Souvenirs

by Mia Kay

  “This isn’t a favor. This is work. You’re asking me to work on my day off.”

  “I need you, Gracie.”

  The video game excited her as much as the movie, and it would be great to see Harry. “Fine,” she muttered.

  Paul kept talking about his trip, ignoring her attempts to end the conversation. She finally hung up on him and rushed down the stairs to the lobby. She didn’t have enough time to walk now. She’d get a cab.

  Spa, coffee with Harry, then the doctor with Fiona. It would be a tight schedule but she could do it, though she wouldn’t have as relaxing a day off as she’d planned.

  Ivy looked up from the desk. “Do you need a taxi to the National, Grace?”

  Damn it. She was tired of this. “No, thanks. I’ll take the tube.”

  “Do you have fare? Bennett left extra cash for you.”

  “I have plenty, Ivy. Thank you.”

  Grace scowled for the first ten minutes of her trip down the block, into the station, and through the first two stops. Afterward, she researched coffee shops and the doctor’s office, and called Harry to rearrange their meeting place to put everything in easy reach. Then she settled in to people watch and scan the headlines held in other traveler’s hands. Thank God her picture wasn’t under any of them.

  Ben’s was, though. He always was. Ben in front of his home, Ben on the set, Ben with Susan, Ben with Fe. The worst one had been him with Hillary at the coffee shop. He’d put the paper on her desk and explained while he’d paced her office. He’d gone to his favorite spot and Hillary had fallen in line behind him. They hadn’t spoken.

  He hadn’t needed to explain. His uncomfortable expression in the photograph had spoken volumes. Yet somehow his panic over it had made everything worse.

  At the proper stop, Grace followed the throng of people upstairs, onto the sidewalk, and into the stream of humanity that was London. Buildings, ancient and modern side-by-side, lined the streets. She loved it here, and she fought the urge to look for apartments or make plans past filming. She’d be needed in L.A. for post-production, and she missed her lakeside home and her visits with her mother.

  And Ben had never mentioned her staying.

  With crisp white trim and nature themed décor visible through wide windows, the spa was easy to find. An efficient receptionist handed her off to a beautiful brunette in scrubs, a smock, and comfortable shoes.

  “I’m Stella,” she said in a Scottish brogue as she offered her hand. “You’ll be in my care today, Ms. Donnelley.” Her eyes widened. “Should I not have said it out loud?”

  “You’re fine, but please call me Grace.”

  “Would you like to be in a private room? I can bring everything in and out as you need.”

  They walked past a room, and Stella stood aside. Grace compared the dark, small space to the bright main room.

  “Can we work out here instead?”

  “Certainly,” Stella said. “I’m so glad. Sunshine is rare this time of year in London. We can do all but your massage out here. There’s a robe waiting in your changing room, and here’s your lock. I bought it not five minutes ago when Lydia told me I’d be responsible for you today. We decided you should have a locker with us. It’s not as posh, but no one will think to look back there. Let me show you.”

  With her clothes stored, Grace padded to Stella and the waiting pedicure chair. It was heated, and the gentle massage had barely begun when Grace dropped her head against the leather. Stella wrapped warm towels around her unresisting hands.

  They were halfway through the pedicure when a pair of clients entered the room.

  “If you’ll remember, he’s done this before. He always comes back to her. It’s the excitement of the chase for him. The new wears off, and it’s back to the familiar.”

  Knowing it was snooping, yet unable to resist a story, Grace cracked one eye open and watched the women at adjoining manicure tables.

  “I don’t know, Violet, this time seems rather serious,” the shorter of the two cautioned.

  “What could possibly come of this?” Violet asked and then continued without waiting on an answer. “He’s not going to move, and she’s not going to stay. If she were, she’d be living in his house, and she’s not.”

  “I hate to see Hillary hurt again,” the other woman reasoned. “Ben plays with her feelings far too much, if you ask me.”

  Grace slammed her eyes closed. That’s what she got for eavesdropping.

  “He isn’t going to leave Hillary for some American mouse with no sense of style.”

  Grace had stiffened in the chair, now she winced against the massage pressure.

  “I’ve finished everything but the polish, love,” Stella whispered as she patted her foot. “Why don’t we go in back and start your massage?”

  Resisting the urge to slouch and scamper, Grace walked through the room and down the hall. Stella closed the door.

  “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “Not your fault, and thank you for looking after me. Was it obvious?”

  “Slightly. They’d have figured it out and fawned over you just to make it worse. They’re hateful. Have been since they started coming here. Hillary’s usually with them, thank God she wasn’t today.”

  Yes, thank God she’d managed to stay of out Hillary’s way.

  “May I suggest something?” Stella asked.

  “Anything.”

  “Let me do you up. Nothing major, just enhance your natural prettiness. I have a friend in a boutique around the corner. She could do some personal shopping for you while we finish here.”

  “I won’t hide in this room,” Grace stated.

  “Of course not. I’ll send for Natalie, she can get your sizes, and we’ll do your massage. Then we’ll get started.”

  Grace nodded, refusing to overthink. “That would be lovely, Stella. Thank you.”

  Natalie was as bright and cheerful as Stella, and she was fabulous at her job. After the massage, Grace sipped tea and reviewed several outfits, including shoes and jewelry, and bought everything.

  Ushering her back into the main room, Stella went to work.

  “I’m not adding color to your hair,” she explained. “Yours is lovely as it is, and it’ll be less maintenance. And we’re putting shellac on those nails. I have a pretty almost nude pink, and it’ll last about a month. We’ll do your toes in a similar color.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Grace asked.

  “Because I like you, and I don’t like her. Now relax.”

  They talked through the rest of the appointment. Stella told stories about her family as she showed Grace how to manage her new hairstyle and makeup. When she left, Stella hugged her goodbye and promised to have everything delivered to the hotel.

  With a new outlook, Grace walked the short distance to the coffee shop where she’d arranged to meet Harry.

  Her phone rang, and she smiled as she answered. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  “Hullo, Idgie. How’s the National?”

  Now wasn’t the time to talk about this. “I’ve had a wonderful day. How about you?”

  “Gino misses you like crazy,” he teased, “and Ted’s working us into exhaustion to make up for the rain on Monday. He didn’t enjoy it as much as the rest of us.”

  They’d spent most of Monday in Ben’s trailer. She’d worked while he’d played his guitar. And they’d practiced how to have sex without making any noise. Twice.

  “I’ll be home late,” Ben said. “I’m sorry. I know we had plans, but something’s come up. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah? After my meeting with Clive. I’ll come to the library.”

  I could wait at your house. The words were on the tip of her tongue, but she wouldn’t say them. She wouldn’t force her way into his life. “All ri
ght.”

  “I miss you, doll.”

  “Ben—”

  “I have to go.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

  Grace rounded the corner and came face to face with Reg Drew, her personal paparazzi. He blinded her with the flash, forcing her to slow down.

  “Not in Yorkshire today?”

  “Everyone gets a day off at some point, Reg. How’s the family?”

  “Did you know Hillary Dunham’s there?” he asked. “She’s rented a house in Skipton.”

  “Skipton’s a pretty town. I hope she enjoys herself,” Grace said, careful to keep her voice level and her eyes straight ahead.

  “Rumor has it she’s seeing Ben for dinner.”

  “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear,” she quipped as she paused at the shop’s door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Once inside, she stood while her eyes adjusted to the light. Ben was working. He was. He’d said he missed her. He wouldn’t see Hillary.

  Harry waved from his seat near the window. Rather than suggesting a table near the back, Grace joined him. Stella was right, sunshine was rare.

  “It’s good to see a familiar face,” Grace said as she hugged him. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Tired, though. Thanks for doing this. Andrea is anxious for me to get home. Both kids have nasty colds. I really didn’t want to tell her I had to stay an extra day to meet with Paul.”

  They were in the middle of discussing the developer’s credentials when her phone rang. Again. She should have gone to the set.

  “Hey, Idgie.” Gino’s booming voice had her pulling the phone away from her ear. He was yelling over what sounded like wind.

  “Gino, what’s up?”

  “Nothing. We got done early, and I thought I’d see if you wanted to have dinner. My family’s over for a few days.”

  “You finished early?” My voice will not squeak. I will not cry.

  “Yeah, we’re about halfway back to London. We could meet at six. Sound good?”

  “Sure, see you then.”

  She hung up and blinked. And blinked again. If she cried, her new mascara would run.

  “Dab them, don’t wipe,” Harry whispered. “Andrea taught me that. Look up to stop them and dab.”

  She followed his instructions. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll get the check.”

  “No, I have it. It’s a business meeting. You’re doing me a favor.” Grace fumbled with the clasp on her new bag.

  Harry’s warm hand covers hers. “It was impossible not to hear that prick outside. Ben’s nuts about you, Grace. It takes about two minutes to see it.”

  “Thanks.” She paid the bill and stood. Harry walked with her out the door. Photographers, and their blinding flashbulbs, were waiting, crowding them while they fought toward the waiting cab. “I’m sorry about this, Harry.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll call Andrea on the way home and explain. She’ll think it’s funny. As if you’d choose me over him.”

  “And you’d leave her for me,” Grace teased. “But I certainly can’t strand you here. Hop in.”

  The ride to the clinic was quick, given the parade following them.

  “Around back, miss?” the driver asked.

  “No,” Grace said. “They won’t bother to say it, but I want them to see me alone and Harry driving away.”

  The cabbie looked in the mirror. “Right-o, love. Good for you.”

  She paid her part of the fare, patted Harry’s hand, and rushed into the clinic before the photographers could park. Fe was waiting.

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Sorry, Fe,” Grace sighed. “Hillary strikes again. I should’ve stayed away.”

  “No, I’m glad you came.”

  “Fiona?” the nurse called from the doorway. “The doctor is ready for you.”

  “I’ll be here when you’re finished,” Grace said, shooing Fe from the room. “Fingers crossed.”

  As she waited, Grace tried to figure out a way to get Fiona out of the clinic without a shoving match, and how to explain an OB-GYN visit to Ben.

  “Yea God,” someone whispered from behind the desk. “How many women is he sleeping with anyway? First Hillary, now this one. If the American gets pregnant, we’ll have a trifecta. Maybe we can offer him a bulk discount.”

  “This one,” a stern, older voice stressed, “is a good girl. She and her husband have been patients for years. And you’re not going to convince me Hillary is pregnant by Bennett Oliver. He’s too good for the likes of her.”

  “What about all those photos?” the younger woman persisted.

  “Don’t mean anything.”

  “But she was in L.A. when he was, and now she’s in Yorkshire, and, well . . . Willa, she is pregnant.”

  Grace smothered her gasp. It’s a lie. It’s a lie.

  Rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the tile as one of the nurses approached. Grace closed her eyes and prayed it was Willa. She got her first break of the day.

  “Blast,” the older woman breathed. “Ms. Donnelley.”

  “I’m fine,” Grace squeaked. “Will Fiona be much longer?”

  “Just a few moments, I’ll hurry the doctor along.”

  Grace stopped her. “Don’t, please. And don’t tell Fiona anything. Regardless of her news, she needs to focus on herself. And Noah.”

  “See, that’s why he deserves you,” Willa said as she patted Grace’s shoulder. “I don’t know him by anything other than the telly and by how he’s treated Fiona, but he seems like a lovely young man.”

  The longer she talked, the harder it became for Grace to hide her tears. All she could do was nod. Willa found her a box of tissues and then hurried away.

  By the time Fe re-entered the waiting room, Grace had composed herself. So had Fe. Her face was unreadable, although her knuckles were white on the strap of her purse.

  “How am I going to get out of here?” Fe mumbled as she looked out the window at the milling crowd of photographers.

  “You girls can take the back way out,” Willa offered. Thankfully, she’d exiled the gossipy nurse.

  Grace nudged Fe. “You go on. I’ll go out the front. They’ll follow me. Count to twenty and then leave.”

  “I’ll call Ben.”

  “No, Fe. He’ll ask too many questions, and Noah should be the first person you tell. I think we’ve missed the press deadline for today, so it’ll buy us a little time.”

  “Grace,” Willa called. “I’ve rung a taxi. The driver will be out front in five—oh, there he is. Run, love.”

  She emerged into a melee that reminded her of frenzied carp. Every slimy body fought for the same little bite.

  “Up the duff, Grace?”

  “Does Ben know?”

  She pushed them away. “I’m here with a friend. Move aside, please.”

  Blinded by flashbulbs, she gave the driver the hotel’s address and reclined against the seat. The momentum around a turn slung her sideways. So much for a relaxing day.

  When they stopped at the main entrance, Grace flung the taxi’s door open, heedless of who she struck. The doorman made his way to her while Ivy monitored the door.

  “Are you all right?” the young woman asked as a bellman helped her pull the door closed. “What on earth has happened?”

  “Not now, Ivy,” Grace retorted as she clicked by. When the tone of her words echoed back to her, she faced her caretakers as she walked backward toward the elevator bay. “Thank you all for looking out for me and for protecting me. I appreciate your concern.”

  Ivy followed her into the hallway. “I’ve tried to reach Ben.”

  Swallowing her temper, Grace turned to the young woman. “I am not Ben’s concern. I’m a grown woman, and he h
as other things to do. So do you. Please stop.”

  “But—”

  “Please.” Without waiting on an answer, Grace stepped into the nearest elevator. She was too exhausted for the stairs.

  Her purchases were piled on her bed, and she changed into sweats before letting unpacking distract her. At the end of her chore, one package remained. The mailing address had been crossed out multiple times, forwarding instructions revised. Postage had been increased, then increased again. But the return address was clearly marked. It was from the vacation tour company. Unwrapping the paper and lifting the lid on the box, Grace picked up the silken watercolor negligee that had found its way from Salzburg, and let it slide through her fingers to pool on the floor.

  Her tears came in a flood, and she quit staring at the ceiling to stem them. She stopped dabbing them, then gave up wiping them, and finally forgot about her stupid mascara.

  It was a lie. She knew it was. But it still hurt. Being alone made it worse, and in London she was always alone.

  All cried out, she splashed cold water on her face and went for ice to put on her eyes. Lying in the quiet, she debated canceling her plans with Gino and his family. There’d be photographers everywhere.

  If you don’t want them to chase you, don’t run. Her father’s advice from years ago echoed through her mind. If it worked for wild animals, it would work for paparazzi. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and suspicion, she selected a new outfit from her closet and went to work on her makeup.

  Her phone rang, and she stared at it for three rings before she answered it. “Hi.”

  “Doll?”

  He was on his way home. She could hear the Rover’s radio in the background. She could also hear the worry in his voice. There’d be another headline, another photo to explain, in the morning.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’m late for dinner.”