With Love from London(67)

In the entryway, I slipped on a sweater, applied a bit of pink lipstick before checking my reflection in the mirror by the door.

“You look awfully beautiful tonight,” Frank said, startling me from behind.

“Thank you,” I said, catching my breath. His comment felt less like a compliment and more like an accusation.

“Is everything all right?” he continued. “You don’t seem like yourself tonight.”

“That’s funny,” I said, reaching for the keys to the Volvo, “because I’ve never felt more like myself.”



* * *



—

At the art walk that night, I perused vendor booths, stopping when something caught my eye. I was alone, of course, as I so often was in California, but for the first time in so long, I didn’t feel lonely.

I paused to take in a landscape painting, which reminded me of the English countryside where my mother took me once as a child, but my mind was still on Frank—his troubles, his need to control the narrative and me. I sighed, walking ahead, stopping to look at a modern painting on a table to my right. The scene immediately resonated—oil on canvas, depicting a little girl jumping into a pool, with a mid-century modern home in the background. It was small, but I knew Frank would love it, and surprisingly, so did I.

The intersection of two worlds, two hearts, I thought as I reached into my purse, pulling out the money I’d made from selling a few of my old dresses from Harrods at a consignment store recently. I paid the artist and tucked the painting—a gift to Frank—into my bag. A peace offering.

I started walking back to my car when I heard my name echoing in the night.

“Eloise?”

I turned around to find a man standing a few feet behind me. It was dark, so it took me a moment recognize him and connect the dots, but I did.

“It’s Peter,” he said, smiling. “We met down by the beach. You were having parking issues. Do you remember?”

I remembered.

“Yes, of course. Hi…Peter.”

“How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” I said, walking ahead, sideswiping a man with a heavy camera strapped to his shoulder as Peter followed.

“The paparazzi are out in full force tonight,” he said. “Rumor has it that Goldie Hawn and her daughter are here.”

“I may have my own problems,” I said with a smile, “but I’m grateful that lack of privacy isn’t one.”

“I know,” he added, catching up to me. “I wouldn’t trade my freedom for anything.”

Freedom. I thought about what Peter just said, though I could only partly agree. While he might live the life he chose, I would never have my American dream. Land of the free, home of the brave, they say, but I felt neither free nor brave—just…invisible.

“Hey, what are you doing tonight? Maybe we could…grab a late dinner, or a drink?”

But now, I felt…seen.

I paused, immediately flattered, as I adjusted the tote bag in my hand, with Frank’s painting inside, while considering Peter’s invitation. At first, it seemed harmless, fun even—a quick drink, a little conversation, maybe we’d even walk to the beach and kick off our shoes. It would be crossing the line, of course, but oh how I longed to know what was on the other side of that line that kept me in my safe, comfortable, but lonely place for far too long.

I could feel Peter’s gaze imploring me to take the first step, to join him in this new world of freedom. But as appealing as it was, I knew he wasn’t my ticket out. No man would ever be.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’d love to, I really would, but you see, I’m married. And I just…can’t.”

“Oh,” he replied, his face equal parts understanding and disappointed. “Well, if anything changes, look me up, okay?”

“Sure,” I said waving goodbye.

But I wouldn’t. I’d walk to my car and drive home, kiss Valentina’s sleepy head, and wander into my bedroom alone.





The Next Day



The evening of the fundraiser arrives with as much excitement as it does nerves. Millie and I meet in Liza’s flat to start the evening with a celebratory toast.

“How do I look?” Millie asks, nervously surveying her reflection in the mirror.

“Gorgeous,” I say, admiring her long, black-sequined evening gown. “Fernando will be starstruck. Speaking of, when will he be here?”

She glances at her watch. “I’m meeting him in front of the store in ten minutes. Goodness, we have to hurry!”

“Now, hold still,” Liza scolds, attempting to dab Millie’s eyelids with a dusting of taupe eye shadow. “You don’t want to look like a racoon, do you?”

After a few moments, she steps back to admire her masterpiece, nodding with satisfaction before applying a mist of setting spray.

I’m glad to see she’s chosen a classic, muted palette for Millie, and not one more suited to, say, the members of an all-girl punk rock band.

“There,” she says. “Perfection.”

I pop the champagne as Liza slips into her dress—a short blue number with a flouncy waist and a spray of peacock feathers on the shoulder. If anyone can pull off such a zany fashion statement, it’s Liza. Besides, it matches her hair. I smile to myself, pouring us each a glass of bubbly as she dabs her eyelids with a swath of blue shimmer.