Maid in England (The I Do Crew Book 1)

by Brenda St John Brown

  I jerk my arm away like I’ve been bitten. My eyes dart around the room, landing on the sofa, the lamp, the rug. Anywhere but on the man standing in front of me.

  “Thank you again for dinner. It was really good. Did you get your wallet? I’ll talk to Amy when I get back and ask her to coordinate with you. I think it’s realistic to have a rough cut within a few days, don’t you? Amy’s keen, so as long as you have time I’m sure she’ll manage to work around your schedule.”

  I pause to take a breath and dare to let my gaze take in Alastair’s face and my heart collides with my ribcage. Gone is the emotion that was there a minute ago. It’s been replaced by cool distance and something else I haven’t seen from him in a long, long time. Disdain.

  “Why do you do that?” His eyes hold mine.

  Because I’m scared. Because I don’t know what else to do. Because you’re sending me mixed signals, too.

  There are too many truths spinning in my head for any of them to come out coherently, so I say, “Why do I do what?”

  “Never mind.” He gives a curt nod and says, “Let me get my keys and I’ll take you back to the Swan.”

  Then he turns away without a second glance.

  I stand frozen for a minute while my heart lurches back to where it belongs, but it feels heavy and full of sand. I did this. I stopped whatever conversation or more – my stomach does a backflip on the ‘or more’ part of that realization – was about to happen between us dead in its tracks. Maybe it was going to be nothing at all, but I made sure of it.

  But, dammit, he doesn’t get to be filled with regret for the relationship he threw away and then expect me to jump back in with both feet because he’s decided he made a mistake. It doesn’t work that way. That thought anchors me and makes me follow Alastair back into the kitchen, calling out, “I’m ready when you are.”

  He hands me my purse without a word and I take it. Ziggy climbs to his feet, but Alastair shoos him away and in less than five minutes I’m standing back on the front steps of the Swan with Two Necks, watching Alastair’s VW speed off down the street again. It’s very déjà vu with one notable exception – unlike the other night when Alastair drove off angry, tonight I feel angry too. At him. At me. At sexy spaghetti. At wanting the night to turn out better than it actually did. At wanting at all.

  That’s the crux of the problem - I wanted. I know better. Especially when it comes to Alastair Wells.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  My first text from Alastair comes as I get off the train at Euston. I purposely didn’t program his number into my phone, but he’s kind enough to sign his name.

  It simply says: I’m sorry about last night. I was an ass. Alastair x

  I assume the x at the end is habit, not intent, but I’m shocked as hell by his apology. Part of me wants to ask, ‘What are you sorry for, exactly?’ but it feels like something my mother would say. Hell, it is something my mother said every time she made Reanne and I apologize to each other. I write: Thank you. Me too. X

  Alastair: I’m not very good at this.

  ‘This’ could mean a million different things but my reply is valid regardless. Me neither.

  Alastair: We shot some video today.

  Judging by the three dots on the screen, there’s more to come and I veer off to the side of the concourse after a guy steps on my heel, tapping my foot as I wait. I barely spoke to Amy about the video before I left, except to give her the mock-up for the shoot and some rough direction. The rest of the time I stayed in my room working, sending so many emails to Vera she eventually stopped responding. It was classic avoidance, burying myself in my laptop, but it didn’t work as well as it normally does. I ended up taking an early taxi into Glenhurst and had a coffee before boarding my train, where I slept like the dead the whole way back to London.

  Judging by the expression on the face of the guy across the aisle from me, I might have snored, which would be mortifying except I still feel the exhaustion of not having slept the night before deep in my bones. A two-hour nap took the edge off, but I need a night in my own bed with my own Netflix queue and a shake for dinner. No more carbs or bacon. Or second guessing myself at three a.m.

  I tap my foot faster as the fuzzy edges of a photo appear on my screen and laugh out loud as it comes into focus. It’s Alastair leaning against an old wooden fence, his guitar slung over his shoulder, with Ziggy sitting at rapt attention, looking like Alastair’s a piece of steak and he’s been invited to help himself.

  My fingers fly over the keys. Did you get any video or is this you still trying to sell me on Ziggy?

  Three dots. Again.

  Amy will send you video, but you have to admit, Ziggy’s a natural.

  Me: He looks like he’s ready to take a chunk out of your leg.

  Alastair: Hmmm. Not the look I’m going for.

  Me: Is he in the video?

  Alastair: You’ll have to wait and see. Amy wants to edit, but said she’d send you something this weekend.

  Me: This weekend? Remind her I’m not very patient.

  Alastair: Already did. Didn’t sway her.

  Me: Well, hell.

  Alastair: I’m optimistic, if that helps? She’s good.

  Me: Ok, fine.

  My phone buzzes with a reminder about meeting Jed at King’s Cross. I have to go if I’m going to meet him there in fifteen minutes. To Alastair I type: I’ve got to run but glad it went well. Can’t wait to see!!

  I start walking, waiting for my phone to buzz with Alastair’s reply. When it doesn’t, I thrust it into the bottom of my purse before I start thinking about the fact that I ended my text with two exclamation points like an overeager high school student. I spent half the night overanalyzing my interactions with Alastair and have the dark circles under my eyes to show for it. I need my A-game for Jed. Especially since there’s nothing between Alastair and me to think about except how I can maximize his exposure. Which is how it should be, right? I’ve even managed to mostly convince myself.

  I’m still rehearsing my response to Jed’s inevitable question when I walk into the champagne bar at King’s Cross. Jed, of course, is already sitting at the bar, two glasses of champagne and two glasses of water in front of him. When he sees me, he slides one of the glasses of champagne in front of the empty stool next to his. As I sit down, he says, “Remi, it’s good to see you. Update me on Wells and his potential.”

  “Jed.” I take a sip of champagne. Partly because I want a sip of champagne and partly to buy myself a minute. Jed’s one of those “when I say jump, you ask how high” type of guys and it’s a hell of a way to have a business relationship.

  Rex took me aside when I first joined the firm and told me I was letting Jed walk all over me. When I made partner, he reminded me that now, for all intents and purposes, Jed and I are on equal footing and I’d do myself a massive favor to remember that. So I’ve tried to not jump every time Jed asks me to, but it’s hard. Especially when I’m still a little scared of him.

  I don’t continue until I’ve put my glass back down on the sleek black bar. “Wells has potential. I saw him perform and he was incredible. He’d be an asset to Luanna Parker’s tour.”

  “I sense a but.” Jed takes a sip of water.

  “He has a daughter.” There’s no sense keeping that quiet. If I don’t tell Jed, Alastair’s agent will and I end up looking like I’m hiding something. But I don’t have to tell him Sarah is Liam’s daughter.

  Jed raises his eyebrows. “That complicates things. Where’s the mother?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. The girl is relevant in that she impacts Wells’ publicity opportunities. I don’t think it would be right to frame him as a lad about town, knowing he has a daughter.” I take another sip of champagne. Jed won’t butt in until he knows I’m done making my point. It might be the only thing I like about him. “I’ve invited him to my birthday party.”

  “Good plan. Speaking of.” Jed takes a sip of his champagne now and my thighs clench. W
hatever he’s about to say next is why I’m here. Another telltale sign? The deep breath in he takes that flares his nostrils before he says, “Your birthday will be a good time to announce your promotion.”

  I straighten on the barstool. “My promotion? I was under the impression partner was pretty much the highest rung on the ladder.”

  “I’m sorry. I misspoke. I should have said your new opportunity.” Jed takes another sip of champagne, then says, “How would you feel about taking your skillset to L.A.?”

  “L.A.?” I bring my glass to my lips so I won’t blurt out the ‘what the fuck’ that’s on the tip of my tongue.

  “We’re missing a key market there, and you have to admit having both of us in London is overkill. It made sense at first, but I feel it’s viable to diversify at this point.” Jed sets his glass down in the center of a silver leather coaster on the bar.

  “And you feel I’m the one to pick up that market?” I keep my voice cool and calm, despite the flush rising through my chest.

  “You’re the least established. Besides Wells, there aren’t any clients I couldn’t take over from a maintenance point of view.” Jed’s fingers run along the edge of the coaster.

  I quell the urge to slam my glass down on top of them. “I just moved to London at your request a year ago.”

  And granted, it’s not like I left behind a lot in New York, but still. I haven’t even been to the Tower of London yet. I have a house. I’ve never had a house before.

  Jed’s finger presses into the edge of the coaster. “I realize that, but I feel Rex is integral to our success in New York, and I’m sure you’d agree.”

  “Have you discussed this with him?” I know the answer to this question before I finish asking it because of course he did. That’s why Rex is in London, too. The realization is enough to make me wobble on my stool.

  I know Jed notices because his manicured fingernail digs into the leather coaster as he says, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry Remi, but you’re a non-equity partner, so the conversation between Rex and me is at a different level.”

  Of course it is.

  I swallow down the rest of my champagne in one large gulp, thanking the gods of class and composure that it doesn’t come out my nose because there’s more in the glass than I thought, and rise to my feet. I give Jed a curt nod and say, “You’ve given me a lot to think about. Have a great trip to Paris.”

  “We’re going to need to get on this, Remi. There are a lot of moving parts required to make this happen.”

  I bite the inside of my lip so hard I taste blood, but my tone is level when I ask, “If I refuse to make this move, how does that impact my future at Tompkins Payne Cooper?”

  Jed’s expression is always guarded, but with that question I see him shut down. Shut me out. Begin to move on to Plan B. His voice is cool when he replies, “I’m sure it won’t come that, aren’t you?”

  A year ago, I would have said yes. I did say yes. And here I am.

  I take a deep breath. Then another. Then I turn on my heel and leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By the time my cab drops me off in front of my house, my chest feels tighter than a pair of Spanx on Oscars night. So walking in to see Rex sprawled on my sofa eating curry and watching television is the excuse I need to let loose.

  The heels of my shoes sound like gunfire clacking on the hardwood floor as I make my way over and stab the button of the TV to turn it off. Then I turn to Rex. “What. The. Fuck. How could you do this to me?”

  Rex straightens. “Whoa, darling. What? What’s wrong?”

  “Jed has a surprise for you. A surprise? That’s what you call it? I’m thinking it’s more of a blindsiding myself, made all the more so by you not giving me a fucking clue. Thanks for that. I expect Jed to be an asshole, but I thought you were my friend.” I dig my fingernails into my palm because I’m so livid that if my hands dare start trembling, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop them.

  “I am your friend.” Rex puts his curry down on the coffee table. Bastard doesn’t even use a coaster. “Is this about L.A.?”

  “What else do you think it would be about?” My voice rises another notch. It will be a shriek soon.

  “I thought you’d be happy. L.A. is a great market and you’d be amazing out there.”

  “Until you and Jed decide there are better opportunities in Seattle or Denver or Vegas. Then I’ll be told I’m moving there, because apparently that’s how this works. Jed has his piece of ass on the side across the English Channel so he’s not leaving London and you’re invaluable in New York. Obviously as the non-equity partner, I’m the one relocating every year, chasing the next market.”

  “I don’t see that happening. Being based in L.A. means you could service the whole West Coast easily.”

  I throw my hands up. “That’s not the point, Rex. The point is you and Jed decided this without asking me. And don’t tell me it’s not been decided because it’s painfully obvious it has. Let me ask you, what happens if I don’t make this move? What happens to my future at this firm?”

  Rex furrows his brow. “Why wouldn’t you move? Not being funny, but it’s not like you’re living the high life in London. You said yourself you haven’t seen much of the city because you work all the time, so aren’t London and L.A. one in the same? At least the weather is better in L.A.”

  “I haven’t seen much of London because I assumed this was a long-term move. We talked about me being here a minimum of four years, so forgive me if I haven’t been out exploring every weekend.” My voice rises again and this time so does the color in my cheeks.

  “What you do on the weekends is your business, but your objection makes zero sense to me. You lived in New York for years and even when you lived there, you admitted you only ever went out for client events. I was the first person to take you to the Meatpacking District and to SoHo. All you do is work, so what does it matter where you’re doing that from?”

  Jesus Christ. Rex’s words hit me like a lead pipe to the stomach. He believes that about me. It’s written all over his face. I want to rage at him, but I can’t because I’m pretty sure the reason he believes that is because for the past twelve years, it’s been true. I’ve become a full-on workaholic, but dressed it up and called it ambition.

  The self-realization feeds my anger and I don’t care that my voice shakes when I say, “Get out. I want my house to myself this weekend.”

  “Remi –” Rex starts.

  I hold my hand up. “I said I want you to go.”

  Rex nods once slowly. “Fine. I’ll go, but –”

  “I’m going back up to Fenchurch next week. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t sell my house out from under me while I’m gone.” Until I say it, I haven’t thought of going back up north, but staying in London means dealing with Jed. And Rex. Seeing Alastair is exchanging one confusion for another, but at least he knows when he’s wrong.

  “The estate agent was merely a formality. Jed will never leave Central London and if you move…” He lets his voice trail off.

  “Don’t you mean when I move? You think it’s a given, right?” I don’t wait for his reply before turning towards the stairs. “I’m going to take a shower. Be gone by the time I come back downstairs.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way, Remi,” Rex calls after me. “L.A. is an opportunity, not a punishment.”

  I climb the stairs to my room without answering, slamming the door behind me. Then I sink down in the middle of my bed, my feet hanging off the edge, and throw my arm over my eyes as I replay Rex’s words in my head. L.A. is an opportunity. All you do is work. What difference does it make?

  What difference does it make?

  What difference does it make?

  The words echo through my head and I get up and start to pace in an attempt to get away from them. Rex isn’t wrong. I’ve lived in London for a year and have never been to a single museum. Or the Shard. Or Greenwich Park. Or Hampton Court Palace. I’ve walked by Buc
kingham Palace – and got a tourist to take a photo of me in front of the gates to send my parents – but I didn’t try to get tickets last summer when the State Rooms were open. Because I was working. On a schedule. Making plans.

  For everyone’s life except my own.

  The worst part is, I have no one to blame except myself. Jed’s in Paris every other weekend and completely unreachable while he’s there. The one time his client had an “emergency” because she was photographed coming out of a club with her arm around a known gang member and her left nipple exposed, I tried to reach Jed twice before I gave up and handled it on my own. I figured it would look better than a million missed calls. I was right, but it wasn’t like I got credit for it. Mia Papadakis – the client – and Jed never said thank you. Granted, she’s a bit of a bitch, but damage control for her stupidity took my whole Sunday and then some.

  I sit up and the blood rushes from my head. When was the last time I ate something? Besides my stupid breakfast bar in my room at the Swan with Two Necks, I don’t think I’ve had anything. I dig in my bag I’ve dropped at my feet and pull out a blueberry protein bar, but the sight of it makes me want to throw it across the room. At this point I need more than a protein bar anyway. I listen for sounds of Rex moving around the house because the last thing I want is to continue our conversation. Or, worse, listen to him tell me again what an opportunity this move to L.A. could be.

  As if on cue, the alarm on my front door gives two short beeps – the sound of someone opening it. Five seconds later, it gives two more short beeps, meaning it’s been closed. I thought it was overkill when the alarm guy set it up that way, but now I’m glad he insisted because it means I know the intruder has left the house.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I make my way down to the kitchen. My first stop is the freezer where I keep my delivery meals – specially balanced for calories, carbs, and protein. After realizing that I never had time to cook, I started ordering from a delivery service when I lived in New York and finding one in London was the second thing I did after getting a mobile phone. Usually I heat a freezer meal up without even looking at its label, but tonight I flip through the plastic containers and none of them look tempting. Cauliflower and chickpeas with rice. Chicken and green bean sauté. There’s nothing wrong with them, but there’s nothing right either.