Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  Chapter Fifteen

  After spending the morning holed up in my room stalking Alastair online and looking for references to Sarah – there are none, shocker – I spend an inordinate amount of time getting ready for our so-called meeting. Even though it’s warmer today, I dress in my black tunic, skinny jeans, and ballet flats. Like my clothing is my armor and covering every inch of skin will protect me somehow.

  Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. Because the Alastair sitting across from me in the corner of the pub at the Swan with Two Necks is not only friendly, he’s downright agreeable and my armor is useless. To the point where, an hour into our meeting, I put down my pen and say, “You’ve agreed to the video, which will be amazing. I’ll sort out your social media and make sure it’s on point. So, my last request is, if we’re going to work together, you need to be honest with me. What’s changed that you’re playing so nice?”

  Alastair laughs. God, I wish he wouldn’t do that. “I didn’t realize you’d object to me being nice?”

  “I don’t object, but it’s a pretty dramatic change from how you’ve been since I got here.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean my elbows on the table.

  “Can’t I have had a change of heart?” Alastair asks.

  “No.” I have one hundred and one reasons I could add to that no, but I make myself leave it at that.

  Alastair stares at me for a long minute before he lowers his voice and says, “I’ve been holding a grudge, I guess. But last night, talking and thinking about Liam made me wonder what the hell for.”

  “You’ve been holding a grudge?” I straighten, pressing my back against the ridge of the chair. “About what?”

  “Things between us didn’t exactly end well.”

  “No, they didn’t.” Because I showed up to surprise you and you accused me of selling out, of my career being more important than you, of being a money-hungry bitch. That last one wasn’t said, exactly, but the implication was strong. I press my back harder into the chair. It’s gratifying because it gives me somewhere to direct my exasperation with the turn this conversation has taken. For which I have no one to blame but myself. Dammit.

  “It’s time to put the past in the past. We were both young.”

  “I’m not saying I was blameless, but if we’re talking about holding a grudge…” I pause for a breath because I feel my pulse pounding too hard for a conversation that should’ve been over and done with twelve years ago. There’s no sense in rehashing any of this, but I’ll be damned if he puts all the blame on me, even by implication.

  Alastair’s eyes widen and he leans back in his chair. “I was wrong, too. We both were.”

  “You ended things without the courtesy of a conversation. Just bang, we’re done.” I shrug like it didn’t crush me at the time.

  “It was more like a whimper than a bang. We’d been dying a slow death for months. I asked you to come up for five weekends in a row before you found time in your diary to drive up for one night.” Alastair’s tone is laced with frustration.

  So is mine. “It was my first job. What did you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe remember that you had a life before you had that job?”

  “That’s not fair. You know how hard I worked, but I never intended it to be at the expense of us. I was young and ambitious and I honestly thought that was one of the things you liked about me.”

  “I did like that about you.” Alastair pauses. “It was just that your ambition was so single focused.”

  “I didn’t realize what having a job in Manhattan would be like, how hard I’d have to work to even feel like I belonged there in the first place.” I feel the color rise in my cheeks along with my voice and make an effort to lower it. Amy’s behind the bar getting ready for lunch, and even though I don’t think she’s listening, I don’t want to give her a reason to tune in. “You act like I made zero effort, but I came to visit plenty, and there was no one saying you couldn’t come down to New York.”

  “Really? Miss I-have-two-roommates-living-in-a-one-bedroom-apartment? Do you remember what happened the time I did come down?”

  I do. It was a disaster. My roommates had given Alastair and I the sofa bed since the bedroom where I usually slept only had a day bed and a twin. It was super generous, except my roommate Becca, who normally took the sofa bed, waitressed on weekends at a private club, which meant she came home in the wee hours of the morning. Usually she was a little tipsy, which meant she was a little hungry, and since we were sleeping in the living room, we were awake until she finished making and eating her snack. It wouldn’t have been so bad if my other roommate wasn’t an insomniac who watched television as part of her very specific late-night ‘wind-down routine.’ By the time Alastair left, after averaging four hours of sleep per night – and zero alone time – we agreed the visiting was best done in reverse because at least he had his own bedroom.

  “Okay, but I couldn’t afford anything else. You can’t hold that against me.” And I was saving for a car so I could drive to Ithaca instead of relying on the bus all the time.

  “I don’t hold it against you.” Alastair shoves his hand through his hair.

  I shouldn’t find this overt sign of frustration gratifying but I do. It means I’m not the only one with feelings here. “It doesn’t seem that way to me. It wasn’t like I planned for my job to drive this huge wedge between us.”

  “But that’s the problem. You didn’t plan for anything except your job.” More fingers tugging through hair. “I’d ask you on a Wednesday if I could see you for the weekend and you couldn’t commit in case you had to work. How was I supposed to feel about that?”

  “How about supportive? Maybe understanding? Either of those would have been okay.” I widen my eyes, then narrow them quickly. “The minute I left Ithaca you were looking for reasons to break things off.”

  Alastair doesn’t respond at first. Instead he picks up a packet of sugar from the bowl on the table. I watch him turn it over and over with his fingers until he says, “The minute you left Ithaca I felt like I lost the most important part of my life.”

  “I missed you, too.” God. Why am I doing this again? “But –”

  “That was the problem. There was always a but. I was always the but.” Alastair leans his elbows on the table and trains his gaze on me. “I loved you, Remi. I wanted to marry you.”

  “I wanted that, too.” If I don’t have a permanent mark in my back from this chair digging into it, I’ll be shocked.

  “I would have held you back. Look at you now.” Alastair smiles, but it’s sad. “You’ve gotten everything you ever wanted.”

  “Not everything. I haven’t gotten everything, Alastair.” I swallow hard and open my mouth to continue.

  But he beats me to it. “That day you came up to visit, you were chuffed to bits that you’d earned enough to buy that shiny new car, and you’d had an amazing client meeting to boot. I listened to you talk about all of your success and realized I wasn’t happy for you. I should have been, but instead I was resentful and so angry. You have no idea how angry I was.”

  For the first time since we’ve started this conversation, my back doesn’t dig into the back of the chair because I sag like an abandoned balloon after a party. “You’re right. I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you would have tried to fix it, and that would have been worse. I was young and selfish, and I still wouldn’t have been happy because we couldn’t go back and undo the past six months.”

  “So it was a no-win situation, no matter what?” I know the answer, but I need to hear him say it in case it feels like absolution.

  “Pretty much.” To my surprise, Alastair smiles a little, then he says, “If it’s any consolation, I was more miserable without you than I ever thought I was with you.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Uh, gee, thanks? You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

  Alastair’s smile fades. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more
supportive. I haven’t regretted a lot of things in my life, but I regret that.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I never wanted you to feel like you were less important than my job. At that time, you probably were, but I thought I did a better job of juggling.” A lump rises in my throat against my will and I feel tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them. Alastair’s gaze is fixed on me, but before he can say anything, I say, “Damn you, Wells. I’ve never cried in a pub before and I’ll be damned if I’m going to start now.”

  “I’ve never made you cry in a pub before, and it seems like a bad time to start.” Alastair pushes his chair back. “I think I should probably get going.”

  I want to protest. I’m going back to London tomorrow and we need to finish our conversation about publicity, what Alastair’s willing to do, what he’s not, how Sarah fits into the equation. But I nod and let him walk away. Once I’m sure the door’s closed behind him, I rest my forehead on the table, cradling my head in my arms, and let the tears that have been threatening leak out of the corners of my eyes. I don’t know why I’m crying – if it’s over Alastair, the death of the last real relationship I had, or my past self who took it for granted – but the tightness in my chest loosens a little. Like maybe I’m finally letting go. Of what, I don’t really know. But at this point, I’m not going to dig too much because I’m not sure I’m ready to face what I might uncover.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’m doodling in my notebook when Amy comes over to my table and sets down a bowl of soup with crusty brown bread on the side. “Today’s special. Leek and potato with bacon and cheese. You look like you can use a pick-me-up,” Amy says.

  I don’t eat bread, bacon, or cheese, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a potato, but I nod and offer a weak smile. So much for that eating plan I was so determined to stick to this morning. “Thanks. This smells delicious.”

  Amy perches on the chair Alastair vacated earlier. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Would you be offended if I said not really?” I ask, dipping my spoon into the soup.

  “No.” Amy studies me for another minute and says, “But I edited the video from last night if you fancy a look?”

  “Yes, definitely. Where is it?” I pull my phone from my back pocket.

  Amy shakes her head. “I didn’t upload it, because if we want to do more with it…”

  “No, of course. Thank you. I’m glad you didn’t because the end game is a music video. Alastair seems amenable, but he wants to have final sign-off.” Which is always a worry, but not as worrying about how we’re going to shoot a music video in the next twenty-four hours. But I’ll think about that once I see Amy’s footage. “So where do I see it?”

  Amy pulls her phone from the pocket of her apron and taps the screen. “It’s still a little rough. I need to work on the fades, but that will depend on how we use this footage within the larger context.”

  “Agreed.” I hold out my hand for her phone, but she hesitates until I say, “I can’t wait to see it and I’m sure it’s fabulous.”

  Amy puts the phone in my palm and grimaces. “I’m nervous. It’s one thing uploading to Vaze, but live feedback is different.”

  “Remember what I said about watching someone watch your work?” I smile. “Go wash a dish or something.”

  Amy sticks her tongue out at me and gets up from the chair. She hesitates like she might say something else, but then walks away and I press play. I’m watching the video on a phone, but I can tell it’s good. Amy got a lot of close shots that show the emotion on Alastair’s face when he’s playing and she’s arranged them in a montage that starts off with him looking soulful and ends with one of those smiles I hate to love. It could be great interspersed through a video of his song “Pleading.” I’m no director, but if Amy can shoot Alastair walking somewhere alone and then ending up with his arms around someone at the end, it would capture the song perfectly.

  I press play again. Not because I need to see it again, but because my head spins with possibilities. And watching Alastair perform is just short of gorgeous. I was there last night, but in the crowded bar with my nerves on edge, I didn’t feel the way I do now watching him. Now I feel…excited? Hopeful?

  I don’t know what to name it, but I take a spoonful of my soup – which is delicious, but gives me a pang of regret for my meal plan because old habits die hard – and then pick up my pen. I’m scribbling when Amy comes over, lurking over my shoulder until I look back at her.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, but if it’s shit, you can tell me. I know better than to be precious about my work.” Amy’s words tumble out of her mouth.

  “No. I’m sorry. It’s fantastic and I have so many ideas about how we can use this.” I point to my notebook. “But I’m not a director, as you know. So the next step is discussing your terms.”

  “I –” Amy perches on the edge of the chair next to me.

  “Sorry, I’m making a massive assumption here. I know we talked about this yesterday, but I’d really like to go ahead and ask you to take a stab at this. For pay, of course. And full credit. If you’re interested?”

  “Are you joking? Of course I’m interested!” Amy grins. “Yes, I want to do this. Absolutely. I’m willing to take the lead or take direction, whichever you think is best.”

  “Okay, great. Let’s talk about that in a sec, but my first question is, do you have the time? Ideally, I’d love for it to be done in the next week, which I know is fast.” But if we could debut it at my birthday party, that could be phenomenal. Push clips and teasers on Vaze, Insta, and Twitter, then release the full video at midnight everywhere. It would overshadow me turning thirty-five too, which would be perfect.

  “I can do fast.” Amy nods. “Are you thinking a voice over for the song or using live clips?”

  “A combination, I think? It would be too awkward to do it live if we want to use the footage from last night because I think videos that tell a story are better than a straight concert reel. Unless you’re Mick Jagger or something then a concert reel is fine because you can do whatever you damn well please.”

  “I don’t think Alastair is at that level.” Amy raises her eyebrows. “So the song-tells-a-story idea is probably a good one.”

  “I think so, too.” I glance around the pub as I take another bite of soup. “Why don’t we talk this through after the lunch crowd? I don’t want to make your mom mad because you’ve abandoned her all of a sudden.”

  Amy nods. “Wise move. Things should slow down in the next half hour or so. We can talk then?”

  “Perfect. I’ll run up and get my laptop when I finish eating because I think faster when I type than when I handwrite.” I pause before taking another bite of soup. “This is terrific, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Tell my mum. It’s her recipe.” Amy rises from the chair and says, “You’ve already talked to Alastair about all of this, right? Because I wonder if we should brainstorm ideas with him? He’s pretty creative, obviously, and I’m sure he’ll have thoughts.”

  “Ummm…” Shit. Of all the things I talked to Alastair about today, the video didn’t even make the list. Talk about a massive oversight on my part. At least that would have been productive. Rehashing the failure of our relationship?

  Not entirely worthless.

  Stupid voice in my stupid head.

  To Amy I say, “I’ll finish lunch and head up to see him, because, yes, maybe he’d like to be involved, which would be great.”

  “Or he’ll shut you down completely.” Amy smiles a little as she says this, but I don’t think she’s joking.

  “Maybe, but I’m very good at my job and he knows it.” I may as well capitalize on that. God knows there’d be some satisfaction in being able to use the thing he loathed about me to change his life. For both of us.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I can’t face lugging the old-lady bike out of the shed, so after I finish my amazing but off-plan soup, I grab my cardigan and welli
es to walk up to Alastair’s. It’s only a mile, most of which I spend texting with Vera about potential party/wedding dates. She’s found a few possible candidates, but none of them make me feel a zing of attraction or even a flutter of possibility. Not like the man I’m on my way to see now, who makes me both flutter and zing, although I’d deny it if pressed. Even if not pressed, I know better than to find Alastair Wells attractive again.

  I turn onto Carrs Lane and give the sheep under the tree a nod before rounding the bend to Alastair’s. His roof comes into view and my hands clench around the phone in my hand as my stomach swoops. Speaking of flutters and zing. Dammit. Vera’s words swim in front of my eyes and I type xx and shut it off. I didn’t read the last thing Vera sent and I don’t know if my reply makes sense, but anything else I type won’t make sense either, so at least I’m not offending her.

  The whole xx thing is still weird to me, especially in a work situation – I’m not one to normally send my assistant a kiss, electronic or otherwise – but it’s a thing in the UK and I do it when I remember. And I told Vera I was on my way to see ‘the client,’ so she won’t give it a second thought.

  I, on the other hand, have no idea why I’m really here. I could have called. Or texted. Or asked Amy to text Alastair to meet at the Swan with Two Necks. Or waited until he came in later. Instead, I am at his house. Uninvited. Again. On the heels of our conversation earlier. Which ended in tears. Possibly for both of us, although if Alastair shed a tear, I didn’t see it. Like he didn’t see mine.

  That realization makes me feel a little better. For all he knows, I went back to work instead of staring at the dark wooden beams criss-crossing the walls of the pub for an hour and eating off-plan soup. If he were any other client, I would have done exactly that, which makes me think the sooner I get back to London, the better. Back to my neat, tidy life. My schedule, my plans, my breakfast shakes, and Rex’s donut obsession.