Chapter Forty

Lucy’s tireless dedication to getting my ass off the couch has me grumbling all the way to the bathroom and then into my closet to get dressed.

She’s right, though. I need to yank myself back into the land of the living…starting today. I haven’t left the apartment in a week, and I’ve started Googling how to cure potential bedsores.

We part ways at Waterloo station, and twenty minutes later I’m bounding up the steps of Piccadilly Circus Tube. Since I left for Morocco, Central London has traded a fractious winter for the lightness and euphoria of early summer. With the sunshine on my face, my broken heart feels more like jagged splinters than lung-puncturing assaults. Surely, it’s too glorious a day for another corkscrew twist in my rollercoaster ride of a life…

And then my mother calls.

“Darling!” she cries. “Are you better?”

“Much better,” I lie, dashing across the pedestrian crossing and making a silent bet with myself. The quicker I walk, the quicker this phone call will be over.

“We all like Jake, Charlotte. He’s such a catch. Courtney and I were only discussing that yesterday.”

What a surprise. My mother has become best friends with the plastic PA from L.A. I’m practically sprinting down Haymarket now, scattering dirty gray pigeons like a proverbial cat. All the businessmen and jobbing actors walking past are giving me a wide berth. “I told you before, Mom. Jake and I are not together.”

Not anymore.

“Why’s that, Charlotte? He couldn’t take his eyes off you at the charity gala.”

“That’s because we were having an argument. It’s more satisfying to fire angry words at each other and watch them detonate on impact.”

“Before that, silly. When he was trying to extract himself from those pop stars. I know when a man’s interested, darling. He’s a little older than I was expecting, but he’s very…” The sentence is left hanging, but we both know what she’s implying. Jake is well-connected and filthy rich—all the things instrumental to my mother’s happiness.

Oh, shut up, Mom, I silently rage at her, dragging my thoughts back to that charity night. I seem to remember him rather enjoying their company, but the events that followed suggest otherwise.

“What exotic location is he whisking you away to next?”

“Um…nowhere. My contract’s expired,” I say bleakly. In more ways than one. I’m nearly at Hungerford Bridge. I can see the London Eye winking at me in the distance.

“Oh, I see.” I can sense my mother digesting this information and weeding out the negatives. “Well, you must come for dinner. Courtney and Harold are coming to stay. Harold has the most delightful British nephew. You simply must meet him. He’s only twenty-seven, but he’s just inherited his father’s dry cleaning business. A hundred stores nationwide, would you believe?”

What about my business? I want to scream at her. I fell hard twice in Morocco. Once for a man who broke my soul, and the other for an industry that I’m hoping will fix it. But my mother’s on a roll. She’s now happily spelling out to me the many benefits that would come from dating a dry cleaning tycoon.

“And he has a house in Weybridge, darling. On that fancy estate where all the Beatles used to live.”

My mind starts to drift. I’m formulating a plan, a “save Charlie” kind of plan—one that’s going to resurrect me from the ashes of Jake Dalton. After this call ends, I’m going straight over to the TV studios on the South Bank and requesting a trainee job application form. If I can’t have Jake, I’ll have the next best thing.

“Will you at least think about it, darling? A coffee perhaps? A quick macchiato to break the ice, and then dinner the following week?”

“Fine, Mom. Whatever.”

“Marvelous!”

Satisfied that she’s pinned me down to a date with Harold’s family success story, my mother makes her excuses and hangs up.

I’ve reached the Royal Festival Hall, but I’m like a salmon leaping upstream against the tides of people coming the other way. The South Bank has always been my favorite part of London. It’s teeming with energy and there’s a carnival atmosphere radiating out from the litany of cafés and restaurants and their colorful awnings. The River Thames is running alongside me, urging me on, enveloping me with its chilly, stale odor. Big Ben is behind me, guarding my back. St Paul’s and the skyline of London are stretched out before me like some modern-day Canaletto painting.

Today will be a good day, I tell myself. Today is the day I take my life back.

As I approach the great gray edifice of Queen Elizabeth Hall, I spy a familiar sight. A hub of activity has closed off huge sections of the walkway, and a tangle of trailing camera cables are jutting out from the group like an electrical umbilical cord. An army of baseball caps and North Face jackets has descended on the South Bank, and they’re all darting in and out of their black-clad security detail like border collies in an agility class.

I stop to rubberneck like everyone else, and hear a familiar shout.

“Oh, my gawd, will you please have these people moved on? This place is so claustrophobic. They’re taking up my oxygen. I can smell their fish and chips!”

There’s a ripple of excitement as Cassie Lee struts into view wearing a full-length black puffa. A glitzy gold cocktail dress is peeking out through the open gap in her jacket and her blond hair is piled on top of her head in some fancy updo. Her endless legs elicit many admiring murmurs from the men. Even the leaves in the trees seem to approve as they swish and sway in time to the catcalls.

I’m not so easily impressed. There’s nothing pretty underneath all that makeup. I duck my head and keep on walking until I’m shoved out of the way by an over-enthusiastic autograph hunter. He sends me hurtling into the broad, muscular back of the tallest North Face prince, which, in turn, sends his mocha latte flying.

“What the fuck?” he yells, rounding on me furiously.

“I’m so sorry!”

He glares down at me and we both get the shock of our lives. “Shit, Charlie, is that you?”

Is it? I’m not so sure anymore.

I don’t know who’s more stunned—me, to see Brad Wilson this far from L.A., or him by my flattened, waiflike appearance.

“Excuse me, madam, you can’t stand there,” says an officious-sounding security guard, shooing me away from Brad.

“No, Danny, it’s okay, she’s with me.”

I am?

Brad puts a possessive arm around my shoulders and I want to bury my head into his Thor-like chest and weep. He seems to sense my despair because I hear him calling out for “five” before whisking me off in the direction of the nearest coffee chain.

He slams a hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and whipped cream down on the table in front of me. “I told you not to get too close to him, Charlie. I fucking warned you.”

One of my tiny pink marshmallows is plummeting down the outside of the mug in a suicidal trail of chocolate goo.

“How did you guess?” I ask quietly.

“Saw it happening a mile off.” Brad whips off his black baseball cap and pins me with his indigo eyes. His scruffy blond hair cascades around his face and he slicks it back in one easy movement. “What did that son of a bitch do?”

“The works. Turns out we’re not very compatible.”

“Well, I figured that out for myself. Not many women are good enough for narcissistic assholes. Fuck ’em and forget ’em, that’s more his style.” Brad studies my face for a moment. “Gee, he really hurt you, didn’t he?”

“I like to think we hurt each other.”

Brad doesn’t look convinced. “You sure about that? Jake’s impenetrable. You, on the other hand, look freaking terrible.”

“No, I don’t!” I’m just about surviving a breakup with the hottest man on the planet. To be simultaneously insulted by his runner-up is really pushing it. “Anyway, I’ve had the flu. I’ve been in bed all week.”

Brad smirks.

“I have!” I glare at him until the smirk breaks into a grin and I find myself holding my breath. I can see Jake’s features in his jawline and cheekbones. How did I not notice that before? I take a sip of my hot chocolate, but the remaining marshmallows have melted together to form a mushy clump that’s impossible to breach. I put the mug back down on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me Jake was your brother?”

Brad shrugs. “I thought you knew.”

“Jake chose not to share that particular detail with me. Along with countless others.”

“He was like that with Cassie, too. Drove her nuts.”

“Are they back together?”

Brad shrugs. “Probably. Those two have history. Did you know she was my girl first? We dated for a year before I walked in on her and Jake.”

My hand flies out in shock and catches the mug in front of me. Torrents of hot chocolate start spilling all over the table. “Oh, God,” I wail, diving for the napkins. “Did you ever suspect them?”

“Nope. Never. That’s the thing about Jake. He’s so eaten up on the inside that he can’t see the damage he—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Wilson?” A member of Brad’s North Face army has popped up next to our table. He’s fidgeting nervously with his hands, as though Brad’s an unpredictable animal who is liable to chew his head off and spit out his brains at any moment. “We’re ready whenever you are, sir.”

Brad dismisses him with a flick of his wrist. “I gotta run. It was good seeing you.” He stands to leave and then sits back down again. “Listen, honey, I know this is too soon after everything that’s happened, but the way I see it, you’ve gotta eat. I know a great place in Chelsea. I can pour the wine and you can bitch about Jake. What d’ya say?”

Brad’s right. It’s far too soon. But my ego is so bruised and he’s gazing at me so expectantly that it’s impossible to resist.

I find myself accepting before I have a chance to say no.