With Love from London(16)

We talked for hours, and another round of drinks. Time passed, but not really. I merely beamed from one topic to the next. At some point, Edward glanced at his watch and suggested we head upstairs for dinner. “I secured a coveted corner table,” he said. “You don’t have to worry.”

I wanted to tell him that on his arm, I would never worry. I could go anywhere, be anything. It’s true, I hadn’t been honest with him about my formative years, but I’d tell him in time, and somehow, I knew he’d not only forgive me, but accept me.

But then, our private moment was invaded by a pounding on the door. “Mr. Sinclair!” A uniformed man burst through the doorway, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He paused to catch his breath. “There’s a telephone call for you on the third floor. It’s urgent. It’s about your—”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Edward said quickly, his brow furrowed.

I felt like a fictional character, torn from the pages of a suspenseful chapter before reaching its conclusion. Would my ending be happy or tragic? I didn’t know.

“Miss Wilkins,” Edward said, his spark turned somber. “It has been an absolute pleasure, but I’m afraid I…must go. I’d hate to leave you waiting as I’m not sure how long this matter might take. Why don’t we plan on seeing each other again, and hopefully soon?” He paused, smiling for a brief moment. “Maybe we—”

“Mr. Sinclair,” the man in the doorway interrupted. “Your caller is waiting.”

“Yes,” Edward said, turning to the door. “Please forgive me, Eloise.” My heart seized when he said my name. “I’ll call you.”

I hadn’t given him my telephone number, and I dreaded the thought of him looking me up only to learn that I was not the daughter of a wealthy socialite as I professed to be, but rather, a struggling salesclerk, residing in a ramshackle apartment in the East End.

“Yes,” I muttered. “Goodbye, Edward.” But he was already gone.

I sighed, taking a final glance at the quaint little library bar before I walked back to the reception desk to retrieve my coat and the one I’d borrowed from Millie. The night, it seemed, was over before it began.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the counter—the one whom I’d encountered earlier. “I need to leave…a message for a member…Mr. Edward Sinclair.”

She raised an eyebrow, then pointed to a nearby tray with a box of note cards and envelopes. I grabbed a pen and wrote:


Edward,

Please don’t think me a thief, but I still have your jacket from last night. I’ve decided to hold it hostage until I see you again. At the risk of sounding too forward, meet me at Jack’s Bistro in Mayfair at 7:00 tomorrow night? X marks the spot.

I’ll be waiting,

Eloise XX





“Will you please make sure Mr. Sinclair gets this?”

The woman nodded without emotion, silently slipping the note into an unmarked drawer before answering an incoming telephone call.

I walked outside to the street and looked up at the night sky, where the city lights of London forged their familiar battle with the stars sparkling overhead. I smiled to myself, knowing which side would win, and always would.





The Next Day



Birds chirp from the old willow tree outside the window as I sit up in bed, gasping when I glance at the time on my phone: 6:23 a.m. I rub my eyes, squinting as a bright stream of sunlight hits me. I’ve somehow managed to sleep through an entire day—and night.

I stand and yawn, taking a moment to find my bearings. It’s Sunday, no, Monday. I’m in my mother’s flat. What’s-her-name from downstairs—Liza, yes, Liza—had offered to show me around town today (or was that yesterday?). I wonder how her brunch date turned out as I take the stairs to the bottom floor and retrieve the cosmetic case from one of my suitcases. It’s going to take some deep moisturizing to revive my tired complexion.

Downstairs in the foyer, I find the things I need, then zip up my suitcases when Liza calls down. “Valentina, is that you?”

“Yes,” I say as she appears on the stairs.

“Let me help you with these bags,” she says, reaching for one of the suitcases.

“Oh, I’m not staying,” I say quickly.

She looks confused. “Not staying?”

“I…I mean, I’m checking in to a hotel. I only needed to grab my toiletries and a change of clothes.”

“That’s silly,” Liza says, her hand firmly planted on the handle of the suitcase. “You have your mum’s flat right upstairs. Why in the world would you go to a hotel?”

“I…I don’t know. I guess I…”

“Americans are funny,” she says, regarding me curiously. “You guess you want to get price-gouged for a tiny room and a bathroom the size of a broom closet when you can have an entire flat for free?” She pauses. “I mean, you own the place, don’t you?”

She’s right, I guess. But staying in my mother’s flat was never part of the plan. It felt too, well, intimate. But when Liza begins lugging one of my suitcases up the stairs, I’m too tired to protest. Besides, she makes a good point.