Up for Love in London

by Willow. Bonaire

  I’m not really that hungry, but eating lobster is fun. Charles cracks the claws for me and I scoop out the tender flesh, adding a squeeze of lemon to cut the rich flavour but ignoring the garlic butter. Too many calories for too little reward.

  “So, how does the Sterling family celebrate Christmas?”

  Charles pauses mid-mouthful, as though my question has caught him off-guard. “Well, darling,” he begins, in an ultra-posh British accent, “You can imagine how difficult it is to wrap a private jet or polo pony. And even if one could wrap them, finding a tree large enough to place them under is quite impossible. So we ignore Christmas altogether.”

  We share a laugh before he continues. “We meet at my parents’ house in the morning to open gifts. Mother still fills stockings for us, that is, for me, my younger sister and now for my brother-in-law and my twin nieces. We’ll lunch together and mother and father will go to church in the afternoon. Dinner is roast goose, with parsnips and mashed potatoes, followed by plum pudding and mince pie. Plenty of eating, plenty of drinking and far too many presents for the children. We’re quite a traditional family and I like it that way.

  I nod my head in agreement. Even though I consider myself a modern woman, I love celebrations that include family.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow, Lauren? How will you spend the rest of Christmas day?”

  “My flight leaves here at two, so I should be home by 4 o’clock local time. My parents always host the family dinner – turkey with all the trimmings, and my sister and brother will be there too. Of course, this year I’ll miss the real fun part, my nieces and nephews tearing into their gifts on Christmas morning. Watching them makes me feel like a kid again. Speaking of gifts…”

  I open the mahogany desk, retrieve the wrapped box and place it in front of him. “For you.”

  Charles picks up the slender package. “Lauren, just being here with you is enough of a gift for me.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck. “Open it.”

  He kisses my forearm, then peels back the paper and lifts the lid. The silver pen glimmers in the cobalt-blue lining. He picks it up, feeling the weight in his hand. “You shouldn’t have, but I’m very glad you did.”

  “Try it out. The ink is the most amazing shade of blue. Here’s some paper.” I grab a piece of hotel stationery and push it toward him.

  He twists the pen, looks at the nib thoughtfully and then draws a small heart with an arrow through it. My own heart melts when he smiles and kisses my hand. “It’s perfect, just like you.”

  “I’m so glad you like it. I’ll put it in your jacket now, so you won’t forget it.”

  We finish the meal quickly, engaging mostly in small talk. I wonder if my gift has embarrassed him. He seems preoccupied, glancing at the mantle clock frequently. He takes one bite of dessert, puts down his fork, wipes his mouth on the napkin and excuses himself before walking to the bathroom.

  “Are we late for something?” I call out.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You keep looking at the time. And your phone. Are we going to a party after?”

  “After what?”

  “After this, after our dinner.”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” I hope he senses my disappointment. “Well, it won’t be so hard to spend Christmas Eve here with you.” He’s now in the bedroom and I’m hoping he might come out with a surprise for me.

  He returns and I’m stunned that he’s almost fully dressed. Well, that’s certainly a surprise. He picks his tie off the couch and stops in front of the hall mirror. “Going somewhere?” I ask, coyly.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he answers, expertly twisting the tie into a slim knot.

  “Unfortunately?” That must mean I’m not invited. I rise, gulp and stammer, “Oh, well, I see.”

  “Darling I’m sorry, I must go. I’m already late – very late. You see, I have a family obligation tonight, I hope you understand.”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I can’t contain my disbelief. “What kind of family obligation?”

  He turns to me slowly and clips his cufflinks. Then he rubs the back of his neck, looks at his feet and then meets my eyes.

  Oh boy, I sense this isn’t going to be good.

  “I’m sorry to drop this bombshell on you now, Lauren. I wanted to tell you earlier…not that it really matters, but, I have a soon-to-be-ex-wife and a stepson, Robbie. I made a promise to see them tonight.”

  I stand before him, arms down, hands clenched at my sides. I bite my bottom lip to keep it from wobbling. I don’t want him to see how much this is hurting me.

  He continues, slowly. “I don’t care about the ex, as a matter of fact, I’m glad to be out of that situation. But this could be the last I see of Robbie for a very long time.”

  “Darling Lauren,” and he lifts my chin with one finger so our eyes meet. “Please don’t be upset. There’s nothing I can do about it now, believe me.” He walks to the closet and pulls on his jacket and overcoat.

  “Oh, I believe you. I believe that you didn’t want to mention it earlier. You wanted to wait until after we made love.” I cross my arms and try to squeeze back my tears of anger and rejection. “It’s Christmas Eve!”

  He turns and for a moment I think he’s about to come back and comfort me, but instead, he stays where he’s standing, far away. “This isn’t the first time we’ve made love and I hope it won’t be the last. But that’s up to you, Lauren. It is Christmas Eve and I have a commitment I don’t want to break.”

  “I should have known better. You’re just like…”

  “Lauren, please stop before we say things we’ll both regret.” Without another word, he turns and leaves the room, letting the door close slowly behind him. In my rage, I pick up the nearest object – his wine glass – and hurl it at the door. It smashes into a thousand tiny shards, glittering on the carpet like hard, sharp tears.

  I wait a few moments, then compose myself and pad to the window. The snow is falling heavily now, large thick white flakes, so very unBritish-like. I can see Charles’ Bentley as he pulls out of the hotel driveway, the tire treads the only impression on the freshly fallen snow. He skids onto the street and speeds away.

  It’s just past eight. I’m full, fucked and restless. It’s too early for bed and too late to make plans to meet the crew. And how would I explain this awful embarrassing situation? Ah yes, we had intercourse between the courses. I’m hurt and angry but why did I expect more? Charles promised me nothing except dinner together and I can only blame myself for reading more into it.

  My beautiful red dress is still lying on the floor beside the window. I pull it back on, return to the bathroom and dry my hair. I apply a swipe of lipstick, step into my new pumps. I clear the table of plates and glasses, stacking them on the trolley and call room service. I’m too embarrassed to be here when the butler arrives, so I wheel it into the hall. I also place a call to housekeeping, mentioning that a glass has broken and the carpet should be vacuumed. I pull on my uniform coat and the dress hangs beneath it like a slip that’s far too long. I tuck the key and my phone into the pocket, step gingerly over the splinters and close the door behind me. There are still a few mouthfuls of champagne left in the bottle, so I hoist it to my lips and greedily suck the remnants.

  The lobby is empty so I don’t have to face any queries. The receptionist barely notices me and I’m grateful for that too. The streets are quiet and the few vehicles – a mostly unoccupied red double-decker bus and a black cab or two – wind their way with purpose. The snow has stopped falling and is now melting on the sidewalks, leaving puddles that I don’t avoid. The dirty water seeps into my shoes and splashes onto the hem of my dress. There’s a light breeze, barely cold enough so I have to exhale hard to see my breath.

  The cemetery gates are locked, so I walk the long route to the High Street. Ahead, the colourful lights of the Greek restaurant twinkle cheerfully. As I get closer, I can see tables of merrymakers through the fog
gy windows. Two crew members stand outside, smoking.

  I stay on the other side of the street, pull the hood over my head and shove my hands deep into the pockets. Someone might recognize the uniform coat, I just hope they don’t guess that it’s me inside. They take no notice, squashing their cigarette butts underfoot and returning to the warmth and hospitality of the restaurant. I wish I could join them.

  I don’t want to return to the hotel, but I fear running into my crew if I wander the streets for much longer. Plus, my feet are now numb and wet. I walk quickly back, enter through the side door and climb the stairs to the mezzanine before riding the elevator to the penthouse floor.

  The room service trolley is gone, the House Keeping Requested sign stripped from the doorknob. Inside, the rug has been vacuumed, bed linens changed, towels replaced, shower cleaned. The curtains are closed and one light is on in the living area. In the bedroom, a single silver-wrapped chocolate truffle rests on the uncreased pillow case. It’s like a crime scene that has been swept clear. The only remaining evidence is the garment bag from my new dress, hanging lonely and limp in the closet.

  I kick off my wet pumps, stuff them with newspaper and sit them on the heater vents. Then I fill the bathroom sink and rinse out the bottom of my dress before hanging it from the shower head. I grab a cognac miniature from the mini-bar, pour it into a water glass and chug it down. The amber liquid burns my throat but the warmth spreads down to my toes, giving me a who-gives-a-damn attitude guaranteed to put me to sleep. Just in case that isn’t enough, I pop a motion-sickness pill and then crawl into bed. I could cry myself to sleep but I’ve done that too often in the past. From now on, if a man treats me badly, I’m never going to think about him again. That will be my New Year’s resolution.

  CHAPTER 8 ~ The Morning After

  The alarm clock’s incessant buzzing wakes me from a deep sleep. I stumble out of bed, heading for the bathroom. The luxury of the suite only reminds me of the painful night before. I take this last opportunity to savour the room’s amenities before checking out. I’m afraid it will be a long time before I stay in a place as extravagant as this again.

  My red dress is still hanging in the stall, looking none the worse for wear. I place it in the closet and wonder if I should even take it home with me. After a leisurely shower, I wrap myself in the soft white robe and toddle into the living room.

  I draw back the curtains to reveal a cold, sunny day, with a light sprinkling of snow on the ground. It’s so Christmassy, it makes my heart smile just a bit.

  The flowers on the dining table are still fresh and fragrant. Facing the cruel irony of choosing between a French vanilla coffee pod, or English breakfast tea, I opt for cappuccino and consider my choices for breakfast. I could dig into my totebag and probably unearth some cheese and crackers left over from my crew snack box. But the new me is feeling bold and adventurous.

  What the hell, Merry Christmas Lauren. I peruse the room service menu and order the most decadent and expensive meal. Scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, blinis with cream cheese and caviar and freshly-juiced papaya and mango. Since I have to work in a few hours, I pass on the Champagne.

  I dry my hair while waiting for the meal to arrive. I’m still in my robe when there’s a knock on the door. I’m half-expecting Charles, or at least a note from him, but the waiter is merely professionally courteous. Thank God it’s a different server from last night.

  He bows and sets the table quickly, lifts the lid to show me the food, then replaces the lid and pours the juice into a small crystal glass. “Enjoy your meal, miss,” he says, as he backs out of the room with the trolley.

  With moves like that, he’d make a great flight attendant.

  I’m amazed I feel like eating at all, as heartache usually causes me to lose my appetite. I’m either still hoping that Charles will call, or I’m already following my new resolution. It doesn’t matter as I savour the solo meal enthusiastically.

  I pack my bags and get ready for the flight at a leisurely pace. I leave the dress in the closet, admiring it one last time before I leave, tugging my suitcase behind me. When I hand in my key card, the receptionist says only Thank you, Happy Christmas, and as I presumed, any room charges were billed to Charles.

  Outside, the air is crisp and invigorating, shaking the last remnants of the night from my head. No one asks for details of my evening, they’re busy chattering about their plans for today, and excited to be going home.

  The roads are nearly empty so the ride to the airport goes quickly. The flight too passes without incident – a group of passengers happy they’ll be spending the holidays with loved ones.

  CHAPTER 9 ~ Now or Never

  It’s now December 30th. Richard is back on the flight and the load this time is somewhat less than before. We’ll arrive in London on the morning of the 31st, in time for partying if anyone chooses. The crew is neither all junior nor senior, but like Goldilocks’s bowl of oatmeal, just right. Some are singles looking for a good party in London, others have brought spouses and significant others, knowing that the flight home on January 1st will have lots of open seats, perhaps even in first class. Richard brought his partner Gordon and they have plans for a posh dinner with the consulate crowd.

  I’m travelling solo again so I’m up for anything. After the dinner service is complete, we discuss our ideas for the night. I don’t want to tell Richard about my latest romantic debacle. He’s having so much fun spoiling Gordon.

  Some have already booked dinner at the Greek restaurant, an easy choice. A few pubs will be open for anyone while more upscale clubs demand advance bookings. Others might free range, dropping in on fireworks at the London Eye or on the Thames. Of course, some will just slam-click their door and watch it all on TV, if they’re still awake.

  The bus ride to the hotel takes longer than usual this morning, as we get stuck behind the Queen’s horses as they promenade through the city. It’s not a sight I’ve ever witnessed before, so it lifts my spirits to see them, making me feel glad to be a flight attendant.

  As the bus creeps to a halt waiting for them to pass, everyone wakes up, providing a chance to firm up their plans. I leave my options open, and promise to meet at the bar at the usual six p.m.

  Charles had been texting for the first part of the week, but stopped after I didn’t reply. Well, I actually did reply once but my response was very straightforward. I apologized for my outburst, admitting that I could have been more understanding but I requested that he apologize too. All he did was defend his actions, which wasn’t good enough for me. So I wished him a Happy New Year, happy life and set my mental attitude to “ignore.”

  In the lobby, the clerk barely glances at me when she calls my name so I am surprised to receive one of the penthouse suites again. I wait to see if others have fancy rooms as well and it seems a few do. This sometimes happens when the standard rooms are occupied during special events.

  My knees weaken when I open the door, half-expecting to see flowers, my red dress or some other evidence that Charles still wants me. Though he had really disappointed me, I felt we had connected on more than just a sexual level. I knew even before my affair with Brad that I wanted to settle down with a man who respected and loved me and shared the notion we were both on the same path to commitment.

  The room, beautiful as it is, seems sterile without the personal touches Charles had placed there only last week and my stomach sinks to my feet. I bravely channel my inner Scarlet O’Hara, reminding myself tomorrow would be another day. Indeed, it would be a brand new year.

  The long ride in, courtesy of the horses, made me extra tired, so I slip off my uniform, wash my face and climb into bed. Too lazy to even hang up my clothes, I simply drape the skirt and jacket over a chair. I could iron a fresh blouse before the flight tomorrow though the high polyester content would probably make that unnecessary.

  I had set my alarm for 3 p.m., to allow for a bit of shopping before the high street stores closed. I didn’t want to face
the frenzy of downtown London, so a brisk walk to St. John’s Wood would revitalize me and I could also have a quick snack at the local Starbucks.

  Now showered and fully awake, I open the closet to hang up my clothes. I’m overwhelmed to find a gorgeous black sequined dress along with strappy black pumps. An envelope dangles from the hanger and my hands tremble as I peel it open. Inside, a plain white card embossed with the initials CPS reads, “Will you see me tonight? Charles,” and his cell phone number.

  I remove the dress from the hanger and carefully wiggle into it, engaging in some gymnastics to close the zipper. I stand before the full length mirror and run my hands down my hips, smoothing the front of the gown. It’s a perfect fit, of course, and the shoes are a striking complement. Even jetlagged, without makeup, I look fabulous. But what does my heart have to say?

  Some women might be tempted by his fortune, but not me. Though I adore all the treats Charles has given me, I’d be just as happy with a walk through the park and a bouquet of tulips from the greengrocers.

  My heart thumps wildly in my chest and it’s hard to catch my breath. I have to sit on the edge of the bed while deciding what to do. If I say yes, on whose terms will it be? He’s so charming and so much fun but do I want to risk another heartbreak so soon? Still in the dress, I dial his number once, then hang up before it rings.

  My body trembling, I dial again, afraid my voice will crack. But all I get is his voice mail. I’m relieved and disappointed, and quickly try to sound nonchalant. “Hello, Charles, it’s Lauren. I’m here in London, and yes, I’d like to see you tonight. Text me. Bye for now.”

  Suddenly calmed by my decision, I change into casual clothes, and go for a walk. The temperature has dropped and fog hangs in the air. As it the day grows darker, the fog grows denser. By five, I’m back in my hotel room, where TV announcers are moaning that tonight’s fireworks display could be a total waste of time.