Up for Love in London

by Willow. Bonaire

  “Your steak, Mr. Sterling,” I announce as I place it on his table.

  He appears to be surprised and grateful. “Thank you, Lauren.”

  That was a shock. Even though I wear a name tag on my uniform, hardly anyone ever uses it.

  “You’re very welcome. I hope it’s as you like it.”

  “I’m sure it will be.”

  ~

  Richard hands the coffee and dessert service to David and me so he can open the In-Flight duty free shop. I’ve heard stories from senior flight attendants, ones who flew during the golden age of aviation, about first class passengers buying gifts for them, like Hermes scarves or Chanel perfume. I never saw those days, so I can’t really miss them and I hear that first class these days is about as good as it gets.

  We arrive at Charles’ seat with the coffee trolley. He touches my arm and smiles. “The steak was perfect.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” My standard reply, but this time I mean it. The conversation might have progressed but David pushes the trolley forward and I back through the curtains and into the galley.

  The interphone bell chimes and I’m hopeful it’s Jim, inviting me to the flight deck. It’s a call from the aft cabin. “Lauren, it’s Olivia. Remember we flew to Paris in September?”

  It takes a moment for me to picture her. “Olivia, hi! How did you get on board? Are you travelling as a passenger?”

  “No, I’m working. I was supposed to fly to Frankfurt tonight but I was drafted because someone from your flight called in sick. I was late boarding, that’s why you didn’t see me.”

  “Why don’t you come up for a coffee? I just finished serving dessert.”

  “That’s why I rang. Give me a few minutes and I’ll bring my tablet too. I’ve got some great shots of you and Brad by the Eiffel Tower. I meant to email them earlier but you know how time flies in this job.”

  Do I ever. It seems like only last week the entire crew was out walking in Luxembourg Gardens, digesting after a hearty meal of steak frites and red wine at Chez Francois. Olivia was playing with her latest digital camera, which is about as complicated to operate as this aircraft.

  I didn’t realize that was when Brad met his new girlfriend Jennifer. She got tipsy on wine during dinner and grabbed onto Brad’s free arm as we all meandered through the park. I thought she was cute - harmless and a bit immature. She laughed and draped herself over him while Olivia clicked shot after shot. “It’s my first flight to Paris. I want pictures with all the crew, even the pilots.”

  “Lauren? Are you still there?” Olivia’s voice jolts me back to the present.

  “Yes, sorry. See you soon, okay?” and I hang up.

  I really don’t want to see any pictures of Brad, but surprisingly, I’m curious about Jennifer. I only met her once, but it’s easier to put one and one together in retrospect. I realize Brad and I weren’t an ideal match, especially since I’d like a steady beau, someone to have fun and share my life with. Maybe not marriage, not yet, but something more substantial that what I’ve had so far. Olivia had called Brad a serial monogamist. She might be right, though I’m not sure about the monogamous part during his “transitions.” He said nothing had happened with Jennifer yet, but I’m not completely naïve.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting, staring at the coffeemakers, when I feel Olivia’s hand on my shoulder. “Lauren, I’m sorry to hear about you and that bastard Brad. But I’ve got some great photos of you – maybe for an online dating site?” She pulls the other jump seat down and sits beside me.

  I feel a lump rising in my throat and tears sting my eyes. “How did you know?”

  “Richard just told me, he overheard me talking to you, but darling, you know what a small world this business is. It doesn’t take long before everyone knows what you’re doing.”

  She leans in for a hug. “Don’t be upset. You deserve better, and until you find him, have fun, like I do.”

  My tears are more from embarrassment than they are from heartbreak. Everyone knows it was Brad who got tired of me, for all he said I was the “perfect woman.” I suppose that phrase alone should have warned me. My parents taught me that no one is perfect, and that when you love someone, you accept that—without being a doormat.

  But Olivia is right. The world is full of men. Finding them is another matter. Some women are just naturally outgoing and men flock to them. For me, dating is hard work. I don’t want to go out with someone if there’s no immediate chemistry. Even then, I get nervous about what he might expect. And if I’m more interested than he seems to be, I feel like a puppy at the pound on adoption day.

  “Do you have any plans for the layover?” I ask.

  “I’m going to visit family. And I’m returning on the earlier flight so I won’t see you then either.”

  The interphone rings again. It’s Richard, asking for Olivia’s help in the aft cabin.

  “Duty calls.” We both stand and she hugs me again. “I’ll email but in the meantime, let me be the first to wish you a Merry Christmas or as we say in the U.K., a Happy Christmas. I hope Santa is good to you.”

  “Thanks Olivia. Same to you.”

  I’m wiping away a tear when Charles pulls aside the galley curtain. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” He seems slightly embarrassed. “It seems as though you just lost your best friend.”

  “Hardly.” I sniff and continue. “Would you like something?”

  “A coffee would be wonderful.”

  “Decaf or regular?”

  “Now, that’s a good question. If I wanted to sleep, I’d choose decaf. But as the captain says we’re landing a half hour early…”

  “We are?” Damn, I must have missed his announcement while chatting to Olivia.

  “…so I’ll take whatever’s hot.”

  Now Charles is the one being obliging. I smile and fill a cup for him. I must be feeling better because I worry that my teary mascara makes me resemble a raccoon. A good sign, but not a great look.

  ~

  The breakfast service is busy for everyone and I barely have time to change into my regular high heels before I hear the landing gear lock into position. Richard and I press back in our crew seats, relaxing slightly only after the wheels meet the runway. Smooth, he says under his breath, then picks up the intercom handset and begins his arrival announcements. Even though we’ve been working through the night, we both manage to put a smile in our voices and on our faces. Richard’s weather report confirms what’s clearly visible through the windows – scattered clouds and rain.

  ~

  The first class cabin usually deplanes quickly but Charles seems to linger, slowly collecting his bags and adjusting his tie. He’s remarkably fresh-looking for a guy who’s spent the night in an aircraft but maybe he’s the wrinkle-proof type. I start to wonder if he looks that good every morning.

  As I dash down the stairs to the crew bus, I’m looking forward to a nap, until I remember that Jim will be there and the long drive downtown will offer plenty of opportunity for conversation. Should I yawn and fake tiredness? Not hard to do. After using the last of my energy for the breakfast service, I’m exhausted, physically and mentally. Rehashing the situation won’t make it change. Brad was wrong for me but it’s still a blow to my ego. Being in the mood to flirt with Charles tells me that my heart is mending and I could be ready to move on.

  Jim is stretched out in the last row and I decide to sit in the front, a signal that I don’t feel like chatting. A fine mist is falling from a grey sky and the rhythmic swoop swoop of the bus’s windshield wipers soon puts me to sleep.

  CHAPTER 3 ~ Loving London

  It’s almost 9 a.m. when I awake with a jolt in front of the hotel. I haven’t been here for a while and the building seems to have been renovated. Our London crew hotel has had several owners since I’ve been flying and the latest, Concord Group, appears to be the classiest.

  On either side of the revolving doors, boxwood, magnolia leaves and spruce boughs spill
out of oversized planters. The lobby has completely been redone in a stylish mix of classic and modern European, with a black granite reception desk, checkerboard marble floors and silver-grey walls.

  The only thing remaining from the past is a round mahogany table with pawed feet, which holds a towering all-white arrangement of fragrant lilies and peonies.

  I ask if there are any vacancies on the 11th floor. They’re standard rooms but they all have a stunning view of the park and are also further away from the noise of the traffic circle below. I like to sleep with the windows open for some fresh air after a flight. But nothing is available. The receptionist plays with the computer, and then converses with the manager. I’m starting to feel frustrated and regret making a special request. After making plans to meet at six at the bar, the rest of the crew has dispersed and I’m still in the lobby.

  They finally sort something out. “Your key, Madame,” the clerk says in a low voice. I almost snatch it from her hand and stomp over to the elevator. When I realize I need to insert the key card to access the 12th floor, I know I’m in for a pleasant surprise. It’s every flight attendant’s dream to stay in a fabulous hotel room and I think mine might come true today.

  The elevator door quietly opens onto the Concord Executive Floor. Charcoal tone-on-tone damask wallpaper adorns the top of the hallway and the lower part is matte charcoal wainscoting. Black and grey tiger-patterned carpet is bordered by black edging and matte charcoal painted frames and doors. It probably sounds hideous but it looks gorgeous and sexy. I’m ready to camp right here in the corridor.

  Inside, the room exceeds my expectations. I roll my suitcase over the plush gray carpet, sweep aside the thick silver drapes and look out below. The sightlines to the park are still spectacular but the view inside is what really captivates me.

  I kick off my shoes and plop down, fully clothed, on the plush king-sized bed and survey my surroundings. The bed is dressed in cool white linen and the soft grey quilt matches the grass-cloth wallpaper. An antique mahogany dresser with brass pulls is a nice nod to British style. A mini-bar, coffee station with pod coffee brewer, tea pot and kettle, Bose stereo and flat screen TV round out the facilities. It’s classy yet comfortable, just the way I like it.

  The bathroom has been refurbished too. A long deep tub has been retrofitted, surrounded by crisp white tiles and a half glass shower partition. The floor and countertop is Carrara marble and the stand-up sink has a touch-free swan-neck chrome faucet. I wonder if I used my interior design education instead of flying, if I’d be responsible for creating rooms like this. At least I’m fortunate enough to stay in one.

  The bath is inviting but I opt for a long shower instead. The amenities are first class and organic. When I finally slip on the fluffy white robe, I smell like I’ve been walking through a basil and cucumber rain shower. Unexpectedly revitalized, I resist the bed, drink an espresso from the pod coffee maker and dress to head downtown.

  Before leaving, I glance in the full-length mirror and like what I see– a confident young woman in slim charcoal pants, black double-breasted Burberry raincoat and black ballet flats. I pull my honey-highlighted hair into a quick ponytail and clip it with a tortoiseshell barrette – a reminder of my last trip to Paris. Oh, stop it Lauren! My scarlet lipstick adds a pop of colour to an otherwise monochromatic look. It really brightens my face. I tuck a grey silk scarf inside my collar, fling my black patent-leather tote over my shoulder and head out the door.

  I love to walk in London, even when it’s cold, damp and rainy. The traffic is always so congested, it seems as though I’m quicker than the bus. Paris is beautiful, but London is too - symmetrical red brick Georgian homes, a rainbow of pastel hues in Chelsea and the understated luxury of Knightsbridge.

  The skies are heavy but the rain holds off and I take a short cut through Regent’s Park. Most of the large trees are bare, but camellia shrubs, yews and boxwood hedging keep the city looking green. Even rosemary and lavender plants hold their leaves. Without snow, it doesn’t feel much like December.

  I cross the York Bridge, backtracking to Devonshire and Upper Wimpole to avoid the hustle of Marylebone. I zigzag towards Oxford Street, ending up at St. Christopher’s Place, a charming, almost secret street lined with trendy shops and restaurants. My stomach starts to grumble and I know I’d better find food and fast. There’s a Café Rouge on James Street, but before I can change direction, I’m mesmerized by the most exquisite dress I’ve ever seen.

  It’s red and red-carpet worthy, long and sleek. The neckline plunges but not too dramatically, the straps are wide enough and the waistline is high, but not quite empire. Sexy and sophisticated in one package.

  I catch my reflection in the window and feel bold. I muster my richest attitude and saunter into the shop. Even though I won’t have a place to wear it this year, I want to try it on anyway.

  The boutique is warm and dry and an alluring trace of vanilla rides on the air. Pale planked floors contrast with the ornate plastered ceiling and ivory-coloured walls. There are a few racks of dresses but the store seems almost bare, so typical for high-end shops. Two young, pencil-thin clerks in tiny black dresses chat beside the cash register.

  I hover around the gown but the girls ignore me. Perhaps I don’t look wealthy enough. And then I look at the price tag and my hand flies to my mouth in shock. And that’s in pounds. I’m about to feign indifference and march out of the store when a bold arm slips around my waist and pulls me close. I catch a now-familiar scent of citrus and leather.

  “This is definitely the one you want, darling. It will be perfect for our Christmas party, but I’d like to see you in it first.”

  It’s Charles Sterling! When he sees my surprised look, his blue eyes twinkle in a naughty way. I try to maintain my cool as he steers me to the back of the store.

  “Ladies?” He only needs to say one word and raise one eyebrow on his handsome face and the clerks snap to attention.

  “Yes, sir,” they chime.

  I smile coyly, and touch a finger to his cheek, letting him know I’m up for the game. “Well, I’m not sure it’s quite my style, but I’ll try it on for you, darling.” The clerks almost trip over each other to see who’ll reach the dress first. They must be on commission.

  And then I panic, wondering if he’ll join me. But he waits outside, like a gentleman, until I’ve slipped into the gown.

  It’s almost a flawless fit. The waist needs to be nipped in a touch but otherwise it’s perfect. My flat shoes are obviously inappropriate, so one of the clerks offers a pair of pumps.

  “Ready yet?” Charles must be right outside.

  “I can’t close the back zipper.”

  “Let me help.” Before I can say no, Charles steps into the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He gently moves my ponytail and slowly zips up the dress. He touches my neck, then removes the barrette and lets my hair loose.

  “Perhaps it would be better up with this gown,” he says and lifts my hair, twisting it slightly and clipping it. “You have such a beautiful neck.” His lips are warm as he nuzzles my nape.

  I turn to face him and he cups my chin in his palm, kissing me softly on my mouth. As he moves down to my throat, I gasp with astonishment and delight, causing one of the salesgirls to ask, “Is everything alright, miss?”

  I can imagine their shocked faces when Charles’ deep voice replies, “Yes, yes, everything is fine.” He adjusts the bulge in his pants, opens the door and says, “We’ll take it, but it needs alterations.”

  “Yes Mr. Sterling.”

  As one of the girls pins the waist and hemline, she avoids my face, which must be the same colour as the dress. I try to look nonchalant, while my brain is calculating the future cost of this encounter. Even a man who can afford to throw money around must expect something in return. I’m pretty certain it will be more than a kiss in the dressing room.

  Charles has just finished paying when I leave the cubicle and we meet at the cash register. I wonder
if I should have declined the dress, but by now Charles knows I’m no virtuous angel. Our eyes meet and I notice a twinkle in his sapphire blue eyes as his lips curve into a boyish grin. He’s obviously not taking this as seriously as I am.

  He gently holds my arm and steers me across the street, through a large black door. Inside, the décor is modern minimalist, all shades and textures of white. It takes a moment before I realize it’s a hotel lobby. There’s not even a front desk to speak of and the staff are dressed in all-black designer clothes without name tags.

  “Is this your home?” I ask Charles.

  “Home away from home. It’s one of my hotels.”

  “One of.” I like that. “One of how many?” I try to act casual, but my jetlag gives me away.

  “Sometimes it feels like too many, but not today.” He smiles and waits for my next question.

  “Do you always going around buying expensive dresses for strange women?”

  “Do you always go around accepting expensive dresses from strange men?”

  He has me on that one. “Touché, but you have to admit…”

  Charles interjects midsentence. “I’ll admit to nothing and neither should you.” He smiles again and his eyes sparkle, breaking down my mistrust. “Except my need for a mid-morning glass of Champagne. Care to join me?”

  “Why not?”

  I look around and survey my surroundings. I feel a bit out of my league, like Cinderella, but if the prince approves, who cares? He pulls out my chair and helps me remove my coat. Presumably I’m going to be here for a while.

  Charles walks behind the bar, acting like he owns the place. Oh, right, he does. He holds up a bottle of Tattinger and when I nod my approval, deftly pops the cork and pours two frothy flutes.

  We clink glasses and toast to nothing in particular. The Champagne is perfectly chilled and the bubbles are the correct size, not too big, not too small and they rush to the top in wavering lines. I take a sip and feel obliged to comment, “Nice finish.”