Chapter 32 Mila
Chapter 32
Mila
“It was lovely to meet you both,” I say, shaking hands with the couple of my fourth introduction meeting this week, this one nothing to do with my marriage to Fin but a referral from a wedding I planned last year. They’ve also booked a date, woo-hoo!
“Thanks for making time to meet us at the venue.”
“It’s such a perfect hotel,” I offer. “Space for the ceremony, the gardens, the private cocktail bar. It really does have it all.”
It is a lovely place. And I’d found myself standing outside for a moment or two before coming in, and my reflection in the glass doors made me smile. My hair, though a little wild, looked good on me. My new pantsuit smart and functional but also stylish. I’d looked good, and I’d felt good too. And it had made me realize I hadn’t felt like that in a while.
And then I’d had the strangest thought. A few weeks ago, before my recent adventures, before Fin and the wedding and all that has entailed, I probably would’ve paused in a different way. I would’ve seen my reflection and felt ... not enough. Not good enough.
Business is good, and I’m obviously feeling that success. But it’s more than that. I just can’t quite put my finger on it.
“We do love it here.” The couple exchanges a fond look. “And thank you again for seeing us so soon. We just left everything so late, and we’re scrambling to catch up.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll all come together beautifully. Life usually does.” Even as I say the words, I feel a pang of regret. If life always works out, why aren’t Fin and I speaking yet?
Because we’re both smarting still is the obvious answer. Because neither of us wants to make the first move. We left things at such a bad point the other night, and now we’re like ships passing in the night in his beautiful home. He’s taking care to keep out of my way, and I’m taking care to be busy. While trying not to overthink.
He said some things. I said some too. I want to be able to trust him completely, but I can’t seem to get out of my own head. And yet ...
I shake off the thoughts.
“I’m so looking forward to working with you.” I paint on my professional smile to allow us to say our goodbyes. And the pair leaves.
Love. I sigh heavily. It feels like such a four-letter word right now. As in hard .
But love is also hope . It might even be a cure for the past. The more I think about what Fin said, the more I begin to doubt my own reaction. Love is a leap , I think, consternation rippling across my brow. But it’s also the ultimate peak —the summit. To love and be loved in return.
Love is the goal , for many. For Fin? For me.
Love is the beat of his heart. It’s warm , like his body. Dear , like him. Love is in his kiss . His hold . In the cove of his arms, my cave , it’s where I feel most safe .
Love is a gift . It makes a heart feel glad . Love is kind .
It’s the giving of your soul to another and expecting nothing back in return. But having hope. Yes, love is hope . And love is ...
“Mila?”
I pivot, shocked at the sound of Evie’s voice. “Hi,” I begin, my mind swimming with thoughts, my eyes swimming in tears. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“You too. Another soon-to-be-happy couple?” she questions, her gaze following the future bride and groom, crossing the marble reception.
“Yes. This is apparently their favorite hotel in London.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Oliver.” She gives a tinkling laugh. “You don’t know? Oliver owns the place. We spent the early days of our relationship living here together.”
“Oh.”
“I know. Living in a hotel. How extravagant! And how ridiculous, with this thing.” She glances back, and I notice a dog sitting almost at her heels, its coat curly and eyes intelligent. “What on earth was I thinking?”
“About living in a hotel?”
“And bringing Bo along. Although, at the time, he was part of my diabolically cunning plan to annoy Oliver. But that’s another story,” she adds, with a mischievous-looking smile. “Have you got time for a coffee?”
I do have time, and while I feel the urge to seek out Fin, to sort this out—to tell him I see what he’s doing and that I’m sorry I reacted the way that I did—I also like Evie. She’s a woman’s woman, if that makes sense. I suppose I want us to be friends.
A reel of images slips through my mind. Dinners, outings, holidays. Fin’s friends becoming mine. Don’t put the cart before the horse, I tell myself as I follow her through the hotel’s stylish halls.
The hotel’s decor is moody and sort of sexy—vintage chandeliers, parlor palms, and vermilion velvet walls. She leads us out into the orangery, the light suffused by billowing fabric that, along with huge potted palms, makes me think of One Thousand and One Nights .
A server is beckoned and our order placed, and we settle into an easy flow of conversation. Evie tells me about the stately home the couple has recently taken on and the charity work she undertakes, as well as regaling me with tales of their wayward rescue dog, who seems to hang on her every word. Until I realize what he’s actually hanging out for is his share of the petit four. But the way Evie describes it, Bo the doggy seems to live for the sole purpose of making Oliver’s life difficult.
“Is that man wearing a velvet jacket?” I find myself saying as a man walks by.
“I think he is.”
“It’s not yet two in the afternoon. Does he know it’s not the 1930s? And this isn’t his living room?”
Evie laughs. “You know, I think Fin has one just the same.”
“I think I want a divorce,” I say, scrunching my nose.
“Did he steal anything? While you were on the resort, I mean.”
“Fin?” I shake my head. “I thought he owned the place.” Major shareholder, she’d said.
“That never stopped him before. Fin is ... light fingered, but only from large venues and corporate events. Places he’s already paid a fortune to be, now that I think of it. It’s not like he needs the things he steals, which is usually something inconsequential—like a bottle of liquor. There was a deck chair once, I seem to recall. I think he enjoys the thrill of being caught.”
My brows lift into my hairline. It feels odd that this is something I don’t know. You have a lifetime for discovery, something whispers inside me. I bite back my smile.
“How are things going between you both, anyway?”
“With our pretend marriage?” I say, lowering my voice.
“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“Well.” Yes, because that’s how we sold it to them. That’s what I expected it to be, but things have changed. Almost without me realizing.
“We see the way you both are. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed us grinning like crazy grinning things. When you came to dinner, even Oliver noticed Fin hanging on your every word.”
“I don’t know ...” what to say. I need to straighten this out with Fin before I say anything.
“I never bought it, you know. You two pretending that you’d never met.”
“Does Oliver grin?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Oliver’s face is at its most animated when watching his friend fall in love.” Then she cackles uproariously. “He tries, bless him. Or is it he’s trying ?” She laughs again. “But Fin never behaved with women like he does with you. It’s not just the loving looks and tiny touches; it’s in the things he says too. He treats you like you’re one of us, except we don’t get adoring looks. The teasing, I mean,” she adds as I stare back blankly.
Because he does tease me. And I dish it back. Is that part of his love language? Along with the stuff he says to me, the compliments he pays me. In and out of the bedroom. And the things he does for me—the things he wants to do for me. Even when he worries I might be taking advantage of him. That I might be using him.
Oh, my. Fucking hell.
“Are you okay?” Evie asks as I press my hand to my heart.
“Yes, fine.” But I am not fine. And suspect I won’t be until I’m with Fin.
“The thing is,” she begins again, her tone careful as she holds my gaze. “I wanted to apologize for ragging on him that day. Look, you obviously know about his past, but I shouldn’t have brought it up. I suppose I was teasing him, which is what we do. But it was also about you.”
“You were testing me, you mean.”
“It didn’t put you off! Fin is charming and fun, and women just adore him. And he’s adored his fair share of women, but he’s never loved any of them. Has he ... told you he loves you yet?”
I shake my head. “Not in so many words.”
“But he’s shown you.”
My gaze drops to my lap.
“I know at first glance it appears he wears his heart on his sleeve, but he’s much more guarded than that. And I can’t claim to know why that is; I just know if you give him the chance, he’d be the best husband there is. Oliver aside, of course.”
Coffee arrives, and the talk turns to lighter topics before I need to catch my train back to East London. Duty and the flat call.
“He really did just give you my card?” I ask as I stand and gather my things.
“Fin didn’t ask me to employ you as my wedding planner,” she replies. “And he really had no idea about our last-minute plans. I did intend on getting married that day, you know. I didn’t hire you to marry you off to Fin.”
“No, of course. No one could’ve foreseen—”
Evie puts her hand to my forearm. “That sounds like a two-bottle-of-wine story.”
“It is a bit.” I scrunch my nose even as my insides flip with delight.
“Check your diary and text me a date, because this is a story I’m desperate to hear.” Her gaze dips as I realize the dog, Bo, is circling us like a shark. “He heard wine ,” she explains. “He knows it pairs well with cheese. And that doggies get to implement a cheese tax. Right, boy?”
Bo barks, and Evie laughs, sliding her arm through mine. “It’s about time there was a little more femininity added to the friendship group.”
Friends. Love. Business. Baba. Things just seem to be falling into place. And all because of Fin?
“I’m pleased to see business is picking up for you,” Evie says as we turn toward the door.
“Me too,” I say, pulled from my musing.
“I would’ve ignored those horrible notes on the message boards even if Fin hadn’t given me your card.”
“Message boards?”
“The online forums,” she prompts as we continue to walk out of the brightly lit orangery.
“Um.” I roll my lips inward as a sense of foreboding creeps like a spider along my spine. “I’m not sure I really follow.”
“They weren’t all horrible. There were people who came to your defense.”
I angle my head her way. “Are you talking about the wedding forums?” The places brides hang out virtually . They discuss venues and menus and the latest dress styles. Wedding etiquette and honeymoons and where the best alteration service is for when the bride finds herself pregnant before her big day.
“Yes. You saw the posts, right?”
“I tend to see those as conversational spaces purely for those planning their big day.” And those paying the bills. “They’re not really the kind of space where a service or a vendor should hang out.” It’s not very professional. I’d looked, of course, in my early days, but I always felt a bit of a creeper. When I established myself, I decided no good could come from looking. I mean, everyone is entitled to their opinion.
“Right, that makes sense. No matter. I didn’t put any stock in what was said, and I’m sure most sane people did the same. Sometimes you can’t even believe what you see with your own eyes.” Her smile takes on a brittle edge. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.”
Pulse Tok and A Little Bird Told Us. And people’s hurtful opinions.
But still, I wonder.
I leave Evie in the hotel foyer, my mind spinning a hundred different ways as I hurry down the steps and out into the swanky Knightsbridge side street. I’m not far from Fin’s place, but that’s not where I’m heading as I pull out my phone and call Ronny, who picks up almost immediately.
“Meels, no one calls these days,” she says, forgoing a greeting. “Texts are where it’s at.”
“Ronny, when you were doing your market research, you said you looked at wedding trends. Where did you find your information?”
“Trade publications,” she answers. “Online mostly. I also joined a few of the wedding forums to see what people—brides, mainly—were talking about. Those places are weird, FYI—all DH this and MOB that.”
“ Dear husband and mother of the bride .”
“Yeah, those acronyms. How long do you reckon before DH changes from dear husband to dickhead ?”
“No idea. Did you see anything about me?” I hurry on.
When she doesn’t immediately answer, I know. Did a disgruntled client try to ruin my business? I mentally run through the events around that time as I pull my phone away from my ear to look at the signal strength and battery life. Not bad. I need to find a wine bar with a bucket-size glass before I delve into this myself.
“What did you read, Ron? About me?”
“I thought you must’ve pissed a client off, because there were some comments dishing shit about you. I didn’t tell you, because the thread was from months ago. Only ...”
“Only what?” My heart thumps ominously.
“I registered for an alert on a couple of the threads. Just to keep an eye on them, I suppose. A hunch. And, Meels? The chatter started up again.”
“In what way?”
“The same people dissin’ you. But others come to your defense. Past clients, I think.” A pause. “Where are you?”
“Knightsbridge. Why?”
“I’ve just finished work. I think we should meet up. Last night, I did a bit of digging. And, well, I have some stuff I think you should see.”
“Ronny, quit with the cloak-and-dagger stuff,” I say, trying to keep my words light, when my heart feels like it’s being squeezed.
“I followed one of the usernames saying shit about you. I looked at other shit she’d posted—other places she’d left a digital footprint, I suppose. And I found her on Bookface and read this weird comment about a forum she’s in.”
My blood suddenly runs a little cold.
“The forum. What’s it called?”
“StarsInHerEyes,” Ronny replies.
That’s the one I remember coming across on my own internet stalking session while on the resort. The one with the locked thread with Fin’s name.
“And fuck me, that place is like being on the dark web.”
“You joined the forum?”
“Yeah. There’s an initiation—for real. I had to send, like, proper fan stuff. They’re all devoted or something.”
“Devoted to who? What did you send?”
“Get this. A screenshot of you and Fin. I crossed out your eyes and gave you buckteeth. Pretty mild compared to some of the shit I saw on there.”
“What?” He does have a fan club. A fan club of stalkers. Who all hate me?
“But the weird thing is—”
“All of this is already very weird!”
“—the weird thing is not that they’re all super stans. You know, superfans? Borderline stalkers. Or total fucking weirdos. But that they’re her stans, not Fin’s.”
“Whose fans? Stans. Who do you mean?”
“Guess,” Ronny demands.
“Charlotte Bancroft.” My heart sinks to my boots as I say her name.
“Yep. Her and her minions are to blame for your business almost going tits up.”
“But why? I’ve never even met her.”
“You have. You just don’t remember.”