“Glenhurst isn’t the middle of nowhere.” Vera pulls out a camel-colored twin set. It’s the end of June, but you’d never know it by the way the temperatures are stuck firmly in the fifties. “I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised.”
“Well, I can’t be any more unpleasantly surprised.” I take the twin set and roll it, placing it next to my brand-new black Hunter wellies. “This is not how I pictured my week unfolding.”
“Here, take this one, too. It looks good on you.” Vera hands me a black long-sleeve tunic top. “I made you a reservation at the bed and breakfast in the nearest village. It’s a mile from the address you gave me, but the woman at the B&B said they have a bicycle you can borrow.”
“A bike? I can’t remember the last time I rode a bike.” I make a face.
“Or you can walk.” Vera points to my wellies. “The owner said the cottage is down a lane, so you’ll be needing those.”
“Yay.” I roll my eyes. “Remind me if I ever start feeling inspired by the show Build a New Life in the Country that wellies are a mandatory part of country life. That will cure me.”
“You should keep an open mind. How much of the UK have you seen since you’ve moved here?” Vera grins. “There’s a whole world outside of London, you know.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean I want to see it.” I open the drawer of my dresser and pull out three folded white T-shirts. “I’m a city girl. Highgate is about as far out into the country as I want to be.”
“You realize there’s a tube stop within a five-minute walk of your house?” Vera asks.
“Yes, but it’s Zone Three, so it counts as out in the sticks.” I push my dresser drawer closed with my knee. “I’ll be available via email and phone, obviously, but don’t let Rex forget about Jessica Martin.”
“He’s meeting her here this afternoon for coffee. I got donuts, too, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried.” Not about that, anyway. But the more I run down the list of things for Vera to remember, the less head space I have to worry about anything else. “Also, if you could reach out to the publisher and maybe get some comp titles for this new author Rex is meeting? He won’t read them, but maybe he could at least sound like he cracks a book more than once every three years.”
“I looked him up.” Vera doesn’t wait for my reply before continuing. “The author, I mean. He’s written this big epic fantasy that’s supposedly the next Lord of the Rings. They’re already talking movie rights and the book’s not even published.”
I don’t have time to read for pleasure either, but I stick my lower lip out in a pout. “Great. So Rex gets the next J. R. R. Tolkien and I get Alastair Wells.”
“Alastair Wells?” Vera’s voice goes up three notches. “Bloody hell. Is that who you’re going to see and you haven’t told me?”
I haven’t told anyone - except Rex, who technically told me – although I didn’t intentionally keep it from Vera either. “I honestly thought you knew. You seem to know things about my life before I do most of the time.”
“This is true.” Vera’s voice has no inflection; she’s just stating a fact. I’d be lost without her and I know it. “You know he’s got a reputation as a bit of a purist, right? In everything I’ve read about him, he’s always like, ‘My music is my art and I’d welcome commercial success unless it means becoming a sell-out.’”
“Oh, I know. I Googled him last night and read all about it.” I roll my eyes. “Hence the personal visit.”
“Well, if anyone can bring him around, it’s you.” Vera grins. “I have great faith in your powers of persuasion.”
So do I. In most cases. In this case, I want nothing more than to work nonstop on the train to Glenhurst to distract myself from the fact I’m going to see the guy I was going to marry. Too bad the Wi-Fi works for exactly ten minutes and the mobile signal is so bad it takes three stops to load my Instagram feed. It puts a damper on my grand plan to do a social media audit of Alastair’s accounts and put together suggestions for improvement. Even my Plan B – collate a list of musicians similar to Alastair – is a no-go with no connectivity. An hour into the journey, I give up and stare out the window. The scenery is mostly green fields and sheep, which I admit is pretty – I haven’t seen this much green since moving to London – but it’s not great for keeping my mind from wandering.
Dammit, I don’t want to think about Alastair and our it-was-great-until-it-wasn’t history together. There’s a reason I haven’t Googled him all these years and it’s called self-preservation. In desperation, I pull my file folder from my bag and start flipping through the articles on him Vera printed out yesterday. Granted, it’s still thinking about him, but at least it’s focused.
There are three different pieces from a small newspaper in Liverpool. He obviously has a fan in the writer, who gushes about Alastair’s voice, stage presence, and skill on the guitar. There’s a blurry photo, but the writer says in the article that Alastair didn’t want to be photographed and she was trying to respect his wishes.
I mentally note that no, she wasn’t, or there wouldn’t be a photograph at all, but then I look at the date. April 20. Three months ago. If he didn’t want to be photographed then, who’s to say he’ll want to be photographed now? Or worse, interviewed for a magazine. The Jessica Martins of the world want nothing more and I can work with that. But what on earth makes me think I can work with a man who shirks publicity like it’s his job?
I pick my mobile up from the seat next to me to call Rex. Then I put it down again because telling Rex I don’t want to do this means telling him about my history with Alastair and I’ve already decided that’s a bad idea. One of the reasons I’m good at my job is because I don’t get emotionally involved in my clients’ problems. Jessica Martin has a semi-nervous breakdown on my couch about her upcoming tour? No problem, Jessica. Let’s see what we can do to make this better because you are going on that tour, whether you know it or not. Greyson Vaughn, Hollywood’s most eligible bachelor, suddenly has a serious girlfriend and tweens are despairing all over social media? Launch a social media campaign to get them to name Claire’s new kitten and the winner gets afternoon tea with both of them at the Ritz in London. That was a genius idea if I don’t say so myself, even if I do have Bea to thank for the initial introduction.
Alastair Wells wants to live in a cottage in the middle of nowhere? Well, actually, Alastair, that’s a problem. You’re going to have to get your happy ass down to London, for starters, and be seen. Still a big fat nope? Then our work here is done. Good luck surviving on your so-called art.
I can imagine Alastair’s face if I said that. His thick black eyebrows would knit together and those full lips would tighten. There’s a seventy percent chance he’d shove his fingers through his thick dark hair. That was always the truest sign of his frustration back in college. It was the first thing I noticed about him. As Dr. Silverstein had handed back our math exams, she’d asked Alastair and I to stay after class to “discuss our options” regarding her class. I didn’t know who he was - my grade might have reflected the amount of attention I put into my core math requirement - but judging by the red marks painting my page, I assumed Alastair’s grade was in the toilet with mine.
Nope. Alastair was a TA in that class and Dr. Silverstein wanted him to tutor me. He was a freshman at Cornell on a full scholarship. I was a junior desperate to pass math so I could get it over and done with. Neither one of us were enthusiastic about the tutoring thing and Alastair pulled his fingers through his hair so hard during that conversation with Dr. Silverstein I’m surprised he didn’t yank the hair right out. Because, obviously, Dr. Silverstein wasn’t offering either of us a choice and Alastair knew it.
I knew it, too, but my eye was on the prize. If tutoring would help me tick the math box, then bring it on. Alastair was going to be a means to an end. I was goal-oriented even then, so why it came as such a shock to Alastair that I applied the same attitude to my career is one of life’s big q
uestions. It’s one of mine, at least. One I still don’t have an answer to.
I sigh and make myself look back out the train window in search of more sheep. I can’t do this. I can’t spend my entire two-hour train journey going down Memory Lane or I’ll be useless by the time I get to Glenhurst. Alastair and I are ancient history. Water under the bridge. He’s a client now and I won’t do either of us any good if I can’t keep my head on straight. Granted, he’s the only client I’ve ever been in love with, but it’s been twelve years. I’m sure he’s nothing like I remember.
Chapter Three
My first impression of Glenhurst is that it’s…well…really, really small. I’m definitely not in London anymore, though there’s a taxi rank outside the train station, so I count that as a win. There’s a line of black cabs, which puts me a little more at ease. One of the first things I learned after moving to London was that black cabs are king. Sure, Uber is cheaper, but unless you know where you’re going, get a black cab because most drivers spend two years learning their way around London before they get their taxi license. Two years! It might be slightly less now since everyone and their brother has a sat-nav, but most of the London cabbies I know pride themselves on being able to get around without one.
Not so in Glenhurst.
I hop in the back of the cab and start scrolling through my emails as I say, “I need to go to the Swan with Two Necks? It’s a bed and breakfast in a village near here?”
Note: I’m pretty sure the first time I realize the name of the B&B is when I say it out loud, and I click on my email to see if I can find Vera’s confirmation. I know English names can be weird, but a swan with two necks? Really?
“Do you know which village, love?” the cabbie asks.
My eyes fly up from my screen. “Uh, no? Don’t you?”
The cabbie shakes his head. “There are a lot of small places up here. Summer folks, you know?”
Another no from me, but I’m smart enough to keep that to myself because judging by the way he says it, summer folks aren’t a good thing. Aloud, I say, “Let me check. It might be in my confirmation.”
The cabbie nods and asks, “Your accent isn’t from around here. Where are you from?”
“New York originally, but I live in London now.” I scroll through Vera’s email until I see the B&B information. “My confirmation says the Swan with Two Necks is in Fenchurch.”
I see the cabbie’s brow furrow in the rearview mirror when I look up, but he shifts the cab into drive as he says, “Huh. I didn’t know there was a bed and breakfast there, but it’s small, so we should be able to find it.”
That is not a ringing endorsement and I fire off a text to Vera: Cab driver has never heard of the Swan with Two Necks. If this is a joke tell me now and I’ll let you live.
My phone buzzes immediately with her reply, which is a bunch of crying laughing emojis that tell me nothing.
Me: Not kidding. I’m on my way there right now.
Vera: I promise you it’s a real place. Let me know when you arrive. Please. Also, Rex and Jessica are here now. I think it’s going well.
Me: Great. Thank you. I haven’t had a chance to read through my emails, so let me know if there’s anything urgent and I’ll catch up tonight.
Vera sends me a thumbs up, which is her way of signing off, and I put the phone face down on my lap.
“So, what brings you up this way?” The cab driver catches my glance in the rearview mirror.
“Work. I’m visiting a client.”
“In Fenchurch? That might be a first.” The cabbie grins. “Lots of people in these parts work weekdays in London and come back home for the weekend. Not a lot of the other way ‘round.”
“There’s a first time for everything, right?” I shrug and offer a small smile. He’s fishing, but I’m not biting. “Are you from around here?”
The cabbie nods and spends the next fifteen minutes telling me about the area. There’s lots of hiking – um, no thank you – and the next village over from Fenchurch has a blues bar, which he describes in great detail. When I ask him who he’s seen perform there, he admits he’s never been, but the owner spent some time in New York. You know, if I’m feeling homesick.
It’s a nice gesture and I take his card when he drops me in front of the Swan with Two Necks “in case I need a taxi” while I’m here. Because judging by High Street – the UK equivalent of Main Street – I haven’t exactly landed in a thriving metropolis. Besides the whitewashed two-story building where I’ll be sleeping, I see a hairdresser, small grocery store, and the spire of a church. There’s a curve in the road, so maybe there’s more to Fenchurch than meets the eye, but probably not a lot.
I take a deep breath and grab the handle of my suitcase to hoist it up the two stone steps leading to the door of the Swan with Two Necks. It’s a personal pet peeve of mine – why the hell have stairs leading to a front door – and the door sticks to boot. By the time I shove it open with my shoulder I’m huffing with a combination of exertion and irritation as I stumble inside.
Into a…pub? I look around and then back at the door in case I’ve made a mistake, but I know the sign outside said the Swan with Two Necks. It’s a pretty distinct name. I doubt the cab driver or I would get it wrong. But before me is a gleaming wooden bar with a line of beer taps and small wooden tables scattered over a dark hardwood floor. The blond woman behind the bar is pulling a pint and I wait for her to give it to a guy in an apron before approaching the bar.
“Excuse me? I have a reservation at a bed and breakfast, but I’m not sure I’m in the right place?”
The blond woman – whose name tag says Amy – says, “Is your reservation at the Swan with Two Necks, hun?”
“Yes. I’m Remi Cooper?” I know my own name and the question in my tone irritates me some more.
Amy nods. “You’re with us for three nights, yeah? I’ve got your room all sorted upstairs. Let me go get someone to help you with your case.”
“Oh, no. It’s…” I let my voice trail off because she’s already at the other end of the bar waving someone over.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I look down at a text from Rex: Jessica leaves for Ibiza on Thursday for some R&R. Beginning tour in Madrid on Tuesday.
I smile at my phone and my fingers start to fly over the screen. You’re a –
“Remi?” My head jerks up at the deep voice in front of me.
Then my heart screeches to a halt in my chest. I wonder fleetingly if this is what a heart attack feels like. Or a stroke. Or fatal shock. Maybe all of the above?
I open my mouth and close it again. Clear my throat and manage to squeak out, “Alastair? What on earth are you doing here?”
He shoves his fingers through his hair – his wavy hair frames high cheekbones and a two-day stubble on his jaw. When I knew him, his hair was longer, but the shorter cut suits him. His eyes are the same light green I remember, except they’re hard and prickly, like a cactus in the sun. His tone is just as hard – and decidedly dry - when he says, “What am I doing here? I think the better question is what are you doing here?”
His accent is the same, although his pronunciation sounds more British – his Ts are crisp and his Rs aren’t. It makes sense, given that he lives in England now. When we met, he’d been living in Seattle for all of high school with his British mother and American father, and he’d adopted more of an American inflection. I don’t know how long he’s been back in the UK – my digging could only find mentions going back seven years or so – but he even looks British to me now.
He also looks damn hot. Which doesn’t help with the whole heart stuttering thing. I imagine it helps him a great deal, especially on the music scene, but me? Not so much. I try to sound casual as the next words come out of my mouth, but my voice is high and thin. “I’m here to see you, actually.”
“Me?” Alastair raises his eyebrows and the corner of his mouth twitches. He hears my nerves loud and clear.
He still has that dimple
in his cheek I used to love, which is also unfortunate. “Your agent sent me. I thought she would have been in touch with you about my visit?”
Alastair purses his lips and I swear all trace of expression disappears from his face, like someone erasing a whiteboard. “Obviously not. What did she ask you to do?”
Dammit, I am so not prepared for this. When I envisioned seeing Alastair and having this discussion it was in the kitchen of his country cottage. Alone. And I had the upper hand because he was shocked to see me. Instead, Amy lurks not-so-subtly in the background and I’m standing in the middle of a pub, suddenly needing the ladies’ room. Thanks, bladder.
“I’m pretty desperate for the ladies’ and then maybe we can sit down and have a drink and talk?” I force a smile. “My treat?”
I didn’t think Alastair’s face could close up any more, but boy, was I wrong. “No. I need to be going.”
“I’ll only be a…” I let my voice trail off because Alastair’s turned on his heels and is already walking away. I watch him go before blowing my cheeks out and letting out a loud sigh.
“Do you fancy a drink, hun?” Amy calls out across the bar.
No. I want to go up to my room. Or, better yet, back to London on the next train out of here. My hands are shaking, but I no longer feel like I’m having a stroke, which is an improvement, I guess. I close my fingers around the cab driver’s card in the pocket of my black trousers. He’s probably not gotten all the way back to Glenhurst yet. He could be here in twenty minutes. I could be on a train out of here within an hour. Glenhurst may be small, but it has the advantage of being on the Manchester train line, which means a decent train schedule.
I’ll tell Rex and Jed I can’t work with Alastair Wells and, yes, they’ll bitch and moan, one of them will take over. Probably Rex, if I had to guess, which is the better choice. If Alastair doesn’t like me, he sure as hell won’t like Jed, who’s so type-A I struggle to like him most of the time.
Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1) Page 2