Taylor pulled my office door open and said, as she left, “For all our sakes, I hope so.”
The afternoon drifted by slowly. Between reviewing the latest financials for the company and the lack of a return call from Ms. Smith, my stomach churned.
Just as I was becoming disgusted with myself, my telephone rang. As I quickly snatched up the phone before my assistant could answer, I managed to chip a nail. “Damn! Hello?”
Taylor, with a voice full of trepidation, told me that our plan was a go. I would meet Des Bannerman in front of the painting The Block just as the museum closed.
It was 4:45. I quickly checked the website and found out that the Metropolitan Museum of Fine Art closed at 9:00 on Fridays. I had four hours.
With a plan of action in place, I managed to settle down and focus on the work. After everything Taylor had done for me today, I didn’t want to let her down. The easiest way to thank her was to make us both look good and not give Faith Clarkson ammunition. It was as I climbed into the back of the black town car, hired by Faith Clarkson International to take me to the museum, that I thought, How did it come to this?
Chapter Two
SITTING IN BLEATING TRAFFIC, I stared out the window and thought about my current situation. Starting at the very beginning. All the way back to when I met the group of women who now hovered at my epicenter and who were knee-deep in my dilemma…
***
Marian, Hillary, Kathleen, Tiziana and I had met at Oxford. We were all at varying points on the same path, graduate students at the Said Business School.
I met Kathleen first. Her blonde hair glistened in the late summer sun as she taped posters on a lamppost for a pub crawl for American students studying abroad. It wasn’t her I noticed so much as all the guys ogling her wiggling backside as she smoothed down the tape. I pushed through the crowd of surging testosterone and introduced myself. Excited to meet a fellow American, I invited her to go out for a drink at the nearest pub. With perhaps a few too many beers in us, we found ourselves standing in the restroom. While repairing our makeup in front of the mirror, I noticed that we were polar opposites. She was tall, lithe, and blonde, while I was (quite) short, curvy, and dark—my mother’s Mediterranean ancestors mingled throughout my features, while Kathleen looked like a Viking. Our only common feature, besides being female, was that we both had ridiculously long hair.
Three days later, at the pub The Bear, we met Marian. She was there spying on a groom at the behest of her good friend, the bride. Her job: to make sure he didn’t get out of line.
We were young, easily influenced, and really drunk. We had been in and out of four pubs in about two hours. While ordering a round of drinks, we heard chanting, “Stripper! Stripper!” The next thing I knew, Kathleen’s elbow collided with my kidney as she pointed at Tiziana.
Tiziana! Every woman’s nemesis. Think of Sophia Loren wearing a man’s white dress shirt with a long string of pearls and a pair of flashy stilettos. To be fair, Tiziana appeared shocked when she realized the stripper comments were directed at her. You’d think a girl who oozed that much sexuality and dressed that skimpily would get used to being the object of every male’s fantasies. She looked more than a little nervous when a couple of guys drinking with the groom became a little too friendly and suggested Tiziana show the soon-to-be-married man a little mercy.
Marian reminded me of a bull when she was angry: snorting nose, steam out of the ears, crazy eyes. A smart person would back away, slowly. So, when Marian dragged Tiziana outside before anything could happen, we were worried for Tiziana. None of us knew her, but still, I didn’t think she’d done anything worthy of dismemberment. When Kathleen and I followed them out to where they stood on the narrow sidewalk, Marian was swearing away at Tiziana, and Tiziana was shouting back in Italian.
Just when things had calmed down a bit, a very regal-looking woman opened the pub door and took in the situation. “Oh! What luck. I found your… purse?” She handed Tiziana a bedazzled black clutch.
Why we all burst into laughter, I wasn’t quite sure. I didn’t even know if we were laughing together or at one another. After we controlled our laughing, Hillary, the regal one who had smirked a bit, invited us to go back in for a glass of wine.
Hillary couldn’t apologize fast enough. “The groom’s my brother! I’m here to make sure he doesn’t overdo it. Sorry his friends are such cretins…”
***
We’d been close friends ever since.
Looking out the car window, I saw that we’d made very little progress. Glancing at my watch, I saw that there was plenty of time, Taylor having insisted that I leave an hour ahead of time. There were still forty-five minutes until I was set to meet with Des Bannerman.
My thoughts drifted back to a little less than a year ago…
***
Over the winter holidays, we met up to do a little skiing in Chamonix, France, which is a cluster of villages in the French Alps that caters to the famous and very wealthy. Rumors and sightings of famous people floated through the village night and day.
Kathleen, who was living in France, was infatuated with all things royal. For her, the entire vacation was deemed “perfect, simply perfect” when we saw the entourage of Monaco. She hadn’t admitted it, but I think she spent many a pleasurable moment dreaming of princes, white horses, and what Grace Kelly’s jewelry collection might be like.
We even saw the back of Heidi Klum’s head and a few other celebs whose identities were less than certain—one doesn’t want to claim to have seen Justin Timberlake if it was really the bartender at the local discotheque.
Living in New York City and working for a PR firm had jaded me as regards celebrity. Our firm managed the publicity for many accomplished public figures.
However, my jaw hit the glacier when we heard Des Bannerman was in town. When that news reached our group’s ears, all heads swiveled in my direction. I felt my knees go weak and my heart race. I had openly adored and gushed about Des Bannerman for years. Juvenile, for sure. But still, I had fantasized about being the object of his desire since I first laid eyes on him. We had both attended an event at Oxford, where he had initially gone to school before finding great fame in romantic comedies. But, as did all famous people (I assumed), he vaguely made eye contact with me, smiled, and then moved on.
In Chamonix, every event became an all-out effort to find him. We tried to ascertain his whereabouts, to determine which places he might go, and we skied black diamond slopes we had no business skiing on (since he was an excellent skier). Every outfit, tube of lipstick, and dollar was spent in pursuit of Des Bannerman.
To that end, we decided to search the Casino de Chamonix. None of us were truly gamblers, but we had all read Blackjack for Dummies that afternoon while sipping Chardonnay at a local hotspot. So, armed with fists full of dollars and accessorized in the latest fashion trends, off to the casino we went looking for Lady Luck… and the previously mentioned Des Bannerman.
Early in the evening, most of my cohorts had lost all the money they were willing to lose and had been swept off their feet by handsome foreigners. Oddly enough, I had amazing luck. And since I had never won so much as a penny before, the fact that I was up seven hundred dollars was close to a miracle.
I told the woman sitting next to me that, if this kept up, we should look for sightings of the Virgin Mary. (No laugh, not even a roll of the eyes; she clearly took her blackjack too seriously.) At some point she lost her last chip, and I was left at the table with a mobster-looking fellow—okay, he had no neck, which, in my books, made him a mobster.
I felt a gust as Hillary suddenly arrived. She carefully turned her refined shoulder to the mobster and said, “Charlotte!” She was practically vibrating on the spot. “We’ve just spotted Des Bannerman!”
Instantly I jumped off my stool, keeping my hands on my chips, of course, and scanned the casino. As there weren’t many places to hide, I sighed and told her, “It was probably that guy we saw on the chairlift yesterday… You know
, the one with the Brad Pitt hairstyle from Burn After Reading but with brown eyes.”
“Well, at least come have a look. You’ve been searching for days. I can’t believe after all this you would prefer to sit here rather than do a full sweep. I’ll go get the girls.” Hillary was off in what, for her, was a flash.
As I stood there contemplating what to do, the dealer asked if I was going to place a bet. One more couldn’t hurt. After placing my bet, I was sizing up my hand when I felt someone standing next to me. I doubled my bet before looking at the newcomer. The most gorgeous woman in the world stood next to me. I knew who it was: Des Bannerman’s girlfriend. My luck was extending beyond the cards; fate, destiny, cosmic karma were all on my side.
Hillary came sauntering over full of excitement. “I’m sure it’s him. You have to come. Who cares about blackjack! This is Des Bannerman we’re talking about.”
The whole time she was talking, I was doing my best to get her to be quiet. Not even putting my fingers over her lips and shaking my head managed to calm her down. My only hope was that people blamed her distorted speech on alcohol.
Discreetly, I glanced to my side to see if the object of Des Bannerman’s affections had understood any of this. While she continued to look at her hand, an amused smirk played about her trout-pout lips.
Looking back at Hillary, I tried a subtle nod of my head toward my non-mobster gambling companion. It was hopeless, however, because Hillary knew next to nothing about Des Bannerman.
“What? What are you doing? Come on…” She was now yanking my arm out of its socket. Deciding to retain a little dignity, I picked up my chips and let myself be dragged off.
“Hillary, do you have any idea who was sitting next to me? Do you not read Hello or People or watch Showbiz Tonight? That was Brynn Roberts, Des Bannerman’s girlfriend, and Golden Globe winner last year for best actress in that movie with George Clooney. The one about a war somewhere,” I hissed at her back.
Switching direction abruptly, she said, “I knew she looked familiar! We have to go back!”
“No! I can’t possibly go back now. She’s bound to tell him that I’m stalking him. Then, when he meets me, he’ll be frightened,” I pointed out.
“We need a plan. What should we do?” Hillary finally asked.
“Let’s go scout around and see if we can find him at another table or the girls. Maybe they know something,” I offered in frustration.
We strolled around the casino for a quarter of an hour. We saw someone who we thought was Kevin Bacon, but it turned out to be some German guy, and then we saw someone who very well could have been Margaret Thatcher, except she was smiling. Then, as if all the worlds collided, as if the sun came bursting from behind the grayest cloud ever, as if time had slowed down, there was Des Bannerman! Coming out of the men’s room, adjusting his shirt, with a little tiny bit of white showing from, you know, down there. Oh my god! I could see Des Bannerman’s underwear! My heart pounded, and there, in the darkest corner of Casino de Chamonix, I met my destiny.
Hillary giggled from behind her hand. “Oh my god! Can you believe it? He wears tighty-whities. I would have thought that he’d have custom underwear sewn by Armani himself!”
We howled with laughter. Of all the things that I had fantasized about, I never had managed to work tighty-whities into the scenario. Silk boxers, bath towels, low-rise jeans, tuxedos, but never, ever your standard everyday white underwear.
I could hear Hillary asking me what my plan was as I watched Des Bannerman approach, walk past, and continue on his way. Not even a glance. I mean, while I might not have Brynn Roberts breathtaking, fragile beauty, plenty of men had affirmed what I knew about myself, my curves and curls had plenty of appeal.
“Look at me. What do you see?” I beseeched Hillary.
“Well, what do you mean?”
“He didn’t even register my existence. It’s a good thing my ego’s not that fragile.” Then, in a blinding flash, it all fell before me. I announced, “I’ve got it!” I grabbed Hillary’s hand for support, both physical and psychological, and walked to where I thought I would find my destiny.
Sure enough, there he was, standing beside Brynn, his finger trailing patterns on her bare, well-sculpted shoulder and whispering in her ear. It must have been juicy, because Brynn looked up at him with absolute lust in her eyes. She gazed into his so intently that she didn’t notice the white flash coming from his crotch.
“Okay, here’s my plan! I need to tell him that his fly is down!”
“Are you crazy? You’re going to walk up to Des Bannerman, introduce yourself, shake his hand, and say, ‘By the way, your fly is down’?”
“That’s my plan exactly. Who doesn’t wish that someone had told them in that situation?”
“I see your point, but remember he’s English. Be dignified,” she implored.
She quickly assessed me, making sure that my lips were glossed, my dress was plunging, my hair was fluffed, and my teeth were free of food matter. Then she gave me a quick spritz of perfume.
I looked at my friend and couldn’t truly believe that I was on the verge of meeting the man I had dreamt of for over a decade. “Okay, take a deep breath, be calm, be intelligent, and be brief,” were her words of wisdom.
As I turned back to the table, I was thrilled to see they were still there. Des's hand was elsewhere entertained, but I was determined not to lose my chance.
I walked straight up to the table. I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and promptly placed a bet. All the while, my ears were ringing so much that I could barely understand a word the dealer was saying. I blatantly stared at Des, taking in his face’s classic features. His brow bone, jaw, and nose were rugged and refined at the same time—and his carefully crafted body was begging to be caressed. Seeing his perfection up close, my body heat radiated off of me in visible waves, and I started to feel drips running down my back. My hair started to stick to my forehead.
I lost count, but the dealer made pay-outs and collected losses and dealt a few more rounds before Hillary shoved an ice-cold unidentifiable beverage in my hand. I made a horrible squelching noise as I slid off my stool. The dealer smirked and reminded me to take my chips.
“What happened?” she cried.
“What happened? What happened?” I panicked. “How am I supposed to walk up to him and get his attention? Have you seen her? Have you seen him? My god! He’s even more gorgeous up close. How can she stand herself? She gets to sleep with him. I want to pee myself just contemplating it.”
All the while, Hillary was steering us toward the women’s bathroom, where I immediately looked in the mirror. Gone was the confident woman; gone was the lipstick (which now appeared to be all over my teeth, since I had apparently gnawed my lips off at the blackjack table). All that was left was a sweaty mass of human existence.
“Okay, we’re going to wipe you down, freshen you up, and start over. Can you do it? Think you can? I think you can!” She had become part rugby coach, part cheerleader.
Taking deep breaths and silently chanting, “I can do this, I can do this,” I refreshed myself with strategic splashes of cold water, reapplied my makeup, and swept my long, curly hair up into a stack that cascaded down my back.
“Very sexy.”
Off we went, out of the bathroom and into the pinging smoke-hazed world of the casino.
I breathed in and out, and, while walking back to the table, I chanted my mantra. “I can do this, I can do this.” But they were gone.
“Oh no! Where did they go?” I wailed.
Experiencing a whole different physical reaction, I was consumed by instant remorse. I was deeply regretful of my cowardice. Then I went into overdrive. My need to find him was visceral.
We wound our way through gaming tables, clusters of humanity, and slot machines, and finally found our friends. We pried them free of their newfound lovers and pleaded with them to go search the casino and report any sightings of Brynn or Des.
I wa
s thrilled to no end when our newly-made friends offered to help. Feeling confident that there would be no table left unsearched, no corner left unlooked, we ventured forth.
After half an hour passed, all seemed hopeless.
I posted myself near the women’s bathroom because I felt faint. I continued to berate myself for not taking advantage of my earlier opportunity while trying to remain positive. (Very tricky.)
Then Hillary came dashing over. “We’ve got him! You can do this! Tidy your lipstick, and off you go!”
En masse, we all casually yet purposefully approached Des and Brynn. They were at a table together, playing blackjack. I was close enough to hear them arguing about whether she should take another card from the dealer.
“Take one,” I sagely suggested. Suddenly, I was an expert at the game.
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen looked up at me, and that carefully constructed smile that I’d seen in so many movies was directed at me. My heart almost stopped, but my brain kicked in at the last moment and reminded it to beat.
“Excellent! Tell us, are you an authority on blackjack? On whose word should we accept such an opinion? Do you make a habit of giving advice to perfect strangers? And, if you’re decided to be said expert, why only take one card instead of doubling our bets, or perhaps even playing two hands?” He fired questions at me in much the same way that Tom Cruise cross-examined Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. Could I handle the truth..? Maybe not.
“Actually, I’m not, but I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night!”
He looked at me in utter confusion.
“Clearly you don’t watch much American television,” I added.
“Ah, that’s the explanation. You’re an American.” Des’s blue eyes glinted with superiority when he zinged back at me, poking the air with his finger.
While I had been playful, the superior tone of his voice instantly put me off. “I hope that not all people buy into stereotypes. For example, should we assume that, because you’re English, your teeth need straightening, capping, or whitening?” I inwardly cursed myself for my temper.
Prosecco & Paparazzi (The Passport Series Book 1) Page 2