by Tyler Flynn
“I’d like you to come with me. It’s a chance to meet more people in Renard’s circle. There will be a few colleagues from London I’ll introduce you to.” She stirred her smoothie and watched Hart’s reaction.
Hart was thrilled and gave a fist pump under the table. “It’s too bad I left my tuxedo in New York.” He laughed, mostly because he didn’t actually own a tuxedo.
“Bon. The good news is you’re in Paris, and maybe going to London.” She narrowed her eyes confidingly. “The two best cities in the world for shopping. If you can’t find a tuxedo that fits without tailoring here or there, you wouldn’t be able to find it anywhere in the world.”
Hart nodded. “How long do you plan on staying there?”
“We,” she clarified, “would plan on being there for just the evening tonight and return to Paris tomorrow afternoon. If all goes to plan.” A mischievous smile crossed her face.
Hart carefully started into his omelet while his mind raced. Clara grabbed a croissant from the basket, tore it in half, and dunked it several times into her espresso.
“Bon appétit. You’re going to have a busy day ahead of you. We leave in a few hours. I already booked our train tickets. Eurostar from Gare du Nord to St. Pancras, which will get us to London midafternoon.”
“Already booked my seat?” Hart laughed. “But I haven’t said yes.”
Clara smirked. “Well, you’re not going to say no. It would be considerably disappointing to Renard and, might I add, myself.”
“You were confident in your abilities to persuade me,” he said with a wry smile, but somewhere he felt uneasy about his predictability. He’d realized that he kept being asked to do things without much choice, and no one seemed to bother ever asking his opinion, although with this particular request he didn’t mind.
“Well, I guess I should check out of the hotel for the evening.”
Clara held a freshly dipped croissant in her hand as she spoke. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Monsieur Renard is a part owner of this hotel. Pas de problème.”
Hart was packing his leather duffel bag when his mobile started vibrating across his desk. The number started with a +33 country code: France.
“Paul, it’s Claude. I understand you’re going on a trip today.”
It had been only about ten minutes since he’d finished breakfast with Clara and had quickly made plans to rendezvous again before their train. Either Renard knew the plan ahead of time, or Clara had told him immediately after leaving breakfast. For a spontaneous trip, Clara and Renard had communicated well.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to it. We leave—”
“At one o’clock, yes. Your train leaves soon, but you’ll have plenty of time to get ready before the gala tonight.”
“I appreciate that I’ve been chosen to go on your company’s behalf with Clara. I’m humbled.” Hart could hear someone enter Renard’s office and hushed voices. Hart zipped up his duffel while he waited for Renard to talk.
“Paul, sorry for that. Urgent meeting. Must run.”
“I understand. Thanks for the call. Speak with you soon.”
“Oh, Paul, one more thing. I’m going to have Maxim drop off an envelope at the hotel for you. I need you to take this to London and give it to my banker there. His name is Igor; you’ll meet him tonight. Good man. It’s something he needs immediately.”
Hart, accustomed to delivery-boy duties, didn’t know why he was being asked instead of Clara, but he didn’t give it any further thought.
“I’d be happy to.”
“Wonderful. Merci et au revoir.”
“Thanks, have a great—”
But Renard had hung up before Hart could finish.
He decided to let the office know his change of plans and drafted an email to Hutchens but realized he didn’t even know what hotel he was staying at. Hart decided to forgo the heads-up to his boss; it made no difference to him, Hart reasoned, what country he was in as long as business was getting done.
Hart sat on the edge of his bed and stared out the window at the unrelenting rain. The weather had pounded people into submission; only a few brave souls with large umbrellas and unsteady walks, thanks to the strong wind, could be seen scurrying to and from work, home, breakfast, or a presumably quiet museum.
He was exhausted and thought of a time in his life when a rainy day meant lying in bed all day with someone, waiting for the day to be over. He allowed himself to drift, closing his eyes, and imagined his life the way the far corner of his mind saw it. On dark, stormy, rainy days, the time only measured by the number of strokes his hand could make against her soft skin, which glowed with every flash of lightning. Holding him tighter with every crack of thunder as he brushed her hair gently behind her ear and lifted his chin so their lips could meet. Clara—it had to be her; she was the only one his mind could picture.
Hart flopped on the bed, pushed the dream from his mind. It would be a busy day, and it may be one of the last quiet moments he’d have for a while. The rain made him tired, as did his full stomach, and his jet lag was in full swing. He checked his watch. 10:38 a.m. He was to meet Clara in about an hour. Plenty of time for a quick nap. He grabbed his phone to set an alarm for twenty minutes. Before passing out, he checked the weather in London; it was to rain for the next two days. Perhaps, after all, his daydream would come true.
He felt himself drift off and stay somewhere between sleep and alertness, until the ring of his phone jolted him from his stupor. He fumbled over to the nightstand and grabbed it on the third ring.
“Bonjour.”
“Good morning, Monsieur Hart. Your taxi is here, and we have an envelope for you at the front desk.”
“I’ll come down for it shortly, thank you.”
“Avec plaisir.”
20
Paris to London
The Eurostar from Paris Gare du Nord to London St. Pancras would take two hours and fifteen minutes. The train reaches 186 miles per hour on the way to London or Paris, traveling under the English Channel by way of the longest underwater tunnel in the world.
Hart watched Paris fade away. His seat faced the direction they traveled. Clara sat across from him with her back to London. The chairs were spacious in the premier cabin, with a dark-gray seat cover, and dark-purple pillow headrest, the colors hiding the wear from numerous travelers—over ten million per year. After they’d cleared the suburbs of Paris, the conductor came over the intercom to give their approximate arrival time, which was 4:15 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time, gaining an hour back in London. Hart planned on using every minute of the train ride to talk with Clara, and certainly not about business. Hart was pleased that he and Clara were in a more private arrangement than the four-person table across the aisle from them.
The train hurtled along, with the constant thumping of the tracks and the groan of the metal carriages as it picked up speed. The passing countryside was a grayish green on account of the stormy day. The tinted windows made the dark-gray clouds that hung above northern France even more ominous.
Between them on the table lay a small gray Sony laptop, next to Clara’s black-pebbled leather Smythson notebook and several sheets of printed paper. Clara grabbed the papers and rifled through them. She’d put on a navy-blue cardigan to combat the chill of travel.
“So, I think it would be wise to go over the itinerary for this evening’s event. The details of where it is, who will be there.” She showed Hart the printed calendar. “I want you to know what to expect.”
He felt her eyes studying him as he read. Clara pointed to the hotel’s address. “The event is at the Shangri-La Hotel by London Bridge, the Ren room. You’ll recognize the hotel. It’s in the Shard tower, more famous than the bridge itself.”
Hart was already feeling overwhelmed. A black-tie dinner at the Shard, the five-star hotel, in a massive glass building that looked like a giant tower of ice breaching the earth’s crust in the middle of the London skyline.
“I’m sure it will give u
s a beautiful view of the city.”
Clara smiled. “Exactly. This event draws out some extraordinarily wealthy people. It’s a charity gala, with cocktails and a dinner, which goes quickly because everyone wants to get to the auction that follows. These people mean business, and there will be some impressive things up for sale. It’s oftentimes a contest to see who can give the most money away. Last year, there was a thirty-yard yacht donated, fully refurbished and equipped with a three-person crew for the first year of ownership. The bid went for, if I recall, ten million pounds.” Clara’s face showed her incomprehension of the amount of money spent, and she shrugged. “While the Shangri-La has plenty of space for us to stay, I’ve booked us instead at my favorite hotel in London. The Savoy. It was also a favorite of Sir Winston Churchill. Do you know it?”
Hart was busy trying to think of a joke. Did you get us a king-size or two twin beds? crossed his mind, but he thought better of it.
“Savoy. Can’t say I have. Passed through London once or twice over the years but never a proper visit. Suppose we’ll be too busy working to see all the sights.”
Hart feigned disappointment while glancing out the window as the train passed quiet fields, devoid of machinery or people due to the pelting rain. He saw the dark circle of a tunnel approaching. The pitch changed once it was in the tunnel, the noise constant and loud.
Hart couldn’t see Clara’s face, as she buried herself in her leather notebook, reviewing her notes. A stewardess came by, asking what they’d like to drink, and announced that a small snack would be served briefly. Clara ordered for them both, two black coffees, giving Hart a look out of the corner of her eye asking for reassurance it was okay by him. It certainly was, so he gave a small nod. There was something sexy and relaxing to him about having his order taken care of by her, a woman who knew what she wanted for both of them.
Clara stood once the stewardess had poured their coffees and said she was going to the ladies’ room. She sauntered off in her high heels down the aisle.
Hart looked back down at the table, making sure his side was clear before the food arrived, but found Clara’s notebook spread open in the middle of it. He glanced down the aisle and felt it safe to glimpse at her calendar.
Between the hours marked 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. petit dejeuner avec Paul—trip/logistics was written, and TGV between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m. He looked further down the page and saw Riverbed Charity Gala at 7 p.m. in Clara’s slanted handwriting. Hart was about to flip the book back over when he saw Igor penciled in after the gala in much smaller print than the other entries. What this a late-night rendezvous? The name was familiar. He leaned in further to inspect the notebook when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun in his seat, his heart pounding. He been caught with his hand deep in the cookie jar.
“Pardon, monsieur,” the tall stewardess in a gray Eurostar cap said as she leaned over and placed the trays in front of him and Clara’s empty seat.
“Ah, merci.” Hart watched her turn back to serving the other passengers and breathed a sigh of relief.
He was placing the book, which was now closed thanks to his startled reaction, back on the table when Clara arrived. She took her seat in front of the tray with jambon iberico, two types of cheese—one soft, and one hard—a small dinner roll, some fresh fruit, and a small salad. She was busy eyeing the jambon when Hart spoke up.
“I must confess,” he said as he watched her delicately rip apart the ham with her fingertips, “when the food came, I moved your book. I didn’t want it to get dirty.”
A look of indifference came across Clara’s face as if she was searching for the reason why Hart felt it necessary to mention such a thing. She smiled politely before returning to her meal.
Since Hart had read “Igor”, he felt a profound sense of guilt at having invaded her privacy. Or perhaps, he thought, it was remorse for the foolishness that now caused his mind to panic. He didn’t know Igor, but the name had been coming up lately. Renard had said he was the man the envelope was for, and Hutchens had even said a name that was similar, the mutual friend of Renard’s.
Igor was possibly Clara’s lover and based in London, and her calendar note was of a late-night rendezvous. Hart was resigned to the fact he wouldn’t find out who he was until the time came later that evening.
“The taxi ride will be short. Once at the hotel, we can go to our”—she paused to take a fork to her salad—“rooms.” Emphasizing the s. She smirked, aware that she was teasing him. “Then we will head to Regent Street to find a tuxedo. If not there, we can try Jermyn Street. Savile Row is famous, but for custom tailoring only. There are a few shops that sell off the rack, but they will insist on a tailoring before selling you anything. Nothing worse for a clothier than to sell ill-fitting formal wear.” She giggled and continued on. “Won’t be cheap, but hopefully work will pick the tab up for you. After all, this is a business trip.”
Hart saw an opening and attempted to capitalize. It seemed like the chance to get to know her better.
“Well, I’m glad I’ll have you as company to help me shop. I mean, you always look stunning. I actually thought you moonlighted for Chanel or Saint Laurent.”
Clara’s reaction was not what Hart had envisioned, but rather she wore a look of confusion.
“Moonlighted? I don’t know what this means.”
Her blank stare left him feeling foolish. So much for the compliment.
“It’s a word for having another job. I was making a joke that you were also a model.” He shrugged and offered an embarrassed smile: I find you quite attractive, but you already knew that, didn’t you?
“Ah, I see.” Her words were in contrast to her face, which had lit up at the compliment. Clara looked out the window to the wet English countryside, as if thinking how to respond. “So, you think I am a model now.” Her eyebrows danced up and down as she pouted out her lips and dramatically squinted her eyes, shifting her shoulders, as if posing for a magazine cover.
They both laughed away any awkwardness. The elderly English couple across the aisle, both with thick white hair and worn wool sweaters, gave a glance of contempt for the laughter Clara and Hart shared. The stuffy premier-class cabin was a space usually reserved for hushed business conversations and the quiet musings of lovers, not for blossoming love.
Clara had decided to check her laptop for any emails after lunch. After they emerged from the tunnel Hart watched the fire-orange sunlight flittering through the thick rolling clouds of the countryside in the distance. The sun had burned a small opening in the clouds, revealing an icy-blue sky that flooded the compartment with bright light.
He was relaxed about London and the evening ahead, until he remembered the envelope he was carrying for Renard. Maxim had apparently dropped it at the hotel with no address on the outside, but Hart knew he was to deliver it to Igor. Why had Renard asked him to bring the envelope when he knew well enough that Clara was going too? Furthermore, why did she have Igor’s name on her calendar? The rest of the train ride, Hart couldn’t help but notice he had tightness in his stomach. The arrangements didn’t feel right, but perhaps the feeling was just born of jealousy, or maybe it was something else.
21
London
They arrived at the Savoy barely thirty minutes after their train had pulled into St. Pancras. Their taxi drove down the narrow entrance and stopped between a lime-green Lamborghini Aventador and a black Rolls-Royce Phantom. Hart made a comment to Clara about her evidently good taste and was blown off by a huff of air and a devilish grin. They made their way into the hotel.
Revolving wooden doors led into the lobby, checkered black-and-white tile running the length of the floor. The walls were dark, rich mahogany; several portraits hung of Victorian ladies sitting idly. Through the main foyer and down a wide set of teal-carpeted stairs was a great room, where a massive wrought-iron chamber, the shape of a birdcage, towered thirty feet into the air. The small wooden tables hosted afternoon tea, with towers of edibles—sponge cakes, mac
aroons, toffee puddings, and cucumber sandwiches—spread about as guests chatted away. Hart and Clara were escorted to their separate rooms, which were on the same floor and shared the same view overlooking the Thames.
They had agreed to meet in the lobby at four, and took a taxi the short distance to Regent Street to find Hart a tuxedo. Their shopping proved to be exceptionally easy. Hart found a black narrow-lapel tuxedo and slim silk black tie at the first store they tried. The massive, three-story Burberry flagship had several options for Hart to try off the rack. Hart asked Clara to stay by him to give her opinion. She’d sat on a plush green velour sofa and watched him model the options. Nathaniel, the salesperson helping Hart, couldn’t get over the fact that a size 40 regular jacket needed no alterations. Clara snickered and blushed as Hart spun around, modeling, fiddling with his French cuffs. Nathaniel tugged and prodded at the jacket, sharing his opinion that the tuxedo fit perfectly and that they were an adorable couple. “A French and American together in London is the perfect combination,” he’d said as Clara continued giggling at Hart. The tuxedo would be pressed and sent over to the hotel before 6 p.m.
Clara and Hart wound their way back towards the hotel afterwards, the busy evening commute in full swing around them. The air was heavy with a cold dampness as night settled in on the city and the rain stopped.
Clara inched closer to Hart on the crowded sidewalk, making way for the more anxious commuters to get home. “Do you like what you do for work?”
Hart wasn’t sure if Clara was asking about his career or just his trip to London.
“Ah well, I do enjoy traveling.” He realized the conversation would stall, so he continued on. “But as for my career, if that’s what you meant.” He looked at Clara for encouragement to carry on; she nodded and then looked back straight ahead, navigating the steady stream of hurried strangers. “I do sometimes. The job I have now came about by strange circumstances. I’ve had my share of challenges, and some maneuvering has been needed. If you know the term.” He looked at Clara to make sure she understood him. Her English was phenomenal, but he found she was giggling slightly.