Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
OLIVER
Three hours.
Just three bloody hours since Emily walked out of my flat, and I’ve already seen enough vile internet commentary to make me consider hunting down every keyboard warrior in Britain and introducing them to the business end of my great-grandfather’s cavalry saber.
What is wrong with these people?
Don’t they have something better to do than spew hate at a total stranger?
Apparently not…
@BurmingFam: America called. They want their portion sizes back.
@LiamInLondon: She’s giving ‘lost tourist asking for the loo at Buckingham Palace’ vibes.
@Daisy553: American abroad starter pack: bad suit, bad shoes, bad decisions. God, if polyester could cry, that suit would be sobbing into a pint.
@Irish4Fabs: I can’t believe he went from Aisling to THAT?! Please, someone, make it make sense. MAKE IT MAKE SENSE!
I scroll through the latest batch of poison on the train, my jaw clenching harder with each swipe of my thumb.
“Maybe because Aisling loved fame more than anything on God’s green earth?” I mutter beneath my breath. “Including food, laughter, fun, and me? And on the rare occasions that she did laugh, she sounded like a constipated horse having an asthma attack.”
The old woman in the big blue muffler beside me shoots a narrow glance my way, clearly wondering if I’m a serious threat or simply a sociopath who doesn’t know how to keep my mouth shut on the tube.
Pressing my lips together, I tuck my chin tighter to my chest.
This isn’t the day to attract attention.
I’ve already done enough of that for one news cycle, a fact proven by the Twitter poll that pops up next on my feed:
@GlitterAndScandal: Emergency poll ladies:
Who styled our randy American?
A) Paddington Bear’s dry cleaner
B) An angry Primark mannequin
C) The lost she’s the whole brilliant, authentic, quick-witted package.
She deserves better than this.
And I’m going to make sure she gets it.
Up top, I pocket my phone and stride quickly through the busy streets before cutting through the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland crowd.
The massive Christmas market is in full festive assault mode.
Carousel music competes with carols piped through the speakers, and the scent of hot chocolate, cinnamon rolls, candy nuts, and gingerbread is thick in the crisp morning air.
And clearly, the children are already thoroughly sugar-infused and ready to rumble.
Just past the puppet theater, a small girl in a reindeer jumper crashes into my legs while chasing her brother, both of them shrieking with joy.
“Sorry, mister! Sorry!” she calls, waving over her shoulder as they race toward the hot chocolate stand.
I lift a hand in acknowledgement of her apology, holiday nostalgia tightening my chest as I watch them go.
Twenty-something years ago, that would have been Edward and me, running wild while Father pretended to be cross, but secretly egged us on with extra sticky buns and a promise to stay for the sweary puppet show they put on for the adults after the sun went down.
He loved a sweary puppet show. And a Christmas market and mulled wine and spoiling his boys with sweets and stealing kisses under the mistletoe until Mother laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and called him “simply awful.”
But he wasn’t awful.
He was so good and all love.
“Best time of the year, Olly. It really is,” he used to say, beaming at everyone we passed like they were long lost friends. ”We should always be like this. So full of joy and kindness and hope. Never lose hope, son. There’s so much good in the world. Love is going to win, one day. I just know it.”
It’s almost as if he knew his youngest son would grow up to be a man prone to a touch of nihilism. To seeing the evil in the world and deciding we might all be better off if a meteor sent humanity the way of the dinosaur.
The events of this morning certainly haven’t given me much reason for hope…
I shake off the melancholy before it can settle in. I have to keep moving.
There’s a lovely girl’s reputation to salvage.
Belinda Moore’s shop occupies a prim corner in Marylebone, between an organic deli and a children’s clothing store full of tiny hand-knitted jumpers.
Her look is earnest-meets-expensive—a little rustic, a lot luxe.
The window is a showstopper packed with white roses, silver branches, and cream-flower stags arranged like guardians protecting the realm.
It’s equal parts “Claridge’s winter wedding” and “you’re paying for the story. ”
It’s beautiful, a touch smug, and the subtext is clear. Belinda has staked her claim on this particular corner of the kingdom.
And if you cross her?
Well, she’ll rearrange your life into something less than pretty…
The bell chimes as I enter, and Belinda looks up from where she’s fussing over an elaborate white poinsettia and twig bouquet behind the counter.
When she spots me, her expression goes from professional welcome to Arctic tundra in record time.
“Well. Oliver.” She doesn’t quite seethe my name, but it’s close. “You’re up and about awfully early this morning. Considering the evening you had after you left the pub…”
Well, there goes any doubt that she’s seen the pictures…
“Morning, Belinda. Lovely display. Very festive.” I flash my most charming smile. Never let them see you sweat or cave to so much as a hint of shame. “And yes, about last night… That’s why I’m here, actually. I think we should talk.”
“If you’re here to apologize for your friend, I’m afraid that would be a waste of time.
” She turns back to her flowers, dismissing me with the efficiency of someone who’s dealt with her share of aristocrats.
“The woman demolished a very expensive, very time-intensive-to-create floral arrangement, made poor little Timothy Blake cry, and ruined the tableau before I got a single shareable photo.” She clucks her tongue before adding beneath her breath, “Not to mention flashing her knickers in a room full of children.”
“Knickers? She didn’t flash her knickers.
I think I would have noticed if—” I catch myself before I make things worse, forcing another smile as Belinda shifts slitted brown eyes my way.
“Right. Yes. Well, of course, you’re correct.
It was an unfortunate outcome, all around.
Though in her defense, the door was quite stuck, and she was dead on her feet.
She’d just flown in from New York on a miserable flight. ”
“I don’t care if she’d just flown in from Mars.
” Belinda jams a stem into the arrangement with unnecessary force.
“She’s reckless and unprofessional. And clearly has no respect for the care and skill that goes into creating a piece of art.
If she did, she would have done a better job of apologizing. ”
“Oh, come on, Bel,” I murmur as I lean against the counter. “She did apologize. Several times. I heard her.”
But Belinda only flicks her pink-streaked hair from her forehead and hitches her nose higher in the air.
“She was clearly devastated after you left,” I add. “The moment you were out the door, she sat right down and started making a list of ways to get back in your good graces. Action item number one was begging for your forgiveness on her hands and knees. Then, on her belly, if necessary.”
Belinda pauses, one wrinkly twig poised above her vase. “Seriously?”
“As the grave,” I assure her. “There was also something on there about offering to de-thorn roses for you until she’d worked off her debt.
I’m not sure if that’s a thing florists actually do, but she really was quite sorry.
” I exhale a meaningful sigh. “Though not as sorry as she was this morning, when the bullying from the Who’s Who of the London floral community hit her inbox full force.
” I arch a brow her way. “Your doing, I presume?”
Belinda has the grace to look slightly abashed. “I made a few calls. As a gesture of professional courtesy. We look out for each other in our industry. We have to. You wouldn’t believe the way people try to take advantage of vendors in the hospitality field, Oliver.”
“Well, no, I can’t, but I imagine it’s awful.
So many entitled people making unhinged demands.
” I cock my head and furrow my brow, begging for a scrap of empathy like a homeless puppy.
I’m not too proud to beg, especially if there’s even a chance I can get Belinda to give Em the benefit of the doubt.
“But Emily isn’t one of those people, Bel.
She’s a party planner. In the hospitality field trenches, just like you.
She’s a comrade in arms, not your enemy. ”
“I’m not so sure about that,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of doubt in her tone that wasn’t there before. “Though I do have sympathy for anyone trying to pull together a pitch for an event like the Fletchers’ gala. That’s nearly as much pressure as a royal engagement.”