10. Fancy napkin
CHAPTER TEN
fancy napkin
AIDEN
Mum answers on the third ring, out of breath and laughing.
“Hellooo, gioia di mamma,” she croons.
“What are you up to?” I ask, nodding my thanks to the hostess and then the doorman as I step out of The Orion.
“We were practising our dance for the wedding and then it … escalated.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Christ, Mum, you don’t have to tell me that.”
“What? Oh, for heaven’s sake, son. We’re dancing! Get your head out of the gutter.”
I let out a huff of relief.
“Will has shown me some British dance moves. They’re hysterical.”
Glad she can’t see me, I shake my head, picturing them on the floor doing ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ and five excuses why I can’t make it to their wedding spring to mind.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” I say instead. “Hey, I’m just calling to check something with you.”
My driver arrives right on time in my sleek, black EV.
“Of course, what is it?”
I get in the car and say a quiet ‘hey’ to Mo via the mirror.
It’s the first time he’s dropping me off at Southbank.
‘Should I cover you, sir?’ he asked when I called him about it earlier.
He’s my security detail as well as driver if I need it, but I’ll draw more attention to myself than necessary if I have a burly, curly-haired, suited man close behind me.
I turn my attention back to Mum on the phone. “Did you tell anyone about Linnea? It made it into that What Happens in Mayfair blog and I’m curious how.”
The PI Vic engaged for me hasn’t come up with anything concrete yet. Only a vague suspicion that some commenters have a connection to The Orion.
“Oh, honey, was I not supposed to tell anyone? The Russos already knew, so I didn’t think it a secret! I may have mentioned it to my hairdresser. And my nail lady.”
Jesus Christ.
“I don’t see them talking directly to the blogger, though,” I muse. They must hear gossip left, right, and centre. Could they be sharing? Impossible to be certain. And the Russos? No idea.
Fuck, it’ll be hard to pinpoint this one.
“And I told Lady Beauchamp, of course,” Mum adds.
Ah, yes… I exhale. But she’s a collector of information, as far as I know. Not the spreader of it.
“What’s the matter?” she asks. “Don’t worry about that blog, darling, it’s just entertainment.”
I smack a hand onto my forehead and grit my teeth. She literally just complained about reading about me. It’s fine when it’s news she agrees with, then?
I won’t get into that. Too close to my lie.
“It has power, Mum,” I say. “Remember how they nearly took Mark down last year?”
“But you’re not doing any of that, and Mark is fine. Oh, so lovely to read he’s getting married! It’ll be marvellous to see the Beckers at the party.”
There’s an unwelcome churn in my gut at her words. The party.
“Linnea is coming, Mum. She’s very happy to be invited.”
“Oh, wonderful, my dear Aiden. Oh, I can’t wait!” she croons.
I close my eyes, sighing inwardly. I hate that it’s a lie that has made my mother so happy.
Linnea and I had better play this well. I don’t have any problem being Linnea’s, even a fake version.
I’m comfortable with people in any capacity.
But I’m nervous how she’ll feel pretending to be mine.
She’s been through a lot, and her poker face might have worked well in the professional world, but now I need the opposite from her. Will she be okay through this?
I’m waiting at the edge of the bustling riverbank, waiting for Linnea by the Golden Jubilee bridges (which I just learned they’re called).
I’ve been in a Mayfair bubble for so long, I’ve ignored much of the world outside it.
I’m not sure what to expect from this pop-up summer market she talked about.
I search the busy promenade for Linnea. What does she wear on a regular day out?
“Hey,” her familiar voice comes from my side, and I turn to face her.
Her blond waves frame her smooth face and angular jawline, as usual, but there’s a different glow about her. Tonight she’s in a light pink, thin-strap summer dress and there’s a blush to her face. Is that a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose? Have they always been there?
Her face breaks into a wide grin.
“Are you okay?” she asks, adjusting the strap of her small, brown leather purse hanging over her shoulder. “You’re going to catch flies.”
I quickly close my mouth and blink myself back to focus.
“You look magnificent,” I manage to get out.
She cocks her head as if she’s surprised.
“Thank you. As do you,” she says calmly, gesturing to my black shirt and beige chinos, which isn’t an all too different outfit from what I wear during the week.
“Let’s go get some gin,” she says, turning on her heel and I notice she’s in white lace-up shoes this evening.
I let her lead the way, mesmerised by her glow. I take in the scattered freckles on her sun-kissed shoulders, the lean arms clutching a navy jumper, and the exquisite waistline hugged by that dress that flows around her tan legs. She looks so soft. Soft and warm.
Squeals of children tear me back to where we are.
There’s a merry-go-round, one of those old-fashioned ones in gold with horses and twisted poles. And there’s a tall wooden fence lining the market, hints of colour and lights twinkling through the gaps, and green leafy trees visible above it.
“Do you come here often?” I ask.
“Not for years,” she answers. “But I figured it’s a good place for us to practice being in public without risking running into anyone we know.” She walks through the wooden gate, and I follow.
Round paper lanterns in a variety of colours hang from the trees. Purple, yellow, red, blue.
The lights guide us through the patch of oak trees to an astroturfed area about the size of two football fields.
It’s lined with pop-up bars, food stalls, and fun-fair games.
The middle section is dotted with colourfully painted wooden picnic tables.
The space is bustling with people sitting, walking, or standing in groups, all with plastic cups of beer and Pimm’s.
It definitely has a vibe to it. There’s a coherent style to it all.
Like the merry-go-round. Gold, reds, and whites, ornamental edges, festoon lights everywhere.
It’s charming. Simple. Far from luxurious, and definitely not where I’d imagine Linnea spending her free time, but it’s got some personality.
“This is lovely, actually,” I say, inhaling the scents of hot dogs and stale beer. Wow, that’s … something. “Let’s go drink from a plastic cup.”
“I saw a sign for pink gin,” Linnea says. “I like the sound of that.”
“How did you find this place?” I ask as we line up in front of the red-painted stall on the other side.
“Believe it or not, but before starting my interior design company and meeting Henry, I used to be a normal mortal. Drinking beer from a plastic cup was just a regular Wednesday or Friday for me.”
“I’d love to travel back and see that.”
“My friends, Jamie and Sophie, and I studied at the University of the Arts London up near Holborn, and we’d bar crawl our way back to Waterloo to catch the train home. This was one of our favourite spots on the route.”
“What do they do now? Are they as successful as you with their design, or art?”
There’s what I guess is a flash of sadness on her usually stoic face. What I’d give to understand what’s going on inside her head.
LINNEA
“Define success,” I say, getting the attention of the droopy-eyed bartender in a black polo shirt that looks three sizes too big. “Two pink gin and tonics, please.”
I turn back to Aiden. He’s so tall. I have to crane my neck more than when I wear heels.
“You’ve done well for yourself in business,” he says. “You’ve won awards. Do you not see yourself as successful?”
“I guess it’s been a rough year for that. Ask me again after I land Lady Beauchamp and her friends as new clients.” I grin at him, keeping the levity he prefers instead of answering with a tirade about what I imagined life as a married woman should’ve been like. I wanted what Jamie and Sophie have.
He narrows his eyes at me, as if he’s trying to look past my smile and to the truth that hides behind the words I chose to give him.
Where’s that drink?
As if on cue, the two pint-sized plastic cups arrive with a dull thud onto the wooden surface of the bar, and Aiden pays before I get a chance to. I suppose he can afford it, but I won’t let him pay every time. That’s not my style.
“Thank you,” I say. “Cheers.” The gin is sweet with a hint of strawberry, but with the classic bitterness of the tonic water. “Oh, this is dangerous.”
Aiden nods in agreement, sipping his light pink drink. “Let’s sit down over here.” He juts his chin towards a picnic table that just freed up.
Once we’ve settled into the hard, wooden benches on opposite sides, he has an open, sort of curious expression. Is this his first-date-flirty-face?
Ugh, I can’t help thinking I’m on a conveyor belt of women, even if this is just fake. At least he won’t try to get in my pants and discard me like the rest.
This is a business arrangement… That thought should make me more at ease.
“What did you tell your mother about us that I need to know? How long have we been dating?”
“Hmm, I didn’t say anything about that. How long would make sense?”
“Considering you just went out with Katrina Starre…”
He knits his brow at this. Not thrilled.
“Maybe two weeks?” I suggest.
“Okay, two weeks,” he agrees, his brow relaxing. “Hey, tell me more about what you and your friends would get up to on your bar crawls.”
“Don’t we need to discuss the arrangement?”
“We do, but part of it is getting to know each other, right? We need to seem real. Go on, tell me something.”
Memories of Jamie and Sophie flood my mind—Jamie’s black curls falling across her face as she keels over with laughter, and Sophie’s contrasting bright white head leaning on Jamie’s shoulder as she wheezes from whatever silly thing one of us did.
I can still feel the ache in my abs from the laughing fits we’d get into.