AWAY FROM THE SPOTLIGHT
Tamara Carlisle
Copyright © 2012 by Tamara Carlisle
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
Book Cover Design and Illustration by www.eCoverMakers.com.
eISBN 978-0-9855161-0-9
For my daughter who wants to be an author someday
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
It was late March, toward the end of my third and final year of law school. I had only a few weeks left before I would have to hunker down to study for finals.
As I sat in my painfully long Real Estate Transactions class, I started to daydream. In that dream, I glided down the Oscar Ceremony’s Red Carpet, resplendent in a long beaded gown with many thousands of dollars worth of jewels dripping from my ears, neck and wrists. I was the wife of a famous actor who was too fuzzy to see in my dream as often can be the case with daydreams. As I was just about to answer a question regarding who designed my gown, I returned to reality and shook my head. What the hell?
I didn’t watch much in the way of movies or television, and certainly not lately with my schedule, so who knows why this popped into my head? And, since I didn’t watch movies or TV, I really wasn’t into actors either. I must have heard someone talking about the Oscars, which took place a few weeks back. Of course, I didn’t watch that either so my fantasy seemed a little strange to me. Anything to escape the monotony of this class, I guess.
I had more tedium ahead of me after class. I clerked part-time at a small firm in Downtown Los Angeles, engaging in various mundane research projects for the lawyers while chomping at the bit to handle some of the meatier aspects of the practice of law when I graduated and passed the California Bar Exam. On the plus side in addition to the full-time job awaiting me after graduation, I had become good friends with Rachael, one of the paralegals at the firm. Rachael and I decided to go out after work for Rachael and school for me that Thursday night.
Rachael was a beautiful buxom blonde with one of her tattoos, a rose, peeking out from behind her blouse. I had never met someone who was so much fun to be around. Her wit and vivaciousness always managed to attract a crowd wherever she went.
I, of course, was, to some degree, the polar opposite of Rachael. Fairly reserved most of the time, I was only outgoing with those I knew well. Whereas Rachael was the kind of girl you took home for the night, I had been told that I was the type you took home to your parents. I didn’t always take that as a compliment because it meant that I did not date as much as some of my friends. A twenty-something male in Los Angeles was not looking for a girl to take home to mother. Consequently, I really didn’t like going to places that were part of “the scene” in L.A. I would only go to those places when I was part of a big group of friends – only then was it fun.
The Royalist Pub in Santa Monica was in no way part of the scene in L.A. Although it was frequently crowded, the patrons ranged in age from twenty-somethings to fifty-somethings, and were predominantly male.
It was a preferred place for British ex-patriots to go drinking after a soccer or rugby game, or to play darts. It also served as the destination of choice for foreigners on holiday staying in and around Santa Monica as it was not a particularly expensive place to go. The pub also attracted a lot of Anglophiles like me, who had traveled in Britain and wanted to re-immerse themselves in British culture.
I liked it because, as a result of this mix of people, many just passing through on holiday, people were very friendly without necessarily having an agenda. You could talk to anyone and that person wouldn’t necessarily think you were going home with him at the end of the night. I also liked it because I received more attention, having long dark red hair, light blue-green eyes and pale skin with freckles. The Brits tended to appreciate my look more than most American men.
Finally, I liked it because it was a cheap night out for Rachael and me and neither of us had a whole lot of money. With each visit, we would take turns buying the first round and, usually, we never had to buy any rounds after that – the benefit of being part of the female minority at the pub.
As was not uncommon on a Thursday night, the Royalist was very crowded. The British rock bands that played on the jukebox could be heard over the din. On this cool spring night, I was dressed in my usual black – a sweater with a glitter-like shimmer over a bejeweled tank top, short pencil skirt, tights and flats.
Rachael and I showed our IDs perfunctorily when the bouncers recognized us as regulars. The familiar smell of stale beer and fried food hit me as I walked in the door. We headed toward our usual place near the entrance at the long bar-height table that paralleled the bar. After settling in at the table, I headed off to the bar since it was my turn this visit to buy the first round of drinks and it appeared that it would be a while before a waitress would get to us. However, it was impossible to get anywhere near the bar even though it wasn’t far behind us. I decided to go around the high table to the end of the bar near the jukebox. It was usually less crowded at that end as people made space for the waitresses who came and went with drink orders.
I wasn’t interested in drinking much that night since I had school the next morning and work that afternoon. Nevertheless, I ordered full pints of British cider, a potent and favorite drink of both Rachael’s and mine.
/> I decided to try my luck at returning to our spot via the shortest route, walking through the crowd between the bar and the high table. I had no idea what I was thinking. I would have been lucky to make it without wearing half the cider by the time I got back to Rachael, who was now, not surprisingly, surrounded by a group of guys.
I had barely stepped away from the bar to pass the end of the high table when I thought I heard someone say, “She’s behind you.” At that moment, a middle-aged man in front of me pushed past me to get to an opening at the end of the bar and a guy to my right turned toward me and backed into my right arm. As a result, the pint in my right hand tilted toward me and poured over my wrist and my hand. Thankfully, my sleeves were pulled up so it didn’t soak my sweater and I had not gotten wet on my skirt or my legs. Before I knew it, though, the pints were taken from my hands and the guy who backed into me had grabbed napkins from the high table and was dabbing my right wrist and hand.
“I am so sorry,” said the guy who was still dabbing at my wrist and hand in a beautiful London accent.
I looked up and I cannot imagine that I didn’t blush. He was around my age, give or take a few years, and was very nice looking in an unusual, but very handsome way. He had highlighted dark brown hair that was not long, but thick and layered, spiking somewhat on the top and at the sides. He was probably a little over six-feet-tall with broad shoulders for his fairly narrow frame and what I imagined was a sculpted body underneath his shirt. He had chiseled facial features, perfect teeth, piercing green eyes with bushy, but not out-of-control, eyebrows as well as long lashes. Wisps of brown chest hair peeked out where his silvery-grey shirt was unbuttoned at the top.
I had always described my type as tall, dark and Irish-looking and, although he was English rather than Irish, he was what I considered beautiful in a man.
“I didn’t get you did I?” I said with my very American accent.
“No, not at all,” he replied. He grabbed my sticky hand and asked, “Will you marry me?” and then winked at me.
“I don’t know what to say.” I replied, finding it difficult to look him in the eye for fear of blushing. “This is all so sudden.” I was surprised I could get an even remotely intelligent sentence out of my mouth.
He laughed and told me that this was his favorite ice breaker. He stood up a little taller and introduced himself and his friends that I hadn’t noticed were there until that very second.
“I’m Will, this is Stephen, and this is Colin.”
Stephen was tall and thin, and had blondish hair, grey eyes and a very English look about him. Colin was tall as well, but with broad shoulders and a burly build, closely cropped reddish-brown hair and blue eyes.
“Nice to meet you,” I replied as I shook each of their hands with my still sticky right hand. “Sorry about that,” I said as I realized I now had shared the stickiness with the whole group. “My name is Shannon.”
“An Irish girl,” Colin responded.
“No, actually Scottish, well, Scottish descent anyway,” I replied. We all stood silently for a moment. “I better get this drink to my friend,” I said, feeling awkward and realizing that I had been sidetracked from my mission of getting drinks for Rachael and me.
“Why don’t you leave this one here and just take the one. You’re too dangerous with both. You’ll probably soak everyone between here and there,” Will said, his green eyes shining as he laughed.
I scowled at him without seriousness, grabbed the full pint, and made my way through the crowd toward Rachael. I could feel the eyes of my new acquaintances watching me as I did this. I finally made it across the room and handed Rachael her drink. Of course, by this time, someone had already managed to buy her one.
Rachael introduced me to the men surrounding her. I quickly said my hellos and mentioned that I had to leave to retrieve my drink.
I could feel the eyes still on me as I slowly made my way back, but I felt too embarrassed to look over and meet the gaze.
“Welcome back,” Will said as he guided me to a position to his right so that he was facing me and away from the entrance of the pub. “We were thinking of going to the back bar where it is a little less crowded. Would you join us?”
“I guess so. Sure,” I replied, surprised, but happy that this very handsome man was paying attention to me. “But couldn’t you have told me this before?” I teased. “I’m going to have to brave the crowds again to tell my friend where I’ll be.”
“I’ll take your drink with me so you won’t be so dangerous this time,” he laughed. I noticed then that my drink had been topped up.
I finally managed to head out of the main part of the pub toward the back bar after listening to a few stories told by Rachael’s newfound friends. Getting through the crowded pub was difficult. I made a quick pit stop in the tiny and crowded ladies’ room to make sure I looked at least okay and to wash my sticky hand and arm. The restaurant was emptying out as I passed through it on my way to the back bar, which was on its other side, through an archway. The back bar was very small. Only a couple of stools fit against it with a few low tables along the wall opposite the bar and to its right.
Will and his friends were sitting at a low table next to the bar and Will was facing the wall opposite the beveled glass windows along the street side of the pub. The chair next to him was empty and, seeing that my pint of cider was placed in front of it, I guessed that it was meant for me.
“Sorry I took so long,” I said as I joined the group.
I noticed that it was just as loud in the small back bar as it was in the main part of the pub, the result of a large speaker hanging from the wall above us with music blaring from the jukebox. Someone had just put on the latest single by my favorite band and I smiled brightly.
“I love this song,” I said and had to lean toward Will so that he could hear me.
“I like it too,” Will replied as if there was an in-joke I was missing.
I didn’t ask him to explain, but instead, launched into my musical tastes. Some people were evangelical about their religion. I was evangelical about my music. I tried to convert everyone I met. In this case, it appeared that I needn’t have made the attempt to convert Will as his tastes were British and scarily similar to mine.
I don’t think Will’s friends could hear a word I said as even Will and I had to sit close in order for us to hear each other. I felt badly that I was taking Will’s attention from his friends and would occasionally try to include them in the conversation, but it was impossible in light of the din of the crowd and the loud music. Will seemed to appreciate my attempts though.
Will was so gorgeous, intelligent, and funny that I believed that there was no way he actually would be interested in me. I had spent a number of evenings over the course of the past few years having good conversations at the Royalist with men I would never see again. I had no reason to believe this would be any different. Even if Will was by some chance interested, he was British and, therefore, likely just passing through L.A. on holiday. Consequently, since I believed I had no chance whatsoever with him, I felt more comfortable and was probably more talkative and open than I otherwise might have been.
Although I could have sat with Will and talked music forever, I did recall in the back of my mind that I had not intended to stay out very late since I had school and work the next day. As midnight approached, I mentioned that I would have to get going soon. I really didn’t want to leave though, figuring that I probably would never see Will again so I was stunned when he grabbed my now clean right hand and asked, “Can I see you tomorrow?”
“What did you have in mind?” I made a great effort to be casual despite the fact that, in my head, I was screaming with delight.
“Let me surprise you. Can you meet me here at around six tomorrow night?”
“How about seven?” I countered. “I have to work until about 5:30 and get here from Downtown.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it tomorrow. I want to hear all about you.”<
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I got up to go and said, “See you tomorrow then.” I waved at Will’s friends and added, “It was nice meeting you,” although I doubt they heard a word I said. They did manage to look up and wave.
Will stood up, grabbed my hands, and kissed me on the cheek. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise?”
“Promise. Seven. Here.” I was disappointed to have to let go of his hands, but I did.
With that, I returned to Rachael and attempted to drag her from her admirers.
I was driving and therefore was glad that I had been so absorbed in conversation with Will that I had had very little to drink.
“How was your evening?” I asked Rachael as she climbed into my aging black sports car. When I had received the car at age sixteen, it had been impressive. It wasn’t fast, but looked it. Now, almost nine years later, with styles having changed and considering the worn look about it, it wasn’t so cool anymore.
“I didn’t meet anyone that interesting.”
“Out of all those guys surrounding you, no one was interesting?”
“Only interesting enough to flirt with, not to take home. How about you? You were gone almost the whole time.”
“I met someone. His name is Will. He’s English, I think.”
“That would be different for you.”
She wasn’t wrong. I had very casually dated a number of men I had met in the various pubs in Santa Monica. They were from all over Europe, but not one of them had been English for some reason. There were Scottish, Irish and Welsh men among them, but never English. I had commented on occasion on the fact that I never seemed to meet English men at the English pubs I frequented.
“I’m going to see him again tomorrow night.”
“What’s he like?”
“Drop-dead gorgeous, smart, funny and with excellent taste in music. Just my type. Well, better than my type, actually. It’s hard to believe someone that perfect has any interest in me.”
“Please” Rachael said. “You get hit on every time we go out.”
“That’s overstating things quite a bit.”
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