there’s an awfully big milk truck, crossing the street right in front of us. Just sayin’.”
Jumping in his seat, Trey immediately jerked his head forward; joining a startled Blaine in redirecting their gaze to the road before them.
Exchanging subtle low fives beneath their seats, Helena and Irving themselves shared a sigh of relief moments later; as Trey
finally and mercifully stopped the car in front of a timeless British landmark.
“A timeless landmark that—well—tells time,” Helena pursed her lips in thought. “In the immortal words of Alanis Morissette, ‘Isn’t it ironic?’”
“Doncha think?” Irving chimed in, his timing beyond perfect.
The friends performed a second low five before getting out of the car; sprinting to catch up with Trey and Blaine as they approached what Helena thought just might be the tallest timepiece in all of London town.
“An overblown ode to Timex, this is,” she said aloud, adding in a softer, more sincere tone, “And blast it, is that thing beautiful.”
She stared in awed silence at the towering golden pinnacle before her; her gaze lingering over its regal clock face and dynamic pointed peak that distinguished this classic national monument.
“Do you know what the clock is called, Helena?” Trey asked her, wrapping an affectionate arm around her shoulders.
“Oh sure!” she replied, adding as she made a broad gesture in the direction of the timepiece, “That’s none other than Big Bill!”
Trey laughed.
“Big Ben, actually,” he corrected her softly, pressing two full, warm lips against her cheek.
Helena rolled her eyes heavenward.
“Big Ben, of course,” she snorted, adding with a slight grin, “Big Bill was the assistant night manager at Murphy’s Wiener Mecca. He’s the one that promoted me to head fry cook, during my second year of employment at the Wiener Mecca.”
Trey nodded, not quite sure how to respond.
“Well in regards to Big Ben,” he said finally, pointing with keen respect at the subject of their conservation, “During my early days at Elmhurst, I actually helped research a short book about the grand ol’ fella. He turned 150 years old in 2009.”
Helena nodded.
“Well all I can say is that he must be rockin’ some major Oil of Olay,” she declared, adding with a sharp salute in the direction of Big Ben, “Lookin’ good there, Dude!”
Trey grinned.
“I also learned that, in all actuality, Big Ben is officially named Elizabeth Tower,” he revealed, “And that he stands a whopping 316 feet high in the air.”
Blaine shrugged.
“Can’t say that I know too much about Big Ben,” he admitted, adding with a smile, “Except that, the last time I was in London, I posed in its shadow for my 80th romance novel cover. I donned period costume and did my best poses for the cover of a book called The Victorian Lord.”
Trey sniffed.
“That wasn’t an Elmhurst title, was it?” he asked, arching his eyebrows to curious effect. “Our titles tend to show a greater degree of creativity and originality than something called, ‘The Victorian Lord.’”
Helena gritted her teeth.
“Well I think I actually do own that book,” she forced a smile, nodding in Blaine’s direction. “It’s pretty good!” She paused then, adding as she shuffled her feet in the grass beneath her, “Of course, I’m sure that the book about Big Ben, researched by Trey Lawrence for Elmhurst Publishing, was equally rockin’.”
Blaine shrugged.
“Actually I have no idea if the book is any good or not,” he revealed, adding with the artful toss of his flowing gold hair, “I didn’t write the book—but my image on the cover sure did sell it. Me and good ol’ Ben.”
It was Helena’s turn to shrug.
“Yeah, well, I can top that,” she offered, adding as she lifted her chin to proud effect, “For my high school graduation I got a cookie jar carved in the likeness of Big Ben—you opened up the clock face to get to the oatmeal raisin crumbles. I even posted it center counter at Murphy’s Wiener Mecca. It added a real touch of class to the place. I must say.”
It was Irving’s turn to shrug.
“I got nothin’,” he revealed. “I have absolutely no ties, associations or anecdotes to offer in relation to the sizable timepiece before us. Anybody want to put a kibosh on all this awkwardness and head on off to Buckingham Palace?”
Helena sighed relieved as she patted Irving’s shoulder and turned in the direction of the car behind them.
“Irving stands as the only one among us that is currently making some semblance of sense,” she mused silently, avoiding the probing gazes of both Trey and Blaine as she added, “Anyone up for a second chorus of ‘Isn’t It Ironic?’”
Following a brief period of awkward silence that cloaked their car ride, the group finally arrived at the front gates of the ultimate European tourist spot.
Her addled senses immediately soothed by the vision of a fanciful palace—an architectural wonder that seemed like something out of a dream—Helena froze in her place as she beheld the majesty of Buckingham.
Joining hands with an equally awestruck Trey, she stared in reverent silence at the arches and columns of the majestic ivory wonder that was Buckingham Palace; her eyes resting briefly on each classically carved window, wondering briefly at the sure to be opulent room that was sure to lie beyond each crystalline pane.
Her gaze then wandered just beyond the building to the glorious scope of the grounds beyond; taking in and consuming the gold cast angel statue that held court before the palace (one that oversaw the world-renowned Victoria Memorial, Sir Thomas Brock’s timeless memorial to Queen Victoria), as well as the sprawling, glorious rose gardens that fronted and accentuated the spectacle of Buckingham; a glorious assortment of ebullient floral gems that stole Helena’s breath.
“I’ve seen so many photos of this place—online, in books,” she breathed, adding as she shook her head from side to side, “None of these images did justice to Buckingham.”
She smiled as Trey gathered her to him; tilting their heads together as he shared her vision of a grand palace that—in its endless and truly ebullient wonder—seemed suspended in time.
“I wish I could have built all of this for you my sweet love,” Trey whispered, squeezing Helena’s hand as he added, “I would love for you to reign as the grand princess of my palace.”
Blushing openly, Helena smiled her thanks at this warm sentiment as she nestled closer to Trey; jumping as Blaine—who stood inches away from them with a restless Irving by his side—covered his mouth and released a hard, rough cough that just barely masked an exclamation sounding suspiciously close to “BS.”
Arching a caustic eyebrow, Trey’s smile dissolved as he turned to Blaine and said, “So my good man, how many romance covers have you shot in the shadow of Buckingham Palace? ‘The Tawdry, Tempestuous Tourist’, perhaps? ‘An American Embarrassed’?”
Irving cleared his throat.
“OK, so I’m sufficiently awed, impressed and amazed by the architectural, cultural and historical wonder that is Buckingham Palace,” he deadpanned, drawing chuckles from his friends. “Do we actually get to go inside now? I’m beginning to feel like just a bit of a creeper standing here at the gate—no sly commentary allowed from the peanut gallery about the likelihood and appropriateness of Irving Birnbaum feeling like a creeper,” he finished with a smile.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Trey reassured him with a beam, adding in a more serious tone, “Unfortunately, Irving, Buckingham’s state rooms are not open to tourists this time of year. If we stick around just a few more minutes, though, we can witness firsthand the changing of the guard.”
“Yes!” Helena exclaimed, launching into an impromptu air guitar performance as she added, “I mean, I was hoping to be able to infiltrate the palace so I could give that cute little whipper snapper Prince George Alexander Louis of Cambridge this adorable little stuffed walrus I picked up for him at Toys R Us in Yonkers last weekend. In lieu of that, though, I can’t wait to see the guards, um, change. I’ve seen the changing of the guard numerous times via YouTube vids—but the real life experience is bound to hold an added degree of charm and spectacle.”
Trey nodded.
“I would assume so,” he agreed, adding with a wink, “And you won�
�t have to scroll down and see a plethora of comments that range from ‘Why do they wear those big furry hats?’ to ‘Criminy, are those the only marches they know? I play second seat brass in my middle school band and I can play all those songs in my sleep—plus encores of ‘Gangnam Style’ and ‘We Are the Champions’—with my hands tied behind my back! My mom says so!”
A nodding Helena laughed along with her boyfriend’s painfully true assessment; all the while directing her attention to the front of the palace.
Her eyes soon flew wide as the air was filled with the regal notes of a grand royal march; one performed by a line of sharply dressed gentlemen that shone resplendent in their uniforms of scarlet red jackets lined with black buttons; along with the afore mentioned big black furry hats.
Losing herself in the sound and image of the Queen’s Royal Guard, Helena smiled as her senses brimmed with the magic of the spectacle; her spirits seized and elevated by the timbre of the music, and the vision of soldiers who likened heroes of another time.
“Isn’t this just magnificent?” she gushed, surrendering to the feeling of this day, this moment, as emotion overtook her.
Instead of offering her a verbal response, the small crowd gathered to watch the changing of the guard turned as a group to fix her with a collective stare; one that seemed to scream out, “Who’s the slightly uncoordinated crazy lady?”
“Wut?” she asked, her brows furrowing as she cast her glance down the length of her fully made form—finding it somehow oddly transformed. Her legs swung back and forth off the ground as her arms followed in uncoordinated accord; her Beach Babe visor an admittedly weak substitute for the big black furry hat. “Oh. That.”
Freezing in her place with an embarrassed smile, Helena cast her gaze to the ground; rising it moments later to assess the reactions of the other members of her travelling party.
Trey wore an expression that screamed, “Good Gawd woman, what are you doing? Have you been possessed by demons or something?”