I’ve got today. No matter what happens, I’ve got today in London. I’m going to enjoy every minute. I’ll take the Tube, I decide. Like a real Londoner. The St. James’ Park station is just across from my hotel. I’ve already walked to Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. I’ve stopped for a coffee at Costa, just next to my hotel. And I’ve thought about how Mayfair is likely only a Tube ride away. That’s where Jennings said he lived, wasn’t it? Mayfair. I only remember such a random detail because my birthday is in May.
I stand in front of my hotel and toe the sidewalk with my sneaker while I debate. Then I check both ways—twice, because the direction cars drive in here is confusing—and cross the street. I get an Oyster card and I figure out the Tube map just like a real Londoner. It’s only one stop to Green Park, which is on the edge of Mayfair, according to my map. I’ll just walk around a bit, no harm in that. Assuming Green Park is an actual park and not a garden for a castle, I’m sure it’s open to anyone to wander about.
That’s my story anyway. If I’m randomly questioned about why I’m walking around Mayfair. Which is unlikely, but it’s always good to have a plan when you’re lying.
I exit the Tube station at Green Park and jog up the steps to the street, a smile already on my face. When I get to the top I have to refrain from spinning around in a circle like some weirdo reenacting a scene from The Sound of Music.
The park is straight ahead. The street is brimming with red double-decker buses and those oddly-shaped black cabs they use here. All the cars have long skinny license plates, and how is this all so charming? How is it possible for a city to give me butterflies?
I accept pretty quickly that I’ve no idea where the residential area of Mayfair might be, or where Jennings’ apartment might be, if he even lives here. He could have been lying after all. And this area seems pretty swanky even to my naïve eye. As in, the Ritz Carlton is just ahead. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t even remember what street he said he lived on. I just wanted a general impression of the area, somewhere to place him when I remember him.
So I walk. I pop in and out of stores. I get my souvenir magnet and a box of cookies for Daisy. Except they’re called biscuits, which makes them even better. I buy a ticket and ride a double-decker bus around the city. When I finally cave to the jet lag and head back to my hotel my heart is full and I’m glad I came.
The hotel has a pub called the Blue Boar and I stop there for dinner. It’s a classic British pub. Sophisticated classic. Herringbone wood floors and green leather chesterfield sofas. I select a small round table in front of the windows and place my obligatory order for fish and chips. As I settle in to wait I cannot believe it was less than two weeks ago that I walked into a similar bar an ocean away with the intent of picking up a sexy stranger.
I’d never leave this bar with someone. It’s so not my nature.
But I did leave with Jennings. Practically skipped out the door with him, didn’t I?
Maybe I’ll try being that carefree girl again, but not tonight. Tonight I’m regular old Violet because I don’t need to pretend to be anyone else. Tomorrow I’m going to put on my own clothing—though I did nab the perfect earrings from Daisy—and nail this interview.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Violet
I don’t know what is happening, but today is my day. Maybe it’s the water here or the hotel shampoo, but I’m having the perfect hair day. The kind that only comes along a few times a year and when it does you make the best of it and take a bunch of gratuitous selfies to use on your social media profiles.
I arrive at the Sutton International offices early. Too early, so I walk around a bit to waste some time. Showing up too early for an interview is just as inept as showing up late, so I’ll stay outside until precisely ten minutes before my scheduled interview.
The offices are in Berkeley Square, which as it turns out is in Mayfair. I hadn’t realized by looking at the address on paper, but as the cab wound its way through the London streets I figured it out. That, and I asked the cab driver.
So here I am, walking in the Berkeley Square Gardens, smack in the middle of Mayfair. I wonder if the magic of this place would wear off if I saw it every day? It’s hard to believe it could. The architecture surrounding me is so inspiring. I could spend a lifetime admiring the roof lines from this spot in the park. Heck, even the gravel path beneath my feet inspires me. The wrought-iron fencing and the street lamps, the window casings and the stonework.
I can’t imagine it getting old, not ever. I want to pinch myself to make sure being here is real and not a dream.
I look at the surrounding buildings and wonder if any of them are residential or if they’re all offices.
And just like that I get a flutter in my stomach, thinking about how close Jennings could be. Thinking of him living or working in one of these buildings. He could cut through this very park to get to work.
Of course it’s nearly ten, it’s unlikely he’s on his way to work at this hour. Unlikely I’d bump into him today. Unlikely I’d bump into him ever.
What would I even say to him? ‘Hi, it’s Violet, remember me? No, you probably don’t since I told you my name was Daisy. Sorry about that. Nice to see you again. By the way, thank you for making me fall in love with you and then leaving without so much as a goodbye. See ya around, jerk.’
He really is a jerk.
How could he just leave like that? How? I know it was only a week, but the connection we had wasn’t one you walk away from without a word. It was so much more than sex. We fit together, like finding a missing puzzle piece. One that you think you’ll never locate and then bam, it’s right there in front of you, just waiting to be snapped into place.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about him again when he probably hasn’t thought about me at all. It’s nice to fantasize though, isn’t it? Fantasy conversations are so satisfying. You always have the best comebacks and always get the final triumphant word. Jennings would grovel and have a really great explanation for standing me up. And I’d… well, I have no idea what I’d do. But I’d have to get the job and bump into him for this fantasy confrontation to happen, so I’ve got plenty of time to think about how I’d react.
Plenty of time.
***
I’m killing it in this interview. I’ve spent well over an hour with the hiring manager—the person I’d be reporting to directly if I got hired. We had an instant rapport and the more we talk the better it gets.
I love the vibe in the office too. Professional, yet comfortable. The building itself has an energy to it that makes me happy. It sounds crazy, but it’s true. It’s a lot like house-hunting. Sometimes you walk into a place and it just feels right.
This building feels right. The people feel right.
The hiring manager—Elouise—even asked me to grab a coffee with her before she introduced me to the rest of her team. We walked next door to a local coffee shop and ordered it to take away when we walked back to the office. People don’t ask you to walk with them for coffee if the interview isn’t going well.
I had this moment inside the coffee shop where I thought I saw Jennings and my heart stopped, but it wasn’t him. Just a random hot-as-fuck British guy.
I love London.
And now I’m in the conference room with Elouise and three members of her team. We’re reviewing a property they’re currently renovating and they’re asking my opinion. I’m not naïve, it’s definitely part of the interview. But I’m in my element with this stuff, so it’s fine. We’re reviewing CAD drawings on an oversized wall monitor when the door opens.
It opens quickly, that’s the first thing I notice. It’s not a timid opening of a door, one you’d expect when the room is occupied and the door closed. It’s the opposite of that. Abrupt, as if the person is expected, but late.
The next thing I notice is the reactions from the table. Elouise is unfazed at the interruption, but the others all sit up straighter, the mood gone from relaxed to intent in a heartbeat.
“We’re using the room,” Elouise says after a pregnant pause. My back is to the door and I hear it shut behind me, but all of the energy in the room is still on that door so I assume whomever has arrived has stayed, not left. Across from me a man named Aaron adjusts the pen and pad in front of him so it’s perfectly square.
“I wanted to sit in on this one,” a voice says and it takes my entire body half a second to freeze. In fact, I’m fairly certain I could pass for one of those street performers who pretends to be a statue. Then I exhale. This is like the coffee shop, I’m sure. My imagination run rampant.
“You wanted to sit in on an interview for a designer?” Elouise asks, her tone unimpressed.
“Yes,” comes the reply as he walks into view.
He looks just like Jennings.
Because it is Jennings.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Violet
Holy fuck. He’s here. In London. In this conference room. My mind is spinning faster than I can process the thoughts, my heart racing as if I’m running a marathon.
I stand in front of my hotel and toe the sidewalk with my sneaker while I debate. Then I check both ways—twice, because the direction cars drive in here is confusing—and cross the street. I get an Oyster card and I figure out the Tube map just like a real Londoner. It’s only one stop to Green Park, which is on the edge of Mayfair, according to my map. I’ll just walk around a bit, no harm in that. Assuming Green Park is an actual park and not a garden for a castle, I’m sure it’s open to anyone to wander about.
That’s my story anyway. If I’m randomly questioned about why I’m walking around Mayfair. Which is unlikely, but it’s always good to have a plan when you’re lying.
I exit the Tube station at Green Park and jog up the steps to the street, a smile already on my face. When I get to the top I have to refrain from spinning around in a circle like some weirdo reenacting a scene from The Sound of Music.
The park is straight ahead. The street is brimming with red double-decker buses and those oddly-shaped black cabs they use here. All the cars have long skinny license plates, and how is this all so charming? How is it possible for a city to give me butterflies?
I accept pretty quickly that I’ve no idea where the residential area of Mayfair might be, or where Jennings’ apartment might be, if he even lives here. He could have been lying after all. And this area seems pretty swanky even to my naïve eye. As in, the Ritz Carlton is just ahead. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t even remember what street he said he lived on. I just wanted a general impression of the area, somewhere to place him when I remember him.
So I walk. I pop in and out of stores. I get my souvenir magnet and a box of cookies for Daisy. Except they’re called biscuits, which makes them even better. I buy a ticket and ride a double-decker bus around the city. When I finally cave to the jet lag and head back to my hotel my heart is full and I’m glad I came.
The hotel has a pub called the Blue Boar and I stop there for dinner. It’s a classic British pub. Sophisticated classic. Herringbone wood floors and green leather chesterfield sofas. I select a small round table in front of the windows and place my obligatory order for fish and chips. As I settle in to wait I cannot believe it was less than two weeks ago that I walked into a similar bar an ocean away with the intent of picking up a sexy stranger.
I’d never leave this bar with someone. It’s so not my nature.
But I did leave with Jennings. Practically skipped out the door with him, didn’t I?
Maybe I’ll try being that carefree girl again, but not tonight. Tonight I’m regular old Violet because I don’t need to pretend to be anyone else. Tomorrow I’m going to put on my own clothing—though I did nab the perfect earrings from Daisy—and nail this interview.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Violet
I don’t know what is happening, but today is my day. Maybe it’s the water here or the hotel shampoo, but I’m having the perfect hair day. The kind that only comes along a few times a year and when it does you make the best of it and take a bunch of gratuitous selfies to use on your social media profiles.
I arrive at the Sutton International offices early. Too early, so I walk around a bit to waste some time. Showing up too early for an interview is just as inept as showing up late, so I’ll stay outside until precisely ten minutes before my scheduled interview.
The offices are in Berkeley Square, which as it turns out is in Mayfair. I hadn’t realized by looking at the address on paper, but as the cab wound its way through the London streets I figured it out. That, and I asked the cab driver.
So here I am, walking in the Berkeley Square Gardens, smack in the middle of Mayfair. I wonder if the magic of this place would wear off if I saw it every day? It’s hard to believe it could. The architecture surrounding me is so inspiring. I could spend a lifetime admiring the roof lines from this spot in the park. Heck, even the gravel path beneath my feet inspires me. The wrought-iron fencing and the street lamps, the window casings and the stonework.
I can’t imagine it getting old, not ever. I want to pinch myself to make sure being here is real and not a dream.
I look at the surrounding buildings and wonder if any of them are residential or if they’re all offices.
And just like that I get a flutter in my stomach, thinking about how close Jennings could be. Thinking of him living or working in one of these buildings. He could cut through this very park to get to work.
Of course it’s nearly ten, it’s unlikely he’s on his way to work at this hour. Unlikely I’d bump into him today. Unlikely I’d bump into him ever.
What would I even say to him? ‘Hi, it’s Violet, remember me? No, you probably don’t since I told you my name was Daisy. Sorry about that. Nice to see you again. By the way, thank you for making me fall in love with you and then leaving without so much as a goodbye. See ya around, jerk.’
He really is a jerk.
How could he just leave like that? How? I know it was only a week, but the connection we had wasn’t one you walk away from without a word. It was so much more than sex. We fit together, like finding a missing puzzle piece. One that you think you’ll never locate and then bam, it’s right there in front of you, just waiting to be snapped into place.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about him again when he probably hasn’t thought about me at all. It’s nice to fantasize though, isn’t it? Fantasy conversations are so satisfying. You always have the best comebacks and always get the final triumphant word. Jennings would grovel and have a really great explanation for standing me up. And I’d… well, I have no idea what I’d do. But I’d have to get the job and bump into him for this fantasy confrontation to happen, so I’ve got plenty of time to think about how I’d react.
Plenty of time.
***
I’m killing it in this interview. I’ve spent well over an hour with the hiring manager—the person I’d be reporting to directly if I got hired. We had an instant rapport and the more we talk the better it gets.
I love the vibe in the office too. Professional, yet comfortable. The building itself has an energy to it that makes me happy. It sounds crazy, but it’s true. It’s a lot like house-hunting. Sometimes you walk into a place and it just feels right.
This building feels right. The people feel right.
The hiring manager—Elouise—even asked me to grab a coffee with her before she introduced me to the rest of her team. We walked next door to a local coffee shop and ordered it to take away when we walked back to the office. People don’t ask you to walk with them for coffee if the interview isn’t going well.
I had this moment inside the coffee shop where I thought I saw Jennings and my heart stopped, but it wasn’t him. Just a random hot-as-fuck British guy.
I love London.
And now I’m in the conference room with Elouise and three members of her team. We’re reviewing a property they’re currently renovating and they’re asking my opinion. I’m not naïve, it’s definitely part of the interview. But I’m in my element with this stuff, so it’s fine. We’re reviewing CAD drawings on an oversized wall monitor when the door opens.
It opens quickly, that’s the first thing I notice. It’s not a timid opening of a door, one you’d expect when the room is occupied and the door closed. It’s the opposite of that. Abrupt, as if the person is expected, but late.
The next thing I notice is the reactions from the table. Elouise is unfazed at the interruption, but the others all sit up straighter, the mood gone from relaxed to intent in a heartbeat.
“We’re using the room,” Elouise says after a pregnant pause. My back is to the door and I hear it shut behind me, but all of the energy in the room is still on that door so I assume whomever has arrived has stayed, not left. Across from me a man named Aaron adjusts the pen and pad in front of him so it’s perfectly square.
“I wanted to sit in on this one,” a voice says and it takes my entire body half a second to freeze. In fact, I’m fairly certain I could pass for one of those street performers who pretends to be a statue. Then I exhale. This is like the coffee shop, I’m sure. My imagination run rampant.
“You wanted to sit in on an interview for a designer?” Elouise asks, her tone unimpressed.
“Yes,” comes the reply as he walks into view.
He looks just like Jennings.
Because it is Jennings.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Violet
Holy fuck. He’s here. In London. In this conference room. My mind is spinning faster than I can process the thoughts, my heart racing as if I’m running a marathon.
