The Perils of Paulie (A Matchmaker in Wonderland)

by Katie MacAlister

  “I see that. Legs are too short. Another inch and a half, I think. What about the waist?”

  “Looks good,” the unnamed wardrobe woman said. She was probably in her mid-fifties and had the reassuringly impersonal demeanor of a nurse, or someone else used to nudity.

  The other woman, however, began fluttering her eyelashes at me the second I disrobed. I don’t have any pretentions to being an Adonis, but work on the estate does keep me relatively fit, and I’ve never had a woman vomit upon beholding sight of me. Still, there was nothing in my appearance to merit such blatant flirting.

  I coughed gently and tried to avoid Lydia’s attempts to catch my eye. “Goggles, too? Very steampunk.”

  “So trendy!” Lydia said, and batted her eyes. “They look good on you.”

  “The camera will like you—that’s for sure,” the other woman said, standing back and looking me over critically. “You’re tall without being too tall. Shoulders are good—we won’t need to add any padding there. Your torso is a little short, but that just means you have longer legs.”

  “Long inseam,” Lydia said, nodding and fluttering her eyelashes. I gritted my teeth and avoided glancing at her, instead donning the goggles and eyeing my reflection.

  “Selfie!” Lydia said, and put an arm around me, leaning against me to take her picture. I held on to a smile while she took a couple of pictures, then tried to ease away from her without it being too obvious.

  “Well, that’s you done,” Lydia said at last, her eyelashes going a mile a minute.

  “Thank you,” I said politely, and began to take off the brown worsted suit. “I’m sure the wardrobe will be, if not exciting, at least accurate and stylish.”

  “Very stylish,” Lydia said.

  I handed her the suit and began to pull on my own clothing, but when the older woman said something about fetching the last basket of shoes, I waited until she left the room before saying with as much gentleness as I could, “I much appreciate the offer, but I’m afraid I’m not what you want.”

  “What I want?” Lydia paused in the act of hanging the suit, giving me a come-hither look. “What do you mean?”

  I shook my head, keeping my expression kind. “I’m aware that many women find an English accent irresistible—my brother Rupert is a perfect example of that—and while I appreciate the interest, I just want to warn you that I’m not available. Well, I am, but I had a fiancée, and she died. So I’m not really on the market.”

  Lydia stared at me a minute, then fluttered her lashes. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your . . . for lack of a better word . . . flirtation.”

  “I’m not flirting with you,” she said, and held up her hand. “I’m married. See?”

  It was at that moment that I realized the excruciating truth—the woman had some sort of physical tic that made her appear to be batting her eyelashes like a coquette straight out of Gone With the Wind. I stared in horror at her for a second, then smiled weakly and said, “Silly me. And here I thought my charms were irresistible.”

  She watched with (madly blinking) wariness while I finished dressing and exited the room. As I was leaving, the other woman came in, and I heard Lydia saying, “It’s amazing a hat will fit on that guy’s fat head. You wouldn’t believe what he said . . .”

  I hurried down the hall, not wanting to hear any more. “I just wish this hellish day would come to an end,” I growled to myself as I approached the elevators. Naturally, the door opened while I was speaking, and Paulie emerged, carrying a pair of shoes.

  “You having that sort of a day, too?” she asked, strolling past me. “Look at it this way: at least you didn’t have someone find you physically repellent.”

  She turned the corner and was gone before I could apologize.

  There’s going to be a lot of this journal that I can’t publish.

  Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should have stayed home, where it was safe.

  Dammit, I don’t find her physically repellent! Far from it.

  Right. That’s enough of that sort of talk. Time for a cold shower, then bed. Things will be better in the morning.

  God, I hope they’re better in the morning.

  Paulina Rostakova’s Adventures

  JULY 20

  1:44 p.m.

  Dorcet Hotel, New York City, parking garage

  “I think we all agree that I’m the head suffragette.” Louise tossed her head and gave Melody and me a look that dared us to dispute that statement. “And Melody is the studious one who knows all the stuff, like navigation and all that.”

  “I’m so delighted being the stuff-knowing one,” Melody said dryly, her face deadpan.

  I bit back a giggle, knowing from my time with her that anything remotely humorous completely missed Louise. She had to be the single most self-centered person I’d ever met, and I grew up in California!

  “Which makes me the rogue suffragette,” I said, trying to spin a wrench around my fingers, but ending up flinging it at Louise’s foot. She shrieked and leaped back, giving me a mean look in return. “Sorry.”

  “I should hope so!”

  I fetched the wrench back and held tight to it while Louise made a note on her phone. “You’re the handy one,” she finally told me, giving me a less-than-happy face. “I hope you pay attention at the mechanic class.”

  “From what I understand, Graham the mechanic will be traveling with Roger’s entourage. I only have to know how to do a couple of things, like tighten lug nuts or those pointy things in the engine.”

  “Spark plugs,” Melody said, sighing under her breath.

  “Right, those. Don’t worry—I’ll be the queen of suffragette mechanics.”

  “If you could do it without damaging my Jimmy Choos, that would be awesome,” Louise said in a sicklysweet voice, then did another hair flip and plastered a smile on her face when she saw the camera crew heading our way.

  Two other teams were in the garage, each going through the rule book and getting acquainted with the cars. I was a bit surprised to see the film crews following Roger around. “Why are they filming this? We’re not in costume, and we are just learning about the cars,” I said.

  “It’s all prep work,” Melody explained with a nod toward Roger, who was at the car next to ours. “Behind-the-scenes stuff to be used on the director’s commentary version of the DVD.”

  “We’re going to be on a DVD?” I asked, surprised. I thought it was just a British reality show, although Louise had said earlier that she’d heard there was a chance a U.S. network was going to pick up the show.

  “Most likely.” Melody consulted the printed handbook that we’d all been given. “I’m looking forward to crossing the country. I’ve never been here, but Tessa talks a lot about it. Is this I-80 road that we spend some time on interesting?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been on it, but from the map I looked at this morning, it seems to go relatively straight across the country, so I imagine there will be some pretty scenes.” I looked askance at the car next to us. “I just don’t know how they expect us to get across the country in two weeks in this giant white behemoth. I know it’s not a complete antique, but its body parts are. Can a car that old make the trip?”

  Melody patted the car’s long hood. “I think it has character.”

  I gave the car a thorough examination. It looked a lot like the car from the famous movie: gleaming cream-colored metal with leather straps holding the hood down, great sweeping sideboards that you could stand on if you wanted, two rows of red leather seats, with one of the narrow old-timey tires strapped to the back. On the front hood, a sign painter was carefully writing THOMAS FLYER in fancy black script, outlined in gold. “At least the seats look comfy.”

  Melody didn’t answer because at that moment Roger d’Espry approached with Sam and Tabby, one of the two camera-and-sound
teams.

  “Well, ladies, what do you think of our Thomas Flyer? Isn’t she a beauty? The shell of the car is all original, although we had to have part of the frame and most of the engine work redone.”

  “I’m glad to hear I won’t have to be a real mechanic,” I said, feeling awkward when Sam swung the camera around to me. I tried hard not to look directly at it, per instruction.

  “Oh, but you will be called on to do simple maintenance. And that’s why Graham is here—Graham?” The mechanic hurried forward. “Graham will show you how to fill the oil, check the water, change a tire, and so on.”

  “Oh. Gotcha. Hi,” I said, still feeling awkward . . . At least I did until I caught sight of a couple of men who emerged from the elevator halfway down the garage. Dixon Ainslie was dressed in a pair of black pants and a plaid cotton shirt, looking as coolly confident as ever, and twice as annoying. Another man was with him, one with wild brown hair that seemed to stick out in all directions and a short goatee—his brother no doubt. Both men approached while Roger was telling Melody how they had merged together the old and new to make the cars, and what elements were true to form (steering, tires, and some basic mechanicals) and what was more current (engine, so we could go faster than forty miles an hour, seat belts, and transmission).

  “Shall we get started?” Graham asked, handing me a small can of oil. “I’ll show you how to check the oil first. We’ll top her up before you leave, but it’s good for you to know how to do this in case you’re out in the wilds of Russia and need it.”

  My attention was divided between the lesson and Dixon, who strolled over to watch behind the camera. His brother had stopped to chat with two pretty production assistants, giving me the impression he was a lady’s man.

  “The hood straps connect here. See that?”

  “That buckle, yes?”

  “Right. Take that off; then you can push the hood back onto itself. And there you see a very modern engine.”

  “Hopefully, you’ll keep that off camera,” Roger interrupted himself to say. “Viewers like to believe what they’re seeing, so it’s vitally important that you maintain the image of an actual antique car.”

  “All righty.” I moved so my body was between the camera and the open hood. “Like this?”

  “Perfect.” Roger turned his attention to his daughter, who had finished a phone conversation and come over to preen before the camera. “Louise, dear, perhaps you’d like to take the wheel and familiarize yourself with the method of driving. You other ladies will learn as well, but since Louise will be the pilot, we’ll get a few shots of her learning her stuff.”

  Louise was more than happy to oblige, and climbed into the car, pausing to say, “The steering wheel is on the wrong side!”

  “That’s how they were made then, love,” Roger said soothingly, and hurried over to her side to point out various elements of the steering and acceleration.

  “Would you mind if I peered over your shoulder?” Dixon asked when Graham showed me where the oil cap was. “Evidently I’m to be the mechanic on my team as well, and I assume the engines are the same even if the outer car is not.”

  “Good idea,” Graham said. “Will save me time. Now, do you see that gauge there? Just draw a line straight to the left and you’ll find the oil cap.”

  I was very aware of Dixon leaning next to me as we peered into the engine and had to keep my attention firmly focused lest it wander to thinking of snarky things to say to him . . . and wanting to casually brush my arm against his. By the time we had a lesson on how to add water, where the car horn could be unplugged, and how the big brass-contained headlights were replaced, I stopped wanting to be rude to Dixon and instead admired his fascination with the car. He asked several questions about the rebuild, how the cars would operate in inclement conditions, and what sort of facilities were being arranged for repairs.

  “I’ll be riding with the film crew,” Graham told him. “Ideally, any repairs we have to make we can do at night, off camera.”

  “I understood that the real racers had endless trouble with their cars,” I said, recalling the Web site I’d read the night before. “Breakdowns constantly, getting stuck in snow and mud and so on.”

  “So I understand, although we’re not concerned with duplicating that for the television audience,” Graham said, moving around to the rear of the car to show me how to attach and remove a spare tire from the block that would be affixed to the back of the car. “Viewers want action and drama, not sitting around in the mud waiting for a tow.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, because the original race sounds like it was a hellish nightmare.”

  Dixon gave me a look that seemed oddly approving, then bent to see the connectors that would hold a stack of tires onto the back of the car. After another half hour of instruction, Graham went off to see the car that Dixon and his team would use, promising to show him some of the differences between the vehicles.

  Before he left, Dixon said softly, “Do you have a moment?”

  “Sure.” I put a smile on my face, well aware that the camera was nearby, now filming Roger in front of a large map of the U.S., ostensibly showing Louise the route across the country.

  He nodded at a spot about ten yards away, and I followed after him, curious now if he was going to say something that would annoy me after we’d spent a nice half hour learning basic car stuff. “What is it? Not something bad, I hope.”

  “I hope not as well. I wanted to apologize about last night. For the . . . erm . . . reaction I had when you leaned in to speak quietly. I wanted to reassure you that it was nothing about you personally. It’s just that I have . . . I don’t like . . . Boundaries are important to me.”

  “Boundaries?” I asked, confused.

  “Personal space.” He waved a hand around the front of him. “I am uncomfortable when people I don’t know well breach that.”

  “Are you saying you don’t like to be touched?”

  “Yes, but I generally try not to say it like that. It sounds so misanthropic.”

  I relaxed. “Is that all it is? One of the directors for a charity I work for is like that. She’s super antitouchy, but she’s also a germophobe, so I’ve learned to not touch anything in her office.”

  “I’m not that bad,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t back away if people touch me—at least not normally. It’s just when I’m taken by surprise that I react without thinking.”

  “So . . . if I was to put my hand on you now, you wouldn’t react?” I asked, eyeing his chest. For some reason, it seemed to hold an unholy fascination for me. I couldn’t help but imagine it naked. The hint of reddish brown hair peeping from the top of his shirt told me he wasn’t a hairless wonder, but also wasn’t the Amazing Monkey Man.

  His lips twisted into a half smile. “I can’t promise that, but I wouldn’t flinch.”

  I stared at him in surprise for a moment. “Did you just flirt with me?”

  “What?” He looked startled. “No. Did I? I’m not sure now.”

  “You said you couldn’t promise you wouldn’t react if I touched you. I just want to know if you meant that like you might have a nice reaction.” I glanced over at the others, but no one was even looking in our direction. “Like a turn-you-on sort of touch.”

  He cleared his throat. “As to that, I suspect it would depend on how you were touching me.”

  “OK.” I pursed my lips a little, not to entice him, but because that’s what I did when I thought hard. “I’m going to touch you now.”

  “Very well.” He straightened up.

  “Well, that’s not going to help,” I told him.

  “What isn’t?”

  “Standing there all stiff like you’re facing the firing squad.” I put my hand on his biceps. “Relax. Breathe. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

  He visibly relaxed, and even gave me a little smile
. “You’re making too much of what is really just an annoying personality quirk.”

  “I’m not the one who flinched when I leaned in to you.” I smiled reassuringly at him. “Second hand coming in for a landing.”

  “I shall endeavor to survive the experience,” he said in that plummy English accent that made me feel all warm and fuzzy. I put my other hand on his chest.

  “Well? What are you feeling?” I asked.

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Hungry. I missed breakfast.”

  “Nothing . . . erotic?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.” I took my hands off him, giving him a friendly smile. “It wasn’t meant to be erotic, so I think you’re fine, mentally speaking, except for the personalspace issue, which a lot of people have, to be honest.”

  “Thank you for that diagnosis. Are you . . . erm . . . doing anything for dinner?”

  “Good lord, Dixon,” I said, feigning amazement. “First you flirt with me, and now you’re asking me out to dinner? Whatever will be next? Holding hands in Times Square? Necking in the back of the Thomas Flyer? Rubbing your naked chest against mine while stroking your hand up my leg, your mouth nibbling on that sweet spot behind my left ear, and your other hand gently, oh so gently toying with my nipple?”

  The silence that followed that was really loud.

  “That was strangely specific,” he said at last.

  “Sorry,” I said, fanning myself. “I have a very active imagination.”

  “I see.” To my utter delight, he waggled his eyebrows for a few seconds. “You never know what might happen, although I suspect Roger will not approve of racers engaging in those sorts of activities.”

  “Are you kidding? Have you never seen reality TV?”

  “No, I don’t watch much TV at all.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know that people eat that stuff up with a spoon and beg for more. The bigger the drama, the higher the conflict, and the more naughty the high jinks, the better the viewing.”