I exit the A13 at Dagenham, where my mum and dad live. I’m sure they don’t get many cars on their street that cost three hundred thousand Euros, so I feel a little conspicuous when I roll up to the house. I know my parents would cringe that the neighbors can see it, but everybody around here knows I grew up in that semi-detached red brick house and that they still insist on living here. After trying for a few years to convince Mum and Dad to let me buy them a nicer place, last summer I noticed the house next to theirs was on the market. I snatched it up, then forced them to let me pay for a remodeling that created a single house from the two.
So they still live on the same street, but they have twice as much space. Not surprisingly, they quickly adapted to having more rooms at their disposal.
I park next to my brother Alfie’s car. He rang me up earlier to ask me to join him here for lunch, saying he had big news to share. I suppose he’s up for promotion or something, and I wonder how he’s going to feel when I top his news with big news of my own.
Mom hugs me and Dad gives me the standard firm handshake. Not much of a hugger, Dad. Never was. Alf brought his wife, Ginnie, and their two boys, eight-year-old Josh and five-year-old Sam. I adore the boys, and they adore me right back. Joshua always asks to sit in my whatever car I’m driving, and then Sam follows suit. Very cute kids, the both of them, and they always make me feel grounded—even more so than this house or my parents.
Alfie has told our parents only that he just thought it would be nice if we all had lunch together. When he doesn’t get around to his big announcement straight away, we all just chat as we eat. Sitting at this old table in this little house brings back such memories, mostly of Alf and I raising hell.
“Rory, have you met any new celebrities lately?” Ginnie asks. She’s always fascinated by the people I run into. Funny thing is, to those people I’m a celebrity, even though I never really feel like one.
“Rod Stewart introduced himself to me at a gala last week. Nice bloke. Wouldn’t shut up about football.”
“I think you mean Sir Rod Stewart,” Alfie says.
“He was knighted?” my mother asks.
“A few years ago.”
Dad chimes in, “They’re just knighting anyone these days, aren’t they?”
I should’ve seen this coming. Dad has never trusted anyone with money, fame or power, and he struggles with the idea that his younger son has two of the three.
“You don’t think Sir Rod earned the title, then?” I ask.
He laughs. “Earned it doing what? Yodeling? Prancing around on stage in spandex trousers and make-up? No, all it takes these days to earn a knighthood is money. Just slip enough quid into the right palm and you get a title.”
Well, this is a predicament. I could just not tell them about my being chosen to receive a KBE, but then they’ll find out tomorrow when the Queen’s Birthday Honours List is made public. It’s a tradition; one list at the beginning of the year, and one on June 8, Her Majesty’s birthday.
My father has always been a huge supporter of my footballing and never fails to miss a match. If he can’t be in the stadium, he’ll be watching on the telly. But the rest of it disappoints him: the notoriety, the drinking, the women, the fucking tabloids. All of it except the sports part. And he never hesitates to make a point of it when some stupid paparazzi photo makes front page in the Sun or the Daily News.
I’m relieved when Alf changes the subject because it gives me more time to consider my options.
“Mum, Dad… Ginnie and I have some news for you.” He waits a beat, then grins widely. “We’re expecting a baby.”
“What, both of you?” I interject.
“No, you twit,” Alf says, laughing. “I did all the work to get it started, now Ginnie will take over from here.”
“Oh my!” Mum says. “This is wonderful!”
There are hugs and congratulations all around, and Josh and Sam get into it, both saying they want a brother. Mum and Dad are both delighted.
“No, we need a girl in the family,” Mum responds. “I’m getting too old to chase after boys.”
“Me, too,” Ginnie laughs.
I wait until the excitement has died down and everyone has finished lunch. When Alf and his family get up to leave, I take that as my cue. I follow them to the door, Mum and Dad walking behind to see us off. Right before we get there, I stop.
“I almost forgot: I have some news of my own.”
“You’re having a baby as well?” Alf quips.
“Oh, God no. Bite your tongue.”
Now that I have their attention, I look at Dad and don’t know how to tell him.
“I’ve got a new car,” I say.
“Again?” my Dad asks. “How much money did you spend this time?”
“You don’t want to know, trust me.”
I lead them outside and pretend this was my big news. Dad scowls and Mum clucks her tongue, both probably hoping I’ll hit the road before any more neighbors see something fancy at their house.
After letting the boys sit in the seats for a minute, I tell everyone goodbye and climb in. Before I can go, Dad walks up and taps on the window. When I lower it, he gives me that look that always seems to precede solemn advice.
Sure enough, he says quietly so no one else can hear, “Rory, you know I’m proud of you for everything you’ve accomplished.”
“But?”
“But you see with your own eyes how happy your brother is. Alf has a woman who loves him and two boys that he’d give the moon to if he could.”
“What does this have to do with me, Dad?” He’s starting to get on my nerves.
“You’ve had your fun, Rory. There’s a time in every man’s life when he has to decide to grow up. You need to find yourself a good woman who loves you for who you are, not one of those with you in all the paparazzi pictures. Get married, settle down and start a family. That’s where happiness lies, boy. Not whoring and drinking and driving fast cars.”
Well, fuck me.
I’m tempted to tell him about the KBE out of spite.
“Thanks for the advice, Dad,” I say as I bring the window back up in his face. I wave goodbye to Mom, then I’m gone. As I drive way too fast through these little streets, I come up on the back of Alf’s blue Ford Focus. Hey, I’ve tried to give him money to buy a good car, but he refuses to take it. My family is weird about money. So instead, every few months I have my accountant transfer some into university funds for the boys. There’s already enough in there to pay for several educations, but once they graduate that will be a nice down payment on a house. Now I supposed I’ll have to start a third account for the Alf and Ginnie’s Winston-to-be.
I pull up right on his arse, then lay on the horn until he stops in the middle of the street. Alf immediate gets out of the car and approaches mine.
“Rory, what the fuck? Are you gone mad? You scared Ginnie half to death.”
“I just had to tell you a couple of things before you go,” I say. “First, I’m really fucking happy for you about the baby. The only reason in the world I’m ever jealous of you is because of your family. So well done on that front, big brother.”
“You’re also jealous because I’m better looking.”
“In your fucking dreams. And the other thing I wanted to say… I going to be getting a KBE.”
Alf stands there momentarily, not knowing whether to believe me. When he sees the look in my eyes, he says, “Bloody fucking hell. You’re serious.”
I nod. “They told me this morning. It’ll be in the Birthday Honours List tomorrow.”
Alf looks at me and shakes his head, then turns away, then turns to me again grinning. “Rory, I’m gobsmacked. This is the mutt’s nuts! Get out of that fucking monstrosity so I can hug you.”
The embrace that follows is only outdone by the one I got from Alf after the World Cup.
Then he lets me go and his expression turns serious. “Bollocks. Have you told Dad yet?”
“Was going to du
ring lunch, but Rod Stewart buggered that up for me.”
“He’ll find out tomorrow.”
“And I’ll be nowhere near him.”
Alf thinks for a second, then says, “I’m sure he’ll be proud of you, Rory. He always is. Sometimes he’s just got an odd way of showing it.”
I tell him he can share the news with Ginnie, but not to let anyone else know until it’s official tomorrow. Then he gets back in his €13,000 auto and I get into my €255,000 one.
And the funny thing about Alf and me: That difference has never been a problem for us. We’re as close as we’ve ever been.
And once I get knighted, he’ll be jealous as fuck.
Abby
“He’s late,” Mr. McKibben says.
“Of course he is,” Malcolm Owensby responds. “That’s his modus operandi.”
I look at the clock. “It’s only ten after. Maybe he got caught in traffic.”
There’s a knock on the door, then Mr. McKibben’s secretary Delores cracks it open. “Mr. Winston is here, sir.”
“Show him in.”
A second later I see him walk through the open door.
“Sorry I’m late. I was caught in traffic.”
I smile. Then Rory looks at me and smiles, and I smile again.
This is ridiculous. He’s so bloody handsome it’s not fair to other men.
I mean, I’ve seen pictures of Rory Winston for years now, and of course he’s handsome. I’ve seen him shirtless on the pitch after a match and marveled at his flawlessly sculpted body. Then I get on with my life because he’s not real, he’s a celebrity.
But now he’s real. Real sexy. He’s wearing black slacks and a light gray patterned button-down, with just a couple of buttons undone at the top. Still perfectly boyish at thirty years old, he’s got short brown hair, lovely green eyes, and a few days’ worth of razor stubble that would look silly on anyone else, but somehow manages to be breathtaking on him.
Rory Fucking Winston is a bloody marvel of manhood. At this moment, he’s standing one meter away, offering me a handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rory.” My voice sounds like it came from someone else’s throat.
Luckily, Mr. McKibben quickly steers the meeting toward business. Rory takes a seat in between Malcolm and myself and listens intently as my boss congratulates him and tells him about the honour. He covers what to expect in the process, starting tomorrow with the announcement. There are other notables in the list, including Michelle Beinhorn, the Oscar-winning actress. But none as notable as England’s working-class World Cup hero.
Malcolm throws in a bit about how much Rory has meant to England from a sporting standpoint, and once again I see how a grown man’s eyes get misty when discussing the accolades this guy has brought to his country. The last time I saw that look was in my own father’s eyes. Just wait till dear ol’ Dad sees the selfies I’ll be taking this week. For that matter, I’ll likely show up in the papers and possibly on the telly.
At the side of this beautiful man. My old schoolmates be green with envy.
“A knighthood is the highest award given to civilians, Rory. You should be proud.”
Rory smiles mischievously. “So will I get fitted for the suit of armor?”
The two of them stare, mouths open. As for me, I bust out laughing. Didn’t mean to, but he caught me off-guard, and come on, that was funny.
Once he recovers, Mr. McKibben tells Rory that his investiture ceremony has been moved up as much as possible. Rather than the typical wait of months, he will be knighted in a week by Her Majesty on the Buckingham Palace balcony, with the whole thing being televised.
“We have taken the liberty of assigning Miss Payne here to be your press liaison during the coming week. She’ll arrange your meetings related to the KBE and will escort you to the various publicity shoots, interviews and whatnot.”
Rory turns to me and flashes a high-wattage smile, his teeth white and obviously orthodontist-perfected.
“I can’t wait to place myself in your capable hands, Miss Payne.”
He made that sound sexual. Or did he? I’m not sure. The look on his face says maybe, but the other two men don’t seem to have read anything into it.
In my brain, though—in Abbyland—it sure sounded sexual. A little shiver goes up the back of my neck and I have to fight to not let it show.
“I was hoping you’d have time to sit down with me for a short while to go over some things.” There. I managed to make that sound nice and professional.
“Actually,”—he glances at his mobile for the time—“it’s nearly five.” Splendid. He’s already ducking out of the very first thing I suggest. This could be a long week. “I barely had lunch and am ravenous. Maybe we could grab a bite and talk?”
“Sounds fabulous.”
I don’t care where we go as long as someone I know sees us.
After asking for a moment to freshen up, I dash off to the bathroom to check myself. I so wasn’t expecting this today and am thankful that the department has a dress code that requires me to look professional. I’m wearing a burgundy dress hemmed just about the knee, with patterned lace half-sleeves and a modest V-neck. I grab a white sweater off the coat rack next to my desk, just in case, then return to where Rory is waiting for me.
He sees me the moment I turn the corner, his gaze moving rapidly down my body and back up before he smiles.
Rory Winston just checked me out. He ogled me.
If I needed a confidence boost, that one little gesture was it. “Shall we?”
Twenty minutes later we de-plane after a brief ride in Rory’s red jet—at least I felt like I was in one. He hands the keys to the valet in front of Zydrium, an exclusive steakhouse I’ve always wanted to try but couldn’t afford so much as an appetizer. But I’ve been given an unlimited expense account this week, and this was Rory’s idea, so how could I say no?
Everyone’s heads swivel, and whispers are passed around as Rory and I walk into the room. Despite my confidence that it’s only his presence that provokes those reactions, it’s still a strange sensation to be the center of attention for once in my life. My escort seems to handle it with aplomb.
I can certainly understand their wanting to gawk. Even if her weren’t famous, Rory is quite the looker. So tall and ridiculously handsome. Well dressed, too. I glance at how his nicely pressed gray shirt lies flat against his chest and stomach. The trousers are a little on the tight side, though, and... oh my.
I avert my eyes immediately and make a mental note to avoid looking in that direction again for the next week.
Rory insists on cocktails, and as we’re waiting for the food, I try to get the ball rolling.
“Okay, let’s talk a little about what’s coming up this week.”
“Do we have to?”
“Pardon me?” Is he begging off already?
“I can’t talk business on an empty stomach. Let’s get to know each other a bit and we can talk business afterward.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “Who goes first?”
“I’ll go.” He doesn’t hesitate at all before asking, “Is there a Mr. Payne?”
I smile. “Strange question for a business meeting.”
“Not at all. If we’re going to be hanging out together every day this week, I want to make sure there’s no husband who’s going to get the wrong idea and throttle me.”
“Is that a question you ask all your dates?” I try to smile, but as I ask it, I realize it’s a dumb thing to say.
“Is this a date, then?” he laughs. “Answer my question, Abby.”
“There is indeed a Mr. Payne. But he’s my father. If you’re asking if I’m single, the answer is yes, but that’s really not relevant for this week.”
“Just trying to get to know you better. Your turn. Fire away.”
I don’t know what to ask him. “How about you? Do you have a girlfriend? According to the Sun, you have dozens.”
He shrugs, and it’s one
of the manliest gestures I’ve even seen. It’s as if he’s saying, “Yeah, I sleep around a lot, but I’ve earned it.” Then again, maybe it’s my imagination.
“Is that a yes or a no?” I prod.
“That’s a ‘none of the girls in the pictures you’ve seen were girlfriends.’ I’m solidly single. Even got the ‘maybe it’s time to get married’ speech from my Dad this morning.”
I use that to steer the conversation away from dating. I ask him about his family and he tells me about his brother’s big announcement at their family dinner today.
“You had an announcement of your own, didn’t you?” I ask.
His face goes dark instantly, and I regret asking. “It wasn’t the right time. My dad’s not big on pomp and royalty. He’ll find out tomorrow.”
I leave it at that, and we move on. Under questioning, I admit that I’m an only child, born and raised in London. Just like him, never married (although to be fair, I’m fairly certain I’ve had relatively few bed partners compared to Rory).
Our food arrives and I see a small mountain of meat set in front of him. His plate has a few small potatoes, but it’s mostly just large pieces of beef. It smells delicious, but it’s massive and makes my broiled chicken look like a child’s plate.
“Are you going to eat all that?” I ask, amazed.
Rory grins. “I told you I was ravenous.”
Then I see him ogle my breasts for a second. Only I can’t upset because I already caught myself staring at that bulge in his trousers.
For a business meeting, this is going swimmingly.
Luckily, the nonsense is probably all in my head. In reality, I’m just getting to know a very pleasant, quite handsome man whom I’m to shadow this week so he doesn’t misbehave before his public knighting ceremony.
Meanwhile, he really has sneaked a peek or two at my boobs.
That part I did not imagine.
Rory
Regardless of whether this Abby bird was forced upon me, it’s pretty refreshing to be out in public with someone interesting for a change. Unlike me, she went to university. Unlike me, she didn’t grow up working class. And unlike most of the women who approach me when I’m out, she’s not emaciated.
My Wedding Knight (A Wedding Season Series) Page 2