by Parker Swift
He was right. The fashion show was the next afternoon and there was the grand designers’ gala that night. We slipped beneath the heavy duvet, and I sidled up next to him, finding the perfect nook in his shoulder to use as a pillow.
The last thing I heard before drifting into sleep was Dylan. “I’m so glad I found you, Lydia. I love you.”
Chapter 36
The next day, the day of the fashion show, I spent zipping between the office and Hannah’s studio for spare zippers or forgotten sketches. I was in a taxi, having just picked up lattes for everyone, when I felt my phone buzz with a text from Dylan.
WEDNESDAY, 9:17 am
Check your email. XX
I quickly brought up my email on my phone and saw one from Dylan at the top. There was no subject heading, but just a link to Hello! magazine. The page linked to the same story from the day before about him and Amelia. Only now there was a big red X blinking across the photo. Underneath, the word update flashed in bold and was followed by a brief description.
Official word from Dylan Hale’s publicist at Hale Architecture & Design denies any romantic involvement with Amelia Reynolds. “Dylan and Amelia’s families have long been friends, but there is no romantic involvement between the two, and they are absolutely not engaged to be married. Dylan Hale is romantically involved with someone else.” So, ladies and gentlemen, place your bets. WHO could the lucky lady be?
There were already nearly three hundred comments on the article containing the names of various socialites and celebrities. This was Dylan’s form of an apology, and it was also a huge step forward for us, out of the shadows. In every corner of my body, where doubt, shame, and fear had crept in the day before, lightness, joy, and pure excitement now resided. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
I quickly forwarded the email to Daphne with a short note,
He’s doing his best to make up for it. Today is crazy—fashion week! I promise to call as soon as I can, but it might not be till tomorrow. Thanks again for all the support lately. XO —L
And before delving back into work, I sent of a quick reply text to Dylan.
TUESDAY, 9:25 am
Thank you, knighty. Into the fray—it’s crazy here. XX
TUESDAY, 9:28 am
Have fun. I’ll be at the show.
TUESDAY, 9:28 am
Oh, and stop calling me knighty.
TUESDAY, 9:28 am
Oh, and I love you.
TUESDAY, 9:29 am
I love you too.
TUESDAY, 9:29 am
Knighty.
TUESDAY, 9:29 am
Maddening. You’re absolutely maddening.
* * *
The show would begin at four, and at three thirty we were still in the throes of preparations. I felt like we were running a collective marathon. Running between models, throwing each other clipboards, and making last-minute edits. It was frantic, engrossing, and crazy fun.
When the pre-music for Hannah’s show began, I was at the entrance to the runway with her, lining the models up. I peeked through the curtain from the side and scanned the room. It took a few moments, but I found him, front row with an empty seat next to him. He was chatting with someone behind him whom he clearly knew when I noticed an elegantly dressed woman approach and take the seat next to him. When she turned I saw it was Caroline. He stood, and they exchanged quick kisses on the cheeks. She said something, and he nodded and smiled. She looked happy for him, pleased. And now I knew she knew.
The music changed, the show began, and there was no more time to dwell—we were instantly performing, everyone on the runway and backstage working their butts off, making the culmination of the hard work come to life. The show was over in what felt like a heartbeat, and I noticed Hannah visibly relax. It had happened. No one had tripped. No one had lost their skirt on the runway. And the applause had spoken for itself. As the models danced in relief and the backstage area began to flood with well-wishers, it became immediately clear that the show was an enormous success.
The frenetic energy continued as we began to break the show down, and Hannah disappeared into the postshow mayhem. While unzipping a model, I felt my phone vibrate.
WEDNESDAY, 4:35 pm
Well done, you! I’m off. Tell me where to pick you up for party, 7pm.
WEDNESDAY, 4:36 pm
You’re coming with me?
WEDNESDAY, 4:36 pm
Baby, I’m your date. You think I’d let you go alone?
WEDNESDAY, 4:36 pm
:) The office
All of a sudden I realized that this would be it. We’d be in public, really in public, together. Every time he’d tried to warn me about the press or talked about protecting me from the paparazzi, it had seemed so far away from me. I’d thought it was just an excuse to keep us secret. But since then I’d seen how invasive they could be, and I was throwing myself into that world. I shuddered, suddenly feeling frantic and shy about having my own photo in the papers. The pit in my stomach grew as I eyed the perfect-looking models around me—what was I going to look like on camera? Ugh.
At that moment, I heard Fiona calling my name, pulling me out of my ruminations. Hannah was still mingling with the press and the celebrities who’d attended her show, while Fiona and I began returning the clothing to garment bags, accounting for every piece. It was 5:30 by the time we were piling into a car to go back to Hannah’s studio.
“Well, girls, we did it. You were a fabulous help. And, Lydia, I’m so glad you’re feeling better—you looked positively ill yesterday afternoon, but my god you were on fire today. Thank god! Tomorrow we all need a rest. Take the day off.” I smiled. It was my birthday the next day, and the break was going to be appreciated.
“It was such a rush, Hannah.” I said, feeling the excitement spill off of me. “I can’t imagine how you must feel. Everyone seemed so pleased.” I really had been overwhelmed by the whole experience.
“Well, we’ll see what the press says tomorrow and the bloggers say tonight. I’ll be afraid to look,” she replied. “At least we’ll have the party to distract ourselves. Why don’t you girls come with me in my car?” Fiona happily accepted on the spot. I got the sense that Hannah, while kind, was not always this chummy. Her good mood was making her generous.
“Um,” I said softly, “well, I actually already have a ride to the party, but thank you so much for the invitation.” I tried to be as gracious as possible without prompting further questions. Maybe I should have just accepted. Dylan would have understood, but then again, it felt important for us to go together.
Fiona saw right through me. “Spill the beans, Bell.” Oh god. I didn’t necessarily want to talk about this in front of my boss. Although, if the zillion comments on that Internet post were any indication of London’s interest in Dylan’s love life, she would find out anyway.
I could feel my cheeks heating up. “I have a date.” I cleared my throat and looked nervously at Hannah. Fiona’s expression was horrified at having been kept out of the loop. She was clearly waiting for me to continue. “I’m, um, dating someone. Dylan Hale. I’m dating Dylan Hale.”
Chapter 37
I immediately covered my face with my hands in anticipation of their reactions. I was blushing—I could feel my hot cheeks, and there was a self-conscious pit in my belly. I peeked through my fingers and Hannah’s eyes were wide. It was possibly the only time I’d ever seen real emotion on her face.
“Shut. Up!” Fiona was nearly speechless for a moment, but she quickly found her words. “I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me.”
I looked back to Hannah, whose wheels were turning. She looked like a light bulb had gone off. She reached into her bag and grabbed her cell phone and made a call. “Hello, Stephen? It’s Hannah…Thank you…Yes, yes…Listen, I need your help for another hour. Meet me at my studio.” Stephen was the hair and makeup guru who had overseen the looks for her show.
Turning back to me, Hannah continued with a businesslike determi
nation, “Your job’s not over tonight, Lydia. If you let me, I’m going to make you the last model of the show. The press has been going nuts trying to figure out who Dylan Hale’s girlfriend is, and you two are going public tonight?” I nodded. Oh god. Where was this going? “You’re going to be photographed to the hilt, and I want you wearing one of my gowns.”
What girl hadn’t fantasized about being dressed by a designer for a night out? This was beginning to feel like a dream. Only it was a dream we had about an hour to make come true.
Fiona saw me looking at my watch. “Can you tell him to get you at seven fifteen? I’m sure we can pull this off in an hour and a half.” She looked at Hannah, who nodded.
“Um, sure. But are you sure about this?” I looked to Hannah. “I mean, wouldn’t it be better to stick with the actual models and the royals?”
Hannah shook her head ferociously. “We don’t have time to boost your self-esteem. This will be perfect.” By this point we were all hustling from the car into the studio.
I texted Dylan about the time and location change, and Hannah instructed Fiona to prep a press release about the gown in case people asked. As soon as we got inside, Hannah started rifling through the racks and holding pieces up to me—I clearly wasn’t going to have a say in any of this. She quickly settled on an A-line silk gown with V-neck halter. The dress hung elegantly and was fitted, hugging the few slight curves I had, but it was also unstructured, with the draped fabric meeting in an elegant ruched knot at my waist. It also had a subtle but high slit running up the front below the knot. The back was dangerously low, as low as it could go without being tasteless. The silk was a warm cream color but was accented with subtle pale pink beading, running in vertical lines down the dress, which gave me added length. It was old Hollywood glamour but also somehow undeniably contemporary. It also, thankfully, fit me like a glove and just needed to be hemmed, which would have to be done quickly.
While Hannah went to work on the gown herself, Stephen attacked my hair and face. He worked ferociously, creating soft waves in my hair, and finally just trimmed my bangs when he couldn’t figure out what else to do with them. His makeup job was thankfully subtle and natural-looking. It was 7:05 by the time they were done zipping me up. Fiona was frantically running out the door to get ready herself, and Hannah had left to get ready once she was sure the gown would hold up. I was suddenly alone and grateful to have a few minutes to settle my nerves. I snagged the only pair of heels that fit—thankfully one of the models had had little feet—and I looked in the full-length mirror.
I couldn’t believe what I saw starring back at me. I felt like a movie star, and apart from when I’d been in Dylan’s arms, I’d never felt more beautiful. I felt like myself, only far far more glamorous. Just then I heard my phone ding, and it was Dylan.
WEDNESDAY, 7:14 pm
I’m here.
WEDNESDAY, 7:15 pm
Almost ready. I’ll be right down.
I took one more look in the mirror, commanding myself to have the courage to act the way I felt, and bracing myself for the inevitable attention. I was collecting my clothes and putting them in my tote when I felt the room heat up. I stood, faced the doorway, and saw Dylan, in his killer suit and a dark purple narrow tie. His mouth was hanging open, and he braced himself in the doorway.
“Good god, Lydia.” He sauntered towards me. My body blossomed under his gaze, and I could feel the color rising to my cheeks. “You look like a complete dream.” He took my arms and spread them, stepping back to take me in. His smile was enormous. “I can’t believe I get to be the one to walk into this party with you.” He stepped in and cupped my chin with his hand, lifting my face to his. “Are you ready for this? You’re sure?”
“Definitely.”
He smiled back at my reply. “Me too. Let’s go, shall we?”
“One minute.” I reached into my bag and dug around for my final accessory. I pulled out the black velvet box and held it up for him to hold. “I finally get to wear these.” I pulled the beautiful earrings he’d bought for me out of their box and fixed them into my ears. “What do you think?”
“Fucking gorgeous.” He leaned in and pulled me into him, kissing me hard. “I’m not going to be able to keep my hands off you tonight. We’d better go—the sooner we get there, the sooner we can leave and I can get you into my bed.”
* * *
Dylan held my hand in the car, drumming my palm with his thumb the whole time. Was he nervous too?
“You ok?” I asked.
“Of course.” He smiled at me. The car slowed and we were waiting in the circular driveway of the Savoy hotel, a line of cars ahead of us. “Just stay close. No running off.”
I nodded. Finally, he exited his side of the car and flashbulbs instantly starting popping. He came around to my side of the car, and opened the door. He reached in and gave me a wink before I slid out. He held me tightly around the waist, and I put one arm around his back and used the other to hold up my skirt as I stepped up onto the curb. The din of the clicking cameras became furious. The flashbulbs were blinding, and the blur of voices coming from the pool of journalists made me feel like I was lost. I didn’t know where to look. Dylan used all of his carefully deployed strength to guide me through and keep me steady, surely knowing I’d find this overwhelming.
He paused before the door, and we faced a row of photographers and journalists, all shouting his name and asking me mine. I held onto his back for dear life. Suddenly, he leaned down, and placing two fingers under my chin, raised my face to his, and planted a long and deliberate kiss onto my lips. The press rallied in response. He pulled back and gave me a quick reassuring smile before spelling my name for a waiting journalist. I smiled and waved. After answering a few questions about his work and the building in Jordan, he quickly ushered me up the steps and in the front door.
That had been completely bizarre and far more intense than I’d anticipated. As soon as we were in the door, he pulled me aside. “You ok?”
I reassured him by squeezing his arm. “Is it always that insane?”
“No. That was bloody bonkers. The last time I experienced that was after Caroline and I got engaged.” I winced. She was a princess, for crying out loud, and it still hurt to think of him engaged to someone. He gave me a look of warning. “I’m not justifying that wince.” He leaned in close. “I love you. My publicist chiming in this morning must have gotten everyone going. It will die down.” He reached around and firmly grabbed my ass. “Now let’s go have some fun, and then I’m going to get you home and give you a birthday spanking—one for each year.” My jaw dropped, and he smiled at my shock. “And you’ll love every one.”
Chapter 38
He kept his hand at my back as we navigated around the room, but we were never able to get very far. Dylan seemed to know everyone, and everyone seemed to be curious about his date. I hadn’t processed that Dylan hadn’t brought a girl anywhere with him in public in seven years. There was no small amount of interest in this sudden change.
In spite of the onslaught of attention and the sheer amount of chitchat and introductions that were happening, he never lost sight of me, noticing when my drink needed refreshing, stopping waiters so we could grab appetizers, and, best of all, giving my hip the occasional squeeze or planting the occasional kiss on my lips to let me, and the entire room, know that we were together.
He introduced me to business partners, celebrities, politicians, and famous fashion designers. At one point a tall older sophisticated woman wearing a formal suit approached Dylan and kissed him on each cheek. “My Lord,” she began, but Dylan waved her off, rejecting the formal address.
“Deirdre, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Lydia Bell.” I loved hearing the word come out of his mouth.
The woman politely reached out for my hand, which I shook firmly. Dylan continued, “Lydia is currently working for Hannah Rogan.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Of course. Hannah’s show today was simply br
eathtaking.” I smiled proudly.
Dylan turned to me. “Lydia, Deirdre Rocker is the president of the BFC.”
Holy shit. Of course. The BFC was the British Fashion Council, the premier fashion organization in the UK, and the host of London Fashion Week. I had tried to get an informational interview with Deirdre Rocker when I was looking for jobs, but I had been told there was little hope of that happening. She knew everything and everyone there was to know when it came to the fashion world, both in the UK and abroad.
I managed to summon my professional self, and replied, “Of course. It’s such an honor to meet you.” I continued to chat with her about the BFC and was in the middle of discussing my experience with New York Fashion Week when I felt Dylan’s grip tighten at my hip, prompting me to look up. For the first time since the party in Canada, I saw his family approaching us. Dylan politely excused us from our conversation with Deirdre, and braced me against him as his parents and sister reached us.
“Dylan.” His mother came in for a hug. She clearly wanted to brush everything under the carpet. But Dylan firmly held his grip on me and made no move to hug her back, making for an extremely awkward moment.
I reached out my hand, determined to be graceful and welcoming. “Duchess, I’m Lydia Bell. We met in Canada this past summer.” I figured using the title, now that I knew she had one, wouldn’t hurt insofar as making amends went.
She took my hand, relieved by my cheerful politeness, and possibly embarrassed. I’m sure she guessed that I had been filled in on her antics. “Of course, dear. Charlotte, please,” she said. “It’s so lovely to see you again. You look absolutely beautiful.” Her words were polite, but I couldn’t help but feel she wasn’t completely satisfied with this situation. “I didn’t realize that you and Dylan had stayed in touch.” I wouldn’t have exactly described her words as sincere.