Up for Love in London (3 page)

“…
so I’ll take whatever’s hot.”

Now Charles is
the one being obliging. I smile and fill a cup for him. I must be
feeling better because I worry that my teary mascara makes me
resemble a raccoon. A good sign, but not a great look.

~

The breakfast
service is busy for everyone and I barely have time to change into
my regular high heels before I hear the landing gear lock into
position. Richard and I press back in our crew seats, relaxing
slightly only after the wheels meet the runway. Smooth, he says
under his breath, then picks up the intercom handset and begins his
arrival announcements. Even though we’ve been working through the
night, we both manage to put a smile in our voices and on our
faces. Richard’s weather report confirms what’s clearly visible
through the windows – scattered clouds and rain.

~

The first class
cabin usually deplanes quickly but Charles seems to linger, slowly
collecting his bags and adjusting his tie. He’s remarkably
fresh-looking for a guy who’s spent the night in an aircraft but
maybe he’s the wrinkle-proof type. I start to wonder if he looks
that good every morning.

As I dash down
the stairs to the crew bus, I’m looking forward to a nap, until I
remember that Jim will be there and the long drive downtown will
offer plenty of opportunity for conversation. Should I yawn and
fake tiredness? Not hard to do. After using the last of my energy
for the breakfast service, I’m exhausted, physically and mentally.
Rehashing the situation won’t make it change. Brad was wrong for me
but it’s still a blow to my ego. Being in the mood to flirt with
Charles tells me that my heart is mending and I could be ready to
move on.

Jim is
stretched out in the last row and I decide to sit in the front, a
signal that I don’t feel like chatting. A fine mist is falling from
a grey sky and the rhythmic swoop swoop of the bus’s windshield
wipers soon puts me to sleep.

CHAPTER 3 ~
Loving London

It’s almost 9 a.m. when I awake
with a jolt in front of the hotel. I haven’t been here for a while
and the building seems to have been renovated. Our London crew
hotel has had several owners since I’ve been flying and the latest,
Concord Group, appears to be the classiest.

On either side
of the revolving doors, boxwood, magnolia leaves and spruce boughs
spill out of oversized planters. The lobby has completely been
redone in a stylish mix of classic and modern European, with a
black granite reception desk, checkerboard marble floors and
silver-grey walls.

The only thing
remaining from the past is a round mahogany table with pawed feet,
which holds a towering all-white arrangement of fragrant lilies and
peonies.

I
ask if there are any vacancies on the 11
^th
floor. They’re standard rooms
but they all have a stunning view of the park and are also further
away from the noise of the traffic circle below. I like to sleep
with the windows open for some fresh air after a flight. But
nothing is available. The receptionist plays with the computer, and
then converses with the manager. I’m starting to feel frustrated
and regret making a special request. After making plans to meet at
six at the bar, the rest of the crew has dispersed and I’m still in
the lobby.

They finally sort something out. “Your key, Madame,” the clerk
says in a low voice. I almost snatch it from her hand and stomp
over to the elevator. When I realize I need to insert the key card
to access the 12
^th
floor, I know I’m in for a pleasant surprise. It’s
every flight attendant’s dream to stay in a fabulous hotel room and
I think mine might come true today.

The elevator
door quietly opens onto the Concord Executive Floor. Charcoal
tone-on-tone damask wallpaper adorns the top of the hallway and the
lower part is matte charcoal wainscoting. Black and grey
tiger-patterned carpet is bordered by black edging and matte
charcoal painted frames and doors. It probably sounds hideous but
it looks gorgeous and sexy. I’m ready to camp right here in the
corridor.

Inside, the
room exceeds my expectations. I roll my suitcase over the plush
gray carpet, sweep aside the thick silver drapes and look out
below. The sightlines to the park are still spectacular but the
view inside is what really captivates me.

I kick off my
shoes and plop down, fully clothed, on the plush king-sized bed and
survey my surroundings. The bed is dressed in cool white linen and
the soft grey quilt matches the grass-cloth wallpaper. An antique
mahogany dresser with brass pulls is a nice nod to British style. A
mini-bar, coffee station with pod coffee brewer, tea pot and
kettle, Bose stereo and flat screen TV round out the facilities.
It’s classy yet comfortable, just the way I like it.

The bathroom
has been refurbished too. A long deep tub has been retrofitted,
surrounded by crisp white tiles and a half glass shower partition.
The floor and countertop is Carrara marble and the stand-up sink
has a touch-free swan-neck chrome faucet. I wonder if I used my
interior design education instead of flying, if I’d be responsible
for creating rooms like this. At least I’m fortunate enough to stay
in one.

The bath is
inviting but I opt for a long shower instead. The amenities are
first class and organic. When I finally slip on the fluffy white
robe, I smell like I’ve been walking through a basil and cucumber
rain shower. Unexpectedly revitalized, I resist the bed, drink an
espresso from the pod coffee maker and dress to head downtown.

Before leaving, I glance in the full-length mirror and like
what I see– a confident young woman in slim charcoal pants, black
double-breasted Burberry raincoat and black ballet flats. I pull my
honey-highlighted hair into a quick ponytail and clip it with a
tortoiseshell barrette – a reminder of my last trip to
Paris.
Oh, stop it Lauren!
My scarlet lipstick adds a pop of colour to an
otherwise monochromatic look. It really brightens my face. I tuck a
grey silk scarf inside my collar, fling my black patent-leather
tote over my shoulder and head out the door.

I love to walk
in London, even when it’s cold, damp and rainy. The traffic is
always so congested, it seems as though I’m quicker than the bus.
Paris is beautiful, but London is too - symmetrical red brick
Georgian homes, a rainbow of pastel hues in Chelsea and the
understated luxury of Knightsbridge.

The skies are
heavy but the rain holds off and I take a short cut through
Regent’s Park. Most of the large trees are bare, but camellia
shrubs, yews and boxwood hedging keep the city looking green. Even
rosemary and lavender plants hold their leaves. Without snow, it
doesn’t feel much like December.

I cross the
York Bridge, backtracking to Devonshire and Upper Wimpole to avoid
the hustle of Marylebone. I zigzag towards Oxford Street, ending up
at St. Christopher’s Place, a charming, almost secret street lined
with trendy shops and restaurants. My stomach starts to grumble and
I know I’d better find food and fast. There’s a Café Rouge on James
Street, but before I can change direction, I’m mesmerized by the
most exquisite dress I’ve ever seen.

It’s red and
red-carpet worthy, long and sleek. The neckline plunges but not too
dramatically, the straps are wide enough and the waistline is high,
but not quite empire. Sexy and sophisticated in one package.

I catch my
reflection in the window and feel bold. I muster my richest
attitude and saunter into the shop. Even though I won’t have a
place to wear it this year, I want to try it on anyway.

The boutique is
warm and dry and an alluring trace of vanilla rides on the air.
Pale planked floors contrast with the ornate plastered ceiling and
ivory-coloured walls. There are a few racks of dresses but the
store seems almost bare, so typical for high-end shops. Two young,
pencil-thin clerks in tiny black dresses chat beside the cash
register.

I hover around
the gown but the girls ignore me. Perhaps I don’t look wealthy
enough. And then I look at the price tag and my hand flies to my
mouth in shock. And that’s in pounds. I’m about to feign
indifference and march out of the store when a bold arm slips
around my waist and pulls me close. I catch a now-familiar scent of
citrus and leather.

“This is
definitely the one you want, darling. It will be perfect for our
Christmas party, but I’d like to see you in it first.”

It’s Charles
Sterling! When he sees my surprised look, his blue eyes twinkle in
a naughty way. I try to maintain my cool as he steers me to the
back of the store.

“Ladies?” He
only needs to say one word and raise one eyebrow on his handsome
face and the clerks snap to attention.

“Yes, sir,”
they chime.

I smile coyly,
and touch a finger to his cheek, letting him know I’m up for the
game. “Well, I’m not sure it’s quite my style, but I’ll try it on
for you, darling.” The clerks almost trip over each other to see
who’ll reach the dress first. They must be on commission.

And then I
panic, wondering if he’ll join me. But he waits outside, like a
gentleman, until I’ve slipped into the gown.

It’s almost a
flawless fit. The waist needs to be nipped in a touch but otherwise
it’s perfect. My flat shoes are obviously inappropriate, so one of
the clerks offers a pair of pumps.

“Ready yet?”
Charles must be right outside.

“I can’t close
the back zipper.”

“Let me help.”
Before I can say no, Charles steps into the room, closing the door
quietly behind him. He gently moves my ponytail and slowly zips up
the dress. He touches my neck, then removes the barrette and lets
my hair loose.

“Perhaps it
would be better up with this gown,” he says and lifts my hair,
twisting it slightly and clipping it. “You have such a beautiful
neck.” His lips are warm as he nuzzles my nape.

I turn to face
him and he cups my chin in his palm, kissing me softly on my mouth.
As he moves down to my throat, I gasp with astonishment and
delight, causing one of the salesgirls to ask, “Is everything
alright, miss?”

I can imagine
their shocked faces when Charles’ deep voice replies, “Yes, yes,
everything is fine.” He adjusts the bulge in his pants, opens the
door and says, “We’ll take it, but it needs alterations.”

“Yes Mr.
Sterling.”

As one of the
girls pins the waist and hemline, she avoids my face, which must be
the same colour as the dress. I try to look nonchalant, while my
brain is calculating the future cost of this encounter. Even a man
who can afford to throw money around must expect something in
return. I’m pretty certain it will be more than a kiss in the
dressing room.

Charles has
just finished paying when I leave the cubicle and we meet at the
cash register. I wonder if I should have declined the dress, but by
now Charles knows I’m no virtuous angel. Our eyes meet and I notice
a twinkle in his sapphire blue eyes as his lips curve into a boyish
grin. He’s obviously not taking this as seriously as I am.

He gently holds
my arm and steers me across the street, through a large black door.
Inside, the décor is modern minimalist, all shades and textures of
white. It takes a moment before I realize it’s a hotel lobby.
There’s not even a front desk to speak of and the staff are dressed
in all-black designer clothes without name tags.

“Is this your
home?” I ask Charles.

“Home away from
home. It’s one of my hotels.”

“One of.” I
like that. “One of how many?” I try to act casual, but my jetlag
gives me away.

“Sometimes it
feels like too many, but not today.” He smiles and waits for my
next question.

“Do you always
going around buying expensive dresses for strange women?”

“Do you always
go around accepting expensive dresses from strange men?”

He has me on
that one. “Touché, but you have to admit…”

Charles
interjects midsentence. “I’ll admit to nothing and neither should
you.” He smiles again and his eyes sparkle, breaking down my
mistrust. “Except my need for a mid-morning glass of Champagne.
Care to join me?”

“Why not?”

I look around
and survey my surroundings. I feel a bit out of my league, like
Cinderella, but if the prince approves, who cares? He pulls out my
chair and helps me remove my coat. Presumably I’m going to be here
for a while.

Charles walks
behind the bar, acting like he owns the place. Oh, right, he does.
He holds up a bottle of Tattinger and when I nod my approval,
deftly pops the cork and pours two frothy flutes.

We clink
glasses and toast to nothing in particular. The Champagne is
perfectly chilled and the bubbles are the correct size, not too
big, not too small and they rush to the top in wavering lines. I
take a sip and feel obliged to comment, “Nice finish.”

“I’m pleased
that you approve. What do you think of your hotel?”

“The design is
fabulous…but I did have problems with my room key. So I had to
wait, and then…” I must sound like a spoiled brat as I recount my
experience checking into the hotel. “But it turned out fine as the
room they finally give me is spectacular.”

“I thought
you’d like it.”

My mouth drops
open and he laughs. “Oh no, do you own that place too?” I roll my
eyes. “I suppose I’m now guilty of accepting a hotel room from a
strange man?”

“Just an
upgraded hotel room.” He reaches across the table and places his
hand on mine. “I could almost see a little light bulb turning on
over your head, Lauren. You should never play poker.”

“I’m not a
gambler. Well, not usually anyway.” Charles fills my glass again,
though I notice he’s hardly had more than a sip or two. “That’s why
I have a back-up career, rather than just being a flight attendant.
I’m also an interior designer.”