by Dana Bate
I bolt into a small pharmacy on Tottenham Court Road, where I buy a cheap umbrella, but by the time I do, I’m already soaked. My cream T-shirt is dripping wet, and my jeans are thick and soggy with rain. As I leave the shop, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror and flinch. My blond hair clings to my neck and face in long, stringy pieces, and the mascara I applied during my cab ride this morning has stained my face with streaks of black. If I ran into someone on the street who looked like this, I would probably cross to the other side.
I wipe off the mascara as best I can with the back of my hand, and then, with my new umbrella in hand, I rush outside and hurry along Warren Street toward my flat. I step in no fewer than six puddles, soaking and most likely ruining my shoes, and by the time I reach my building, my fingers have turned blue. Today definitely has not gone according to plan.
Just when I’m about to let out a sigh of relief that I’m back at my building, I reach into my purse for my keys and panic.
My keys. Where are they?
I riffle through my purse, digging past my wallet and notebook and various cosmetics I threw in this morning, but the keys are nowhere to be found. No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. How could I forget them? How?
Convinced I’m simply looking in the wrong place, I squat beneath the building’s negligible overhang and dump everything in my purse onto the ground. No luck. I am officially locked out.
I stuff everything back into my purse, leap to my feet, and press the buzzer for Tom, the building manager. No answer. I press again and again, but no one picks up. I glance down at my watch: 5:58. Tom works until 5:00. Perfect.
As I get out my phone, a young woman comes out of the building, letting me in. I take cover in the warm lobby and head for my flat, though I’m not really sure what my plan is. I have no way of getting inside.
I jiggle the knob once I reach my unit, more out of hope than anything else, but as expected, I can’t open the door. I let out a groan, and as I do, a middle-aged man comes down the stairs from the floor above and rushes past me.
“Excuse me,” I say. He slows his step and glances over his shoulder. “I’m locked out of my flat. Do you know of anyone who can help? Someone who might have a key?”
He looks at his watch and frowns. “Tom’s left for the day, I’m afraid, and anything to do with keys has to go through him. Perhaps you could stay with a friend until the morning, when Tom gets in.”
A friend? Like . . . who? The only person I could maybe, possibly call a friend is Poppy, and she is in Paris. Also, I’m pretty sure that if I referred to her as my friend in her presence, she would gasp in horror.
I brace myself for the awkward proposal about to cross my lips. “I know this is going to sound crazy, since you don’t know me, but . . . would you mind if I slept in your flat tonight? I don’t really know many people in town and—”
“Sorry,” he says, his cheeks red. “I’m . . . going out for the evening. You’d have better luck with an acquaintance, I’m sure. Good luck.”
He nods stiffly and hurries through the lobby and out the front door.
Great. Now what am I supposed to do? I don’t know anyone in this whole damn city, other than those connected to the Ballantine-Spencer household. Natasha and Poppy are in Paris; Olga is . . . well, wherever the hell Olga lives, and Mr. Ballantine is . . .
I catch myself mid-thought. Mr. Ballantine. I can’t call him. Can I? Maybe he could get ahold of Tom or knows how to pick a lock. Or, at the very least, maybe he’ll suggest something better than sleeping on a stranger’s couch.
I grab my phone and run a search for his office number. He is a member of Parliament, so his parliamentary address and phone number are easy to find. As soon as the number pops up, I dial it. The phone rings a few times, and then a woman answers.
“Hugh Ballantine’s office.”
“Could I please speak to Mr. Ballantine?”
“I believe he’s left for the day. Would you like to leave a message?”
I slump against the door to my flat. “No, thank you. I need to speak to him tonight.”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps you could send him an e-mail.”
“I guess that might work.”
“Best of luck.”
I am about to hang up, when she yells into the receiver.
“Hello?”
I pull the phone back to my ear. “Yes?”
“You’re in luck. Mr. Ballantine just popped back in to pick up some papers. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Kelly. Kelly Madigan. I work for his wife.”
She presses the phone to her chest, and I hear the muffled sound of her voice: “A Kelly Madigan? She says she works for your wife?”
“Ah, right, yes. Put her through to my office.”
“Just a minute, please,” the woman says.
A few moments of silence pass, and then he picks up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi . . . Mr. Ballantine . . . it’s Kelly. The cookbook writer.”
“Yes, hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I clear my throat. “I . . . well, the thing is . . . I’ve locked myself out of my apartment, and the building manager has left for the day, and I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh, dear,” he says.
“Do you by any chance have Tom’s number?”
“Tom?”
“The building manager.”
“Afraid not.”
“Oh.” I grasp for an alternative. “What about a locksmith? I’m not supposed to, for security reasons, but I can’t think of any other—”
“Why don’t you just stay at our place for the night.”
My heart nearly stops. “At your house?”
“Of course. We aren’t exactly short of space.”
“I don’t think Natasha would be okay with that,” I say. “She’s been pretty clear about maintaining . . . boundaries.”
“Then this can be our little secret. Really, I insist. It’ll be a lot simpler than anything else.”
My heart races. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” He presses the phone to his chest and tells his secretary that he’ll just be a moment. “Where are you now?”
“In my lobby.”
“The flat Natasha rented you in Marylebone?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Okay. Sit tight, and I’ll be there in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“Oh, no, I can take the tube.”
“Don’t be silly. Sunil is driving me home anyway. It’s basically on the way.”
“Really? Because I don’t mind taking the tube—honestly.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but I’m offering to pick you up.”
“I know, but . . .”
But what? I don’t want to impose or overstep? A little too late for that, if I’m already planning on sleeping in their house. It’s a free ride, after all, and he wouldn’t offer if he minded....
“Okay,” I say. “If you’re sure it isn’t any trouble.”
“None at all. See you soon.”
He hangs up, and I slip my phone back into my bag, wondering if what I feel deep in my chest is excitement or dread or, more likely, a combination of both.
CHAPTER 13
Twenty minutes later, a silver Mercedes pulls up in front of my building, the same Mercedes that nearly hit me on my first day. I peer into the lobby mirror one last time, trying to make myself look like something other than a drowned rat, but my success is minimal. My hair is still damp, and though my clothes have started to dry, they are still soggy and uncomfortable. At least I no longer have mascara running down my face, although that also means I no longer have mascara on my eyelashes.
I hurry outside, and Sunil hops out of the front seat to open the back door, holding a large, black umbrella over his head. I slip into the backseat, where I find Mr. Ballantine with a stack of papers on his lap.
“Hello,” he says. He eyes my sodden clothes. “A bit damp, eh?”
“I forgot my u
mbrella this morning,” I say by way of explanation, though I quickly realize this will only make him think I’m more incompetent than he probably already does.
“Haven’t you learned never to travel without an umbrella in England?”
“Apparently not.” I look down at my purse. “Considering I also forgot my keys, I think it’s safe to say I have a lot to learn about being a functional human being.”
Sunil pulls out from in front of my building and turns onto Great Portland Street, heading toward Belsize Park. I glance surreptitiously at Hugh, who sports yet another perfectly tailored suit, this one a deep gray with a maroon pocket square that matches his dark maroon tie.
“So do all members of Parliament get their own chauffeurs?” I ask, trying to reboot the conversation.
“Uh, no,” he says, a lightness to his voice. “Only those married to famous American actresses.”
“Oh. Right.” I fidget with the zipper on my purse. “So . . . are there many of those?”
“Many of what? MPs married to famous American actresses?” I nod, realizing this is quite possibly the stupidest question I’ve ever asked. “No,” he says. “Last time I checked, I was the only one.”
I look out the window and watch the drops of rain trickle down as we drive past Regent’s Park, willing myself into silence because, apparently, I am incapable of normal conversation tonight. We come to a stop at a traffic light, and men and women dressed in trench coats and rain boots dash across the street, clutching umbrellas of various colors and patterns as they head to their Friday night destinations. I wonder if it’s raining in Paris....
“Let’s hope so,” Hugh says. Our eyes meet. I said that aloud? Great. “Serves them right for leaving us at home.”
I wonder—to myself, with my lips pressed together—whether leaving Hugh behind is part of the “arrangement” Poppy mentioned. How often do they travel together? Certainly often enough to be photographed by the paparazzi now and then, but I’m not sure how regularly that is in the context of their relationship.
“Couldn’t you have gone, too?” I ask, hoping the question isn’t too forward. Given the idiocy I’ve displayed this evening, I don’t think it is. Then again, I’ve only been here three weeks, and even though it feels like much longer, I’m still subject to personal boundaries.
“That wasn’t an option,” he says. “Especially not when this education bill has taken over my life.”
“What education bill?” My cheeks flush as Hugh raises his eyebrows in apparent shock. “Sorry—I’m not up-to-date on British politics. I’m still trying to figure out the tube system.”
“The education secretary published a massive education bill last week, so as the shadow education secretary, I have to point out how terrible it is at least twenty times a day.”
“Sorry . . . the shadow secretary? What is that?”
“It’s the equivalent role in the opposition party. So, whatever party is in power, there’s an entire cabinet of opposition members who scrutinize what the administration is doing and mimic their portfolio with policy prescriptions of their own.”
“Sort of like Model UN for grown-ups?”
“Something like that.” He smiles. “You know, it’s good having someone like you around to take me down a peg or two. I was one more Newsnight appearance away from thinking I was more famous than the prime minister. Thank you for giving me some perspective.”
“Happy to oblige.”
Sunil rushes through a light and turns onto Chalk Farm Road, where dozens of shops sit side by side, their fronts festooned with three-dimensional ornaments, everything from giant Doc Martens to enormous black dragons. On one stretch, I count at least five tattoo and body-piercing shops.
“What’s so terrible about this education bill?” I ask as we drive beneath a bridge spray-painted with the words CAMDEN LOCK in bold yellow letters.
“Well, for starters, it diverts money that could be used to bolster state primary schools to fund the party’s pet projects—the result of which will be huge classroom sizes, which disadvantage everyone, but especially poorer children without supplementary resources at home. The bill is a joke, really. Too bad the prime minister doesn’t see it that way.”
“Do you think it will pass?”
He grins. “It’s my job to make sure it doesn’t.”
Sunil veers onto Haverstock Hill, and as he does, Hugh’s cell phone rings. Hugh glances down at the number.
“Dad—hi,” he says. “Everything okay? Is it Mum? Oh, good.” He sighs in relief. “So what’s the problem?” He scratches his jaw as he listens intently. “Have you spoken to your GP?” A pause. “Well, perhaps you should call him first.” Another pause. “I realize that must be very uncomfortable, but . . . no, I’m a doctor of economics. Not a medical doctor. Right, yes, but that doesn’t mean . . .” He looks at me and rolls his eyes dramatically. “Perhaps some prune juice would help. Or a pot of strong coffee.”
He continues walking his dad through various laxative strategies, until Sunil finally pulls onto Belsize Square and up to the gated driveway.
“Dad? Listen, I’m just getting home. Could we continue this another time? Brilliant. Good luck with it all. I hope everything comes out okay.”
I snort as he hangs up. “Sorry—I shouldn’t . . .”
“Don’t apologize,” Hugh says. “My father is mad. My biggest champion and dearest inspiration, but completely and utterly off his trolley.”
“Sounds like my dad . . .”
“Does he regularly call you with bathroom emergencies?”
I quickly flip through my mental catalogue of bizarre father-daughter interactions. “No. I guess I’ve been spared that horror.”
“Consider yourself lucky.”
Hugh smiles and opens the car door, and I can’t help but wonder whether he’d stand by those words if he spent a mere five minutes in the same room as my father.
“I hope this will do.”
Hugh escorts me into one of the bedrooms on the second floor, a lavishly appointed suite with two large windows and a wrought-iron four-poster bed. The room is a study in grays and whites—pale gray walls, stark white duvet, dark gray and white Ikat headboard—with pops of peach from velveteen bolster pillows and fresh roses in tall mirrored vases. Every accessory and piece of furniture is artfully arranged, from the antique chest at the foot of the bed to the plush cushions on the two window seats. I feel as if I’m a guest at a hotel that I could never, ever afford.
“This will definitely do,” I say.
I drop my purse on a gilded armchair in the corner of the room and crack my knuckles as I survey the rest of the room.
Hugh stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Do you . . . Would you like some dry clothes? You must be miserable.”
I picture myself gliding down Natasha’s turned staircase in one of her Dior dresses, just a little something I threw on while my clothes tumbled in the dryer. She’d be totally okay with that, right?
“I’m good,” I say. “My clothes are almost dry.”
Hugh eyes me up and down. “They don’t look it.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“If you’re sure . . .” He glances at his watch. “You wouldn’t perhaps have left something delicious in the fridge . . . ?”
“As a matter of fact, there are a few pieces of poached salmon. And some mustard dill sauce.”
“Brilliant. Care to join me?”
“I ate before I left for the day,” I say. “But thanks for the offer.”
“That was nearly two hours ago. Surely you have room for a little something. Pudding, perhaps?”
“I’m okay. I don’t think there’s any in the house, anyway.”
“Given your ability to pull magical desserts out of thin air, I don’t see that as a problem. And before you protest, let’s just say I’d like something sweet, so you’d be doing me a huge favor. How does that sound?”
I hesitate, then relent. “Okay. I guess I could throw together
something easy. I think there’s still some chocolate left from the mousse. Do you like chocolate chip cookies?”
“Does anyone not?”
Your wife, if I had to guess.
As if he’s read my mind, he adds, “They’re my favorite. I’d love some.”
I follow him down two flights of stairs to the kitchen and start pulling the baking ingredients from the pantry while Hugh explores the contents of the refrigerator.
“What’s this carrot business at the back?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Oh. That’s a failed carrot salad. I don’t recommend it.”
He chuckles. “Then why don’t you throw it away?”
I set the flour and brown sugar on the counter. “Because I hate wasting food. For me, it’s the hardest part of my job—throwing away failed recipes. I usually keep them around for a few days to see if I can salvage something from them, even if it’s just a meal for myself. I thought maybe I could toss that salad with a bit of Greek yogurt and some toasted pumpkin seeds and have it for lunch on Monday.”
He looks at me skeptically. “Yogurt and pumpkin seeds? I suppose that’s why you do what you do, and I do what I do. I’d never think of eating yogurt with anything but muesli. And I’d never think of using pumpkin seeds . . . well, for anything, really.”
He pulls the platter of salmon from the refrigerator and lifts the note from the top.
“ ‘Mr. Ballantine . . .’ You do know you can call me Hugh?”
“I just figured . . . Mr. Ballantine seems more appropriate.”
“If you were addressing me on a select committee, yes. But in my house, please—call me Hugh.”
My cheeks flush. “Okay. I will.”
I preheat the oven and start tipping the dry ingredients into a bowl, using the measuring cups I brought from America and left in Natasha’s drawer. One of the biggest adjustments in relocating across the pond has been familiarizing myself with the metric system. In the States, everything is measured in cups and pounds—three cups of flour, two pounds of chicken breasts—but here, it’s all grams and milliliters, and the ovens all register on the Celsius scale instead of Fahrenheit. I’ve made myself a cheater’s conversion chart, and since Natasha wants her book published in many countries around the world, I’ve made notes using both measurements. But when it comes to a cookie recipe I know by heart, it’s easier to use my Americanized equipment.