Lacey wiggled into perfect posture. “This is the life,” she said. “Sleeping in, wandering through Harrods, gorging on Champers and tea and cakes…I could so get used to this.”
Lacey often chose to forget that I didn’t live like this all the time. My appalling flat didn’t have any water pressure, but it did have mice, and I spent any leftover money on cheap art classes and highballs rather than Harrods and bubbly. I’d never even been inside Harrods until she took me. But Lacey had always been wistful with respect to England. She’d just finished her first year of med school at NYU, but she was never as interested in discussing that as she was in planning her next trip to London. She’d arrive here with a fresh head of highlights and a meticulously curated suitcase, primed to dazzle every guy in her path, reeling in admirers the way she used to friends at summer camp—but unlike when we were kids, she used the phone numbers she brought home. I wanted her to love London, but this felt more like trying to conquer it.
The piano player switched into the theme song from Phantom of the Opera, banging it out so violently I was sure his hands would bleed out all over his instrument.
“This guy’s repertoire isn’t very uplifting,” Dad noted.
I checked my watch. “Fortunately that’s our cue. Finish your scones. Nick will be upstairs any minute.”
In addition to getting my parents a lush suite for their stay, Nick had reserved one specifically for our meeting that boasted both private access for him—for maximum discretion—and breathtaking views of Hyde Park, for maximum brownie points.
“Hideous,” my dad said, stepping out onto the terrace.
“The worst,” I said, threading my arm through his.
“Intolerable. How does anyone live like this?”
“With ten thousand pounds a night, according to the website,” Lacey said, coming up next to us. “Can you imagine being able to snap your fingers and get this whenever you want? Your life is insane, Bex.”
“This isn’t my life,” I said, feeling like I was repeating myself. “This is one day in my life. The rest of the time, I have ants and no central air.”
“Ah, but the ants provide such a tremendous distraction from the spiders,” came a voice.
Nick walked out into the most insanely cinematic beam of light. It honestly did look as if the Heavens were kissing him—exactly, I suspect, the way my mother (and The Bexicon’s Aurelia Maupassant) had imagined it would be, minus Handel’s Hallelujah chorus. His sandy hair gleamed slightly red in the sun, his jeans were perfect yet perfectly broken in, his Pumas worn but not dirty, his rugby shirt the exact level of sporty my parents always expected from a boyfriend of mine. The only hint of his status was the gold vintage Rolex that had been a gift from his great-grandmother Marta on his eighteenth birthday.
Mom immediately dipped into a curtsy. Lacey buried her face in her hands.
“Nancy’s been practicing for weeks,” Dad said, clapping Nick on the shoulder while shaking his hand. “If she needs bionic knees after this, I’m sending you the bill.”
Nick laughed. “Mrs. Porter, it’s a pleasure,” he said, bowing deeply and kissing her hand. “Your form is miles better than Mum’s, but if you breathe a word of that to anyone I’ll deny it.”
“Well!” My mother blushed, speechless. He was good.
“Hey, Nick,” Lacey said, giving him a quick hug. “Good to see you.”
“And on such a miserable day,” Nick joked, gesturing at the clear blue skies. “Father once booked this suite for some of our European relatives, and it bucketed down rain the entire time. Couldn’t see a thing. They swore never to come back.” He winced. “That may have been a blessing. One of them kept telling us we were all supposed to be German by now.”
My father let out a booming belly laugh, and I could tell Nick was tickled by Dad’s warm reaction. “Dreadfully sorry about the Cubs, though, Mr. Porter,” he added. “I heard the Padres swept them.”
“Call me Earl. You should shoot over for a game!”
“Yes, Bex swears Cracker Jack is much better when it’s fresh,” Nick said.
“It’s better in the stands,” I corrected him. “It’s never really fresh. That’s part of its charm.”
Nick grinned at me before gesturing for my mother to head back into the hotel room, where what looked like yet another tea service—and two cold lagers in pint glasses—had been set out on the glossy coffee table. We’d all turn into scones before long.
“So, Nick, I could use your advice on a small weapons issue I might’ve gotten myself into,” Dad said. “There’s this antiques shop, see…”
Their voices trailed off and the door clicked shut. Lacey and I stayed on the balcony, enjoying the sun.
“So what now?” Lacey asked.
“I figured we’d hang for a bit, then send Mom and Dad to the theater.”
“I mean with Nick.”
“We’re going to usurp the throne, and invade Switzerland just to be cute,” I said.
“Be serious, Bex.”
“Okay,” I said. “Seriously, why does anything have to happen now? We’re young. We’re happy. Why does everyone want to rush this?”
Lacey threw out an aggrieved hand. “If that’s how you want to play it,” she said. “As long as you’re not going all Bex about it and avoiding reality. Isn’t that how you ended up stringing Clive along?”
“That’s a low blow.”
“Well, it’s tough love time,” Lacey said. “And those two are basically falling in love with him right now, too, so get ready. The longer you go without meeting his family, the more questions they’re going to ask.”
I knew she was right. Nick swore he loved me, and he emphatically acted like it—including his willingness to hang out with my dad and discuss, by the sound of it, the nuances of televised darts. But I was beginning to feel unsettled. Like Nick had a hidden reason, or Reason, for keeping me on the down-low.
“I’m good. It’s handled,” I lied. “And speaking of Nick’s family, I have a surprise for you. He’ll be here in about three hours.”
Lacey’s face lit up. “Freddie,” she breathed, throwing her arms around me in glee.
“Freddie.” I grinned, squeezing her back.
*
The Bexicon glosses over Lacey and Freddie. In fact, it whitewashes almost all the supporting players, as if Nick and I got where we did in some kind of vacuum, untouched by anyone except the fairies of true love who’d drawn us together. That unforgivable turn of phrase is a direct quote—pure Aurelia Maupassant. As is this:
It is natural to imagine an attraction between England’s premier charming rogue and Lacey, a dynamic golden-haired sprite. But such rumours are utterly fantastical and spurious. As Rebecca and Nicholas yachted the oft-tempestuous seas of romance, Lacey and Freddie came together only as their siblings’ invaluable confidantes. Nothing more.