“Listen,” Frank continued, cutting into my thoughts. “Clearly you have spare time on your hands that you’re looking to fill. Why don’t I make some calls and see if I can get you a job on the sales floor at Fred Segal? Your work at Harrods might just get your foot in the door. How would you like that?”
“How would I like that? Frank, you’re missing the point entirely. I don’t want to keep busy; and I certainly don’t want a job at Fred Segal. I want to follow my heart and do what I’m passionate about. I need this, Frank. I need a reason to get up in the morning—a purpose. Can’t you understand that?”
“And our daughter isn’t purpose enough for you?”
“Don’t bring Valentina into this,” I snapped. “It’s perfectly normal for a woman to need more than motherhood to fulfill her.” I thought of a handful of people we knew socially. “Do you think Barbara Matthews loves her sons any less because she works at the hospital? Or Claire Greenspan. Does her architectural career make her less of a mother?” I shook my head. “Frank, I know we have plenty of money. You bought a new Porsche last month. The start-up costs for my business would be a fraction of that.”
“Don’t get cute with me, Eloise,” he said, the corners of his mouth twisting. “And don’t, for a moment, tell me how to spend my money.”
My eyes narrowed. “You really have no respect for me, do you?” Suddenly, everything was clear—frighteningly clear. For the first time, I realized that—
“Mummy?” Valentina said, standing in the doorway, her pigtails still wet from swimming. I heard a car pull out of the driveway and realized I’d forgotten that her friend’s mother had agreed to bring her home.
“Why are you and Daddy fighting?”
I ran to her and kissed her honey-scented hair. “We’re not fighting, love. We’re only having a discussion. About…grown-up things. Everything’s fine.”
She paused, looking up at me with her big brown eyes as Frank watched us from his chair. “Are you and Daddy going to get a divorce? Janie’s parents are getting one.”
My heart felt as if it had just been plucked out of my chest and hurled off a skyscraper.
“Of course not, dear,” Frank said, swooping in before I could venture a response.
He patted her head, then I kissed her cheek. “Cheer up, Charlie.”
“Okay, Mummy,” she said sweetly, smiling up at her father and me before skipping up the stairs. I turned to follow, leaving a void of silence as big as the Grand Canyon in my wake.
“Wait, Eloise,” he called out to me. “I’m sorry if I…seemed…”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said without turning around. But it did matter. My God, it mattered so much.
The Next Day
I open my eyes and glance at the clock, shocked to see that it’s nearly eleven a.m. Granted, I stayed up late listening to Mummy’s old records, but still, I haven’t slept this late since…college. I dress quickly before heading downstairs to the store, where I find Liza arranging a vase of flowers.
“Wow,” I say. “The window display looks incredible.”
“Do you like it?” she asks, surveying her work skeptically. “I can’t decide if we ought to move this table a bit to the left, or maybe add in another row of shelves?” She tilts her head to the right and frowns. “I don’t know, is it working?”
“Um, Liza,” I say, “you’re a miracle worker. “It’s perfect!”
I ask her if she’s seen the elusive Cicero box, but as expected, she hasn’t. “Sorry,” she says, snipping the thorns and excess leaves off a few dozen long-stem roses. “I’ll keep my eye out.”
“Thanks,” I say with a sigh.
“You know what you need?” Liza continues, looking up at me. “Some girl time. Let’s cut out of here and go to my friend Debbie’s salon.”
“I’d love to,” I tell her, “but I have so much work to do before the fundraiser. I don’t know if I can—”
“Nonsense,” she replies, plucking a few fallen rose petals from the floor. “You need a blowout more than I need a boyfriend.”
“Uh, Liza, what exactly does that mean?”
She smiles. “That we’re going to the salon.”
After Millie arrives, we head out. The salon is less than four blocks away, and Debbie greets us at the door. She’s tall, with shoulder-length light brown hair and blunt bangs that form a perfect line across her forehead.
“Think you can fix her up?” Liza asks as I slide into Debbie’s chair.
“Without a doubt,” she says. “I hear you’re the new owner of the Book Garden. I’ve been following your Instagram! That post on William Blake helping you see the light really inspired me.”
“Oh,” I say, flattered. “Thank you for saying that. I do have a decent following, but sometimes I get the feeling that the only person who’s really reading my posts these days is my ex-husband.”
Debbie grins. “Those menacing exes. We all have them.” She and Liza exchange a knowing look. “But I assure you, sweetie, a lot of us are reading. And what is this I hear about a fundraising event for the bookstore? You should definitely post about it. You never know who might show up!”
“You’re right, Deb,” Liza adds. “We might even get Prince Harry.” She nostalgically catches her reflection in the salon’s mirrored wall. “I’ve always had a thing for him.”
I laugh. “Well, I highly doubt we’ll get Prince Harry over to Primrose Hill, but you do have a point. The event is in three and a half weeks, and I should probably start promoting it on my feed.”
Deb leads me to a chair by the window and takes a long look at me. “You need a haircut—and highlights.”
“I don’t know,” I say reluctantly.
“I’ll just pop in a few foils, and it’ll brighten you right up. You’ll love it, I promise.”
“Okay,” I agree, sliding my head back as she runs her brush through my long-neglected hair.
“Val, you have to tell Deb about Daniel!”
“Daniel?” she asks, intrigued.
I share the story of the book with the notes inside, which resulted in my rather hapless search and present dead end.
“Well, that stinks,” she says before clipping my hair into sections and getting to work on my highlights. “So, let me get this straight: The Daniel at the Snow Goose wasn’t the Daniel from the book?”
I nod. “No, his name was actually David Davenport not Daniel Davenport.”
“Stop it,” Debbie says, taking a step back. “You’re joking.”
I shake my head, confused.
“Daniel Davenport?” She turns to Liza. “I’ve known a fellow by that name since I was a wee thing. We used to run around in nappies together. Our mums were best friends, still are. They had an elaborate plan for us to grow up and get married, and I’ll admit, I used to wish that would happen. He’s quite a catch. Devilishly handsome and kind in the way that most good-looking men aren’t, you know? Oh, and he’s smart, too.”
I sit up in the swivel chair. “Hold on. What?”
She nods. “He’s a movie producer, or a screenwriter, or something.” She shakes her head. “In any case, he works in film—in some capacity. My mum mentioned something about documentaries.”
It’s a crazy coincidence, I admit, but there’s no way Debbie’s Daniel could be the Daniel. Liza and I had already googled the name—there were more than a hundred results in London alone.