Chapter 2
Two
Itake a few steps closer to the Summer’s Day portrait painted by the Impressionist artist Berthe Morisot. At first glance, it’s merely a portrait of two women sitting in a rowboat, speaking to one another. A trio of swans swims beside them.
Yet the longer I stand and stare at the portrait, the more details begin to emerge.
I notice that each of the women is dressed in the latest fashion of the day.
The woman on the left wears a light-blue jacket and straw hat.
She’s staring out at the water, perhaps looking at the swans, or something else altogether.
I glance to the woman on the right. She’s the perfect contrast to her companion. She’s wearing a more muted jacket of lavender and white. Her hands are clasped on her lap, clutching a parasol. She appears to be looking directly at me. I wonder what she’d ask me if she could speak.
I take another step forward, soaking in the energetic swirls of color. The vigorous brushstrokes appear to mimic the movement of the water. My eyes don’t know where to focus. They’re drawn all over the canvas.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and slow my breathing. When I open them again, the first thing they focus on is the lavender jacket of the woman on the right. So I guess that’s what I’ll be drawing today.
I hold up my tablet, snap a photo of the portrait for future reference, and locate the nearest bench. As I sit down, I pull out my trusty sketchbook, flip to an empty page, and start sketching.
I start with a rough silhouette of what I think the jacket might look like if she were standing, then I start to add in a few modern tweaks.
I shorten the jacket, sharpen the lapels, and change the shape of the sleeves.
My mind races ahead, considering colors and fabric choices, and the design takes on a life of its own.
When I finally place my pencil down and admire my work an hour or two later, I’m in love.
My imaginary model is wearing a fitted cream jacket, reminiscent of a classic Dior Bar jacket, over a billowing lilac tulle skirt, accentuated with a thick black belt.
These are clothes that I’d wear in a heartbeat if I had the money to buy the fabric to bring them to life.
I let out a satisfied sigh and close my notebook.
I knew I’d be able to count on the Impressionists to spark inspiration.
Especially with a tight deadline. Whenever I see one of the beautiful portraits by an artist like Monet, Morisot, Degas, or Renoir, it feels like I’m being greeted by old friends.
They were artists who pushed the boundaries of art by experimenting with textures, colors, light, and angles. When I look at one of the portraits they’ve created, I never see the same thing twice.
I stand and stretch. The muscles in my legs cramp.
The National Portrait Gallery is much more crowded than it was an hour ago.
Tourists are flocking to see some of London’s greatest treasures for themselves.
The quiet won’t last much longer. Gathering my belongings, I shove everything into my backpack and make my way to the exit.
“Heading out, Minerva?” JT, one of the security guards, asks.
“Unfortunately. I wish I could squeeze in more time, but I have to be at work in an hour.”
He nods in understanding. “See you this weekend?”
My lips curve in approval. “It’s a date.”
He chuckles.
I wave goodbye and exit out to Trafalger Square to see that London has woken up. The area surrounding the water fountain and Nelson’s Column is flooded with tour groups. Live music is being played by several street buskers vying for attention and tourist pounds.
Pausing at the signal, I see people rushing up and down the Tube station steps, and the iconic red double-decker buses and black taxi cabs drive past me. Glancing at my watch, I see it’s ten fifteen. I have just enough time to grab a coffee and pastry, and make my way over to Buckingham Palace.
Today is Thursday, which means there shouldn’t be a Changing of the Guard ceremony, and I’ll be able to take my preferred shortcut through Horse Guards Parade and save myself an extra five minutes. It’s shaping up to be a good day.
The bell of the clock tower over Horse Guards Parade chimes, indicating it’s ten thirty. As I leisurely stroll down Whitehall, sipping my coffee, I hear my phone ring. I shuffle my drink to the other hand and reach into my coat pocket to retrieve it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Min, it’s Liz.”
“Oh hey, what’s up?”
“I know you’re on your way to work, but I just wanted to check in and see if you’d submitted your portfolio for the Clarissa Lee Atelier internship. Today is D-Day.”
I chew on my lip. “Um . . .”
“Min! Why not?”
“The last sketch. It didn’t look right with the rest of what I had.”
“The deadline is three p.m.—today. There is no more time to muck around. You need to use what you have.”
“I know. I brought everything with me. I’m going to put the packet together during my first break and scan and upload during lunch.”
Staying to the far left on the sidewalk, I weave in and out of the assembled tourists who are crowding around the mounted soldiers in the sentry boxes.
After Buckingham Palace and the Palace of St. James, Horse Guards Parade is the third most visited tourist site in London.
It’s the only place where members of the public can walk right up to the horses and soldiers. It’s always a human zoo.
“Is there a decent computer you can use? I hope you’re not planning to use your phone.”
She’s caught me. “Er . . . no, of course not. I’m planning to sneak down to the IT room. The guys are super sweet, and I’m sure they won’t mind letting me borrow a laptop for an hour or two.”
“That’s a lot of hypotheticals.” I can picture Liz pinching the bridge of her nose. “Promise me that if you run into any sort of trouble, you’ll ring me straightaway. I’ll come right over, pick up your portfolio, and hand deliver the sketches over to the company’s HQ myself if I have to.”
My cheeks warm. “It won’t come to that.”
“Promise me,” Liz repeats.
“Fine. I promise.” I turn right, and like a salmon swimming upstream, squeeze past the tourists exiting the inner courtyard.
“Good. I won’t keep you any longer. I know you’re in a hurry. Good luck!”
Disconnecting the call, I move off to the side set my coffee down, and take a moment to drop my phone into my bag next to my palace security badge.
I grimace as I see loose pencils and pens, tangled cords, containers of makeup, a pair of socks, lotions, hand sanitizers, hair ties, and an entire pack of Tesco tea biscuits that I don’t even remember buying.
At least it’s unopened, although it may be all crumbly.
One of these days, I’ll get around to buying an organizer or using pouches so it looks a little less like a junk drawer, but for now, the best I can do is pretend the mess doesn’t exist.
Zipping the bag closed, I reach for my coffee and notice a piece of metal attached to a leather strap sitting next to it. It looks like something that might’ve fallen off a soldier’s uniform. It takes me a second, but I recognize the mysterious leather-and-metal strap as a spur.
Glancing around me, I see the yard is devoid of any police officers.
Normally, they’re all over the place, but apparently, not this morning.
I walk deeper into the yard. Maybe I can pass this over to the foot guard who stands sentry near the black slatted stable door.
But as I approach, I find his post is empty too.
I frown and finally just decide to leave it with the gent staffing the kiosk selling tourist trinkets opposite me.
There are about ten people clustered around the cart.
“At least the guy is inside,” I mutter to myself.
However, just as I make my way over, he disappears. I squeeze my eyes shut. What is it with everyone today?
“Excuse me, do you know where the clerk has gone?” I ask a woman in an ice-blue jacket who’s inspecting an “I Heart London” shot glass.
“He’s around back checking a couple T-shirt sizes for me.”
“Thanks.”
Glancing at my watch, I see it’s now ten forty. I don’t have much more time to waste. I walk around to the backside of the cart under the archway.
“Stand clear of the arches!” a strong, gruff voice bellows.
My blood pressure rises about ten points. I drop my coffee and bag, and jump back. A guard in a navy-blue cloak with a red collar materializes out of nowhere. He stomps his foot and shoots me an ice-cold glare.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “Look, all I want to do is return this”—I hold up the spur—“to whomever it belongs. I didn’t want somebody walking away with it.”
His expression remains stony.
“I’m just going to put it down on the ground out of the tourists’ reach and maybe somebody can retrieve it when they relieve you from your post later.”
There is no movement. Hurriedly, I take a step into the forbidden zone, drop the spur behind the pillar, and retreat. That’s my good deed for the day.
Brushing my hands against my jeans, I turn around to retrieve my bag. To my horror, a woman in a red beanie and black puffer coat has her grimy hands on my wallet and phone.
“Give those back!” I scream.
Her eyes widen. She drops my phone, but keeps hold of my wallet and sprints into the darkened tunnel that connects the courtyard to the sandy parade grounds.
“Stop!” I shout. “Thief!”
A few people stop and stare, but nobody moves to help. Taking matters into my own hands, I take off after her, but it’s no good. She’s taller, faster, and there are too many tourists heading in my direction. A moment later, she’s lost in the crowd.
My chest tightens. There goes my credit and debit cards, and my Tube pass. All those can be replaced, but it’s going to be a pain in the butt. I hope she didn’t get my ID or my palace security badge. I rub my temples and dejectedly return to where I’d left my belongings and empty coffee cup.
It hits me then and there that I was stupid to chase after her. The most valuable stuff I own, like my sketchbook, was in the purse, not my wallet. What if she’d been armed? She could’ve hurt me.
Back inside the courtyard, I see the soldier from the archway standing guard over my bag. A pair of police officers approaches him at the same time as me.
“Ma’am, is this yours?” one of the officers asks.
“Yes.”
“You can’t just leave your belongings sitting out in the open. It’s a security threat. I’ll need you to—”
“Ian, she didn’t leave it here on a whim,” the guard interjects, breaking his silence. “A pickpocket stole her wallet, and she chased them.” His eyes look me up and down. “Unsuccessfully, it seems.”
“Ah. In that case, we’ll need you to come with us and file a report with the City of London police.”
“You aren’t one of them?” I ask.
“No, we’re with the MOD, the Ministry of Defense.”
“Oh.” I rub the back of my neck. All the times I passed through here, I never realized there was a difference. “I just need to, um, call my boss and let him know I’m going to be late.”
I search for my phone.
The guard clears his throat, the palest hint of pink coloring his cheeks. “It’s in my boot.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your mobile.” He lifts the hem of his long coat, exposing a pair of highly polished thigh-high boots. “It’s in my boot.” His white-gloved hand reaches inside the right boot. He places the device into my outstretched hand. “I don’t have any pockets.”
“Oh.” I open and close my mouth. “Uh, thanks. He could’ve just slipped it into my purse. I wonder why he didn’t.
The screen is shattered, and when I press the power button, it refuses to turn on. “Seriously?” I throw my head back. “Whatever. At this point, if I’m late, I’m late.” I toss the useless phone into the black hole that is my purse. “I’m ready. Where can I find a London city police officer?”
“I’ll go and ring one now. In the meantime, would you mind waiting here?” Ian, the officer, says.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Ian, I think it’d be better if she waited in the stables.” The guard juts his chin toward the large grouping of tourists who have stopped to watch the unfolding scene in the courtyard.
“Good idea, trooper.” Ian strokes his chin. “We don’t need to cause any panic.”
“I’ll take the lady in. I should bring the Corporal of Horse up to speed anyway.”
“Brilliant, we’ll be right behind you.”
The guard marches a few steps toward the slatted doors opposite of where we’re standing, then pauses and glances back at me. “Are you coming?”
“Oh, um . . . yeah, I just need to grab something. Give me a second.” Remembering the entire reason I was placed in this precarious situation in the first place, I dash over and grab the spur from behind the pillar. “OK.”
The guard rolls his eyes, but otherwise stays silent. He swings his arm as he marches, and I walk beside him. Maybe march isn’t the right word. It’s more of a stiff, clunky walk. “Make way for the King’s Guard,” he barks at tourists blocking our path.
I grimace. “Do you have to be so loud?”
“Yes,” he says under his breath.
“Because you enjoy it? Or because they won’t listen unless you’re intimidating?”
He snorts, choosing not to reply. His chocolate-chip eyes dance in amusement. They’ve gone from cold to warm and make me want to melt.