Christmas in London

by Anita Hughes

“Whose turn is it?” she asked.

  “Whose turn is it for what?” he wondered.

  “When I gave you the cinnamon rolls you kissed me on the cheek to thank me for saving the show. When I agreed to fill in for Bianca, you kissed me on the cheek again,” she replied. “When we arrived at Claridge’s, I kissed you on the cheek because I’d never been anywhere so fabulous.” She looked at Noah. “Whose turn is it to kiss the other person on the cheek?”

  “I guess it’s mine.” Noah brushed her cheek and then his lips found her mouth. He tasted warm and sweet and they jumped apart.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” Noah said hurriedly. “It’s so beautiful up here and I got carried away. It didn’t mean anything.”

  “Of course it didn’t.” Louisa put her hand to her mouth.

  The wheel tilted and Winter Wonderland tipped toward them like an airport landing strip. The attractions were strung with glittering lights and the Christmas booths were a row of toy houses.

  They stepped off the ride and Louisa felt strangely unsettled, like when she went on Space Mountain at Disneyland as a child. She hadn’t thought she was frightened, until the ride ended and her legs were wobbly and her stomach felt queasy.

  “What would you like to do next?” Noah asked. “We could see the Nutcracker on Ice or search for polar bears in the Magic Ice Kingdom. If we find a bear, we can take our picture with it.”

  The air smelled of spun sugar and all around her people were sipping hot cider and carrying oversized Christmas bears. The unsettled feeling disappeared and was replaced by a wonderful lightness.

  “We have to visit the Ice Kingdom,” she laughed. “I’ve always wanted to have my picture taken with a polar bear.”

  * * *

  When they returned to Claridge’s it was 10:00 p.m. and Noah went to check on the film footage. Louisa entered her suite and sank onto a red satin love seat. The lights were dim and there was a tray of scones with honey and strawberry butter.

  It really had been a lovely evening. The Winter Wonderland was dazzling and entering Claridge’s lobby was like returning to an elegant cocoon. Men wore white dinner jackets and women were dressed in chiffon gowns and there was the scent of pine needles and expensive perfume.

  Noah had the whole day tomorrow scheduled: They would start at St Paul’s Cathedral, at the highest point of the city. Then they would visit the Tower of London and see the crown jewels. Just the thought of being so close to the eight-hundred-year-old Coronation Spoon and one-hundred-carat Koh-i-Noor diamond was thrilling.

  In the afternoon, the chefs would gather in Claridge’s kitchen to go over the menu. Louisa would see Digby and could ask him all her questions: How did he achieve the consistency in his rice pudding and what flavor jam did he use in a roly-poly?

  Noah had said such unkind things about Digby; it wasn’t like him at all. And Digby couldn’t be interested in Louisa; they barely talked to each other. She remembered Noah’s kiss on the Giant Observation Wheel and had a funny feeling, as if she’d entered a cinema halfway through a movie.

  A fire crackled in the fireplace and the air smelled of lemon polish. She was sitting in a suite at Claridge’s six days before Christmas. A smile crossed her face and she wondered if she was dreaming.

  Chapter Six

  KATE GAZED OUT THE TAXI window and admired the Georgian mansions with their creamy stone facades and iron gates. Lampposts were wrapped in Christmas lights and store windows were decorated with gold and silver ornaments.

  Mayfair really was the prettiest section of London. Bond Street was lined with smart galleries and Savile Row had exquisite tailors and there was the Royal Academy of Arts and Dorchester Hotel.

  Trevor suggested meeting at Claridge’s but Kate said she would join him at The Arts Club. She felt a little silly; they could have shared a cab. But it would be better if the evening began in a noisy bar rather than the backseat of a taxi.

  She didn’t know why she agreed to have dinner with Trevor at all. She should be in her suite, checking e-mails and having a room service lobster salad. But Trevor knew her so well; he could tell if she made a flimsy excuse. And it was only dinner. What could go wrong with waiters hovering over them and asking how they liked their steaks?

  The taxi stopped in front of a brick building with ivory pillars. There was a lacquered front door and plaque with THE ARTS CLUB in gold lettering.

  “Good evening, Miss Crawford,” a doorman greeted her. “Sir Trevor is expecting you. He’s waiting in the drawing room.”

  She walked down a marble hallway and entered the drawing room. Gray satin love seats were arranged around a glass coffee table and orange rugs were scattered over parquet floors. Silk drapes covered tall windows and bookshelves were lined with leather-bound books.

  “Kate,” Trevor welcomed her. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

  “The taxi driver wanted to show me every street in Mayfair,” Kate said and laughed. “How did the doorman know my name?”

  “It’s one of the benefits of belonging to a private club. Gerome makes it his job to know the name of every guest.” He grinned. “I did mention a beautiful blonde was joining me for dinner. So perhaps I gave it away.”

  “I assumed we were going to dine at a restaurant.” Kate glanced at the regency desk and paintings in gilt frames. “To be honest, I never thought you belonged to…”

  “A private club?” Trevor asked. “The gentlemen’s clubs are London’s best inventions. Susannah kept Yardley Manor so full of guests, I couldn’t think. Even the dogs retreated to the garage because there were always people milling around in tennis whites.

  “The club is surprisingly relaxed,” he continued. “Once you’re a member, no one cares what car you drive or where you bought a holiday villa. They just want a quiet place to have a brandy and read the paper.”

  Trevor gave her a tour of the library bar with its polished walnut tables and cigar lounge decorated with art deco furniture and courtyard with a stone fountain and ivy-covered trellises.

  “The Arts Club was founded in 1863 as a gathering place for men in the arts and sciences.” He led her into the brasserie. “Charles Dickens and Anthony Trollope were members, and so was Degas.”

  “Your life has certainly changed.” Kate raised her eyebrows. “Member of a private club and married into the royal family.”

  “Susannah is only a second cousin, but we got invited to the occasional tea at Buckingham Palace and shooting party at Balmoral Castle. And endless weddings.” He picked up the menu. “You could spend your whole life fastening the cuff links on your morning coat.”

  “Have you really been to Balmoral Castle?” she asked.

  “The Queen holidays there from August to November.” He nodded. “There are picnics, and corgis running around your feet. I’ll miss it, now that we’re separated. The Queen is lovely and no one in England has experienced so much history.” He sipped a glass of ice water. “Tell me about you. What did Kate Crawford do after she tossed her tasseled cap in the air and left St Andrews?”

  “I moved to New York,” she said. “It’s the usual story: I rented an apartment with three roommates and a pullout bed. I worked at television jobs that paid less than my school paper route and had longer hours than a law firm. Then I met Bianca and got my lucky break. The pay is still low by New York standards, but I have a driver and expense account.” She paused. “And I love what I do. It’s everything I wanted.”

  “And men?” he asked. “Surely there’s a hedge fund manager escorting you to industry events, or an artist waiting at home with a chicken and baked potato?”

  “There have been men,” she admitted. “A poet at Columbia who took a position at a college in Ohio. A tech genius who moved to Silicon Valley and forgot to tell me our long-distance relationship wasn’t working.” She winced. “I found out when he posted a photo of his new girlfriend on Instagram.”

  “That’s his loss.” He leaned back in his chair. “You’re ve
ry beautiful, Kate. Any man would be lucky to have you.”

  “Trevor, I…” she began.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  Kate opened her mouth and stopped. Saying anything would be like releasing a tightly wound spool of thread.

  “I’d like to order.” She consulted the menu. “The grilled Dover sole with truffled potatoes sounds delicious.”

  They ate a blue cheese salad and grilled sole in hollandaise sauce. Trevor ordered a bottle of Taittinger and they talked about Sussex and New York. The champagne was wonderfully smooth and Kate felt light and relaxed.

  “You’ll never guess who I ran into on our holiday in Spain,” Trevor said when the waiter set down a platter of fruit and cheeses. “Ian Cunningham.”

  Her chest tightened and she gripped her champagne flute.

  “He looked the same as he did at St Andrews. His blond hair didn’t quite look like it came out of a bottle and there were lines around his mouth.” He fiddled with the cheese knife. “Apparently he had a failed nightclub in Knightsbridge and ran through his inheritance. He and a partner decided to try again in Spain. He married a Spanish girl and they have a baby.”

  “Trevor,” Kate said warningly. “We agreed not to discuss the past.”

  “He was very friendly. He offered us free entrance to his nightclub and bought us a round of sangria,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Isn’t it strange. One would have imagined Ian would be having dinner at The Arts Club with a beautiful blonde instead of me.”

  Kate put her napkin on her plate and grabbed her purse. “This has been lovely, but I have to go.”

  Trevor ran his hands through his hair and for a moment he was the boy who could spend hours helping her with a math problem.

  “I’m sorry, that was wrong,” he apologized. “Please stay. After dinner we can take a tour of the upstairs drawing rooms. There’s an autographed copy of Great Expectations and an original newspaper clipping of Churchill’s victory speech.”

  “All right. I’ll stay this time, but you have to promise not to say anything like that again,” she relented and smiled. “When will I ever get another chance to eat at The Arts Club?”

  They wandered upstairs and Trevor showed her a study with first-edition books by Kipling and Wilkie Collins. There was a signed sketch by Degas and antique silver used by Rodin when he dined at the club.

  “I know we said we shouldn’t talk about the past, but do you remember when we spent all our evenings at the museum at St Andrews?” Kate asked. “I wanted to go dancing but you thought that was as crazy as boarding a spaceship to Mars.”

  “Why would anyone want to stumble around in a drunken blur when there was so much history at our fingertips?” he recalled.

  “We were young, it was important to have fun,” she insisted. “The point of being at university was to make friends.”

  “I already had a friend.” Trevor turned to Kate. “All I needed was you.”

  They walked back downstairs and Trevor retrieved their coats from the coat check. He folded his Burberry overcoat over his arm and helped her on with her jacket. He stood close enough for her to smell his cologne and her whole body tingled.

  “It’s good to see you after all this time, Kate,” he said and touched her wrist. “You don’t know how lovely you are.”

  Kate turned around and their eyes locked. Suddenly he pulled her close and kissed her. His mouth was warm and he tasted of champagne and berries.

  “I had a wonderful time, but I have to go.” Kate pulled away. “I’ll ask the doorman to call a cab.”

  “Don’t be silly, we’ll go together,” Trevor suggested.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” She smoothed her skirt and smiled. “Thank you again. I’ll see you later.”

  Kate hurried down the steps and turned onto Dover Street. If she waited for the doorman, Trevor might rush out and stop her. Why did she agree to have dinner with him?

  The night air touched her cheeks and she wondered if she was overreacting. They were both tipsy and a little nostalgic. The kiss was as harmless as a kiss under the mistletoe at a holiday party.

  Kate passed a bar and noticed a crowd of young people at the entrance. The girls wore their hair long and straight and were dressed in boots and miniskirts. They were joined by young men in blazers and khakis. They all had white teeth and keys to expensive sports cars.

  A young man at the center of the group looked up and caught her eye. Kate gasped and noticed how much he resembled Ian Cunningham. His blond hair brushed his forehead and he had the kind of smile that was irresistible to women.

  A girl tugged at the boy’s sleeve and Kate looked away. She entered a café and ordered a cup of coffee. It was too cold to keep walking and she had to clear her head.

  It had been foolish to think they could have dinner without talking about Ian. He was like a photo spread in a men’s fashion magazine. Blond hair and chiseled cheekbones that belonged on a Roman statue.

  She remembered the first time she saw him, eating a baked potato at the Old Union Coffee Shop. It was Trevor’s fault she got involved with Ian. If Trevor had taken her to the Snowdrop Ball, none of it would ever have happened.

  * * *

  Kate jumped on her bicycle and rode quickly down South Street. It was November and really too cold to ride a bicycle. She couldn’t wait to tell Trevor her news, and he would probably be solving algorithms at a café until nightfall.

  The glorious Scottish fall weather had been replaced by bitter nights and mornings with frost covering the playing fields. Everyone said the climate in St Andrews was milder than other parts of Scotland because of the North Sea. But Kate pictured November in Santa Barbara with the breeze wafting through the palm trees and sun glinting off the Pacific and had never been so cold in her life.

  She didn’t mind having to use extra blankets at night or warm up her hands before class. She loved the university’s majestic buildings and quaint courtyards. The town of St Andrews was so charming with its cobblestone alleys, and Fife Coastal Path had views of the whole coastline.

  And she had a best friend! She and Trevor did everything together. They quizzed each other on French pronouns and studied for chemistry tests. They explored the ruins of St Andrews Cathedral and watched classic movies at the cinema on Market Street.

  The only thing Trevor wouldn’t do was listen to the jukebox at Cellar Bar or play billiards at Criterion. Every Friday night, Kate begged him to join her and he refused. He had a point. The pub was so noisy you couldn’t hear anyone talk. And if you managed to find a quiet corner, the other person usually kept looking around for someone more interesting.

  Kate often returned to McIntosh Hall at midnight, dejected and smelling of smoke. Trevor made hot chocolate and mumbled I told you so. Kate insisted it didn’t matter if it was enjoyable; it was part of the college experience.

  She parked her bicycle in front of Zizzi’s and entered the café. This time she was determined to convince Trevor to accompany her. The Snowdrop Ball was the most important event of the semester and she couldn’t go alone.

  “You’re the only person who isn’t eating anything.” She approached his table. “I’m surprised they don’t kick you out.”

  “I come because of the pizza oven, it keeps the room warmer than anywhere on campus.” He waved at the brick oven. “I did eat a side of pumpkin mozzarella. It was all I could afford and I finished it ages ago.”

  “I’ll order a pizza with all the toppings to celebrate.” Kate handed the invitation to Trevor. “After you read this.”

  “‘St Andrews Student Union requests your presence at the annual Snowdrop Ball. November twenty-fifth at the Old Course Hotel,’” he read out loud. “‘Formal dress is required.’

  “I’m not sure what we’re celebrating.” He set the card on the table. “That sounds as appealing as a seventeenth-century Scottish torture chamber.”

  “It’s invitation only and it’s an honor to be included as a freshman
,” Kate gushed.

  “I’m glad your membership to committees and societies paid off, but I don’t know what it has to do with me.” He turned back to his equation.

  “You’re going to take me,” she pleaded. “There will be a twelve-piece orchestra and hot chocolate station. The ballroom will be decorated with gold and silver snowflakes and it will be like a scene from Narnia.”

  “It sounds horrifying. Everyone will drink flasks of whiskey they sneak in their socks.” He shuddered. “By midnight half the crowd will be throwing up and the other half will be pawing each other like animals. I’d rather watch an episode of Wild Kingdom on television.”

  “It will be wonderful and elegant and they’re going to perform Scottish dances,” she corrected. “I need a date and I don’t have anyone else.”

  “Kate.” Trevor looked at her. “You could wave the invitation in the middle of the Student Union and half the guys would jump at the chance.”

  “I don’t want to go with someone I barely know.” She fiddled with the card.

  “I’d have to rent a dinner jacket. I never took dancing lessons and I don’t know anything about wine.” He shook his head. “There’s a performance that night of Music in the Museums. We’ll attend that instead. Now I have to finish these problems. Afterward we can quiz each other on geography.”

  “Just because you study math night and day doesn’t make you superior.” She was suddenly angry. “Attending balls is as important as solving logarithms.”

  “It might be for the students who only care about the leather in their parents’ Aston Martins,” he said icily. “But it isn’t for me. When I graduate, I actually want to have learned something.”

  “There’s time to do both. You’re an intellectual snob and you won’t admit it.” She grabbed the invitation and stood up. “But if you won’t come, I’ll take your advice.”

  “Where are you going?” he called after her.

  “To find someone who doesn’t think escorting me to the Snowdrop Ball is worse than coming down with the chicken pox.”

  Kate jumped on her bicycle and rode down South Street. Why was Trevor being difficult? Just this week she missed a meeting of the Ivanhoe Society to proofread his paper on Spenser’s Faerie Queene. All she wanted was for him to accompany her to the ball.