Page 4 of The Last Night in London
She shook her head. “It didn’t come up.”
“Imagine him not jumping to the conclusion that it would be someone he knew during his university days.” I rolled my eyes even though she couldn’t see me.
Her shoulders sagged slightly under the leopard-skin print. “It’s just that Miss Dubose was so insistent that you stay with her, and it would have been too complicated asking Colin to leave. It’s only a couple of weeks—maybe more if you’d like to stay longer. Surely you two can be cordial for that long.”
I pressed my head against the back of the seat and briefly closed my eyes. “Hopefully, he won’t remember me. I haven’t even thought about him in the last seven years.” That wasn’t completely true, but I would never tell that to Arabella. She had one of those overactive imaginations that created stories where none existed. I always told her that she was unsuited to her role as an editor and should have been writing cozy mysteries instead.
“So Colin has no idea that I’m about to show up on his doorstep.”
“It will be such a surprise, won’t it?” she said.
I shook my head with emphasis. “No, it will be a disaster. I think he dislikes Americans. Or maybe it’s Southern Americans.”
Arabella laughed. “Don’t be daft. Miss Dubose is a Southerner, too, remember—and Colin adores her.”
I didn’t want to admit that I was intrigued by this Southern centenarian and the fact that we were distantly related and would be meeting for the first time in London. I didn’t want to know that Colin adored her and called her Nana. I wanted to turn back to the airport and return to the stable, uneventful life I’d made for myself in New York City, following in the footsteps of my aunt Cassie. Although she was in advertising and I was a freelance journalist, we’d both wiped the red clay of small-town Georgia off the bottoms of our shoes to start new lives in the big city. She’d lasted ten years, and I had every intention of breaking her record.
Arabella turned toward me with a wide grin. “This will be fun.”
“Or not,” I suggested, my words swallowed by the sudden rushof wind as the little car gathered speed and hurtled us down the highway as Arabella pressed the accelerator.
I closed my eyes and smelled dog breath and fur as the wind whipped at my face. No matter how terrifying this drive into London with my friend behind the wheel might be, it would pale in comparison with Colin Eliot’s reaction to seeing me at his front door.
CHAPTER 2
When we’d made it inside the city limits and the increasing traffic slowed our progress, I released my tight grip on the door handle. Arabella’s windblown hair was approaching steel wool status, and George looked as if he’d been electrified.
Arabella reached into a large purse on the floor by my feet and pulled out an Hermès scarf. As she tied it attractively around her head, she said, “Colin’s mother, Aunt Penelope, is eager to meet you. I think she’s a bit worried about you living with Miss Dubose, but I assured her that I knew you well and that you’re trustworthy and kind. That did make her feel better, but at some point, we’ll have to arrange a visit.”
“Sure,” I said. Though I’d seen them only from afar, I vaguely remembered Colin’s parents as seeming elderly to me seven years ago—at least ten to fifteen years older than the parents of the group of friends I hung out with at home and in college. Colin was an only child, and his mother sent frequent care packages of vitamins and scarves and thick socks, as if he’d forgotten how to take care of himself in his parents’ absence. I recalled laughing the first time I’d seen one of the large boxes, telling Colin that I was one of six children,and it had always been survival of the fittest at my family’s dining table. I might have embellished the story, told him sometimes blood was spilled and half of us were missing teeth due to the altercations.
It wasn’t at all true—not with the amounts of food my great-aunt Lucinda insisted on heaping on the table—but I rarely got care packages. Not that I blamed my dad or Suzanne; they had five other kids to worry about. But looking at Colin’s socks and knitted scarves, I’d felt a resurgence of the old grief I’d folded up and packed away, suffocated by thick layers of denial and years of absence. And I’d felt angry, too, that he could be so dismissive of his mother’s care and love.
Arabella slowed the car and turned without signaling into a paved drive between an iron gate and an impressive Edwardian sandstone mansion block with multiple front entrances. Attractive cornices edged the roofline like cake frosting. Arabella was muttering to herself as she looked for a place to park. “Colin usually uses his nana’s parking space since she doesn’t have a car. But he said he’d let me have it today.” She tapped her long red fingernails against the steering wheel. “I just need to remember which one it is.”
I gathered my backpack and looked outside. “Nice building.”
Arabella nodded. “It’s called Harley House,” she said, turning too sharply and hitting the curb. “It was built in nineteen-oh-three to house the Irish servants who worked in the large houses nearby.” She maneuvered the car away from the curb. A man with a dog stood on the sidewalk, keeping clear. “Funny, isn’t it? Decades later, it became home to a lot of VIP types—movie people, authors, that sort of thing. Cliff Richard and Mick Jagger lived here at some point. And Joan Collins, the actress.” She hit the brake hard as a black Jaguar pulled out of a parking spot in front of us, causing me to bite my lip.
“Now it’s mostly filled with American expatriates and the stray Russian oligarch.” She began to back up into a parallel space against the curb, barely squeezing between two other cars. I sucked in my breath, as if that might help. “I sure hope it’s this one, because I’m not certain I can do this twice.” Satisfied with her parking job, she switched off the ignition and turned to give George a scratch behind the ears.
“Aunt Precious first lived in this flat in the late thirties, before the war—I’m sure she’ll tell you all about that. Marylebone wasn’t quite as fashionable then, but it’s always been a perfect location—close to shopping and restaurants. And Regent’s Park, of course.” Arabella unbuckled her seat belt.
“Precious?” I asked. “According to my sister’s ancestry chart, her name is Jeanne Dubose.”
“Oh, sorry—thought I mentioned that. Precious is Miss Dubose’s nickname. Her real name is Jeanne. The story goes that when she was born, the nurse took one look at her little face and said she was precious. From then on, that’s what everyone called her. I think it’s rather adorable.”
“For a baby, but I can’t imagine calling an old woman Precious.”
“Just don’t...”
“Call her old,” I finished. “I remember. It’s just going to be hard using her nickname. Although, come to think of it, I grew up with a Sweet Pea and a Stinky, so maybe it won’t be as challenging as I first thought.”
Arabella sent me a sidelong glance as I grabbed my suitcase from her trunk. I followed her and George toward the second block of flats and up a set of wide steps leading to two glossy and dark wooden French doors. They sat recessed behind a broad archway between two mottled marble Ionic columns. A tall man emerged from the outside set of doors as we approached.
George let out a loud yelp and leapt forward, pulling the leash from Arabella’s hand and nearly toppling the man over. His paws held on to the man’s shoulders, and the giant tongue bathed the man’s face.
Blinking, I recognized the sandy blond hair that threatened to erupt in waves if allowed to grow just a little longer. And the intense blue eyes that were scrutinizing me as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. A brief flash of surprise was quickly replaced by remembered wariness.
