S'more to Lose

by Beth Merlin

  I looked up into his eyes again but this time found myself staring at a reflection of my former self. The girl who, four years ago, almost extinguished everything good in her life by letting desire and lust overwhelm all reason. I was a guest in Gideon’s home. Annabelle was sleeping a few yards away. This wasn’t just reckless, it was selfish and I wouldn’t be that person again. I pulled away from Perry’s grasp.

  Perry reached for my arm. “Gigi, please.”

  “Let me go!”

  I ripped myself from his grip and hurried as far from Perry as I could. He called my name over and over again, but I refused to look back. Moments later, I was in the thick of the yew hedge maze, no clue where I’d come in and even less of an idea of how to get out. I walked down the pathways and passageways, moving deeper and deeper into the enclosure. I sprang up on my tiptoes, trying to locate any landmarks that might help me find my way, but the hedges extended well over my head. After several more wrong turns and dead ends, I was at the midpoint of the maze, staring up at a large fountain where water spewed from a statue of Janus, the Roman god of beginnings, transitions, and time.

  When the Metropolitan Museum of Art opened its Greek and Roman wing a few years ago, I became a regular visitor of the galleries. Their gold bust of the god Janus was a favorite of mine. Depicted as having two faces looking in opposite ways, the sculpture was in the exact center of the gallery as if welcoming every sightseer—its younger face looking toward the past and its older face looking toward the future. I made a habit of greeting him on each and every visit.

  Here in the Badgley Hall maze, Janus was gazing in each possible direction that might lead out from it. I peered left and right, trying to work out the correct route, but the passages looked nearly identical. I sat down on the edge of the fountain and thought back to what the docent had said about how these mazes were at one time used for secret romantic rendezvous between the British aristocracy and their less-than-suitable lovers. I wondered how many had lost their way in these walls before realizing they preferred what they had on the other side?

  I stood up and glanced in each direction again. Unless I wanted to camp for the night, I’d have to make a decision about which way to go. I started to walk toward one of the passageways and thought I heard Gideon’s voice way off in the distance. Or was it Perry’s?

  I looked up at Janus, hoping for a sign, and then heard the voice again, louder and clearer this time. It was Gideon, crying out to me from somewhere inside the maze.

  “I’m here, I’m here,” I called back to him.

  “Just follow my voice. I’ll get you out,” he yelled back. “Can you give me a landmark to help me figure out where you are?”

  “I think I’m in the center. I’m standing next to the fountain and statue of Janus.”

  “Oh, easy then,” Gideon shouted. “Go past the older face and down the passageway. Make two rights, a left, and then another right. I’ll be standing there.”

  I followed his directions and emerged out of the last corridor. Gideon was waiting for me.

  I threw my arms around him, and he yanked his cap off his head.

  “My hero. How’d you know I was here?”

  “The Gamekeeper saw you wander into the maze on his way down to the stream with the fishing equipment for later. He was worried you might be lost in there.”

  “I was stupid. I didn’t have my phone or anything with me but my sketchbook. Left to my own devices, I’d have drifted around that thing for hours.”

  “I have a feeling you’re more resourceful than that.” He gestured to my sketchbook. “Get any work done?”

  I turned the book to him and flipped through the empty pages. “At this rate, Victoria Ellicott may walk down the aisle naked.”

  “Well, that would certainly make a statement,” he said with a wink.

  I closed the book and tucked it under my arm. “So, fishing’s on the day’s itinerary?”

  “Hunting, shooting, fly fishing. All part of life on these country estates. I arranged for the houseguests to get lessons this morning.”

  I glanced down at my feet. “I didn’t bring my galoshes. Maybe I’ll just hang at the house.”

  His expression softened. “I ran into Perry on my way out to find you. He and Annabelle are headed back to London this morning. You don’t have to worry about anymore awkward encounters.” He put his arm around me and pulled me close.

  Without even thinking, I pulled away.

  “What’s wrong, Gigi?”

  I squeezed my eyes closed and blurted out, “Perry kissed me. We were talking—actually fighting—and it just happened.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “I see.”

  “There’s a lot of history, and I think he got swept up in the moment, that’s all. But I wanted to be honest with you. I owe you that.”

  He turned from me. “You should go back inside and join the others for breakfast. I have to check on a few things.”

  I walked over to him. “Don’t you want to talk about this?” I asked.

  Gideon closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “No.”

  I instantly recognized his reaction, the same one I’d seen so many times from Perry. Suppressing feelings, wanting to keep interactions brief and polite rather than causing a stir or making a scene.

  I reached for his arm. “Gideon, please.”

  He put his flat cap back on and headed down the walkway toward the stream without another word.

  The rest of the day, I wandered back and forth to the different activities Gideon had organized on the property, hoping to see him again. I fumbled my way through archery, skeet shooting, and fishing. I felt like I was back at Camp Chinooka, being forced to participate in sports I was completely hopeless at.

  Jamie, however, was having the time of his life and, of course, was fully outfitted for the occasion in an elbow-patched Ralph Lauren tweed jacket, gingham-checked shirt, dark jeans, and a cap similar to the flat cap Gideon always wore.

  I went down to the stream where Jamie and some of the other guests were getting a lesson in trout fly fishing. He was knee-high in the water, the instructor beside him showing him how to cast a line. I took out my phone, snapped a picture, and sent it to Thom. He’d never believe Jamie was fly fishing without the accompanying visual.

  Jamie spotted me on the banks of the water and waded over. “Grab some coveralls and a pair of wellies and come join me.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. “I already flunked archery and skeet shooting.”

  “This is different. There’s nothing to it. Stand here and enjoy the sounds of nature with me.”

  I eyed the muddy bank and the brackish water lapping upon the shore. “Umm…I’ll enjoy them from right here, thank you.”

  “Gigi, stop being a princess and get in the stream with me.”

  I rolled my eyes and walked over to the equipment shed. I pulled on the waterproof overalls and yellow rubber wellies. I carefully trod down to a shallow part of the stream and eased my way in and over to Jamie. The instructor spotted me and brought over a pole. After giving me a quick lesson on how to cast, he moved over to check on some of the other guests.

  Jamie and I stood in silence, waiting for something, anything to bite at our lines.

  “How long are we supposed to stand here?” I whispered.

  “I have no idea. Try to relax.”

  I tugged on my line. “Should we be moving around or something?”

  Jamie glanced down at me. “Perry and Annabelle went back to London, right? Why so antsy?”

  I didn’t want to burden Jamie any more with my troubles, so I told him I was going to try to find a quiet spot to work on my sketches before heading back to the house to clean up for lunch.

  I pushed my way through the current and back to the embankment where Gideon was lecturing some of the other houseguests about the type of stream we were fishing in.

  He led the group down to the water. “This is a chalk stream. They get thei
r name because they flow through chalk hills toward the sea. They’re typically fairly shallow, although the ones here at Badgley Hall are a bit deeper due to our topography. There are two hundred and ten chalk streams in the world, and one hundred sixty of those are right here in England. Most importantly, they’re wonderful for fishing.”

  I turned around and locked eyes with Gideon, who was finishing up his thought. “Chalk streams are known for their stable currents that vary only slightly over time. The temperature is steady and rarely deviates from ten degrees Celsius. Most unique is their transparent water, which is due to a lack of sand and sediment particles.”

  Stable, steady, and transparent. Gideon in a nutshell. In the short time I’d known him, he’d proven to be all of those things, and yet, I pushed him away with both hands. Was I crazy? Or worse, was I fooling myself to think I could ever really be over Perry Gillman?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Gideon avoided me the rest of the day, only making polite chitchat whenever his parents were nearby. I tried several times to talk to him and explain myself, but each time there was a small window of opportunity, he disappeared to do something for the estate. I thought I might have a chance to pull him aside after dinner, but as soon as we retreated to the library, Gideon excused himself, saying he had some emails to answer and calls to make. I stopped by his room on my way to mine and knocked, hoping he’d be willing to talk to me away from the rest of the guests, but he never answered. I finally gave up and went to bed.

  The next morning, I finally got my opportunity. Jamie was packing the car for our return trip to London and I spotted Gideon way off in the distance. He was down at the edge of the property, setting up some small displays outside the Badgley Hall gift shop. I asked Jamie if we could hold off leaving and headed off to talk to him.

  By the time I made my way down to the cottage, Gideon was already back inside, restocking shelves with Badgley Hall commemorative mugs, teapots, and strainers. He turned to look when the door chime rang.

  “I know you’re upset with me, but I wanted to come and at least say goodbye and thank you before we head back to London. Jamie and I leave for New York in the morning.”

  Gideon turned back around and continued stocking the shelves.

  I walked farther into the gift shop and picked up a book titled, The Secrets of Badgley Hall.

  “How much for the book?” I asked.

  He turned around and glanced over at it. “You can just take it. The author didn’t even include the most salacious stuff in that one.”

  I looked around at the old cottage, which had been converted to a quaint little gift and tea shop. “There’s so much history everywhere. If these walls could talk…”

  “The rooms…the walls…the hedge maze,” he muttered.

  “The hedge maze wouldn’t tell you anything I haven’t already,” I said.

  Gideon looked up at me. “Did I forget to commend you for your honesty? Thank you so much for telling me you kissed your ex-fiancé while staying at my home.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Gideon’s arms hung down at his sides in defeat, his voice thick with disillusion. “It’s my own fault. I pushed things too fast. I thought we were on the same page. But, we’re not, are we?”

  “I wanted to be. I thought there was a chance we could be. I never would have come here if I didn’t.”

  I walked over to the corner of the store, where a telescope was propped up to the window, on display for sale. I knelt down and looked up through the glass.

  “It was mine from when I was a kid. I used to take it up to the roof of the house to chart the stars. I don’t have the time to devote to it anymore, so I decided to sell it.”

  I stood up, and Gideon brushed past me to readjust the telescope.

  “If it means that much to you, don’t let it go so easily. You’ll find the time.” I picked the book on Badgley Hall up from the table and hugged it close to my body. “This isn’t goodbye, right? We’ll see each other again?”

  “I’m sure our paths will cross at Victoria and Alexander’s wedding. Look for me up in the cheap seats,” he said.

  “Viscount Satterley in the cheap seats? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “I think they reserve the front rows for dukes and Olivier Award winners.”

  “Perry hasn’t won yet.”

  “He will.”

  Twenty-four hours later, I was back in my tiny apartment lying across the bed and trying to work out whether my bedroom in Badgley Hall had been larger than my entire home. It was. The door buzzer rang, and I sprang up to answer it. Jordana rushed at me as soon as I opened the door. She flung her coat and phone onto a pile of unread magazines and newspapers, sat down on the couch, and opened her laptop on my coffee table.

  “Thank goodness you’re back! We have so much to do.”

  I threw my hands up. “Easy, girl. I haven’t even unpacked yet.”

  Jordana pushed my hands down and kept talking. “I spoke to Gemma, and she said you have a dossier with all the wedding details.”

  “You spoke with Gemma Landry?”

  Jordana looked up from her computer. “She called me on Friday—wanted to make sure I had everything I needed to be able to field questions from the press. We hit it off like gangbusters.”

  I sipped on my coffee. “Why am I not entirely surprised?”

  She ignored my comment and continued.

  “We worked out our strategy for dealing with the press and agreed it was in everyone’s best interest to give Vogue a bit of an exclusive on the gown. Anna Wintour has been such an outspoken supporter of Victoria’s choice of G. Malone, it just makes sense.”

  “Victoria agreed to give Vogue an exclusive? I thought she wanted to keep the dress under wraps until the big day?”

  “Victoria signed off on a cover story and spread to take place before the wedding to capture more stylistic elements of the dress but not to reveal the dress itself. Then they’re going to run a follow-up article on the world’s reaction to the gown following the wedding. You have a meeting with Vogue a week from…” She scrolled down to the bottom of her calendar. “Thursday.”

  Jordana pulled a notebook from her bag, flipped to the middle, and rattled off a list of things I needed to do to prepare for the meeting.

  “They’ll need an idea of the color scheme. For example, is the dress stark white or cream? If possible, they’d love a clue about the fabric choice. Lace? Satin? Taffeta? Tulle? Is the dress more whimsical or formal? Are you pulling any inspiration or ideas from history or past royal weddings? They also asked if you and Jamie would be willing to be in the actual photo shoot. I knew he’d be down for that but wasn’t sure how you’d feel?”

  “Umm, uh, sure—yeah, I guess that’s fine.”

  She took out a pen and crossed that off her list. “Great. Anna’s also asking for a lookbook as soon as we can get it to her.”

  “I thought the shoot was just supposed to evoke the feel of the dress. Why does she need a lookbook?”

  “Gigi, it’s Anna Wintour. I didn’t ask questions. When do you think you can get that over to her?”

  “I don’t know. I’m pretty far behind.”

  “Okay, I’ll let her team know you’ll have something with you on Thursday,” she said without looking up from her phone.

  “Jordana, I’m not sure that’s doable.”

  She stood up, closed her laptop, and stuffed it back into her very crammed tote. “You’ll figure it out. I have to run. I have a million calls.”

  After a hurried air kiss goodbye, Jordana went back to the office, and I set up to work on designing Victoria’s dress. I picked up my coffee mug, the one I’d bought at Highclere Castle, and set it down on my drafting table. I turned on some music and waited for the rush of adrenaline that comes after hearing you had to meet a completely unrealistic deadline. Nothing came. Not one iota of inspiration.

  I never realized how many distractions could capture my attentio
n while I was trying to focus so furtively on the empty pages of my sketchbook. The buzz of an errant fly zipping around in the hazy sunbeams streaming in from the bay window. The odor of frying oil and French fry grease floating up from the burger restaurant downstairs. The intermittent cool breeze of the small oscillating desk fan set upon my windowsill.

  I stood up and hit the blinking red button on my answering machine. Another distraction I couldn’t ignore. Aside from telemarketers, my mother was one of the only people who still bothered leaving formal messages on it. I wandered over to the couch and sifted through the pile of mail, newspapers, and magazines from my few days away while the messages played. The first was from the New York Philharmonic asking Mr. and Mrs. Gillman if we wanted to renew our yearly subscription. Not likely.

  The second was from my mother. She spent the first half of the message letting me know how disappointed she was to have heard the news we were designing Victoria Ellicott’s dress from Matt Lauer instead of her daughter and the second half rattling off a list of all the prominent people who’d called to congratulate her on the news. Before hanging up, she casually mentioned not to pay any attention to the article in the New York Post.

  I pulled the Post out from the bottom of the pile and quickly flipped to Page Six, the newspaper’s famous gossip section. The headline read, “Royal Flush: Will Georgica Goldstein Blow the Opportunity of a Lifetime?” The article that followed recounted my disastrous breakdown during the Top Designer finale and subsequent loss. I read through the story and scanned the accompanying pictures—photographs of some of my best and worst designs—then leaned back into the couch hoping it might swallow me whole.

  Over the last four years when bouts of self-doubt crept up and out of the depths of my consciousness, Perry had been a few feet away cheering me on—forcing me to push those insecurities aside. I looked over to the corner where his keyboard once sat and hurled the newspaper at the empty wall. I walked back over to the drafting table turned to a blank page of the pad, and sat back down. I picked up a pencil and suddenly felt like my hands were going numb. I put the pencil down, shook them out, and tried to pick it up again. This time, I couldn’t even grip the pencil and it fell to the floor. I watched as it slowly rolled past my feet and behind the far leg of the table.