I open my refrigerator – which is usually stocked with basic condiments and that’s pretty much it - and see a foil container on the top shelf. Scrawled across the cardboard top is chicken tikka masala and beside it is a tub of rice. A Rex leftover. I grab it and peel back the corner of the cardboard. It’s full and the foil is still a little warm. Rex likes to order extra for lunch the next day, which means this is from tonight’s interrupted feast.
Chicken tikka masala is further off my meal plan than Alastair’s spag bol and my Ploughman’s lunch combined. I’d never eat it on a normal day or even in a normal year. Now, though, I reach for the rice, grab a plate, and dump both the rice and the curry on the plate. Nothing about this week has been normal and I can’t ignore the little voice in the back of my head that says, Look where sticking to your plan has gotten you.
No-fucking-where.
I can’t ignore that voice. Not right now. As I stick the dish in the microwave and watch it spin, my mind spins twice as fast because one thing is abundantly clear. I’m going to need a new plan. Fast.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The first sad realization of my weekend is that while eating whatever I damn well please is tasty, it wreaks havoc with my digestion. Or it could be that the chicken tikka masala is way spicier than anything I normally eat and I shouldn’t have eaten the whole container in one go. Either way – stomach cramps aside – it’s not as bad as the second, and far sadder, realization of my weekend: I have no friends.
None.
Part of my new plan – the only part I’ve actually decided – is to get out of my house and see London like I’ve always meant to. On Sunday, I’m thinking I’ll finally go see the Tower of London, but when I scroll through my contacts to see if I can talk anyone into coming with me, the only people who are possibilities are Rex and Vera. Rex is, well, Rex, and Vera works for me, so both push the limits of being called friends anyway, but to realize I have no one to go ogle the Crown Jewels with is plain depressing.
I’m giving myself a pep talk – I can go by myself; I’m a strong independent woman, blah, blah, blah – when my phone rings. My phone has rung off and on all weekend but I haven’t answered. Even Jed called from Paris and I’ve ignored him. I’m debating letting this call go right to voicemail, too, when I glance at the screen and see Alastair’s name. I finally programmed his number into my phone because it seemed silly not to.
We’ve been texting a lot this weekend, starting with Alastair sending me random photos of Ziggy and a question about how to post to the Facebook fan page I set up for him. But then he asked me if I still eat chocolate chips when I’m stressed, and I asked him if he ever bought the Jeep he dreamed of at Cornell and it feels an awful lot like getting to know each other again. We even talked about his dad – to say Alastair’s not a fan of the current situation is an understatement – and my sister – he thinks she’s insecure; I think it’s something else entirely – and it’s been…nice. But this will be the first time we’ve spoken since he left me in front of the Swan with Two Necks on Thursday night.
I catch him on the last ring. “Hey. How are you?”
“Am I interrupting?” Alastair’s voice is like a hot compress on my bruised ego and I let myself sink into it a little because his voice is warm and welcoming.
“No. I’m thinking about going to the Tower of London. Have you been?”
“Yes, it’s good. I think you’ll like it, but watch out for the ravens. I know how you feel about pigeons and ravens are actual predators.” I hear Alastair’s grin in his tone. “Do you have a few minutes before you go? I’ve got a link for you.”
“Oh, great. Yes. Let me grab my tablet.” It’s shoved down the side of the couch cushion, so I don’t have far to go. “Okay. What is it?”
Alastair reads off a short URL to me and then says, “The file was too big to send, so Amy had to upload it. But don’t worry, it’s secure and the password is ziggy, all lowercase.”
“Are you serious?” I laugh. “You know I’m still not sold on him, right?”
“Reserve judgment, please.” I’m pretty sure Alastair’s still smiling and it makes me smile, too. “And call me back after you’ve viewed it to let me know your thoughts.”
“Why don’t you stay on the line?” My brow furrows. Despite my advice to Amy, it’s not like Alastair can see my face as I watch.
“Because I don’t want you to feel obligated to say you like it and if I’m on the phone, I think you will. I won’t be offended if you want changes. I want to give you a chance to preview it without any pressure.”
“Okay. No pressure then. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
Alastair says a quick goodbye and I turn my attention to my tablet. The opening chord is Alastair on the stage at the Crooked Fish in Glenhurst. He starts singing with shouts and whistles in the background, then the video transitions into him walking across a field of long grass, Ziggy at this side. I smile, but my attention is on Alastair. He looks damn good – his hair is thick and shiny, and the wind is blowing a couple strands around his face. Amy must be walking backwards in front of him because the camera zooms in on his face as he sings the refrain. His eyes look hungry, like they’re seducing the camera.
Or the person behind it.
Who else is behind the camera besides Amy?
Whoa. Where did that come from? I swallow and hit pause on the video because my throat feels tight. It takes me three more swallows to get past it and I press play again. This time I keep my focus on the song and the scenery, which is where it needs to be anyway. Alastair sells himself, but the cinematography is key because even a hot guy can be overshadowed by crappy visuals.
Ziggy is in the video off and on – walking with Alastair in the field, lying at his feet as Alastair sits on a couch – not the one in his living room – his head in his hands, a photo frame face down on the cushion beside him. I admit Ziggy adds to the story in a way I didn’t think he would, and I have to smile at the way Alastair’s managed to bring the dog into the video like he’s been part of the story all along.
Especially at the end. Ziggy’s tail starts wagging and he jumps around Alastair as he gets up from the couch. On the final refrain, Amy zooms in on Alastair’s face again and his eyes crinkle at the corners. She pans back and he’s smiling. Then he takes a step forward and in the next second the camera pans back on him bent forehead to forehead with a blond woman whose legs wrap around his waist. He twirls her around and the camera kaleidoscopes them until they’re out of focus and the screen fades to a bright blue I don’t realize until that minute matches the stripe in Alastair’s shirt.
Wow. I let go of the long breath that’s been building in my lungs and sag against the back of my couch. Wow. I don’t let myself form coherent thoughts before I press the phone icon next to Alastair’s name. He answers on the second ring.
“That was incredible. I’m blown away, I mean it. I’ve worked with a lot of musicians who make videos and this is fantastic. It’s classic, yet engaging, and I think it’s a great showcase for you.” I force myself to stop because I’m gushing, and I don’t normally do that.
Alastair’s laugh rings down the line and even if I didn’t know him, I’d hear the relief there. “Thank God. I know it wasn’t exactly what you laid out for Amy, but once we started shooting, it seemed to flow really well.”
“No, it’s great. And my suggestions were only that. Amy really made it her own.” I bite my lip because I know I’m going to ask. I shouldn’t ask. But I’m going to. “Who’s the girl at the end?”
“She’s a friend of Amy’s, but she doesn’t want to be in the video and wouldn’t sign a release form.”
“What? Why not?” Just because I don’t like the way I feel about seeing her in Alastair’s arms doesn’t mean she’s not perfect for the video.
So much for not letting myself form a coherent opinion.
“She’s a year three teacher and she’s worried about her students and their parents seeing
her in a compromising position.” The way Alastair says it, I’m pretty sure he’s putting air quotes around the word compromising. If he’s not, I am. “But she was willing to be a placeholder to get the idea across.”
“She’s gorgeous. I’m sure it was a hardship for both of you.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Alastair chuckles. “You want to stand in? Come on up.”
“I think I am coming up, actually. I still need to book the train and a room, but I’ll be up this week.” Leaving London is exactly what I need, and it’s become more apparent with today’s realization.
“So does that mean you want to stand in? I’ll let Amy know.” Alastair sounds surprised.
“No. No. I mean, that’s not why I’m coming.”
“Fenchurch isn’t exactly a thriving metropolis.” Alastair lowers his voice. “Is it Ziggy? You miss him, don’t you? Don’t worry, I won’t tell him.”
“Caught me.” I smile but it fades and then I say, “Truthfully, I want to get out of here.”
“Didn’t you just get back?”
“Yep.” Shit. This is a little close to the bone. I laugh again, but this time it sounds cracked and weird. “It’s not as glamorous as you might think, this life of mine.”
“Remi? What happened? Are you okay?” There’s an edge to Alastair’s tone now, like he’s sitting up straight.
“I’m fine. I’m in the process of reevaluating some things is all.” Like everything I thought was true for the past twelve years. I force my tone to turn bright and breezy. “But the point to the story is, I’ll be darkening your doorstep again in the near future, so if you could let Ziggy know he’s to honor the truce we made, that would be great.”
“You could stay here, you know. I mean, when you come up, instead of staying at the Swan with Two Necks, you could stay here? In the guest room?” Alastair sounds more unsure than I’ve heard him sound since he first started tutoring me in math and I walked into our first session telling him to get me where I needed to be to pass the course. No more, no less because I sure as hell wasn’t interested in actually learning any math.
“You’re offering for me to stay with you?” My words come out slowly because Alastair offering for me to stay with him is the last thing I expected.
“Sure. Why not?” Alastair sounds more sure now.
There’s probably a million reasons why I shouldn’t take him up on his offer, but instead of saying a flat-out no, I say, “For one thing, we can’t seem to go more than an hour without one of us getting mad.”
“Well, that’s only because you’re wrong.” Alastair’s voice turns quiet as he says, “Seriously, Remi, you sound like you could use a friend.”
Ouch. Alastair’s words are lemon juice in a paper cut after my earlier realization, but the fact is: he’s not wrong. And he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a real friend right now, history and all. “You have no idea.”
“So come and stay.” Alastair says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What about Sarah? My experience with kids is exactly zero.”
“She’s leaving on an end of term school trip on Wednesday for an overnight, but even if she wasn’t…” Alastair’s voice trails off.
Right. He’s an adult and has friends who come to visit. That’s what people do. Well, most people. Except me. I shake my head hard, as if I can stop feeling sorry for myself just like that and say, “You know what? That sounds great. I’d love to take you up on that. I need to be in London tomorrow, but how does Tuesday afternoon sound?”
“That sounds perfect. Let me know when you’re arriving and I’ll make sure to be here to control my vicious attack dog.” Alastair laughs.
“Ha, ha, ha.” I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling and I know he can tell. “Warn him that I’ve been reading up on dog behavior, so I’m on to him and his wily ways.”
“Have you really?” Alastair’s voice rises in surprise.
“A little.” AKA a lot. It’s amazing the rabbit holes Google can lead you down. What started off as looking up ‘signs of aggression in dogs’ turned into articles on dog energy, body language, and, yes, dog yoga. “I may have learned more about dogs than I ever wanted to know.”
“All you need to know about Ziggy is what time to feed him. He’s a big softie like his owner.”
“Like his owner? I’m not sure that’s the word I would use.” Muscles aside, Alastair has a thread of steel running through him. He always has.
“I’ve changed a lot. Twelve years will do that to you.”
“Or not.” I don’t think he means it as a dig, but on the heels of my realization this weekend it feels like one.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think you should give yourself some credit. The Remi I knew wouldn’t set foot into a room with a dog, never mind pet one.” Alastair’s voice softens. “Maybe you’ve come further than you think?”
“I think I’m in trouble when Ziggy is a metaphor for my life’s progress or lack thereof.” I squirm in discomfort and I’m not going to lie – it’s tempting to default into work talk. It will shut Alastair down and kill whatever vibe is pulsing between us down the phone line. It’s almost physically painful to stop myself from rattling off how we can schedule some editing time with Amy, maybe reshoot the end of the video with a willing actress, and get some stills on social media. But I do it, and instead say, “Speaking of progress, I need to go if I’m going to make the Tower, but if you’re sure me staying there isn’t a problem, I’ll text you my train info and see you on Tuesday?”
“It’s not a problem.” Alastair pauses. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“I am, too.”
It feels like a big admission, but Alastair doesn’t treat it that way, and by the time we hang up I feel better than I have all weekend. We’ve decided nothing about the video or what we’re going to do about the actress. We haven’t planned a social media blast. I haven’t looked up train times for Tuesday yet. Instead, for the first time in a long time, I let myself have a conversation not driven by plans and logistics and it was fine. If I’m being honest, it was better than fine.
There’s a moral in there, and even I’m not blind enough not to see it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
When Vera arrives at my house at 8:05 on Tuesday morning, I’m already showered, dressed, and packed with a glazed donut in hand. It’s not as good as I remember a donut being, but it’s not bad either. Vera furrows her brow at me and says, “Good morning. Thanks for the day off yesterday. It was a nice surprise. How was your weekend?”
“Awful, actually. How was yours?”
“It was fine.” Vera’s tone turns tentative. “Is everything okay?”
“I think it will be, yes. I’m going back up to Fenchurch this afternoon, but I need to know if you remember which estate agent was here last week?” I take another small nibble of the donut in my hand. “And how are you, by the way?”
“I’m good. The usual.” The furrow between Vera’s brow deepens. “You’re eating a donut. Not to sound cheeky, but that worries me?”
“It’s fine. I’m…” Not going to explain my current state of mind to Vera when I can barely explain it to myself. “…trying to turn over a new leaf. It’s very…new”
“Yeah.” Vera takes in my clothes – skinny jeans, a sheer off-the-shoulder long silver cardigan with a white camisole underneath, and my black ballet flats – and nods. “That’s a great look. And that jumper is fab. Is it French Connection UK?”
“Yes. I took yesterday off to go shopping.” I hit Regent Street. And Oxford Street. And Soho. Retail therapy is not to be underestimated. Especially when the shop assistant in French Connection insists you can – and should – wear anything you damn well please because you’ve got the figure for it. If it were warmer in this country, I bet she could have talked me into a midriff-baring dress, so thank you, Mother Nature, for helping me make good choices.
“It suits you. And the donut suits you too, oddly enough.
” Vera says. “Don’t let Rex catch you with that.”
“That’s the other thing I needed to tell you.” This part is trickier. “Rex won’t be staying here. I don’t want him or Jed here while I’m gone. I’ll be sure I make that clear with both of them before I leave.”
Vera’s eyes widen. “Why? What happened?”
“I’m not sure, but it feels like we’re at a crossroads.” I take a deep breath before I say the rest because I thought long and hard about this yesterday as I walked around London, ignoring texts from both Jed and Rex, and decided it was the only fair thing to do. “I’m not sure how things are going to end up, but I don’t think updating your CV would be a bad thing.”
“Am I being fired?” Vera asks.
“Not at all.” I kick myself for bringing it up because I probably won’t have an assistant by the time I get back. “It’s nothing to worry about right now, but I don’t want to blindside you if things suddenly go awry.”
“I appreciate that.” Vera’s expression is pinched.
Now I’m really kicking myself and I slide into work talk like a comfortable shoe. “Also, I didn’t have a chance to catch up with you on Friday, but have we gotten any feedback from the publisher on how the meeting went last week? I know Rex is taking over publicity for the new author, but I didn’t have a chance to follow up with him. Also, Greyson Vaughn’s agent emailed me. Him, Greyson, and Claire are in London for my birthday and I want to make sure they get an invite to my party. Could you have one delivered over to them today?”
To be fair, Vera seems a lot more comfortable once we’re back to talking about work. She double checks Greyson’s address, makes a note to follow up on the author, and updates me on a few other potential client inquiries. By the time I’m ready to leave to head into Central London her whole demeanor is a lot more relaxed. She grins as I polish off the last of the donut and promises to leave me a couple for when I’m back on Thursday.
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