Chapter 4

“I don’t see why I have to go,” Viv said. “It’s not as if I’m entering a dog in the show.”

“No,” I agreed. “But Freddy is wearing your hats and having you there might give him the profile boost Aunt Betty needs. And besides, given the threat to Freddy, we need all eyes available.”

“If I’d known a public appearance was involved, I would have charged Aunt Betty more for the hats,” she said.

“You made them for free,” I said.

“Exactly.”

We were walking toward Notting Hill Gate, to catch the train that would take us to Finchley Park, where the cocktail party and the dog show were being held. It was just on the other side of Kensington, in a slightly posher neighborhood than ours—okay, a vastly more posh neighborhood, but why quibble?

It was a cocktail party so we were in our favorite minidresses under our thick wool coats. Mine was a royal blue number that fit at the hips and flared at the knees. Viv had insisted I wear a matching blue cocktail hat with an ostrich feather that curled around the back of my head. Fabulous! Viv was outfitted in red, a deep blue–toned scarlet red that she enhanced by wearing a matching fascinator with an explosion of tulle and shimmering beads coming out of it. Her lipstick was on point in the same shade of red as well. Judging by the heads that swiveled in her direction as she strode onto the train, she was killing it.

Even in the bright blue dress, I felt thrust into the shadows next to Viv. When I was younger, I would have envied her extraordinary beauty, but now that I was older, and wiser, I wouldn’t change a thing. Not being a knockout, I had learned to get by on my personality, and I knew that was ultimately what had turned Harrison’s head my way.

He’d crushed on me when we were kids because of my overt friendliness, and when we’d reconnected as adults, that was what brought him back to me. If I had grown up looking like Viv, tousled long blond hair and delicate features, I most likely never would have developed my essential people skills, which would have been tragic. Because unlike Viv, who was an artist at heart with a marketable skill set as a milliner, I am hopeless in the creative arts. I simply do not have the imagination or the attention span for that sort of thing. Managing people is my gift and I love it.

Viv cleared a path onto the train and two men jumped out of their seats to offer them to her. She nodded her thanks and we took their seats with our backs to the windows as the train shot through the tunnels of the Underground.

“Who knows,” I said. “Maybe we’ll win over Liza Stanhope and she’ll come to our shop for her next hat.”

Viv shrugged. It was clear she could not care less. This was a part of her artist charm. She didn’t give a flip who bought her hats. She was all about the creation. The forms, the fabric, the shape, the embellishments, these were the things that twirled through her head in a constant kaleidoscope. She had no use for the people who bought her hats. That was my job. To keep up the publicity, the public awareness and the fawning over our clients. Good thing I liked that sort of thing. I am an excellent hat ambassador, if I do say so myself.

Weirdly, I hadn’t started out as the manager of our millinery empire—okay it’s one shop but a girl can dream, can’t she? My arrival in London had actually begun on the heels of my life’s greatest humiliation, because you can never really succeed until you have failed spectacularly, or at least that’s what I like to tell myself.

About three years ago, I was working for a resort hotel in Tampa, Florida, using my hospitality degree to its maximum potential as a manager. I was also dating the owner of the hotel. It was a glorious relationship, or so I thought. Because while I was under the impression that my beau was divorcing his wife and planning to make me his missus, he was contentedly married and considered me his side bit. How did I find out? Well, I inadvertently crashed the extravagant fifth-year wedding anniversary party he planned for her and ended up fastballing anniversary cake at him, which unbeknownst to me had a seventy-five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace in it. Oops.

Naturally, these being the times we live in, someone got video of the episode and I went viral, dubbed as the party crasher. I essentially had to flee the country to get away from the bright hot spotlight of the paparazzi. Viv reached out to me and sent me a one-way ticket to London, insisting that I take up my half of the hat shop our grandmother Mim had left to us when she passed. I agreed and the rest, as they say, is history.

We jostled along on the train. People got on and got off. Viv acquired more looks and stares of appreciation, and I enjoyed watching her completely ignore them all. Men did some pretty amazing things to get her attention. There was one man who was so impressed with his own bum, he made sure to stand so it was right in her face. Viv turned to me with a look of disgust.

“Really?” She didn’t bother to lower her voice when she gestured to the empty air around us and asked, “Does he not see all of the available space?”

“I think he’s trying to impress you with his glutes,” I said.

She frowned. Then she took her umbrella out of her lap and pointed it right at his behind. “Well, I’m not impressed and he’s in for a hell of a poke if he leans back.”

The man, clearly eavesdropping, glanced over his shoulder. When he noticed the business end of Viv’s umbrella pointed at his posterior, he let out a small yelp and moved away.

You’d think the other men in our car would get the idea. Nope. Into the vacuum left by the bum guy stepped a charmer who locked in on Viv and asked, “Can I sit in your lap because my knees are suddenly weak?”

Viv didn’t deign to answer him. She just frowned and made a shooing motion with her hands. With an indignant huff and a softly muttered insult, he gave up and moved away.

“Honestly,” Viv said. “Are there no decent single men in the entire city of London?”

I looked at her. To meddle or not to meddle, this was the question.

“What about Alistair?” I asked.

“No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” I asked. “He’s the whole package. Hot, employed, brilliant and he adores you.”

Truly, it boggled how she could turn up her nose at the man.

“He is relationship material,” she said. “I am not looking for a relationship.”

I glanced around the train car to see if the men were about to attack. “Say that a little louder, why don’t you?”

She waved a hand dismissively.

“Viv, what’s wrong with a relationship?” I asked.

“I’m not very good at them,” she said.

“Just because your husband—”

“Don’t talk about him,” she said. “I can’t bear it.”

I studied her face. Despite her eccentric artistic temperament, Viv’s emotions ran close to the surface and the pain on her face was genuine. She’d had a rough patch in the relationship department, no doubt, but that was no reason to shut down a guy who was one in a million, was it?

“But Alistair—”

“Asked me out last night after the rugby match, and I said no,” she said. “So, that’s dusted and done. Let’s move on.”

She brushed off the lower half of her wool coat even though there was nothing there and turned away from me, indicating that this conversation was over. Honestly, it was as if she didn’t even know me! There was no way I was going to let it go. Men like Alistair were rare, like super rare, up there with spotting a unicorn or a yeti. I would be failing in my cousinly obligation of not letting her screw up her life if I just let it go.

That being said, I know Viv, and when she decides she isn’t going to listen, there is no making her hear what you have to say. No, changing her opinion about Alistair had to be done in a sneaky underhanded covert-op sort of way, which meant I absolutely needed a consult with my besties, Nick and Andre, to determine how best to go about changing Viv’s mind.

Before I could get a good brood about it going, our stop came up. When the train slowed and the doors whooshed open, we hurried out. Standing on the platform, I glanced up to get my bearings but Viv was already off and moving through the crowd. Thank goodness she was in red, so I could follow her like a cat tracking a laser.

She crossed the platform and headed through a door that took us to another waiting area. I glanced up and read the digital display sign that showed the arrival time for the next train was in two minutes. I stood beside Viv, pulling my own coat more tightly about me. February in London was damp and chilly—oh, who was I kidding? Pretty much every month in London was damp and chilly, but February was particularly rude about it.

The train arrived and this time we went only two stops before hopping out and climbing the stairs to the neighborhood above. The wind swept down the street and we both clapped a hand onto our hats to hold them in place.

“Finchley Park, right?” Viv asked.

“Yes.” I nodded.

She turned on her spiky heel and strode toward a small green at the end of the street. When we arrived, I saw the park was bigger than it appeared. It was completely fenced in with thick hedges inside wrought iron with an imposing gate. At one side of the park was a large redbrick building where events were held, in this case where the dog show would take place. PAWS had signs all over the side of the building, advertising the show.

Viv pulled the gate and held it open for me. I paused, waiting for her to shut the gate behind her so that we could stroll up the walkway together. As we approached, a door opened in the building in front of us and out through the wooden door shot a white dog with brown spots, who was wearing a frilly little pink dress with sparkles on it. Despite the skirt, she hit the grass like a firecracker was attached to her backside and she flattened herself low to the ground as she ran in big loops around the yard, her tiny legs eating up the turf as she sped by.

“Coco!” a woman called to the small dog. The woman was dressed in a deep purple coat with a jaunty scarf tied around her neck. She had short, silver hair which was pushed back from her face by a pair of eyeglasses that perched on her head like a hairband. “Coco!” she cried again. The dog paid her absolutely no mind. The woman sighed and turned to us.

“I could have had a cat,” she said. “Or a fish. But no, I picked her.”

I laughed and glanced at the dog, who wore the happiest expression I’d ever seen. “True, but you’d never get a cat in a dress.”

“Or a fish,” Viv said.

“Fair point,” the woman agreed. The dog, done with running, came back and collapsed at her feet.

“I’m Scarlett and this is my cousin, Viv. Do you know if the PAWS cocktail party is in there?”

“Yes, it is,” she said. “I’m Sue, by the way, and this is Coco.”

“Nice dress,” Viv said. She pointed to Coco’s outfit. Sue scooped the dog up into her arms and Coco propped her chin on her shoulder and blinked at us, the picture of innocence.

“Do you think so?” Sue asked. “I was thinking I should have put her in her blue dress, but pink just seemed so cheerful, plus it’s her favorite. Of course, I don’t suppose it matters since Betty Wentworth and her dog, Freddy, are in matching hats. Matching bowler hats, no less, can you believe it? Who could compete with that?”

“No one. Since I’m the milliner who made them, yes, I have to say that,” Viv said.

“Oh, really?” Sue asked. Her delicate eyebrows rose over her pretty hazel eyes. “Are you looking for any more clients? Coco does love her hats.”

Viv glanced from Sue to Coco with a thoughtful look. “Maybe. Stop by our shop, Mim’s Whims in Notting Hill, and we’ll talk.” She strode into the party without another word, leaving Sue staring after her in bemusement.

“Yes, she’s like that with everyone,” I said. “Personally, I’d love to see Coco in a pink hat to match her dress.” I reached into my clutch purse and found a card. “Stop by anytime.”

“Why, thank you,” Sue said. “I think I will.”

I turned and followed Viv into the party, leaving Sue to discuss the merits of a hat with her dog. I had a feeling we’d be seeing them sooner rather than later.

The party was everything a dog cocktail party should be. There were several food stations, some specifically for the dogs in attendance, serving dog-friendly appetizers. There were also several self-filtering water stations.

Just inside the door there was a coat check where Viv and I unloaded our heavy wool coats. I’d been a little afraid we’d be overdressed but we were on point. People were dressed to impress and, in my opinion at least, the outfits worked. This was obviously a high-society event, as diamonds sparkled, shoes gleamed, suits ranged from black to blue to one sassy burgundy number. Viv and I were not the only two women in hats. In fact, hats were most definitely in the majority and everywhere I looked there were dogs. It was glorious!

Tall dogs, short dogs, pudgy dogs, slim dogs, old dogs, young dogs, it was a canine cornucopia. Most of the dogs were leashed and well behaved, sitting or standing beside their person. I could see now why Coco had likely been taken outside to run her wiggles out. Unruly behavior was definitely frowned upon at the party.

“It smells like dog in here,” Viv said. She wrinkled her nose. “I need a drink. How about you?”

“Yes, please,” I said. I followed her, pulling my phone out of my bag to see if Harry had sent me a text. There was nothing. The room was so thick with people and dogs; I couldn’t spot him or Aunt Betty anywhere. For that matter, I didn’t see Andre or Nick either. I wondered if they had Andre set up someplace specific to take pictures of the dogs or if he was wandering around the room with his camera. I looked up and scanned the crowd.

No sign of him. Darn. A skittish whippet leaned against my leg while I sent a quick text to Harry and then another to Andre. I gently disengaged the dog with a smile at her person and found Viv was already at the bar, frowning at a list of cocktails.

“Okay, it looks like our choices are of the canine variety,” she said. “Personally, I’m going to have the Greyhound—and you?”

I blinked and took the list she handed me. It was a list of cocktails all named after dogs, such as the Salty Chihuahua, the Frosty French Bulldog, and the Pomegranate Pomeranian. I smiled at Viv, but she didn’t look amused.

“Sorry, I’ll have the Pink Poodle, please,” I said. It was vanilla vodka, lemon-lime soda and a splash of grenadine. Yum.

Viv was just handing me my drink—it was in a large martini glass with a circular slice of lime impaled on the edge—when we heard a commotion on the far side of the room. I’m not sure why but my intuition told me that our people were involved.

“Let’s go,” I said to Viv. She grabbed her drink, not nearly as pretty as mine, and followed me as I used my elbow to snowplow through the crowd. We crossed the massive high-ceilinged room until we reached the opposite entrance.

The voices got louder and I turned a corner and found Aunt Betty, standing with Freddy, waving her finger in the face of a man who looked like he wanted to strangle her. He was tall and thin, dressed in a black suit that was clearly bespoke, on his wrist gleamed a gold Rolex and on his hand sparkled a ring with a diamond the size of my head. Truly, the guy was wearing enough bling to rival a rapper. His thick head of white hair was unruly in a product-infused way. He was obviously a very wealthy man and there was no dog at his side so I assumed he was one of the sponsors of the PAWS dog show.

People all around them were listening in, but Betty was oblivious, continuing her tirade regardless of the audience. She’d even pushed back her charcoal gray bowler with the exquisite aqua ribbon stitched around the outer edge of the brim, which matched the one Freddy was wearing, so she could give the man her full glare.

“You have to have a full investigation into the process,” Aunt Betty was saying. “A quality control measure is clearly lacking somewhere in the chain. You can’t ignore it when dogs are made ill by your product—”

“You can repeat your lies as often as you want,” the man snapped. “That doesn’t make them true.”

“How dare you! I am not lying,” Aunt Betty protested. In one hand she had Freddy’s leash and in the other a drink, which was tall and clear but stuffed with limes.

“I can assure you that everything you have said thus far is wrong,” the man said, bristling. If he’d been a dog the hair on his scruff would have stood up. Freddy must not have liked his tone because I noticed his ears went back and his fur was beginning to rise. “And if it is wrong then it is a lie.”

“My dog was sick, I tell you,” Aunt Betty said. “Your dog food made Freddy violently ill. I had to throw it all out. A year’s worth!”

“That was stupidly shortsighted on your part,” the man snarled. “My dog food is of the highest quality.”

I gasped. This had to be Swendson, the sponsor of the show. Oh, God. This was bad, so bad. I scanned the area, looking for Harry. He was supposed to be with her. Where was he? He needed to do some damage control on his aunt.

“It’s poison, that’s what it is,” Aunt Betty said. She stiffened her spine and glared at him. “You’d better be careful; some dog owner is liable to do unto you as you’ve done unto their dog.”

“Are you threatening me? With poison?”

I noticed several people were openly watching the exchange with mouths agape and eyes wide. One of them was even filming it with their phone. Oh, no.

“I’d say it’s more of a promise,” Aunt Betty snarled.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, what was your name again?” Swendson asked. His look was calculating and I knew he was going to use his sponsorship power to check her. This wasn’t going to go well for Aunt Betty or Freddy.

“Time to jump in,” I said to Viv. I gave her a nudge forward, harder than I should have, I suppose, as she careened forward and bumped hips with Swendson, breaking his stare-off with Aunt Betty.

“Hey, there you are,” I said. I looped my arm through Aunt Betty’s and tugged. “Harry is looking for you. Let’s go!”

“Wait, I’m not finished yet,” she said. She turned back to Swendson, whose attention was on Viv and, like most men did when she crossed their path, he stared at her with a slightly slack-jawed look of disbelief. “It is imperative, Mr. Swend—”

He tore his gaze away from Viv and focused on Aunt Betty. I could see the veins in his neck begin to throb. Uh-oh.

“Harry! Yoo-hoo!” I shouted over Aunt Betty, trying to lure Harry in from wherever he was. “Over here!”

“Hello,” Viv said. She placed her hand on Swendson’s arm. “I’m Vivian.” She looked at Mr. Swendson from under her eyelashes. He forgot about Aunt Betty.

“Ginger, there you are!” Harry pushed through the crowd. Nick and Andre were right behind him. Unfortunately, this brought Mr. Swendson back around, too.

“Hey, there, Freddy old chap,” Nick said. “Aunt Betty, where did you go? We were supposed to stay together to protect Freddy.”

I saw Mr. Swendson’s eyes go from Aunt Betty to Freddy. Damn it, even if he didn’t know Aunt Betty’s name, now he knew her dog’s. I was willing to bet he could deduce who Aunt Betty was from that. If he complained, it could make the judging very difficult for Freddy. Viv’s hats or no, the competition could be lost before it even began.

“You mean Cedric,” I said. I tried to project my voice over the rumble of the crowd toward Mr. Swendson. “That dog’s name is Cedric.”

My friends all looked at me as if I were mental. Why was no one playing along? Clearly, if I had renamed the dog, I had done it for a reason.

“Scarlett, how many of those bevvies have you had?” Andre asked with a half smile. “Freddy is his name; it always has been.”

Mr. Swendson’s eyes narrowed. He removed Viv’s hand from his arm, glared at Aunt Betty and stalked away from our rambunctious group without another word. Damn it.