The next morning I sweet-talked Dylan into walking with me to the shop, not wanting to let him go. We hadn’t had a non-text, non-sex conversation in three days. As we walked past Lennox Gardens, I noticed that for the first time in weeks Dylan was holding my hand while we walked, and he was…Was he actually sauntering? He seemed so much lighter than normal.
“What’s with you this morning?” I asked, gripping his hand a little tighter.
“What do you mean?” he asked while raising our linked hands to his mouth and kissing our joined knuckles. Something was definitely up.
I gave him my best oh please look. He was lighter.
He guided me around some dog poop as he answered, “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
I looked closely at him and could see his mind wandering a little, but wandering happily. Then it dawned on me. “I know what it is. You’re working. It’s architecture—you’re designing. Did you finish the Olympic plans?”
“I did, and they’re splendid,” he said in a very satisfied Dylan kind of way while pulling me against him so his arm was wrapped fully around my waist as we walked. “And I just heard they’ve wrapped up work on the Amsterdam project, so that business with Piers Reynolds is finally off my plate.”
“Dylan, that’s great,” I said. I couldn’t believe how stark the difference was. Dylan was an architect through and through—this was the man I’d met and fallen for. He’d been determined to focus on his own work, and within four days he’d returned to himself. It had never been so clear to me that no matter what happened, Dylan had to keep designing.
We’d arrived at the door to the shop front, and I was now leaning against the plywood wall covering the windows, hoping my back wouldn’t be covered in dust when I rose from it. Dylan was hovering over me, stroking my cheek.
“I can get behind this walking thing,” he said, smirking. “If for no other reason than to see these cheeks all flushed.” His earthy refined smell filled the air around me, and it comforted me and seduced me in one breath.
He reached into my coat and slid his cool fingers around my waist, pulling me against him so he could kiss me, but I rolled my eyes at him before his lips met mine.
“I would take that eye roll as disapproval, but we both know you’re just as randy as I am.”
“Sure, sure, knighty. Whatever. You’re all talk these days,” I replied, to which Dylan just raised an eyebrow. Then a lightbulb went off—I could see it in his eyes.
“Do you think Hannah will mind if you’re gone for a bit next week?”
“What?”
“I want to take you away.”
“Um,” I said, not hiding my smile. “I mean, I haven’t taken a day since I started, and everything’s going well here. I can’t do much else until the furniture is in. It would probably be fine. Why? What are you thinking?”
“It’s a surprise. Ask Hannah, and tell me as soon as you know. We’d leave Wednesday evening, and I’d have you back for work Tuesday. No. Fuck it. Wednesday. It will be a celebration of sorts. Jobs well done. You need a break. I need a break. Let’s get out of this mad city.”
“I like the sound of that,” I said, all of sudden deeply in the dream of six long days with Dylan, no interruptions, indulging in this new, freer version of my boyfriend. It would be a huge departure from the chaos of London, his family, my work, his work, the watchful eye of the press—it sounded perfect. Maybe we’d shaken something loose. Maybe we were past whatever stressful weather system had been chasing us.
* * *
Two hours later I finally found a moment to talk to Hannah in her office.
“Fiona tells me you’re having an audience with Her Majesty this weekend?” She was looking up at me from her desk chair, but somehow she always managed to keep me on my toes. I had come in to ask her about the time off but had been greeted with this question instead.
“I am. This weekend. I think it will be brief, and I don’t expect—”
“What are you wearing?” Man, she was putting the bossy in boss this morning.
“Um, an Alexander McQueen that I found at Harvey Nichols.”
Hannah scowled. “I gather you didn’t want to wear one of mine,” she said while reading papers on her desk. Oh crap. Seriously?
“Hannah, you’ve been so generous already, and I didn’t want to inconvenience you. We don’t have any formal agreement about this, and I didn’t want to assume. I was actually going to—”
“I gather you’ll be attending some wedding-related festivities with your boyfriend?” she asked coolly.
“Yes—”
“Good, then let’s make it formal. I want to dress you for future events.”
“Oh, Hannah, that would actually be—”
“The deal is that you give me control over the styling, and if it’s appropriate, you’ll agree to be photographed in the dresses and you’ll credit me when asked about the clothes.”
“Actually—” Her head snapped up and she looked at me, clearly as surprised as I was that I’d just interrupted her. I cleared my throat. “Actually, while I’d be honored to wear any Hannah Rogan gown to one of these events, this will only work if I get approval rights over the gowns. And while I’m happy to work with Stephen or others on styling, again, I’ll veto and give my input as appropriate.”
She paused for a moment and then nodded. “Fine, then it’s settled.” She smiled and finally looked at me for the first time during this conversation. She actually looked a little relieved. Me wearing her clothes to these events would help her, probably more than it would if Amelia Reynolds were wearing them.
“Great. And thank you, Hannah. I think this arrangement will work well for both of us,” I added. “And speaking of the shop, I was wondering if we might discuss a title change that was better fitting to my new role?”
She eyed me, taken aback by my having found my voice so suddenly, but also, I thought, with respect. “What were you thinking?”
“How about director of sales?”
“And I imagine this title change would be accompanied by a salary increase?”
“If you thought it was appropriate,” I said.
“I do. How would you feel about a fifteen percent increase?” I could tell my bringing this up had earned me a different variety of Hannah’s appreciation.
“That seems fair,” I said. “Fifteen percent, and if it’s not inconvenient, I’d also like to take a few personal days next week—I’d be out Thursday, returning the following Wednesday.” I figured I’d better get that in there sooner rather than later. I was on a roll.
She nodded, smiled slightly, and returned her eyes to the papers on her desk. “If that will be all?” she asked as though she were dismissing me, but I knew this interaction had gone well. I nodded, stood tall, and turned towards the door.
Which was open.
And Fiona was standing just beyond it, staring into Hannah’s office. She’d clearly heard the conversation, which wasn’t exactly private, but gauging by Fiona’s reaction, there were probably better ways to convey to her that I’d just gotten a promotion. And while I wasn’t sure exactly what was at the root of the tension between me and Fiona, I knew instinctively that our friendship couldn’t bear the pressure of too many more big Lydia events.
“Fee,” I started, determined to get to the bottom of this.
“Whatever.” She turned to walk away. “Tell Josh I’m going to the studio,” she said without looking back.
Shit.
When I got to my office, Josh was there.
“Where’s Fee?” he asked.
“I think she’s furious with me,” I started. “She just overheard a conversation between me and Hannah. Hannah’s going to give me clothes for these events I’m going to. And I also I asked her for a promotion. Because of the store. And I got it.“
“And she stomped out?” he asked, looking at me sympathetically.
I nodded.
“She has a lot going on,” Josh said, leaning back in Fiona’s chair.
“She feels like I’ve marched in here and taken over,” I said, defeated. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
“I know, love. She’ll come around.”
I sat at my own desk and put my head in my hands, sighing deeply.
“So what will madame be dressing you for? Didn’t you already get a dress for the thing with the queen this weekend?”
I nodded and gulped. “Dylan and I are invited to the engagement party for Prince Richard,” I said, bracing myself.
Josh’s eyes got huge. “No! Oh my god, really? That’s amazing. Oh, Lydia, this is going to be so much fun. I can’t wait to see what you wear. What Dylan wears. What Richard wears. And have you seen his friend? You know, that scamp who’s always at the clubs with him? The bloody gorgeous one? I’m pretty sure he bats for my team—you must find out. Ooh, Lydia,” he said, clapping his hands. “This is the best news I’ve heard all day!”
I couldn’t believe Josh’s generous nature. There wasn’t a mean bone in this guy’s slim body, and there wasn’t a conversation we’d had that didn’t result in me smiling and feeling just a little bit more like he was going to be a lifelong friend.
“Really? You’re not annoyed with me too?”
“Are you completely mad? I know someone who will be at the engagement party of the century! My stock just went up a hundred percent. This is going on Facebook immediately.”
I laughed, so relieved things with Josh, at least, were uncomplicated.
* * *
Saturday morning had consisted of me getting dressed at Emily’s London flat so she could play Barbie on my hair and makeup and supervise the assembling of my outfit. We both knew I’d be fine on my own, but this was way more fun. Frank then delivered me to the palace at noon—I hadn’t been invited to the CBC festivities beforehand, apparently something reserved only for the actual architects and elites involved.
Now I sat patiently, stiffly, hands in my lap, legs crossed at the ankles, in a gilded chair in a hallway in some non-room room in Buckingham Palace. A man in a suit stood on the far side of the room and looked at me only occasionally with complete disinterest. Dylan had said noon. It was now 12:15, and I worried if too much time went by, I’d either sweat through my fabulous new dress, fall out of my heels, or begin to wonder if this whole thing, these glorious past few months, had been nothing but the fantastical ramblings of an insane person—me—who had turned up at the palace to make claims about some nonexistent marquess she was in love with. So, yeah, I guess I was a little nervous.
Just as I was about to bolt and check myself into a mental institution, Dylan climbed the stairs and entered the room. Right behind his parents.
His father gave me a quick look of shock, followed immediately by disdain and then a quick glare at Dylan and another at his wife, who was right beside him. Why did I get the sense that Charlotte and Geoffrey hadn’t had any idea I would be there? And why hadn’t I anticipated how awkward it would be to see Dylan’s father for the first time after our altercation at Humboldt Park?
I rose, and Dylan quickly swept to my side, kissed me on the cheek, and tucked my arm into his. It was clear his newfound disregard for his father’s opinion was still running strong.
When we stepped into the golden room, the feeling that I might be in a weird dream continued. The ceilings were endless and arched, and every inch was decorated in gilded moldings. The walls were similarly adorned, and enormous mirrors shared space with oversized sconces and oil paintings and shelves of presumably priceless antiques.
I was in freaking Buckingham Palace.
It took a minute to register the petite, stately woman standing by the table in a blue suit, and I found myself speechless—something nobody in their right mind would ever call me. I remember curtsying, which I may have done backwards if that’s possible, and saying the words Your Majesty, which I’m pretty sure I hadn’t done since I was six and playing a make-believe princess game with a neighbor. I remember accidentally using the sugar spoon to stir my tea and then surreptitiously trying to sneak it back into the sugar bowl. I remember thinking the queen was the nicest old lady I’d met in a long time, but also having a ticker tape going through my mind that said, Oh my god, this is the queen. I remember Dylan squeezing my hand, especially hard when his father was speaking.
But the rest of that hour was a fuzzy, pleasant blur, one of those moments that was so bizarre and extraordinary that I should try to take in every detail but also that it would be a futile effort.
When I first realized how formal the visit would be and that I wouldn’t be attending the rest of the afternoon’s festivities with Dylan, I wondered what the point was of my even being there. But over the course of the hour I understood. Dylan held my hand throughout, and I listened to the way he found subtle moments to tell the queen a little bit of my story, how I’d just arrived in London for the first time since I was an infant, how I’d returned to start my career, how much I loved the city. I realized he was proud of me. He wasn’t showing me off or making a point to his father. He’d wanted me to meet her because he knew I would love the experience but also—and this was the part that stunned me, made me feel humbled the moment I understood it—he’d wanted her to meet me.
There weren’t many moments when my stiff-upper-lip aristocratic boyfriend made his feelings clear to me—his non-bedroom feelings, anyway—but this was a moment I knew I’d remember for the rest of my life, no matter what happened. A moment when I felt truly loved.