Up for Love in London (4 page)

“Very smart.
The airline business is quite a gamble these days, but so is
design. Fashions change so rapidly.”

“But good taste
is always in style. Like that dress.” Except that it comes out
sounding more like “dresh.” Oh dear, I’m slurring. I haven’t slept
or eaten anything and the Champagne has gone straight to my head.
“I think I need a nap.”

“My driver will
take you back to your hotel. What time would you like to meet for
dinner?”

I don’t recall
agreeing to have dinner with Charles. I start to calculate nap time
and getting ready when I remember. “I’d love to but I promised to
meet the crew for happy hour at six.”

“I could pick
you up after, how about 7:30 - or 19:30, as you airline people
say?”

“Perfect. My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon, so I can stay
in bed later in the morning.”
God that
must sound forward.

A quick text
message on his Blackberry and a stately navy blue Bentley rolls up
to the door. The car is old school but I appreciate the contrast of
his modern and traditional attitude. It’s sapphire blue, almost
black and the driver opens the door for me.

Charles’ lips
lightly brush my cheek as he helps me into the car. “I’ll be there
at 7:30 sharp, but if you need some extra time, here’s my private
cell number.” He tucks a business card into my pocket. The door has
barely shut when the driver accelerates, weaving expertly through
the side streets and back to my crew hotel.

CHAPTER 4 ~
Dinner & Dessert

It seems I’ve scarcely closed my
eyes when the alarm rings. At first, I’m a bit disoriented. It’s
pitch black in my hotel room and I haven’t closed the curtains. Is
it morning or night? I turn the buzzer off and roll over in bed,
wondering if the morning was a dream. Charles’ business card on my
night table confirms it was real.

I leap out of
bed, eager for our dinner date and surf through my luggage for
something to wear. I normally pack a few different outfits as
flight attendants need to be prepared for anything. I could go to
the airport, expecting to fly to Munich and end up in Martinique. I
did bring an extra black sweater and slacks and a pale pewter wrap
dress, which looks great with my blue-grey eyes. It’s what I
eventually select.

The sleep has
restored my enthusiasm and Charles’ attention, my faith in men. I
shower quickly, using the hand-held spray so I don’t have to dry my
hair again. This time, I try the lavender body lotion. It feels
refreshing against my skin and is a perfect complement to the
cucumber soap.

I’m getting
dressed when I notice a red light flashing on the phone. Maybe
Charles has called to cancel? But it’s a message from Olivia,
wondering where I am. We’d planned to meet at 6:00 at the bar and
it’s now 6:20. I rush along and it feels like deja vu when I
examine myself in the full-length mirror – all-black and grey with
red lips and nails.

The lobby bar
is dimly lit and packed with crew members, chatting, laughing and
of course, drinking. Our pilots take credit for introducing the
happy hour concept to the U.K. and I don’t doubt they had a hand in
it, knowing how much they enjoy a bargain. Flight attendants are
the same way, though we’re a bit more subtle in our approach.

I look around
the sea of vaguely familiar faces. It can be difficult to recognize
crew members out of uniform or as Richard likes to say, “You look
different with your clothes on.”

Olivia waves me
over and flags down the bartender. “Two dry white wine, thanks,
love. Lauren, how was your morning?”

“Exceptional
and the evening promises more of the same. Remember the handsome
passenger in first class? I bumped into him downtown and he’s
invited me for dinner tonight.” I left out the details about our
steamy encounter in the changing room and the dress he bought me.
I’m not sure why, but there was something sweeter about that whole
encounter than I could ever convince anyone of.

“Heartbroken or
not, you certainly are a man magnet. Congratulations darling.”

“Congrats on
what?” Richard steps in and gives us both a quick kiss.

“Congrats on
Lauren’s date with 3C.”

“Already? No
flies on you Lauren. Well, go for the gusto and if you have the
opportunity, shag that Mr. Sterling for all he’s worth. I know I
would.”

“Richard,
you’re so bad,” and I slap his arm playfully.

“That’s part of
my charm. Look ladies, there’s Jennifer. I think she’s alone, but
not for long.” Sure enough, she was holding court on the armrest of
a lounge chair, surrounded by a table of older-than-middle-aged
pilots.

Richard must
have caught my seething expression. “Oh relax Lauren, I don’t think
Brad is going to join her, but the first officer might.”

“I hope she
sees Charles picking me up in his Bentley. That would be a nice
image for her to convey to Brad.”

Olivia’s eyes
flashed. “Or even if Jim saw you... what time is Charles meeting
you?”

“7:30.”

“Richard and I
shall arrange it, won’t we darling?”

“Of course,
anything for our dear Lauren.”

We clink
glasses and Olivia takes a hearty sip while I try to make one glass
of wine last for an hour. I’ll be having cocktails with Charles
later and I’d like to keep my wits about me, at least for a short
time.

~

It’s only 7:15
but I’ve been checking my watch so often I feel as though I’ve
hardly enjoyed myself. There’s so much action at the bar, I don’t
think anyone has noticed. My glass is almost empty, so I may as
well step outside. I wave goodbye to Olivia and she gives me a
thumbs up in return.

I’m standing
under the canopy when the Bentley pulls in. The car attracts a lot
of attention but so does Charles when he steps out. He’s just so
handsome. After kissing me on the cheek, he murmurs a quick,
“Hello, darling, you look ravishing,” in my ear, and opens the door
for me. It’s a bit odd to be sitting in the left front seat without
a steering wheel. It reminds me of the Absolutely Fabulous gals in
France and I have to suppress a giggle. Though I know Brits drive
on the left, I suppose I didn’t notice it earlier when I was in the
back seat.

Now I can
divide my time between drooling over Charles and the car. This is a
truly classy vehicle, the sort of machine that screams old money
and plenty of it. The dashboard is fashioned from polished burled
oak and the cream leather seats are immaculate.

I’m feeling
slightly uncomfortable and maybe a bit insecure, so I start to
babble about the car. “This is a beautiful machine, Charles.”

He smiles at me and nods. “Bentley Continental R Mulliner,
2003. One of the last ‘real’ Bentleys. I have other cars, but I’m
really attached to the old girl.”
“It looks very…”

“Expensive?”
His eyebrows raise and I know he’s having fun with me.

“Well, yes, I
suppose.” I was thinking “bloody expensive,” but he doesn’t need to
know that.

“It seems
you’re a woman who loves beautiful things.”

“More than
that, I appreciate the skill and artistry that goes into creating
them.”

We cruise
through the streets of London, past lush grounds with stately
homes. The rain has stopped but the streets are slick. The
Bentleys’ wipers swish on occasionally, clearing the spray from
cars ahead.

“Where are we
going?”

“To a special
place. I hope you like French food?”

“Of course, who
doesn’t?”

“I noticed your
barrette earlier – it’s from Printemps, isn’t it?

“You’re very
observant.”

“It’s the only
place in Paris that sells them. My sister is a fashion designer.
She dabbles in accessories and jewellery as well. She designed that
piece as an exclusive for the store.”

“Small world,” I murmur.
I wish he
wouldn’t keep taking me back to Paris, though it bothers me less
and less.

“Indeed. Do you
fly to Paris often?”

“In the past,
yes, though I think it’s time for a change. I might choose London
instead.” I glance over at him. He’s still looking straight ahead,
and I’m able to check out his fine profile. His expression remains
the same though I think I detect a curve forming at the corners of
his mouth.

His eyes scan
the rear view mirror and then he turns to look at me. “That would
be lovely.”

My first
impulse is to look away but I hold his gaze and smile. He places
his hand briefly on my knee before taking the wheel again and
turning sharply into a dimly-lit side street.

The number of
luxury cars lining the block tells me this is no ordinary dining
establishment. Charles expertly steers the big vehicle into the
only available parking spot and turns the ignition off. When he
steps out, I notice the valet greets him by name. I wait until he
opens my door and offers his hand to me.

“Thank you,” I
say softly.

“My
pleasure.”

“Mr. Sterling,
shall I leave the car here, as usual?”

“As usual,
Lewis.”

“Right. Enjoy
your dinner sir, ma’am.”

“Thank you,
Lewis, we shall.”

I smile at the
young man, then quickly survey the restaurant’s exterior before
Charles sweeps me inside. It’s all red brick and shiny green ivy.
Wrought iron gas lamps flicker seductively on either side of a
tall, oxblood-lacquered door. It’s pure Georgian, no faux-French
chateaux here, so the owner must be confident in his chef. Inside
the foyer, a crystal chandelier glitters, its lights reflected in
bevelled French glass doors giving a hint of what lies beyond.

We step inside and the transformation is complete. I feel like
Cinderella at the ball, even though I already have my Prince
Charming. I sense Charles looking for my reaction and I’m not
ashamed to let a whispered
Wow
escape my lips.

It’s a grand
area, accented with ornate plaster mouldings and pale creamy walls.
A real fire blazes in the limestone fireplace, creating warmth and
intimacy. Crystal wall sconces topped by dainty silk shades cast a
romantic glow.

The rooms are
elegantly divided by unobtrusive wait stations and discreet
partitions, so I’m unable to see the entire space at once. I
thought most diners would be couples, but as we follow the maître d
to a quiet corner, I recognize a few prominent businessmen and
politicians.

I’m not
surprised that we’re seated at the most romantic spot. It’s at the
far corner of the restaurant, in a private alcove, with a view
outside to a walled garden. Strands of tiny white twinkle merrily
as they weave through trellises and evergreen topiaries. A light
snow begins to fall.

Like the other
tables, ours is dressed in soft white linen that drapes to the
floor. A single rose rests in a short silver vase, no shrinking bud
but a lusciously full bloom, its pure white petals singed with
coral. “It’s magical,” I say to Charles, barely able to contain my
enthusiasm.

“I knew you’d
enjoy it,” he says and places his hand over mine.

Immediately, a
bottle of Champagne and two crystal flutes appear. I’m admiring
them as the waiter expertly fills them.

“Baccarat,”
Charles says. “The glasses, not the Champagne.”

“Of course,”
and I smile. Although I appreciate his knowledge, I don’t need a
lesson in crystal or fine dining. I’ve been around the globe a few
times.

As if reading
my mind, he quickly apologizes. “Just confirming that I knew what
you know.”

I have to laugh
at that. “Do you always try so hard on a first date? I’m sure you
don’t need to.”

“No and it’s
very rare that I even want to.” He raises his glass and proposes a
toast. “To a magical evening.”

One evening
sounds a bit short-lived to me but if I only have one night with
the prince, I’m going to make the most of it. “To a magical
evening,” I agree.

~

Charles places
our orders. The meal starts with a quartet of perfectly chilled
oysters, still wearing the slightly salty mantle of the sea. Over
the next hour and a half, I savour the most sublime and seductive
meal I’ve ever tasted. Beetroot-filled ravioli with tidbits of
seared foie gras, a palate-cleansing sorbet of papaya and kaffir
lime before a perfectly proportioned main course of duck
confit.

“A step up from
last night,” I say with a smile.

“In my
grandfather’s day, one ate like this in first class. Well, not
quite like this.”

“It must have
been exciting to fly when the whole experience was new.”

“Yes, but in
those days, England and Europe were still recovering from the war.
Depressing, I would think. For those with means, the world has more
to offer now.”

I smile again.
I don’t have “means” but I’ve tasted the good life. I don’t take it
for granted.

“Of course,” he
continues, “for those with curiosity and imagination, the world
always has a great deal to offer.”

“If imagination
is the same as daydreaming, I’m a virtuoso,” I said.

“And what do
you daydream about?”

The way he says
it makes me blush. To distract his attention I start talking about
my interest in designing, how I used to sketch fantastic mansions
when I was a teenager, complete with turret rooms and rivers
winding through. He laughs and tells me about places he’s been that
were almost that extravagant. I’ve traveled, but Charles has seen
so much more. I find that very appealing. Dating men who’ve barely
left their hometown, even if that town is a major city, always
feels like a step backwards. Maybe that was Brad’s appeal, as a
pilot. If so, Charles has him beat by a longshot.

Slowly we
reveal ourselves - at least the part of our personalities we deem
most attractive. No one wants to know about a sad family life,
financial failures and messy affairs. Even the rich have their
dirty secrets, as hard as the media might try to ferret them
out.