CHAPTER FORTY-ONE LEXIE
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lexie
March
Today is the day when everything I’ve been working towards over the past year and a half finally comes to a head. From the tiny details to the big last-minute things … today is the day.
Everything’s finished, although there have been so many delays that I thought Max was going to flip his lid. But now – now we’re ready to open the hotel, so I should be feeling fine. But I’m not. I’m so nervous. Max has been over from New York for the past week and it’s been fun tweaking the finishing touches just the way we’d visualised them. The thrill is out of this world.
I knew I was going to love sinking my teeth into the design element, but the final portion is by far the most rewarding. I loved the whole process when I decorated my nan’s house, but this is on another level, with so many different designs for suites and rooms, bathrooms and entranceways, the lobby, the bar, the restaurant. It’s been such an amazing experience, barring the input from Chef Javier, who very much had his own unique vision that needed toning down, but also appeasing. I’ve had to learn the art of diplomacy like never before.
Chris has been back and forth with the fit-out team and I feel like we’ve been chasing him around and hurrying him along. I’ve been staying in an Airbnb in Soho this past week while Max has been here, as the days are long and it was too hard to go back and forth from Josh’s. When I spoke to Josh late one evening on the phone, he joked that I must be following Chris around, waiting for him to put a sofa down so I can put a scatter cushion on it. I didn’t like to tell him he’s only half-wrong, though I thought he’d rather oversimplified what I’ve been doing since I got this job.
Now we’re here, exhausted and with champagne glasses in hand in the main lobby, while the publicity team does its thing, ushering celebrities along the red carpet outside the front doors. I watch them getting their pictures taken, dressed up in their finery. I’d felt pretty sexy tonight in my little black dress and silver ankle boots, but against celebrities – well, it’s impossible to ooze serious glamour next to them, isn’t it? They radiate sexiness on a whole other level, as if they’ve got a camera filter always on them.
‘I’ve never heard of half these people,’ Chris says as he stands behind me.
‘Is it because you don’t watch The Real Housewives of Cheshire or The Only Way Is Essex or anything like that?’
‘Do I look like a TOWIE fan?’ he asks coolly as he sips his drink.
I swing round, stare right at him. ‘You know its abbreviated name, though,’ I accuse. I’m so close to him. I didn’t realise how close we were to each other.
‘OK,’ Chris says as I step back a bit, ‘I might have watched one or two episodes. You?’
‘It’s my guilty pleasure,’ I confess. ‘When Josh isn’t watching the news or curled up in bed for an early night, I’ll be all over shows like The Kardashians and Selling Sunset . There aren’t enough hours in the day to keep up with all the reality programmes, though.’
‘Reality?’ he remarks. ‘You do know it’s not real, right?’
‘Shut up,’ I hiss playfully, turning back to people-watch. ‘It is definitely real. Don’t start on at me about scripted reality. I won’t hear it.’
Chris laughs behind me while we watch the red-carpet photographers do their thing. His proximity feels heady and intoxicating. He says, ‘Cheers!’, so I turn back to him. He clinks his glass against mine and then stands back. I can feel a spark of energy between us as he says, ‘Well done, Lexie.’
Eventually I find my voice. ‘Likewise. And I don’t think I deserve any real credit. Max is the design superstar.’
‘He couldn’t have done it without you on the ground, running all over the place. He said as much.’
‘Did he?’
Chris nods, and I glow with the energy of a job well done.
We automatically start moving further into the room and I swipe us two more glasses of champagne. And then Chris and I lose each other for a while, but every now and again I spy him across the room. I move around, greeting everyone I know and making introductions to some I don’t. The sibling bosses are in, and we talk for a moment or two before they move off to continue basking in their well-earned glory. I don’t think I could be any more high on life if I tried. This moment is everything I’ve worked for, and although I know I’m only a bit-part, I genuinely never thought I’d ever get this far.
I do hope this is the stepping stone to something more within this company. I love working with Max and with Chris, and I’ve got over how odd it is that we keep being reunited, on and off. It’s friendly now – good vibes and nothing more. Maybe something tiny more, but we’re going in different directions. I wonder if Chris is keeping a lid on anything further. I wonder if I am?
There’s no danger of either of us doing anything we shouldn’t, though. We’re good people and everything’s worked out in the end, but if you’d asked me – only minutes after Chris reluctantly got in that taxi and left me standing on the gravel drive that first time we met – if I’d see it all panning out like this, I’d have been horrified.
Funny how things never go quite as you expect. But that’s OK. That’s life. Things were meant to work out this way, clearly.
Chris finds his way back to me and we talk about work, New York, the Cotswolds, how well Scarlet is settling in up in Edinburgh, his family, Christmas and slowly, bit by bit, the night wears itself away until I declare, ‘It’s nearly pumpkin hour.’
‘What?’ he asks.
‘You know the time when Cinderella has to get to the coach, before it turns into a … Never mind. It’s late – and I should probably go, is where I was going with that.’
‘Fair enough. I might sneak out as well. I’ve got an early start and a flight home to catch.’
‘You’re running out on me for a flight … again?’
He gives me an interested glance. I wish I hadn’t said that.
‘I didn’t know you were going back so soon,’ I say.
‘Disappointed?’ Chris questions, with a glint in his eye.
It’s my turn to give him an enquiring glance.
‘Yeah,’ I reply, but it’s kindly meant – nothing more. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ve got a big week coming up,’ he continues, obviously deciding he’s not going to take that line of questioning any further.
‘Go on,’ I prompt.
He glances around, checking that no one can overhear us. ‘I’m leaving,’ he whispers.
‘What?’ I whisper back. ‘Your job? Are you? Why?’
‘I’ve been there years,’ he says. ‘And now this project’s done, I fancy a change. Change is good,’ he goes on, as if convincing himself and not me.
‘It is,’ I say blithely. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve got a job lined up here.’
I open my mouth in surprise. ‘ Here? In London? Are you moving back?’
‘Shh,’ he whispers. ‘I haven’t told anyone yet.’
I look at him, waiting for more.
He obliges. ‘Yes, I’m moving back. And I’ve been … kind of … seeing someone in London too,’ he says slowly.
My smile falters and I don’t know why, but I have to force my face to lift it back into place. ‘And it’s serious enough for you to move back here for?’ My voice has suddenly gone really high.
‘Shh,’ he says again. ‘No. Not yet. But getting a new job here and kind of seeing a woman from here have coincided and have forced my hand into making decisions. I realise I’m letting my life pass me by. I’ve had my life in New York for a few years and it’s been a blast. But the way I see it, I can move back, work here for as long as it suits me, rent somewhere and I’m only as tied in as I want to be. If I stay, then so be it. But if not … it’s not a big deal. While I’m young and free, I might as well let my feet take me where they want me to go.’
‘You were moaning last time how you felt old, you nomad.’
‘Being a nomad’s not a bad thing. I’m a suit-wearing nomad,’ Chris fires back conversationally. ‘So not a real one.’
‘Big life-decision.’
‘Yeah. But one I’m excited about.’
‘Who is she, then? This woman who’s making you reassess your life?’
‘You’re misunderstanding me,’ he says. ‘I’m just seeing someone and she happens to be here, and I happen to have accepted a job here. I’m not sure why I mentioned her now. She’s a by-product of what’s happening.’
‘A by-product? What a lovely description.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he dismisses my comment.
‘I’m not sure I do, but we’ll go with it, if you like. But you haven’t answered my question.’
‘What question?’
‘Who is she?’ I ask again. It shouldn’t bother me this much, but it does. Chris and I let living in different continents get in the way of anything that might have happened between us. But whoever this woman is, she’s special enough to make him reassess. I’m not buying the by-product story.
He looks as if he doesn’t know how to say this. ‘Her name’s Victoria.’
‘More, please,’ I prompt.
He smiles. ‘We met at your anti-house-warming party.’
I give him a blank look and then it dawns on me. ‘The woman you arrived with?’
He nods. ‘Yeah.’
‘Scarlet’s boss?’
‘Yeah, I think so. At the time. But now Scarlet’s in Edinburgh going freelance, I’m not sure Victoria’s her boss any more.’
‘Semantics,’ I say. ‘How did you guys …?’
‘The usual way, or rather the unusual way these days. I met her the same way I met you: at an event where I didn’t have a plus-one. We got chatting while in the kitchen, pouring ourselves some of that lethal poison you concocted. It was quite the talking point.’
Ordinarily I’d have laughed, but I don’t. ‘Did you get drunk on it and kiss her?’
‘What? No. Of course not. But we got on, and she knew my deal. She knew I lived in New York and wasn’t in London very often and she was cool, laid-back. She didn’t have any grand expectations. So we just messaged a bit, arranged to meet up whenever I’ve been here for work. And it’s been nice. It’s not serious. And we’ve only really had a few dates. But I guess, now I’m moving back, we’ll be seeing if we can – you know – go for it.’
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, mostly as a way to fill the gap in the conversation that’s ripped a void between us.
‘Anyway, that’s my news.’
‘You’ve kept everything so quiet,’ I tell him. ‘All the times we’ve spoken and caught up … and … tumbleweed from you.’
‘Well, the job thing I couldn’t really go bleating about. I still can’t, actually.’ He glances around, checking no one’s listening. ‘I’ve got to formally hand in my notice this week, so please keep quiet, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘And with Victoria – it’s just messaging and the odd phone call and, like I said, it’s really a by-product of me moving back.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You can’t keep calling her that. She seemed really nice, from the few minutes we spoke at the party.’
Chris smiles, looks self-conscious. ‘She is. She’s really easy to be with.’
‘When are you moving back?’ I ask.
‘Not sure yet. A month?’
We’re silent while I process this before realising I need to talk or risk looking abnormal. ‘Congratulations,’ I say. ‘I’m really pleased for you.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate that.’
His alarm beeps on his phone and I’m drawn back to a similar night talking to Chris for the first time, that same hateful alarm sounding from his phone.
‘Shit,’ he says. ‘I’ve got to go.’
I don’t know what to say at this point, so I don’t say anything. He leans forward, embraces me in a hug and I’m sure I stop breathing. I’m far too close to him. He smells faintly of mint and bergamot. And for some reason I feel a bit empty, as if he’s drifting further away from me than ever before, even though he’s moving back home to England. He’s going in a different direction, as if he’s picking up the pace and running with it.
But I’m also in my stride now. It’s taken me for ever to get here, but I’m in a job I’m enjoying, living in a home I adore with Josh, whom I love, and we have a life together. Chris wants that for himself too, so why do I feel so put out about the whole thing?
I say goodbye and so does he. And it feels that little bit too final, laced with something bordering on regret.