Alex swallowed hard. “Our families have a shared history,” she said carefully. “Makes life a little richer, don’t you think?”
Marc reached for his wine. “They might even have sat here and enjoyed a single malt together.”
Pleased at Marc’s reaction, Alex closed the ledger carefully and slid it back into the bag for safekeeping.
“Our food should be arriving soon,” Marc said, his glass now empty. “I think this calls for another drink, don’t you?”
“Please,” Alex said. Her instincts about the ledger had been on target. Marc’s love of history was broad, and hers was wrapped up in the hotel she loved. But the ledger, the people who had shaped the direction of their lives, had come together in Mrs. Rutledge’s neat records from half a century before. That kind of cross-connection of who they were mattered to Alex, and clearly, Marc felt the same way.
When the charcuterie board arrived, they fell silent, enjoying the savoury array of meats and old English cheddars. Alex was struck by the domesticity of sharing a simple supper, sipping their drinks and the quiet companionship of being together, away from the pressures in their lives.
After they had eaten their fill, Marc turned Alex’s hand over and drew slow circles in her palm with one finger. She looked up into his eyes and the intensity of her longing for him, in every possible way, nearly overcame her. Did every person falling in love feel like this, as if the air itself held bubbles of golden champagne?
“I want to draw a frame around this moment and save it forever,” Alex whispered.
She waited for Marc to say something, but he only gazed off in the distance, his fingers still caressing her hand. She felt a slight chill of uncertainty – didn’t he feel the way she did after all?
Finally, Marc sighed. “Early start tomorrow. I’m off to Yorkshire for a few days to look at locations.”
“You don’t sound very excited.”
He gave her a rueful smile. “I am…and I’m not. I like it here.”
Alex had an almost overwhelming desire to drop everything and go away with him, to test the strength of their feelings for each other away from their responsibilities to others. But when Marc got to his feet and drew her to him, she thrust the idea away even while she melted against him. He held her tightly, face against her hair and she relaxed, arms around his neck, wanting to draw in all the warmth he offered her.
In unspoken agreement they released each other, but she walked beside him, hands occasionally brushing, to the taxi stand outside the hotel. As the vehicle sped away, Alex hugged herself as if for warmth, wandering slowly through the lobby and back to her own flat.
It seemed pathetically small and terribly empty.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stifling a yawn, Marc picked his way through the early morning crowds at King’s Cross. The express train to York was departing in twenty minutes leaving him just enough time to pick up a coffee. He should take the train more often, he decided. The metallic tang of the rails, and the echo of days past was exhilarating.
Reaching the platform, Marc took a last appreciative glance at the train shed’s vaulted ceiling before stepping on board.
The carriage was nearly full. Grabbing an empty window seat two-thirds of the way down, Marc stowed his gear and leaned back to enjoy the view. He felt totally relaxed. He’d had a wonderful evening with Alex, and the next time he saw her they would be together at the charity premiere for The Funding of the Arts. He’d left his tux with Jeremy the day before so that it could be sent to the cleaners. Alex’s grandmother and her crew were busy finding the perfect dress for Alex. And George was likely behind the mews polishing the Rolls.
His timing was impeccable, thought Marc. Three days up north scouting for locations was far safer than being in London. He was determined to keep busy and stay focused on his film, because thinking endlessly about Alex, about the taste of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, and the scent of her hair would drive him nearly mad with desire – and then to a declaration he wasn’t ready to make. With an almost physical wrench, he resolved to banish Alex from his mind. But as soon as his eyes slipped shut, her image rose unbidden.
Professional Alex reflected in the burnished brass of the elevator, harried Alex thrusting him into a car at Portobello Road, anxious Alex asking him to go to the premiere with him, and then last night, relaxed Alex sipping wine in the romantic half-light of The Sadler’s bar. She had surprised and delighted him, and every time he saw her he wanted to take her in his arms and then take her to his bed.
Marc rubbed his chin. He hadn’t bothered to shave, and he was wearing the same well-worn jeans and hoodie he’d had on the first time he’d met Alex. She might have mistaken him for a plumber, but there was no mistaking Alexis Kirkwood for who she was – the most exciting, demanding and contrarian woman he had ever met – beautiful, soft, and with a spine of steel.
And he was dangerously close to falling in love.
The night before, when he was holding her hand in the Library Bar, their fingers entwined, he had come so close to admitting the depth of his feelings, it shocked him.
The word commitment had reared its ugly head. With a film to make and a new career to launch, why raise expectations that he was not in a position to satisfy?
Marc shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Alex had been completely clear about her own commitment. The Sadler came first. It wasn’t as though he expected a woman to abandon her life for him. It was better for both of them if his growing emotional desires remained unspoken.
So their conversation had continued unchecked, their pleasure in each other’s company undiminished. Even if the flame of physical attraction crackled between them, the reality was they were at pivotal points in their own careers.
The unwelcome thought that Alex might turn him down was enough to quell Marc’s needs…for now.
A thump on the adjoining seat yanked Marc from his reverie. A red rucksack suddenly appeared beside him, and then just as abruptly, it was whisked away. Seconds later, a young woman plonked herself down in its place, and in one fluid movement had her laptop out and open.
“Morning,” said Marc warily.
“Morning,” she replied, staring fixedly at her screen.
She was, thought Marc as he settled back again, the ideal companion. Silent, disinterested, letting a man keep himself to himself. He finished his coffee as the train slowly began to move. By the time it left the station, the sun had appeared. And so had Marc’s dark glasses.
Closing his eyes, he let the gentle rhythm lull him into a sleep in which Alex played a starring role. But his imaginary dalliance was cut short by the insistent buzzing of his phone.
It was his contact in York.
“Just wanted to make sure you made the train,” Douglas shouted down the line. “I have another property we need to see. Manor house in West Yorkshire. Where are you now?”
Marc glanced out the window. They were barely out of the city. “We are approaching….”
“Finsbury Park,” muttered his companion.
“Finsbury Park,” Marc repeated.
“Great,” barked Douglas. “I’m going to pull over and send you the details.”
The call ended and less than two minutes later, Marc was eying photos of an old manor house. “On the cusp of disrepair” was what he had instructed his location scout to look for, and if these photos were anything to go by, he’d found it. Even the windows looked sad – as though a shell-shocked young soldier had barricaded himself inside after returning from France to discover he was a widower.
Every time Marc thought about the film’s storyline, the sense of loss was so tangible his breath caught in empathy for the young soldier’s agony. Could he be following the same path? Too little, too late. For a moment, he wanted to give himself a shake and follow his heart…now, not some time in the future when everything was just right.
He checked his watch. It was still too early to call Alex; she would
be with her staff for the morning briefing. But he could forward the pictures and share his excitement with her.
Quickly composing a note to her personal email, he hesitated briefly over how to sign off, then wrote, “Missing you more than you know.”
He attached the photos and pushed send.
It didn’t go.
He tried again.
Still no go.
“Dead zone,” explained his seat mate. “Wait about fifteen minutes, then try again.”
“Thanks,” said Marc eying her laptop surreptitiously. It looked as though she was working on a paper. Hard to tell from the angle.
“English Literature,” she said.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to be nosy.”
“Me, either.” She eyed him over her horned-rimmed glasses. “Nice disguise, by the way. No one would ever peg you as an action hero.”
Marc could have laughed out loud. He’d been dismissed. By the very demographic who’d grown up on his films. And the beauty of it was, he didn’t care. He was free to do whatever he wanted with the rest of his life. No more typecasting, no more worrying about fans hounding him wherever he went.
All he had to do was be himself. And that would have to be enough.
Alex hurriedly entered the lobby. It was just three o’clock. She didn’t like to be late, but her afternoon meeting with the auditor had taken longer than she’d expected.
Spotting Cyril behind the front desk, Alex changed direction. She had intended to go to the dining room to see if she could catch Kate at the end of her shift, but Cyril would be faster.
His head snapped up at her approach. “Miss Kirkwood.”
“Cyril,” Alex smiled. “Have you seen Kate lately?”
“I believe Miss Harrison is in the staff lounge.” He didn’t quite sniff with disapproval, but almost. Everyone knew Alex and Kate were long-time friends, but there had been a subtle shift in the hierarchy ever since Alex had become CEO.
“Thank you, Cyril,” she said. “You’re the best.”
Butter wouldn’t melt, she thought as she slipped behind the scenes to find her friend. But Cyril really was the “eyes and ears” of the hotel, and Kate was exactly where he’d said she’d be.
“Busy day?” asked Alex.
“Mad. I can’t wait to get out of here….No offence,” Kate slammed the door to her locker, “but sometimes…what?” she asked turning to face Alex.
“Do you have a class tonight?”
“Study group. But I could blow of it off. You’re looking a little hyper.” She gave Alex the once over. “What’s up?”
“I desperately need you in the Victoria suite.”
“And that would be because…?”
“You remember that red carpet premiere I told you about?”
Kate nodded.
“Helen’s been raiding Grannie’s closet. They’re waiting for me with a dozen designer gowns!” Alex could hear the bubble of excitement in her own voice. “They both have excellent taste, but I want this to be my decision.”
“And you need a second opinion.”
“Exactly. And who better than my best friend?”
Kate’s eyes sparkled. “These jeans, okay?”
Alex gave her a hug. “You’ve known Grannie since you were sixteen. What do you think?”
Kate grabbed her rucksack. “I’m in.”
They headed for the second floor. Helen had set up shop in the suite normally reserved for brides and their entourage whenever The Sadler hosted a wedding. With its full-length mirrors and straight-back chairs, it was the perfect place to play dress-up.
The door was ajar. Alex and Kate slipped inside, eyes popping as they caught sight of the wardrobe rack.
Helen stood guard over a breathtaking selection of evening gowns, tape measure around her neck, beaming in anticipation. “Ladies,” she said. “Do come in.”
“Oh, wow,” Kate exclaimed. “This is absolutely amazing! Can I look?” she asked craning her neck to see behind Helen’s ample figure.
Alex laughed, then crossed the room to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “How are you feeling today, Grannie?”
Her grandmother patted her hand. “Much better,” she replied. “Now that I have a project. Helen’s been very busy. And I can’t wait to see my granddaughter wearing one of these gowns in the way it is meant to be worn – by someone young and beautiful.”
“Oh, Grannie,” Alex felt the emotion pass between them. “Thank you so much…for everything.”
“Go on then,” urged her grandmother, “before I get all sentimental. Kate, sweetheart,” she called across the room. “Lovely to see you.”
Kate smiled and waved. “You too, Miss Sadler.”
“This one,” Kate sighed, singling out a deceptively simple cocktail dress – a black velvet sleeveless bodice with a flocked and fluffed white taffeta skirt. “This looks like something Audrey Hepburn wore….” She plucked it from the rack and held it up.
Miss Sadler’s eyes gleamed in remembered triumph. “I believe the wardrobe designer for a certain movie was somewhat inspired when she saw me in that dress. It’s a custom Dior.”
“Really!” Kate managed, eyes wide.
“Really,” said the older woman. “Now come and sit beside me,” she indicated the chair next to her own. “The only way to watch a fashion show is from the front row.”
Kate rehung the dress and “catwalked” across the room.
“Bravo!” clapped Miss Sadler.
“Everyone wanted to design for your grandmother,” Helen was saying as she guided Alex towards the dresses. “Her patronage guaranteed success.” The older woman eyed Alex appraisingly. “And now that you’ll be attending a number of formal events, you might want to give some thought to which designers you’d like to support.”
Alex scanned the rack. “Do you want me to pick out a few, or can I try on all of them?”
“All of them,” she heard her grandmother and Kate call in unison.
“Then, let’s do it!” Alex laughed at the sheer pleasure of modelling the exquisite gowns, knowing that one of them would be perfect for her walk down the red carpet with Marc.
As she slipped off her day clothes behind an antique screen, Helen passed her the first gown – a slinky black Gucci keyhole dress. Once she’d slipped it over her head, Alex saw that its severe lines unexpectedly accented her figure, and the keyhole on the hip displaying the golden Gucci logo, was decidedly provocative. Marc would love it. She imagined his warm fingers, sliding softly from the sleek fabric over the exposed skin at the keyhole. Just as she was ready to hyperventilate, Helen hurried over to adjust the fit. “Off you go,” she whispered, “Before your daydreams give you away.”
With an inescapable blush, Alex stepped out and took a slow turn around the room.
“You look amazing,” enthused Kate.
“It’s the dress,” Alex replied. She could barely talk. As a little girl she’d watched her grandparents get ready for formal evenings, but never did she dream that she would wear one of her grandmother’s dresses. “It hangs so perfectly.”
“It does,” Helen agreed, but she was assessing the dress with a critical eye. “The cut seems a bit severe on you. It worked for your grandmother, but you are a different personality and the dress should reflect that.”
Alex frowned at herself in the full-length mirror. Maybe it was too dramatic. Besides, there were lots more.
Next she tried on a black and white number. “Beautiful,” Helen said fastening the top hook for her. “Perfect fit and works for your figure.”
“I saw a dress just like it in a shop in Piccadilly,” Kate said.
“Whatever you saw,” Helen retorted sharply, “it was not just like this dress.” When Kate looked stricken, Helen softened her tone. “But you do make a good point, Kate. We wouldn’t want anyone to think that Alex was not wearing an original.”
On to the next and the next…long sleev
es, short sleeves, cap sleeves, sleeveless….silk, chiffon, velvet, satin, taffeta…a long, navy sheath of a dress covered with asymmetrical white crystal beading….
“You look like a giant doily.” Kate smothered a laugh and this time she earned a glare from both Helen and Miss Sadler.
“Not exactly the image I’m going for,” Alex murmured in response.
“That is a Chanel,” Helen said stiffly.
Kate shrugged. “Maybe Coco had an off-day.”
“Have her try the plain black Chanel,” Miss Sadler sighed before the clash in personalities erupted into hurt feelings.
“Now this is the empress of little black dresses,” declared Helen. It was strapless, hanging in perfect lines from a small bow at the bust.
Alex could have cried when she saw herself in it – it was elegant and sophisticated, and while it might not be appropriate for a film premiere, it would be ideal for a cocktail party or evening reception.
“Very nice,” her grandmother confirmed. “Put it in the possibility section.”
There were more – multi-coloured flared skirts from Oscar de la Renta, a rather absurd striped taffeta gown with the collar standing in a huge ruffle behind her head. “Queen Elizabeth would love it,” Kate giggled. “The first Queen Elizabeth.”
And on they went…a red, fluttery-sleeved Dior…a deceptively simple Haute Couture, neutral, classic, sleeveless, covered with perfectly sewn beads…a black Valentino with feathered sleeves….
“It makes my nose itch,” Alex protested.
“It made the Italian ambassador’s nose itch, too,” Miss Sadler said sotto voice.
“Grannie!”
Miss Sadler sipped her tea, a smile hovering on her lips, as the show continued.
A ruched, pink satin sheath that made Alex feel like a well-dressed sausage, a red pencil skirt so tight at the knees that she was sure she would waddle, a frilly blue with an eye-popping plunging neckline, a black velvet that hung like she had been wrapped in the colours of night gathered at the waist with a crystal moon. And finally, a deceptively simple, silver-blue satin gown.
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