“VILMA, I NEED YOU!” LESLIE’S voice peels loudly through the phone line.
I shoot up out of my wheelie office chair, clutching the phone tightly to my ear. “What? What is it? Is something wrong with the baby?”
“Oh no, no. Marisa is fine. I mean, colicky as always and killing me with the no sleep thing, but healthy as a fussy foal.”
My face scrunches in confusion. “A what?”
“Healthy as a horse? Do the Brits not use that reference? Never mind. I have something serious to ask you, Vilma.”
I sigh. “Leslie, why do you insist on calling me by my full name? You’re seriously the only one. You haven’t been in the office for a couple of months, so I rather got used to being called Vi again.”
“I love Vilma! It reminds me of Scooby-Doo.” She giggles and I realise how much I’ve missed that sound around here.
I drop back down on my chair and begin spinning around in slow circles. “I still have no idea what you’re going on about,” I reply. I never watched telly much growing up, and Leslie can’t seem to wrap her brain around that notion.
“Scooby-Doo and the gang! You seriously need to catch up on your American cartoons. I know they play them in England—Hey! Did you get my happy birthday text? You never replied.”
“Oh, crap. Yes, I did. Sorry. My brothers showed up, so I got distracted.”
“Sexy soccer brothers?” she asks with a provocative purr.
Groaning in disgust, I answer, “It’s football over here, mate. You’ve been in London long enough now to use the proper term. Now, did you call for a reason, or just to distract me from my very serious work to educate me on animated American telly and tell me I have hot brothers?”
“Uptight British—” Leslie grumbles, but I cut her off.
“Oi, darling, don’t you have a go at me! You left me stranded here at the office because you had to go and have a cute, perfect baby with that sinfully sexy fiancé of yours. I’m not to be trifled with right now. I’ve had to deal with Benji, Hector, and Roger all on my own. Plus two trips to China since you left.”
“Fine, fine…Viiiii.” She drawls out the I in an exaggerated, smug British accent.
Leslie and I have been working side by side for several years. She was in charge of working directly with the Chinese factories that make our camera bag designs until her recent maternity leave. I’ve had to pick up the slack ever since. Leslie, Hector, and I are the three designers. We work on various satchels, wallets, clutches, and totes that are technology and photography friendly. There are a handful of other clerical people we work alongside, as well as our boss, Roger.
“Thank you for taking care of the fort while I am away. You know I love you.” She makes obnoxious kissy noises into the receiver. “Okay, stop distracting me. I don’t want to talk about work. I have a very serious question. Are you ready?”
“Ready,” I answer.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure.”
“Are you prepared?”
“Primed and poised,” I quip.
“Do you have a formal evening gown?” she rushes out in one breath.
My brow furrows at her query. Leslie excels at random, but this still surprises me. “This seems like an incredibly peculiar question.”
“Well, do you?”
Sighing heavily, I recall the white floor-length evening gown I bought last year for New Year’s Eve. Normally, I despise wearing white with my blonde hair because I feel washed-out. But this dress is a diamond white that has just enough glimmer to make my alabaster skin look positively luminous.
“I do happen to have a dress,” I reply sadly at the fact that I have never worn it anywhere. It’s tragic, really. Pierce was a DJ who worked at a posh nightclub in Chigwell, and they were hosting a huge formal party. Then the cheating rumours began and the whole Gareth blowout happened the day before New Year’s Eve. Leslie tried to strong-arm me into going just to spite him. Instead, I had a cosy night in with my main man, Bruce.
“Perfect! I have a proposition for you.”
Leslie goes on to explain that Theo’s family hosts a formal charity gala every year in London, and two of her former roommates who were going to attend had to back out last minute.
“Theo’s family is throwing the event?” I ask cautiously. “So they’ll all be there I assume.”
“Yes, yes. Of course,” she replies dismissively. “You’ll be at a table with some of my old roommates. Frank, Finley, and Brody. Then Reyna and Liam will be at your table as well. You met them all at The White Swan Pub soft opening a couple of weeks ago.”
I exhale when I realise she hasn’t mentioned the one I’m most curious about. Recalling my less than stellar first impression with Theo’s brother, Hayden, I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed to hear he won’t be sitting at my table.
Hayden Clarke is memorable, to say the least. He had a sexy soulful look about him that lured me right in.
“That sounds quite fun,” I reply, clearing the frog in my throat.
“Do you think you can secure a plus one?” Leslie asks. “The plates are three hundred quid a piece and are already paid in full. Oooh, maybe one of your brothers?” Her voice rises with excitement.
I exhale sharply while rolling my eyes. My gaze happens to land on our coworker, Benji. I catch him picking dirt out from beneath his fingernails with an opened paperclip and my nose crinkles. “What would you say to me bringing Benji instead?” I whisper quietly into the phone. “I really think the bloke needs a nice night out.”
Leslie groans. “Your brothers would be much more thrilling, but dammit, you’re probably right about Benji. Do you think you can keep him occupied, though? I can’t trust that Theo won’t get twitchy if he starts following me around all night.”
I purse my lips to conceal my giggle. Benji is our personal assistant, and he’s hopelessly in love with Leslie. It’s quite cute, really. He’s twenty-three, small bodied with mousy brown hair, and has an awkward, nerdy way about him. He’s not unattractive, but he is the polar opposite of Theo. Theo is large and heavily muscled with trimmed dark blonde hair. He’s brooding and intense with a confidence that can’t be faked. And the passion that radiates from him when he’s around Leslie gives me butterflies, and I’m not even on the receiving end of those looks. Not to mention he pulls off smart glasses like no bloke I’ve ever seen.
“He’ll be fine,” I appease. “Maybe he’ll meet a nice girl?”
“Aw, I’d love that for Benji,” Leslie sings hopefully into the phone. “So you’ll do it then. Yay! Thank you, my love. It means a lot. I gotta run, though. Marisa is stirring and I still have to get in the shower. It takes hours to do anything when you have a colicky baby. I’ll email you the details.”
“Great,” I reply.
“Okay, bye-bye, Vi. Oh look, I made a rhyme! I’m a poet and I didn’t know it!” She snickers like a loon, and I can’t help but laugh pathetically in response. Her voice grows serious again. “I’m sorry. Mommyhood has murdered my brain cells. Talk later!”
I shake my head as I hang up thinking about how much Leslie’s life has changed since she came to London. At twenty-seven, she’s only a couple of years older than me. I can’t even imagine being where she is currently in her life. I’m still getting dumped by douchey DJs for goodness sake.
“Hey, Benji,” I sing merrily as I saunter over to his desk which is situated behind the designer cubbies.
He looks up, dropping his paperclip on the desk and clumsily tries to cover it up. “Hiya, Vi. What can I get for you?”
Shooting him a cheeky grin, I ask, “Have you got plans tonight?”
His brow furrows as he blinks in confusion. “Not particularly.”
“Leslie called and wondered if you and I would be keen to go to a fundraiser tonight. It’s a formal do I’m afraid.”
Benji shoots up out of his chair. “Leslie called? Are you serious? Did she ask for me specifically?” His voice rises to a high-pitched squeal.
“Benji,” I chastise like a proper mum. “If you’re going to act this excited around her tonight, it’s probably not a good idea for you to go. She’s got a lot going on right now with a new baby and all her wedding planning. She really needs a nice evening out.”
His face drops. “No, I just…Oh, bugger. I didn’t mean to…It wasn’t that—”
“I know you’re fond of her. Leslie’s a great mate. Just promise to be cool and we’ll go together and have a fab time, all right?” Benji adamantly promises to be calm, and I know I can trust him. He’s harmless, really. Just overeager.
Since Roger is not in the office today, we both decide to scoot out early to prepare for our big night. Benji has to go rent a tux and I need extra time to do my hair. A formal affair requires a bit more effort than my daily long and straight do.
“I’ll pick you up in a cab outside your building at seven,” I say as we clamber out of the large swing-open window of our building.
“Sounds lovely,” he replies, his voice rising at the end as we descend down the wrought iron fire escape stairs.
There’s a call centre located on the first level of our two-floor warehouse, and we look at those employees like zombies who could infect us with a case of “dull and painfully boring.” It was Leslie’s idea to start using the fire escape steps to enter and exit so the drab lower-level office doesn’t mess with our creative mojo.
Just as we reach the bottom of the steps, my dad’s name pops up on my phone screen. I wave Benji off and answer as I make my way down the sidewalk. “Hiya, Dad!”
“Hello, my darling. You sound rather chipper.” His warm voice is always a welcome sound.
“Well, I just got invited to a formal do tonight. I was going to call you, actually. I’m afraid Bruce and I won’t be around for tea.”
“What’s the event for?”
“Oh, erm, crap.” I was so excited by the prospect of who might be in attendance that I completely forgot to ask Leslie what the charity was even for. “I suppose I don’t know. It’s sort of a favour for a friend.”
“Well, have fun. I’ll try to ward off your brothers for you.”
I let out a huff of laughter. “As if that’s even possible.”
“They mean well, darling. It’s off-season, so they have too much time on their hands to worry about you.”
Rolling my eyes, I reply, “I know, I know.”
“You will be by Sunday, right?” he asks.
“Of course, Dad. You needn’t even ask.”
“All right, just making sure. Be safe and text me when you’re home tonight.”
“Will do! Bye, Dad.”
“Bye.”
I stride down the street with an extra bounce in my step from the prospect of a big night out. This is what I envisioned when I moved. Doing fun, spur-of-the-moment things with friends that don’t involve going over match footage. And now that Leslie lives with Theo full-time, she’s only a ten-minute walk from my flat. Maybe now that she lives closer we’ll see each other more often? I know she’s got a baby, but surely mummies need a break here and there.
I walk through the narrow alley between the two shops that my flat sits above, shaking my head at the image of my idiot brothers trying to make a three-man-tower. They demanded a key from me, but I refused. I love my flat too much to give those animals access to it.
I have the penthouse above a large period building that hosts a Hookah Lounge and a gift shop on the ground level. I didn’t need the penthouse, but my dad insisted and, damn, it is bloody perfect. As soon as you walk in, you’re greeted with an entire wall of exposed natural brick which compliments the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a huge balcony. The balcony opens from the living room, and the master suite is concealed by French doors on the left. On the right is a modern kitchen with glossy black cabinets and pale wooden worktops.
As if all that isn’t gorgeous enough, there’s a ladder up to a private rooftop terrace with a huge flowery oasis. My own personal secret garden. I wish I could say I tend to the flowers myself, but I do not have a green thumb. I pay someone to maintain it, and it’s the best money I spend every single week. I lose hours up there reading and people-watching down over my quaint neighbourhood. It’s dreamy.
I let myself into the side entrance where the private lift to my flat is located. I pop my key into the panel and push the only button labelled eleven. Just as the doors open into my flat, I’m socked right in the belly by none other than Bruce.
“Bruce! You vile monster. Get back,” I shout, pushing him away from me. “Now just look at the state of me.” I glance down at my soaked jeans. The cheeky bastard has the nerve to drop down on his butt and cock his head at me in that cute puppy-dog way he still has about him.
“You think you’re cute, don’t you?” I glare at him angrily. Bruce is an enormous Saint Bernard that I ended up with when one of my neighbours passed away six months ago. It was quite sad, really. Mrs. Renack lived below me. Her children bought her Bruce as a puppy when she was diagnosed with cancer. She used to drop him off at my flat whenever she went for treatments and we always had the loveliest chats. Unfortunately, Bruce isn’t a miracle worker. When I showed up at the funeral, her kids spoke of sending him to a shelter and I couldn’t stomach the thought.
The horrid animal weighs nearly one hundred forty pounds, and his big head reaches my waist. He’s got a half white face with a mahogany brindle covering his right eye. The rest of his body is spotted with various shades of black, brown, red, and tan amongst his white fur.
“I’m going to get you into classes one of these days, Bruce. You mark my words.” His enormous tongue flicks out and licks his nose as he continues to stare at me expectantly. Two streams of drool hang from his chops as he awaits my command.
“All right, all right,” I groan. “Let’s go have a walkies.” He leaps up and rushes into the kitchen to grab his lead, dragging it across the white slate flooring. He may not be well-trained in greetings, but he sure as shit knows how to get a walk. I clip the lead onto his collar and head out to let him relieve himself. It’s a lot like leading a small horse rather than walking a dog. The looks I get are rather comical considering the bugger weighs more than I do.
This area of town is quite busy with tourists and shoppers, but anywhere you live in London you’ll always find a quiet, green oasis amongst all the hustle and bustle. These tiny parks are my favourite part of London. And the park where I take Bruce is extra special because it has an entire area for dogs.
Once we return to my flat, I lead him into the kitchen to refresh his water and feed him. Then I pop into my en suite bathroom to get ready for the evening. Bruce eventually resumes his post at the bathroom doorway, watching me the entire time with his sad puppy-dog eyes that say, “You look like you’re going out for the night. I hope that means you’re taking me. And, oh, can you scratch my back while you’re at it, pretty please?”
“Not this time, mongrel,” I say, patting his head before applying one last layer of mascara.
I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. I’ve always been the thinner, ganglier, awkward type, like a young girl who still hasn’t hit puberty. Leslie used to say I had a runway model’s body, but I’d much rather have a bit more meat and some curves than the spindly frame I inherited from my mother. It’s easy to develop a complex over thin legs when you have footballers with massive muscular thighs for brothers.
Still, my dress makes me feel like I actually have curves. It’s a diamond white, sweetheart strapless, fit-to-flare cut dress. I curl my platinum blonde locks into loose, soft waves and pin them off to one side so they trail down the front of my exposed shoulder. My minimal makeup allows my bright blue eyes to carry the show. Add a layer of peach gloss and I think I’ve actually achieved the perfect sun-kissed look I was going for.
Tonight, I feel different. Tonight, I feel ready for anything.