Chapter 12
Ruby
The next morning, I’m on the verge of panic because I have no idea what to wear for this trip to Beaufort’s.
I don’t know if there’s a dress code or how nicely I should dress.
I’m also wondering if James will wear a suit.
We’ve never set eyes on each other outside school, so we’ve almost always seen each other in uniform.
In the end, I decide on a black skirt, over-the-knee socks, and an ochre jumper with a white crocheted collar. The black brogues I scored in Gormsey’s charity shop a couple of months ago are the finishing touch.
I’m not as brave with fashion as Ember is. I prefer to buy things that make me feel safe and that I know will last. Even so, I like getting dressed up and taking time to look put together—probably another aspect of my love for organization.
Once I’m dressed, I pop into my sister’s room, just to be on the safe side. She’s awake and sitting at her little desk by the window when I stick my head around the door.
“What?” she asks, without turning around.
“What d’you think?” She turns on her chair, and I open the door fully so she can see my outfit.
“Cute,” she says, once she’s scanned me over from top to toes.
“Really?” I ask, doing a twirl. When I look back at Ember, she narrows her eyes slightly.
“Not a date, uh-huh?” There’s a teasing tone in her voice.
I roll my eyes. “Ember, I can’t stand the guy.”
“Yeah, right,” she replies, standing up.
She goes to her tiny built-in wardrobe and opens the door.
Then she crouches down until she’s half vanished inside it and starts to dig around.
I come to stand behind her cautiously and peer over her shoulder.
Thirty seconds later, she reemerges and hands me a little burgundy bag.
“My bag!”
“Don’t act so shocked. You only ever use your backpack anyway,” she says defensively. “But it goes really well with that look.”
“I should charge you interest, seeing how long you kept it.” I dust off the faux leather.
This was another thrift store find. I loved it and used it proudly for a full fortnight before our neighbor, Mrs. Felton, spotted me with it in Mum’s bakery and blurted out, loudly, that she’d bought it new fifty years ago.
So I was only too happy to lend it to Ember and didn’t even want it back at first. But now I’m glad to have it in my hands again.
“I’m not paying interest on something you didn’t even know I had,” she retorts.
The doorbell rings, and I freeze. I glance at the clock. It’s quarter to ten. “He’s early,” I groan, running back to my room to grab my phone and purse and switch them from one bag to the other.
“Ruby!” Mum calls.
As I go downstairs, I tell myself sternly to keep calm. There’s no reason to be worked up. This is just a school trip—Lin and I have done this kind of stuff loads of times, and it won’t be any different with James.
I take a deep breath at the last few steps. Mum’s opened the door, and as I reach the hall, I see her chatting to a man. I gape.
One: James wasn’t lying. He really does have a chauffeur.
A uniformed chauffeur at that, with a peaked cap and the whole works.
Two: The chauffeur looks like Antonio Banderas.
He’s tanned, has deep brown eyes, and an expressive, almost sensual mouth.
He looks to be in his mid-forties, and he’s drop-dead gorgeous.
Judging by Mum’s pink cheeks, she’s of the same opinion.
“Good morning, miss,” says the Zorro-chauffeur, raising his cap in greeting.
“Good morning…”
“Percy,” Mum helps me out, with a beaming smile.
“…Percy.” I smile too and take my jacket from the coat hook. “OK, Mum, see you later.”
“Have fun, love. And take lots of photos for us.” Mum gives me a kiss on the cheek, and I follow Percy through the door. The next moment, as if by magic, he’s opened a huge black umbrella over my head.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Not at all. The car is just over here.”
I look where he’s pointing, and I’m almost rooted to the spot in astonishment.
There’s a Rolls-Royce in the street outside our house.
It’s gleaming black, and, even to me, it looks enormous among the rest of the parked cars, like an alien, and I’m used to seeing limos and whatever swish cars these days.
Percy opens the rear door and holds the umbrella over me until I’ve got in. I thank him, and he nods, then shuts the door behind me. Barely thirty seconds later, the car starts. Nervously, I smooth out my skirt and check it didn’t ride up as I sat down.
Only then can I look at James.
He’s sitting there, facing me, an unreadable expression on his face.
He looks as though even he doesn’t know what to think about the fact that I just got into his car.
He’s wearing a dark gray suit, shot through with fine threads, a white shirt, and a dark silk tie with a pin.
He has a glass in his hand, which I hope only contains apple juice, and I notice a silver signet ring on his left hand that I’ve never seen before.
There’s a coat of arms on it, presumably his family’s crest.
The longer I look at him, the more underdressed I feel in my bodged-together vintage outfit. Everything about James screams money, from the top of his head to his gleaming leather shoes. I try not to let it faze me—after all, I knew what I was getting myself into.
When I look again, I see how tired James seems. His turquoise eyes are bloodshot, and there are bags under them.
“Morning,” he says eventually, his voice hoarse.
Maybe he only just woke up. Or partied the night away and hasn’t been to bed at all.
“Morning,” I reply. “Thanks for the lift.”
He doesn’t answer but looks me over, like I just did to him, so I stare around the car. There are rows of leather seats, and opposite James there’s a bar with glasses and some kind of cupboard or fridge behind a door. There’s a dark screen separating us from the driver.
The silence between us is getting unpleasant, so I nod toward Percy: “Your chauffeur could be a Hollywood star. I guess he’s in his forties, but he’s still one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen.”
“You flatter me, miss, I’m fifty-two.” Percy’s voice comes through a speaker in the ceiling.
Embarrassed, I glance at James. He’s grinning from ear to ear. My cheeks are burning up.
“If you’re going to say things like that, it’s a good idea to switch off the intercom, Ruby Bell,” James informs me. He’s pointing to a flashing red light.
“Oh.”
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Percy says, and a second later, it’s gone.
I bury my face in my hands and shake my head. “In films, the screen just goes up. How am I meant to know you have to press a button too?”
“Don’t worry. Percy rarely gets compliments like that from me, so I’m sure he’s thrilled.”
I shake my head. “I think I’ll have to get out.”
“Too late for that now. You’re trapped here with me for the next two hours.” I hear a quiet clatter. “Here, this is for you.”
Slowly, I lower my hands. James is holding out a small blue tub.
“Don’t say you really brought me ice cream?” I exclaim in disbelief.
“We had some in the house,” he says. “If you don’t want it, I’ll eat it.”
Without another word, I take it from him.
James bends down to the fridge again, and the next second, he’s got another tub of Ben & Jerry’s in his hand.
Intrigued, I watch him as he pulls off the lid and peels back the foil.
The sight of him in that suit with ice cream in his lap seems so surreal that for a moment I wonder if I’m still asleep.
There’s condensation coming from the ice cream tub in my hand, and a cold droplet lands in my lap. I look around for a napkin.
“On the right there,” says James, nodding toward the bar.
I lean over, take an eggshell-colored napkin off the bar, and spread it over my lap. Then I open the tub and dig my spoon in. I close my eyes with delight. “Mm. Cookie dough.”
“I had to guess your favorite flavor,” says James. “Was I right?”
“Yeah, definitely,” I say with conviction, but then pause. “Mind you, the new salted caramel is really good too. Have you tried it?”
James shakes his head.
For a moment, there’s silence between us. Then he says: “This is the best hangover breakfast I’ve had in ages.”
So he was out partying yesterday. “Long night?”
I immediately regret the question as he grins suggestively into his ice cream. “You could put it like that.”
“Then that part of the dreadful rumors about James Beaufort is true.”
“Dreadful rumors about James Beaufort?” he asks in amusement.
I raise an eyebrow. “Come on.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Like you don’t know all the stories about you and your friends.”
“Such as?”
“That you have caviar for breakfast, go swimming in champagne, you broke a waterbed during sex…and so on.”
He pauses, spoon halfway to his lips. A second passes, then another. In the end, he pops the spoon into his mouth and eats the ice cream slowly, acting like he’s deep in thought. Apparently, he’s starting to wake up. His eyes don’t have that hazy veil over them anymore.
“OK, then it’s time to clear those rumors up,” he begins. “I can’t stand caviar—the idea of eating fish eggs is just gross. I have a smoothie for breakfast, usually with poached eggs or muesli.”
“ In the smoothie?” I pull a revolted face.
“Not in the smoothie. With it.”
“Oh, right.”
He thinks again. “It’s not true about the champagne, either. Or not quite. I did once drop a bloody expensive bottle belonging to Wren’s parents in their pool, so I swam in it that way. But that was an accident.”
“Wren’s parents must love you.”
“You have no idea.” He grins and keeps on digging into the ice cream.
“And…the waterbed?” I ask hesitantly.
James pauses and looks at me, his eyes sparkling. “Does that interest you?”
“To be honest, yes,” I admit, not breaking eye contact. “I mean, waterbeds are pretty solid, or so I’ve heard. Not that easy to break.”
“It wasn’t a waterbed, just an ordinary one.”