When Alistair swept me under his umbrella and held me against his almost-dry Burberry, I burst into embarrassing tears. Big, face-scrunching sobs. The kind that made people walking past us on Regent Street stop and stare.
Looking less than comfortable, Alistair handed me a handkerchief and started talking at a frantic pace about the dreadful production of Macbeth he’d just seen—how he’d walked out at intermission and was on his way to Claridge’s for a nightcap and he’d ask me to come with him, but I wasn’t quite dressed for Claridge’s, was I, so did I want to go to his place and freshen up?
“Freshen up? I need more than freshening,” I said after a honk into the handkerchief. “I’ve just come from Paris.” That came out sounding like a slam at the Parisians I hadn’t intended.
But he laughed it off. “If it’s Tuesday, this must be London?” His laugh was phonier than ever, and he still dressed like a character in a Noel Coward play, but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to see anyone.
“Sort of.” I was so tired, I had to will the words to come out of my mouth. “Wogs and I. We’ve been, you know. Doing the Eurail pass thing…” I felt as if my knees were going to buckle under the weight of my soggy backpack. “Sorry. I can’t go on. I’ve been carrying this thing the last twelve hours.” I took it off and set it on the wet pavement.
Alistair picked it up and held it by one strap, like a particularly repulsive suitcase.
“Ah. The college student grand tour. And where are you and Wogs staying?”
This was a perfectly reasonable question, but for some reason it made me tear up again. “I don’t know. I mean, I think I could find it again, but everything’s so dark. And wet. Wogs is the one who knew where it was. But she flew off to Missouri this morning. Because of Judy’s leg…”
Alistair gave me a quizzical look, then let out a huge guffaw.
“Oh, you poor thing. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He stepped to the curb and hailed a taxi.
“Mayfair,” he told the driver. “Sixteen St. John’s Mews. It’s only a few blocks from here, but this young lady is about to faint.”
Sixteen St. John’s Mews turned out to be the most elegant Victorian dollhouse of a place I’d ever seen. Alistair, assuming a role right out of P. G. Wodehouse, offered to draw me a bath in the claw-footed tub. He poured me a snifter of Courvoisier and sent me into the bathroom with a huge towel and a fluffy terry robe. I couldn’t have had better service if I’d been a guest at the legendary Claridge’s Hotel itself.
I tried to gather my thoughts as I soaked. But I didn’t seem to have any. My brain had shut down like some overheated appliance. All I could do was sink into the luxury of warm bubbles and cognac fog.
I guess that’s why, when I finally got out and went to join Alistair in front of a lovely fire, I simply had no will to resist him. His first kiss felt familiar and sweet, and by the time my brain kicked in and reminded me of what a silly thing I was doing, it was too late to summon the energy to stop.
I woke in Alistair’s bed. Alone. Alone being the default mode for anybody having a relationship with Alistair Milbourne—which I was all too aware of at that point. But it popped into my mind that I would have been alone anyway, in considerably less luxurious sheets, if I’d ever found that bed and breakfast. I’d also be considerably poorer.
Although the breakfast part would have been nice. I was ravenous.
I got up and fished in my backpack—which Alistair had sweetly brought into the bedroom—and pulled out the least wrinkled, damp thing I could find—a drip-dry print midi dress Wogs had insisted I buy in case we ever went anywhere fancy. It had a sort of Carole Lombard look I thought Alistair would approve of, but it was a little loose in the wrong places. I must have lost some weight with all our trekking around.
I went into the kitchen—which was as elfin and adorable as the rest of the place—but found almost nothing in the fridge. And no sign of Alistair. I did find a kettle and some instant coffee, so I caffeinated myself and smoked a couple of Kools while I looked out at the pretty little garden and tried to decide how to proceed.
OK, I had slept with a man I knew to be an outrageous liar. A man who had once broken my heart. But he had this comfy place in the heart of one of the poshest neighborhoods in the world. I asked myself if I’d be crazy to stay and continue to sleep with him—assuming he’d want me to stay and continue to sleep with him—and if I did, if that would make me a whore.
I had to answer yes to the whore part—but then, he was a whore, too.
But as to the craziness—I decided I’d only be nuts if I let myself fall in love with him. And that wasn’t going to happen if I reminded myself at regular intervals that nothing the man said had the remotest possibility of being true.
A moment later, Alistair himself burst through the garden door, carrying a bag that smelled so delicious I could hardly keep from salivating. He placed it on the kitchen table and gave me a warm hug.
“You have not lived until you’ve had a crispy bacon sandwich from Claridge’s. And their fresh-squeezed orange juice.” He pulled out two large cups of juice and a take-out box containing two big rolls stuffed with heavenly-smelling bacon.
I don’t suppose I stopped for breath until I’d eaten half my sandwich, which tasted even better than it smelled. I chewed as Alistair nattered on about how he’d finished his Gatsby play and several West End theaters were interested…and he had an article coming out in the Times…plus a photo shoot scheduled later that day at some Baroness’s estate in Surrey.
I only half listened to his preposterous lies as I looked at him in his perfectly tailored suit with a combination of gratitude, apprehension, and lust.
I do have to admit to the lust. Alistair might not have been a virtuoso in bed, but last night he’d been sweet and cuddly and generous. And he pretended to be falling in love with me again. He’d even quoted one of his favorite Fitzgerald lines:
“Let us love for a while, for a year or so, you and me. That's a form of divine drunkenness that we can all try.”
I guess I was up for a little divine drunkenness. Plus the man had never blown up any buildings. Not a one.
When I finally set down the sandwich, I said I didn’t know that Claridge’s had take-out. He said they didn’t, but he “knew someone.” He went into an elaborate tale about a sous chef there who used to work for Lady something-or-other, who was a friend of some movie star he knew. And then more about more movie stars. And chefs. And large country homes. And lord and lady whatsis. Very creative fiction indeed. But I would have been willing to listen to almost anything in exchange for that magnificent sandwich.
When he finished his own breakfast, Alistair told me I looked smashing in the midi dress, and that he was impressed that I’d lost “all that weight.”
I basked in the compliment at the same time I made a mental note that Alistair’s habit of filling the air with pointless verbiage and flattery had the very useful effect of creating a barrier to real communication. I started to tell him I was surprised at the weight loss myself when he stopped me with a glance at his watch and announced he had to leave immediately for Surrey and the company of the Baroness.
So. No time to find out why he had abandoned me two years ago without a word. Or if I was invited to stay longer. Or if this was even his house. It had occurred to me he might be squatting the way he had in Princeton dormitories.
As he rushed to collect his camera things, I told him I might go to see friends in Maida Vale. I didn’t say who. He showed the tiniest flicker of interest for an uncomfortable moment, then gave me a quick kiss and ran out the door.
But after I watched him rush down the mews toward Grosvener Street, with his peculiar, stiff walk, I noticed the door had a self-locking deadbolt. If I went to Maida Vale and found the Brontës still out, I’d have no way to get back into the cottage until Alistair returned. I felt like an idiot for not asking when he planned come back, or if he had an extra key.
I decided to stay and do some poking around the cottage. After all, I had six whole weeks in London, and the Brontës were likely to be unkind about my reconnecting with Alistair, so I’d be prudent to explore my options here before I moved on.
The house had two bedrooms upstairs—one of which was full of ruffles and lace, with a large double bed. We were sleeping in a smaller room with only a three-quarter bed. Odd, if this truly was Alistair’s home. But the closet in the smaller room held what certainly looked to be Alistair’s own wardrobe, complete with hand-sewn labels from Norton & Sons and Hardy Amies. The photos of country houses on the walls looked like his as well. If he was squatting in someone else’s digs, it was a fairly long-term squat.
The closet in the girly room was full of women’s clothes—mostly formal, some couture, and a few casual things as well. A rich girlfriend? That would make sense, but why the separate bedrooms?
The house also had a basement, mostly packed with boxes, with a darkroom in one corner, where a number of Alistair’s signature stately home photos were hung from the clothesline that cris-crossed the low ceiling.
On the ground floor, I found a third, tiny bedroom—probably once a maid’s chamber. It was fitted out as an office, with modern furniture very different from the Laura Ashley Victoriana in the rest of the house. On the desk, I found a bound copy of a script titled Daisy and Gatsby, and copy of Look Magazine, open to an article about English country homes—credited to Alistair Milbourne.
That took me a minute to digest. Alistair was actually selling articles to Look Magazine. Could it be that he wasn’t making all that up about visiting titled noblepersons in Surrey? He seemed to be succeeding in his plans to be a photojournalist. Maybe his playwriting aspirations, too. And he did live here. In Mayfair. But he shared his home with a woman who mysteriously slept in another bedroom.
Then it came to me: the mystery woman had to be the Gorgon. Alistair was living with his mom. So much for his man-of-the-world posing. Did she live here full time? Maybe she’d walk in on me any moment. No. she must be out of town, or he wouldn’t be taking this chance.
I decided there was no point in worrying about her, so spent the morning reading a Josephine Tey mystery I found in the parlor. When Alistair hadn’t returned by lunch time, I scrounged up a meal of sardines on water biscuits and some canned prunes. They were lovely Italian sardines, and very nice prunes, but obviously Alistair did not feed himself at home, nor did the Gorgon, if indeed she lived here. If they let me stay, maybe I could buy groceries and cook to earn my keep.
I was sitting out in the exquisite little garden, listening to Big Ben chime three when Alistair reappeared. He was carrying a large shopping bag from the trendy boutique, Biba. He pulled out a gorgeous dress in a dusky shade of purple and said, “I hope it fits. I’d like to take you to Claridge’s for dinner this evening, and I fear what’s in that rucksack of yours won’t do.”
Amazed, I went to his bedroom to put on the dress, and was even more amazed to see how well it fit. It had a deep V neckline and a longish skirt, fitted at the hips, flaring into a trumpet shape. I’d never have dared to try on something like that, but it looked great. I rushed out to show him, galumphing in my sneakers, and tried to give him a hug.
“Shoes won’t do, I’m afraid,” he said pulling away. “Let’s go out and get you some. Biba has matching suede boots, but I didn’t dare guess your size.” He took something else out of the bag, “But I did buy you a little something that matches.” He presented me with a small jewelry box. Inside was a velvet choker decorated with an amethyst-colored cameo. He put it around my neck, lifting my hair and kissing me lightly as he fastened it.
I felt as if I were watching a movie of somebody else. Alistair had never bought me anything before—except those damned pearl earrings. I didn’t know what to say.
“This is all beautiful, but you don’t have to buy me things…”
He bit his lip. “Yes, Nicky, I do need to buy you things. It’s not enough, but I hope…” He looked down, as if he didn’t want to meet my eyes. “I hope you’ll think about trying to forgive me. I behaved abominably. I won’t pretend I didn’t. I wanted to write you so many times, but somehow, I couldn’t…” A tear glistened in his eye.
So I kissed him with a great show of passion and told him I had forgiven him long since. He joyfully took my arm and marched me off to a waiting taxi, to Biba—the boots fit perfectly—and on to a spectacular meal of grilled salmon and truffle risotto in the Art Deco opulence of Claridge’s bar. Then back to Mayfair, and his bed.
I was hooked again by the charm of Alistair Milbourne. God help me.