With Love from London(17)

“How’d your date go?” I ask, following behind. “With, Jeremy, right?

“Terrible,” she says, her mouth tensing. “First, he was late—forty minutes late—and then, after I’d gone to the trouble of making him eggs royale, he claimed to be allergic to crumpets. I ask you, have you ever heard of someone who has an allergy to crumpets?” She shakes her head. “He just sat there. Didn’t even take a single bite. And then he had the audacity to try to make out with me.” She shrugs. “I’m sorry, but if a man isn’t going to eat my food, then it’s off. Anyway, I told him to leave.”

“So, no more Jeremy, then?”

“Jeremy is kaput,” she replies.

I laugh, liking her more by the minute.

“It’s probably my fault,” she continues with a sigh. “I have a thing for bad boys, always have. They’re fun, even though it never ends well. After all these years, you’d think I would have learned my lesson, but no.” She shrugs. “How about you? Married?” She glances at my bare ring finger.

“No,” I say. “I mean, I was, but I actually just…well, I’m going through a divorce.”

“Oh dear,” she says with a gasp. “You poor thing. First your mum, and then…” She covers her mouth, deeply concerned. “Have you ever heard that thing about bad luck coming in threes?”

“Yes,” I say. “I guess I’m the lucky one who has one more terrible thing to look forward to.”

“Maybe it’ll be something small, like a…” she says, pausing for a few beats, “like a crack in your cellphone screen or something.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, revealing the screen’s myriad jagged lines.

“Oh,” she says, discouraged as we reach the second floor. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be okay. Just, maybe look both ways when crossing the street for the time being.”

I nod, unzipping one of the suitcases to look for something to wear.

“Did he break your heart?” She pauses. “Your husband?”

“Ex-husband,” I say, correcting her. “And, yes, I guess you could say he did.” From my suitcase, I pull out a pair of black leggings and a gray, oversized sweater. “Anyway, he left me.”

Liza frowns. “I’m so sorry, I—”

“Listen, about that tour you promised me,” I say, quickly steering the conversation away from Nick. “Still up for it? Also, I could seriously use some coffee right now.”

“Sure,” Liza says. “We’ll stop at Café Flora first. I saw Jude Law in there the other day.”

“The actor?”

“Yes, otherwise known as Mr. Hot Stuff. He lives in the neighborhood. A lot of celebrity types do. He made eye contact with me when I was in line. I’m pretty sure he wants me. But, sadly, he’s really not my type.” She brushes a smudge off her glittery Doc Martens. “Though, if you’re interested, rumor has it that he’s presently single.”

I smile, stepping into the bedroom to change clothes. “Thanks, but dating is the last thing on my mind right now,” I say through the doorway.

“That’s what you say now, but just you wait.” She smiles as we make our way out to the street. “I know you’re probably anxious to see the store, but take it from me, Millie and mornings don’t mix well.”

“Millie?” The name sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

“You don’t know her?”

I shake my head.

“She was your mum’s best friend,” Liza says, looking at me curiously. “She’s been running the store since…Eloise got sick. I mean, they started it together, but Millie was already working as a barrister. She turned things over to Eloise years ago, from what I understand.”

I nod.

“Anyway, you said you needed coffee. Let’s start there first. We can circle back to the bookstore after I show you around the neighborhood. Millie will be in better spirits by then.”

Café Flora is only a few blocks down the street, with its blue awning and bistro tables in front. As we walk inside, a blast of warm, delicious-smelling air hits my face. I order a cinnamon roll and double espressos for both of us while Liza flirts with the heavily inked guy behind the counter, admiring the snake tattoo twisting around his forearm.

“So, what do you do—for work?” I ask as we sit down at a table by the window, remembering yesterday’s tense phone call with her boss.

“I’m a personal assistant,” she says moodily, “to a dictator.”

I raise an eyebrow. “As in the Kim Jong-un variety?”

“Might as well be,” she says, taking a sip of her espresso. “He invented some obscure tech widget ten years ago that made him richer than God himself, and he pays me a pittance to run his life—you know, get him theater tickets, pick up his dry cleaning, trim the toenails of his boyfriend’s poodle, act as his personal punching bag when he’s had a bad day.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She waves at a woman she recognizes, then turns back to me. “Anyway, the job was only supposed to be temporary. Seven years later, and look who’s still fetching laundry.