The Balance Thing (6 page)

I
'd been to London before, but this wasn't the Shakespeare-and-the-Houses-of-Parliament vacation I'd had after my senior year. Nor was it one of the insides-of-hotels-and-conference-rooms business trips I'd taken. This was Wedding London, where apparently every person who had ever met Ian or any member of his family was required by the code of British etiquette to throw a party.

I'd toasted Connie and Ian in grand hotels and intimate restaurants. I'd drunk to their health in the dining rooms of the wealthy and the tea rooms of the traditionalists. I'd wished for their first child to be a son (actually, I'd raised my glass while others wished for that particular joy) on no fewer than three occasions.

And we'd only been in town four days.

Tonight the celebration was in someone's dining room, on the second floor of a house I was sure I'd seen on an episode of
Masterpiece Theatre
. Maybe it was Ian's Great Aunt Penelope's house, maybe not. I'd lost track. I just smiled and nodded and said, “Yes, they
are
a lovely couple,” and tried to keep Vida from grumbling too loudly.

In another three days we'd head to Sussex or Surrey or someplace in the countryside, and then the social whirlwind would give way to escalating plans for the Big Day.

Vida and I were carrying the bulk of the party burden. Because Max wasn't officially a member of the wedding party (damn him), he hadn't been invited to several of the bashes that we girls had been duty-bound to enjoy. We kept coming back to our hotel to find Max with some engaging Irishman he'd met at a little out-of-the-way pub or a fierce Scotsman he'd encountered during intermission at a West End musical.

It just wasn't fair.

When the three of us did manage to sneak off to the Tate Modern or a Covent Garden pub, we amused ourselves by placing bets on when exactly Connie's head was going to explode. The bride was lovely at all times, enchanting in all ways, and headed for a complete mental breakdown. Meanwhile, the parties went on.

 

“HOW MANY TIMES
have we eaten poached salmon in the past four days?” Vida hissed under her breath as plates of pink fish were placed before us.

“Think of it this way,” I whispered back. “With all the Omega 3 we're getting, we'll probably never grow old.”

Vida glanced around the table at her fellow diners. “I don't think it's working.”

She had a point. The crowd was leaning fairly heavily toward the dowager set. I had hoped Ian might number among his friends a handsome young duke or two, but so far I'd met nothing but elderly couples who were friends of his
parents and a staggering uniformity of vapid people with whom he'd been either “at school” or “at university.” The only good news was that I hadn't met one person who seemed likely to have ever heard of Vladima Cross, Defender of the Night.

Vida landed a discreet elbow to my ribs. “We have to make an early break for it.”

The dining room, with its acres of white linen, glittering silver, and sparkling crystal, was a setting worthy of a spread in
Town & Country
entitled “How the Better Half Lives.” But Vida, sick to death of panty hose and party frocks—don't even get her started on high-heeled sandals—was planning an escape worthy of Steve McQueen's best movie.

She'd announced her strategy at the hotel as we were getting dressed. “I'm making a break for it between the dessert and the after-dinner drinks,” she'd said with defiance. “Are you in?”

Max, who was keeping us company while perusing a copy of
Time Out
, offered a suggestion. “Why don't you just blow off the whole thing and come with me? I've decided to visit every pub within a two-mile radius that has the word
Queen
in the name. You'd be amazed how many there are.”

Vida ignored him. “Becks, are you with me?”

I shrugged. “Unless I meet the LOTM. What's the plan?”

“Look at this,” Max spoke half to himself. “The Queen's Arms, The Queen's Banner, The Queen's Head—oh, I like the sound of that one…”

“I won't know the plan until I get the lay of the land,” Vida said. “I just know I can't spend one more night dressed up like a goddamn girl.”

I looked at her. “That comment would carry more weight if you weren't wearing a push-up bra and thigh-highs.”

“Hey,” Max spoke up. “What the hell is an LOTM?”

“Lord of the Manor,” we both told him.

He squinted. “Have you two been holding out on me?”

“Never,” I promised. “He's a mythical beast. The modern woman's version of the unicorn. A single, stable, straight man with chiseled good looks and a certain boyish charm. He's often reported but rarely seen, and approachable only by the pure of heart.”

“But you don't have to be a virgin.” Vida's muffled voice emerged from a tangle of lavender chiffon that would theoretically resolve itself into something like a dress shape once she had it on right.

“Thank heaven for that,” Max said. “And have you seen this creature?”

Vida's head popped out. “Not unless he's been disguised as a gin-swilling, polo-playing, middle-aged barrister with bad teeth and no conversation.”

Max snorted. “I knew Ian's friends would be hideous.”

“We haven't met them all yet.” I turned my back on him so he could zip up my navy blue sheath (which I knew Connie would think was frumpy, but I'd run out of acceptable wedding-attendant wear). “And the barrister is a completely different person from the polo player.”

“We're meeting the brother and sister at the thing tonight,” Vida told him, twisting around to see if the dress covered everything in the back.

Ian's brother, Phillip, was slated to be his best man, and his sister Trinny, despite the fact that Connie had never met her, was the maid of honor.

“So, Becks,” Max asked, “you're actually looking for a man at these parties?”

“Try not to sound so amazed.”

“It's just so unlike you. I mean, I'd have no trouble believing you were cruising for an executive position, but cruising for an executive?” His eyebrows went up.

“Not just an executive,” I clarified. “A Lord of the Manor. Someone who wears bespoke shirts and rides to hounds and belongs to a gentleman's club.”

“Well, I'll say this for you, when you create a fantasy figure, you go all the way.”

Vida looked at me proudly. “Becks is cultivating her love life.” She leaned forward and gave her breasts a tug, then straightened up to view the effect in the mirror. “And I'm going to kick-start my sex life if it kills me. Which, if these parties are anything to go by, it might. We're going to have to dine and ditch if we want to make any progress.” She held up her hand for a high five.

“I'm with you.”

 

I'D DECIDED THE TRIP
to England would be just what I needed to recover from my chronic case of date laziness. I'd taken as much of Connie's example as I could stand and spent the time on the plane identifying and cataloguing the salient characteristics of my dream man. In detail. We're talking college degrees and majors, knowledge of wines, credit rating, and physical appearance right down to the length of his fingernails. As well as some other vital measurements. Since making the list, I had studiously ignored anyone who didn't meet 85 percent of my criteria. Back at the
room each night, I updated a spreadsheet where I kept my statistics.

The highest score so far had been a disappointing 62 percent.

At one point Vida made a comment along the lines of “You might be going a little overboard with this,” but she was wrong.

I was a woman with a plan.

I was not, however, a woman with a particularly successful plan. The LOTM had yet to show his face.

Speaking of plans, Vida abandoned the one about a quick escape from Great Aunt Penelope's—assuming it was Great Aunt Penelope's—the instant she met Ian's brother, Phillip.

 

I WAS WAITING FOR HER
as arranged in the cloakroom. This was the kind of house that had a cloakroom. I'd slipped away on schedule and was beginning to worry that Vida had gotten into trouble when she flung herself into the room and slammed the door.

“He's here!” I don't think it's an exaggeration to say Vida's bosom (such as it was) heaved.

“Who's here?”

“The man I'm going to sleep with before this week of wedding hell is over.”

“Mazol tov. Does that mean we're not leaving?” I had my jacket in my hands.

“Leaving?” She grabbed my arm. “Didn't you hear me? Do you know who Ian's brother is? Do you have any idea?” She started pacing in the confines of the glorified closet. “I mean, I knew his name was Phillip, and I knew Ian's last
name was Hastings, but I had no idea—” She turned to me wildly. “No idea Ian's brother was Phillip Hastings!”

“And he is…?” As long as we were going to stay, I fished my compact out of my glittery little evening bag (on loan from Connie's collection) and checked my makeup.

“You're joking!” Vida stared at me in disbelief.

I gave her my attention. “Okay. Phillip Hastings?” Then I realized who I was talking to. “Oh, let me guess, he's a sports guy.”

“You're hopeless, you know that? He's not just a ‘sports guy,' he's…he's Phillip Hastings!” The bosom started heaving again. “British Olympic champion? Star soccer player?” Then apparently she remembered who she was talking to. “He does the commercials for WorldWired.”

My jaw dropped. “
That
guy is Ian's brother?”

Vida grinned. “Pass me your lipstick. What we have here is a whole new ball game.”

 

I STAYED IN THE CLOAKROOM
after Vida dashed out to follow her sexual destiny. Without her to whisper disgruntled comments to me, I felt all alone at the party. I'd had more than I should have had to drink (again) and I dreaded approaching any of the people whose names I'd already forgotten and trying to make small talk. I particularly dreaded the inevitable question “And what do you do?”

At a previous party I'd answered one well-meaning elderly man with “Being Connie's bridesmaid is a full-time job,” but I'd had the distinct feeling that when he wandered away, he started telling everyone I was weird.

Oh, well. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked right into Connie.

“Becks!” She shoved me back into the closet. “Thank God it's you!”

It was quite an evening for heaving bosoms.

“Connie, what's wrong?” Despite the fact that her dress was perfect, her hair was perfect, and from what I could tell her shoes were perfect, Connie's eyes were welling with tears. They threatened the perfection of her makeup. I grabbed a scarf off of somebody's coat and started dabbing.

“Look up,” I ordered her. “Calm down. What's the matter?”

Connie made a visible effort at self-control. “My necklace.” Her voice was shaking.

I stepped back. “You're not wearing a necklace.”

The tears threatened again. “It broke!” she wailed. She grabbed the scarf and shoved her evening bag into my hands. “The pearls Ian gave me when we got engaged! His grandmother's pearls!”

I opened the tasteful satin purse and saw dozens of loose pearls. “It's all right,” I assured her. “I'm sure you got them all. Where did it break?”

“Just now.” She took a deep breath. “When I was in the loo.”

She'd started spouting Britishisms the moment the plane had landed. “The loo? You mean the bathroom?” A horrible thought struck. “Connie—where did they fall?”

Her eyes widened. She nodded. “I had to fish them out.”

I closed the bag and held it a little farther away. “Yuck.”

Okay, so that wasn't the most supportive thing I could have done, but really—yuck.

“Don't be a baby!” she snapped. “I rinsed them off.” Then the tears threatened again. “You have to help me,” she begged. “You have to get them restrung.”

“All right, fine.” I took the bag back. “I'll take care of it in the morning.”

“No!” She dug her nails into my arm. “Tonight! I have to wear them to brunch tomorrow morning.”

“First of all,” I said, prying her off me, “
ow.
And second, just where do you expect me to find an all-night jeweler in this town?”

“Please, Becks!” She bit her lip.

Good God. “Fine,” I agreed. “Now, anything else?”

She missed my sarcasm entirely as she threw her arms around me. “Thank you!” And she was gone.

I never really planned any sort of imaginary wedding when I was growing up. I wasn't that kind of girl. And I've never spent time fantasizing about my big day one way or another as an adult. But at that moment I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if I ever did get married, I'd make Connie my maid of honor and I'd put her through absolute hell.

 

I WAS HALFWAY DOWN
the marble staircase when the bag started dripping. “Yuck.” I shook it a little, holding it away from me.

And it opened.

And all the pearls came spilling out.

I may have yelped. I probably did. I know I lunged for the beads as they started clattering down the stairs. I know I lunged because spectators to the event later told me I made a spectacular effort before I tumbled down the stairs.

At the bottom, there was more embarrassment than pain, which was a good thing. But there was still considerable
pain. I kept my eyes closed longer than I needed to, listening to the dull buzzing in my ears and the warm sound of a man's voice murmuring pleasant things to me.

Murmuring…“I think she needs a doctor.”

I opened my eyes and looked for the source. Either there was a light behind his head or he was sporting a snazzy halo. I only saw the silhouette of a sleek figure in a well-cut suit.