By Monday morning, I had to admit that I was happy to be rescued from a weekend plagued by my own personal foibles with the press and Dylan’s ever-morphing stress. The moment I arrived at work I was balls-to-the-wall busy. Things were humming, buzzing. It was one phone call to the next, one email to another. I was totally in the zone. And thankfully Hannah seemed too distracted to confront me about my hotel tryst—either that or she didn’t read HELLO! magazine. Either way I was grateful. At least at work, if not in the rest of my life, everything was going perfectly, and it felt amazing.
By noon, I had the store’s location squared away—a small space on the ground floor of a large old banking building. Right on the corner, next to a mews. It was unassuming, but elegant. Small, but bright. And it situated Hannah Rogan right where she should be, within spitting distance of other great shops—agnès b., Carolina Herrera, Alexander McQueen, and others.
Now I was waiting for a call from the marketing team, who would arrange the COMING SOON signs that would hide the construction. I was feverishly scanning through the information I’d been sent by our business advisor about stocking and projected sales for the spring line when our intern returned with lattes for Fiona and me and the largest portfolio carrier I’d ever seen. The poor girl looked like she was auditioning for the balancing act in the circus.
“What in god’s name is that?” I asked her, rising to relieve her of the coffees.
“The interior designers, Holt and Carroll, sent a messenger, who was just leaving this with Josh when I came in,” she said, huffing and ruddy cheeked from carrying it just from the reception desk. Holt and Carroll were the interior designers Dylan had used for his last two buildings, and he’d been adamant that I use them for the store. He hadn’t taken kindly to me demanding a detailed pitch about their merits over dinner, but secretly I think he admired that I didn’t just take his advice without question. He had, of course, been right—they were amazing—and Hannah had been over the moon about the choice.
“Ah, wow. I didn’t expect to see anything from them until—” Just then Hannah swung our office door open.
“Lydia,” she said, almost smiling, which for Hannah might as well have been doing jumping jacks of joy. Fiona, the intern, and I all looked up, at attention. “I just got off the phone with the team at Holt and Carroll, and they said they were sending over some swatches and plans. Oh—” she interrupted herself. “Those must be them?”
“I think so—” I started.
“I can’t believe you secured them. I don’t know how you did it. Did you know that they just did Jason Wu’s Paris shop last year? People are raving about it.” She was talking a mile a minute, something none of us had ever seen before. “Tom Ford apparently heard through Carolina Herrera, and he just called to congratulate me on the shop,” she said in a way that was dangerously close to giddy gossip. Given her tone of voice, I half expected her to suggest we all sit down and paint each other’s nails.
We all looked at each other in disbelief—this store was apparently turning out to be something bigger than I had imagined, and apparently bigger than even Hannah had imagined. She grabbed the heavy portfolio by the handle and looked right at me. “Come to my office after lunch, and we’ll go through these together.” As she left I was pretty sure she was actually humming.
“Well, that was unexpected,” started Fiona, who then returned her gaze to her computer. “I guess we won’t be going out for a cuppa later, then?” She looked at me, confirming that for what was definitely not the first time I would be ditching her last minute for something store related.
My meeting with Hannah turned out to be an all-out devouring of the materials the designers had sent over. She and I spent three hours on our hands and knees making decisions about fabrics, flooring, and couch options. I was in my element. One part business, one part collaboration, and one part creativity. We were in the flow of it. Even though Hannah was my boss, and I was pretty sure I’d always be just a little intimidated by her, it felt incredible to be collaborating, to be getting lost in something.
When I finally emerged from Hannah’s office at nearly five, Josh was sitting at my desk, and he and Fiona were giggling about something on Josh’s phone.
“Hey, guys,” I said.
“Oh, hi,” said Fiona, cooling visibly.
“Hi, lovey,” said Josh, definitely with more warmth. He looked between me and Fiona, and it was clear that Josh also knew there was tension between us.
“How about a drink?” I asked, suddenly feeling the very real pull to get my friends on the right side of a bar with some proper cocktails in front of us. The flagship store was coming along perfectly, but these friendships were important, and I’d been neglecting them. I’d had to decline the last two times they’d asked me to go clubbing.
Fiona opened her mouth, and I have no idea what she would have said because Josh quickly put his hand over hers, gripped it, and answered for both of them: “Absolutely.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later we were at the wine bar around the corner. Fiona and I had suggested the pub, but Josh had scoffed, claiming he was going gluten-free or something. So wine it was.
“So, ya wee Yank, fill us in. What is going on with you and the Greek god you share a bed with?” Josh curled his fingers around the stem of his wineglass and gave me a look that said Tell me everything.
“You have such a way with words, Josh,” Fiona added.
I thought for a moment and realized that when it came to most aspects of my relationship with Dylan, they only knew what the media knew or what little bits of information I let slide about upcoming events or whether I’d spent the previous night at his place or mine.
“You know,” I began, “it’s weird. It’s like the wall between his life—you know, all his aristocratic stuff, his architecture firm, most of his friends and, god, his family—that wall is just as thick, just as fortress-like, as it was when we were a secret.” Josh’s and Fiona’s faces were still, like they’d expected more of the same from me, which is to say no real information. In that moment, I realized I’d been withholding from them the same way Dylan had been withholding from me. Keeping them at an arm’s length with hollow phrases like “fine, thanks” or “busy but good”—the kinds of phrases that actually told them nothing. I’d been self-conscious about the attention from Hannah, about having my picture in the paper, about dating someone everyone seemed to know everything about. I realized I’d been receding, hoping that maybe, somehow, if I didn’t say much, Josh and Fiona would not notice all of this was happening. I realized in that moment how idiotic that was, how absurd.
“I guess I just thought,” I continued, “that when we went public, his personal life would be public to me too or something. Like he’d just open up. The book of Dylan would fall open, and I’d be let into the inner sanctum. But it’s not like that. He’s such a private person. There are still so many private hidden parts of his life. It’s just that I’m not one of them anymore.
“And it’s harder than I thought it would be, being a public part of his life, I mean. I keep ending up in the papers in a way that makes me look bad, or him, or I don’t know.” Josh put his hand on mine, which was resting on the table, but I noticed that Fiona remained calm and cool, leaning back in her chair. I gave them the details behind the “quickie” incident and the Serpentine Massacre.
“Aw, sweets, the media are just vultures, aren’t they?” Josh said indignantly, and I could feel Fiona roll her eyes.
“They are, but I should have known that. He did try to warn me—I just never really understood I guess.” I couldn’t go into the email business—no one knew about that, so I’m sure my reactions seemed outsized to them, but my anxiety seemed to want to lay itself out on the table. “It’s just an adjustment, that’s all. I finally understand why he made such an effort to keep his life so simple, so private and uncomplicated for so long. And I just wish I could fix it, make things easier. But instead I feel like I’m prancing around London like some kind of fool demonstrating to everyone, every Amelia, every other person out there, that I’m not fit to be Dylan Hale’s girlfriend.” I exhaled through my lips, in a weird lip-fluttering sigh, and I looked and sounded defeated. Josh was sweetly rubbing my arm.
“Well, that’s just bollocks, a heaping pile of rubbish,” Josh said, defending me, and I smiled weakly at him.
“I know. It is, right? It’s just hard to remember that in the moment. I mean, I know I’m fit to be his girlfriend, but it kills me to give that…that…”
“Hoity toity twat,” Fiona finished for me, almost reluctantly.
“Exactly. To give the Amelia Reynoldses of this town, not to mention all the other women he’s slept with,” I added and rolled my eyes for good measure, “the satisfaction of thinking, even for a minute, that something’s awry.”
“Fuck the lot of them—that’s what I say!” exclaimed Josh, and I laughed, so relieved for his vibrant, enthusiastic humor. Even Fiona couldn’t help but laugh when Josh went into his overdramatic mode. “Blimey, Lydia, your life is so deliciously dramatic,” he added.
“Oh, well, there’s another thing,” I said, looking at them to make sure I hadn’t yet overstayed my welcome with Dylan talk. “I’m going to meet the queen,” I said, covering my face with my hands for a moment and then only peeking out through my fingers to see their reactions. It just felt so surreal, so silly, so completely like someone else’s life to be saying that out loud that I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed.
“What?!” They both said in unison, and I nodded into my hands, as though they could save me from the huge part of that upcoming event that stressed me out.
We ended up setting up residence in that booth for another two hours. I told them about my upcoming tea with the queen, and they shared every story they’d ever heard about their friend’s aunt’s best friend who’d met Her Majesty at some point. We gossiped about the intern, we strategized about Josh’s love life, and we commiserated about the horrible new HR person and the tongue lashings she’d given each of us on various occasions. But Fiona seldom looked at me—she was mad or hurt or maybe just tired of sharing an office with the girl who was dating Dylan and demanding so much of their boss’s attention.
* * *
The tea with the queen was fast approaching, and I enlisted Dylan’s sister’s help in preparing. After a series of emails and texts, Emily and I had finally figured out that Friday was the day to meet up. I’d liked her when I’d met her at the Savoy, and we’d talked about getting together, and now we had a good excuse—she was going to help me figure out what on earth one was supposed to wear to meet a monarch.
I had taken the afternoon off, and Emily was taking a break from her studying. We’d decided to begin the excursion by fueling ourselves.
“Have you been here before?” she asked me. She settled into the banquette, perching her excruciatingly on-trend designer handbag on the seat beside her. Emily somehow pulled off the socialite look while also looking like the down-to-earth, kind, and funny person I was beginning to understand she was. It was on her face and in her body language—she was as smart as a whip and totally genuine. It really had to be her eyes that did it, because as soon as she slipped on those Chanel sunglasses, she looked just as cold, aristocratic, and socialite-y as the Amelia Reynoldses of the world. And technically Emily, as the daughter of a duke, outranked Amelia.
Today she was wearing a flirty floral dress that I was sure Urban Outfitters was knocking off; a trim, tailored jacket; and knee-high riding boots. With her long dark hair flowing down her back, she was a knockout. I was three years older than she was, but there was still some part of me—the Brooklyn, beer-drinking, pizza-eating part of me—that was intimidated by her.
“I haven’t,” I replied as I slipped into the other side of the curved, red banquette.
“I love it. The food is fabulous, and I like the atmosphere, but because it’s stuck back here in the land of finance geeks, none of the usuals are ever here. I never have to worry about running into people I don’t want to run into, except for maybe one of Dylan’s business friends or one of my father’s cronies, but none of my set, which is a relief.” She nodded at a waiter or host behind me in a practiced way that was seamless.
The restaurant was a simple brasserie on the ground floor of a big banking building just a couple of blocks from the Thames.
“Perfect,” I said, slumping a little in my seat with relief. Not that I was worried about seeing Emily’s friends. It was more that I figured it also meant the paparazzi might be less likely to be lurking about, hoping to catch a picture of some socialite, or me. I accepted a menu and was grateful for the water being placed on our table.
“They’ve been rough on you guys, haven’t they?” she asked, reading my mind.
“It’s fine. It’s part of the deal. I know that.”
“Yeah, but it must be brutal. I’ve never had to deal with that really, unless I’ve been out with Dad or Dylan. That’s the relief, I guess, of being neither the heir nor a spare.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you the spare? And if you had been born first, wouldn’t you be a duchess? Or a marchioness? Or wait—how does it work?”
Emily was already shaking her head before she began. “Primogeniture,” she said, as though that explained everything. “The title and the estate only go down the male line. So it’s Dylan or bust, I’m afraid.” She took a sip of water before continuing, “I’m a lady, and the buck stops there, unless I acquire a different title when I marry.”
“Does that bother you? I mean, that you couldn’t ever inherit Humboldt Park or have the title or anything? Does it feel unfair?” Again Emily was shaking her head before I even finished.
“No. Of course it’s sexist and archaic and all that, and I do believe the whole thing is a bit vestigial—how could you not? But honestly, it’s a bit of a relief. For Dylan’s whole life he’s been groomed, handled differently, followed. His life is under a microscope. It’s like he was a future duke before he could be anything else. I always felt a bit bad for him actually.”
I nodded my head. It made me sad to think about that side of Dylan’s life, and it just made it seem more like a miracle that he was the amazing person he was and not a complete ass. Although, now that I thought about it, he did have the reputation of being the most difficult architect to work with in the northern hemisphere.
“I will say that it seems pretty intense from where I sit.”
She nodded but wisely and properly chose not to go further.
“So you’ve never really had to deal with this HELLO! magazine crap?” I finally asked.
“Not really. Like I said, only occasionally, at holidays and things. And I don’t really date in this scene, so it never happens there.”
I could actually feel my eyes light up. “Wait. Emily, are you seeing someone?” Emily was twenty-two and graduating from college soon. Of course she dated. But if you talked to Dylan, who of course was the only one in their family I spoke with, you’d never know it.
She paused. “Let’s put it this way. I’m not single, and I’m not not single. And I don’t go for guys that I want my father or brother to know about.” She was half smiling while she said it, and now my curiosity was really piqued.
“Emily—”
“Sorry, Lydia. You’re sharing a bed with the number two enemy of my love life. We’ll have to get to know each other a lot better before I drop any more hints.”
I laughed out loud, a release I needed. “Got it. Fair enough. You’re a canny one, aren’t you?”
She laughed at that but also gave me a wink. Something told me Emily was not to be underestimated. “So,” she said, “tell me about this store of yours.”
I told her all the details I could about the design and the approach, the long-term plan, and, to my surprise, she was riveted.
“You know,” she said, “you might want to think of a concierge service.”
“A what?” I asked, suddenly panicked that maybe there was some obvious feature I’d missed.
“Well, Hannah originally wanted a private studio, right?”
I nodded in affirmation.
“But now it’s a flagship store, which in some ways is the opposite, at least in terms of the elite being able to feel elite.” She was totally right. “So that doesn’t completely solve Hannah’s problem of the increase in orders from people like Amelia Reynolds,” she added, making a gagging gesture that made me laugh out loud and kind of shocked me coming out of her posh mouth.
“You know, you’re right.”
“A concierge service would be like a private VIP aspect of the store, appointment only, certain designs only available that way, etcetera.”
“Emily, that’s kind of genius.”
“Eh, I’ve been around.”
“No, seriously, I think I should bring you on as a consultant or something.”
“Not necessary. Just promise me you won’t tell Dylan that there is anything to even be hinted at regarding my love life. Fair?”
“Deal. But there is one other request,” I added quickly.
“Oh?”
“Come to Dylan’s for Thanksgiving dinner?” I looked at her expectantly as she sipped her wine. “It’s in a month, a Thursday night. I’m going to do the whole American thing—turkey, pie, maybe even some pilgrim decorations. They were, after all, your people. I’ve invited my friends from work as well, and Dylan’s friend Will. Please come.”
Emily gave me the warmest smile. “I’d love to.”
“Good,” I said, and I looked down to realize our plates were empty, which meant the whole purpose of this visit was about to begin.
“Okay,” she said, zipping up her fancy handbag, “let’s do this. Tea with Her Majesty.”
“Right,” I said. “Thank god you’re here. This is one area where I have zero confidence in how I should dress, and I don’t think anyone else at my office has any idea either. And Dylan—”
“All Dylan has to do is put on a more conservative tie. You’re a totally different story.” Emily dropped her bills on the table next to mine, and we headed for the door. “First stop, Harvey Nichols.”
“Okay, but remember,” I said, climbing into the back of the Jaguar. It was raining, and Frank held the umbrella over our heads while we ducked in. “I don’t have the Hale budget. We need ‘good enough for Her Majesty’ on a second assistant’s dime.”
Settled into the car, Emily pulled out a black credit card. “Ah, but we do have the Hale budget. Dylan told me to use his credit card.”
“First, do you mind if I ask why you have Dylan’s credit card?”
“Oh, there was this one time I went to Chamonix over school holidays. It was my first time abroad without our parents, and he wanted me to have a backup emergency card in case I got into any trouble I wouldn’t want to tell our parents about,” she explained as she tucked the card back into her wallet. “He might see me as an infant half the time, but he really does take care of me.”
I thought for a moment about what it must be like to have a sibling. I’d always thought Daphne was like that, and she was, to some degree. But sharing your parents was a whole other thing—the enormity of having another person who knew your family life as well as you did, of sharing that with someone, settled over me. I was so happy for Emily that she had Dylan. Happy for Dylan too.
“Okay. Well, more importantly, no. I don’t allow Dylan to buy me clothes. He knows better,” I said reflexively.
“He’ll be furious if I let you pay. Dressing for the queen is no joke.” To be fair, Emily did look a little nervous, and the truth was I wouldn’t even be seeing the queen if it weren’t for him. I thought of what Daphne had said, that I didn’t let people take care of me, and I figured fuck it—if there was ever a time to let Dylan spend his money on me, this was it.
“Lydia, I really think you should let—”
“Okay,” I said, taking a deep inhale and letting myself smile at the idea of this shopping trip. Emily had been looking at me, ready to argue, but she stopped herself and smiled.
“Good,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “Now let’s do this.”
Shopping with Emily was an entirely different experience. The girl was like a ninja, expertly eyeing, selecting, and dismissing with only a glance or sometimes a quick touch of a garment. She nixed one dress I found because it was too short. “Think about sitting with your legs to the side—that will show way too much thigh.”
“Right,” I said and kept digging.
She nixed another for being too bright. “This is the queen, not a rave.” Another for having straps too narrow. “You want your bra straps to peek out?” No. No, I did not.
Another for being too low-cut. “Remember, you’ll be bending to curtsy, and she does not need to see your cleavage.” Oh, Christ. All of a sudden I had flashbacks to the ridiculous and clearly failed attempts at my curtsey with Fiona. “Don’t worry, we’ll cover that later.” Thank god.
After three hours of scouring the racks and trying on various skirt suits and dresses with jackets, Emily shrieked from a far corner of the store. She came running towards me carrying a black-and-white garment flapping around on a hanger.
“This is it. Put those down,” she said, indicating to the maybes I’d been carting around.
When I emerged from the fitting room, I had to agree with her. It was one of those rare finds. A one-off, only in my size. The A-line skirt came to just above my knees, and the dress had a high neck and three-quarter sleeves. It was a warm white with black naturalistic flowers growing from the waist up the bodice and down the skirt. It felt almost Victorian in the pattern, but it was high fashion and modern. And it fit me like it’d been made for my body. I looked at the price tag and gulped when I saw it was nearly thirteen hundred pounds—the sale price. I didn’t tell Emily, but knowing it was on sale made the whole thing easier to swallow. I may have been letting Dylan pay for that dress, but taking the thriftiness out of this Brooklyn girl was going to require more than one shopping trip.
“I love it. I mean, I really love it.” I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t believe how great I looked. It was one thing to feel like this when I was standing in Hannah’s studio being gussied up by professionals, but when I saw this kind of dress on me in a regular old fitting room it was almost alarming, like one of the first real signs that dating Dylan and everything that meant for my personal life was real. I was really going to meet the queen. With my boyfriend. Who was a marquess. Holy shit.