Christmas in London Page 4

  “The valet delivered them to your bedroom.” He waved his hand.

  “I made a mistake, but I promise I won’t let you down,” she said. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll make you and Kate proud.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  A smile crossed her face and she was so happy to be in London. “Don’t come in until I’m ready. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  * * *

  Louisa spritzed her wrists with perfume and rubbed her lips with lipstick. She touched her hair and wondered why she felt anxious. Then she pictured the disappointment in Noah’s eyes. She hated to let him down; it wasn’t like her at all.

  Was that why she felt the same nervous excitement as when she got ready for her senior prom? She couldn’t think about it now. If she took any longer to get ready, Noah would never forgive her. She sifted through the boxes for a chiffon wrap and opened the door.

  “What do you think?” she asked, entering the living room.

  Noah stood next to the fireplace clutching a shot glass. He placed it on the sideboard and rubbed his forehead.

  “You don’t like it,” she said anxiously. “I shouldn’t have chosen the red dress. It’s too bright for a cocktail party and the fabric is practically see through. I’ll go change, it won’t take long.”

  “The dress is perfect.” Noah stopped her. “You said you don’t have any makeup and the hairdresser ruined your hair. You look like…”

  “Like what?” she prompted, and for some reason felt unsteady.

  “You look like a movie star,” he finished.

  “You’re exaggerating,” she laughed, relief flooding her chest. “I never said I didn’t have any makeup. Most women carry mascara and lipstick in their purse. And a curling iron does wonders with hair.” She paused. “Do you think Kate will be happy?”

  Noah started as if he forgot the time. “Only if we are downstairs in three minutes,” he began. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I convinced you to drop everything and fly to London. Then I didn’t care that you were tired and scheduled every minute of your day.”

  Louisa smiled and suddenly felt better.

  “Apology accepted,” she conceded. “With your itinerary, we’re going to be stuck together like sprinkles on a birthday cake. It would be nice if we got along.”

  “We can work out a truce later.” He grinned. “There’s a two-man camera crew and some of the most important chefs in the world downstairs. We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  * * *

  Noah opened lacquered double doors and Louisa gasped. Entering the Fumoir was like walking into a 1920s speakeasy. Purple velvet love seats were arranged around beveled glass coffee tables and photographs of Marlene Dietrich and Clark Gable lined the walls. An art deco mirror stood behind the bar and patterned rugs covered oak floors.

  Everything about the room was stunning: the pearl cigar cases and horseshoe-shaped bar lined with bottles of Armagnac. Crystal vases shimmered under the low light and flickering candles gave the tables a warm glow.

  A small group gathered near the fireplace and Louisa recognized Pierre Gagnaire and Andreas Caminada. Her stomach turned and she wanted to race upstairs.

  Could she really chat with chefs who were on the cutting edge of the culinary scene? She knew nothing about reduction sauces or plate equilibrium. She didn’t work in a kitchen filled with gleaming cookware like a restaurant kitchen on a movie set.

  But when would she get a chance to learn from chefs who earned Michelin stars and wrote glossy cookbooks? And besides, she and Noah agreed to get along. He wouldn’t be happy if she suddenly had a headache and went to her suite.

  “There you are.” A woman turned around. “Noah was frantic. He thought you had been kidnapped or fallen asleep in the back of a cab.”

  When Louisa had arrived at JFK there had only been a few minutes until the plane boarded and she barely met Kate. And the moment they touched down at Heathrow, Kate rushed off to solve a crisis. Now Louisa noticed how beautiful she was.

  Kate was in her early thirties and had blond hair knotted in a chignon and green eyes coated with sparkly eye shadow. She wore a silver sheath that complemented her long legs and a hint of pale lipstick. But it was her smile that made her lovely. It was bright and sincere.

  “Please don’t blame Noah,” Louisa urged. “It’s entirely my fault. This morning I was so jet-lagged, I could barely stand up. Then I got sidetracked in the Food Hall at Harrods and missed my makeup appointment. There’s so much to see, Christmas in London is thrilling.” She paused. “I promise it won’t happen again. From now on I’m sticking to the itinerary.”

  “As long as you are here now.” Kate nodded. “I can understand. When I don’t sleep on the plane, I’m like a bear forced out of hibernation.”

  “It is overwhelming.” Louisa glanced at waiters wearing black bow ties and white gloves. They carried trays of quail eggs and potted shrimp. “The Mayfair Suite and giant Christmas tree in the lobby and having cocktails with world-class chefs,” she said with a sigh. “What if I say the wrong thing and everybody laughs?”

  “Use my trick,” Kate offered. “When I produced my first show, I had to speak at a board meeting in front of a roomful of executives. I stood next to my PowerPoint presentation with the Empire State Building behind me and forgot my notes.”

  “What did you do?” Louisa asked.

  “I imagined everyone sitting in their underwear.”

  “That doesn’t work,” Louisa laughed. “It’s what they do in movies.”

  “It cured me immediately,” Kate insisted. “It helps if you imagine something ridiculous: boxer shorts with Santa Clauses or penguins.”

  “What could I possibly have to say to some of the most famous chefs in the world?” Louisa asked and noticed a man standing next to the fireplace. While the other chefs wore blazers and ties, he was dressed in a cashmere V-neck sweater and navy slacks. His blond hair fell over his forehead and he held a champagne flute.

  “Is that really—” she began.

  “Digby Bunting?” Kate followed her gaze. “I haven’t met him, but he’s quite notorious. They call him the British Cooking Casanova. At his last book signing they had to hire security to keep the women away.”

  “I don’t care about that. His recipes are delicious.” Louisa shrugged. “I’m dying to ask him how he gets the right consistency in his Opera Cake. When I make it, the whipped mascarpone cream falls flat.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” Kate suggested.

  “Now?” Louisa panicked. What if she said something embarrassing? Like she adored his chocolate truffle layer cake and he said that wasn’t in the cookbook, she must be thinking of Alain Ducasse.

  “You’re going to be cooking beside him,” Kate reminded her. “Don’t worry, he’s just like the rest of us. He probably had acne as a teenager.”

  “Let me get a drink first.” Louisa accepted a martini from a passing waiter and glanced around the room.

  She looked for Noah but he’d disappeared. There was no reason for him to stay; his job was to make sure she made it to the Fumoir. He was probably at Claridge’s bar sipping a Dubonnet or in his suite taking a nap. She was surprised that his absence left her suddenly deflated, like when she baked a perfect cheesecake only to discover the blueberries were sour and she didn’t have a topping.

  Digby glanced in her direction and she flushed. She should be excited. She was standing in Claridge’s about to meet one of the most famous pastry chefs in the world.

  “I’m ready.” She turned to Kate. “Let’s meet Digby Bunting.”

  Chapter Four

  KATE SAT IN A BOOTH in Claridge’s Reading Room and picked at a tomato and Parmesan salad. She hadn’t eaten anything except an egg sandwich since the plane landed this morning and now it was past 10:00 p.m. But she moved bacon around her plate and realized she wasn’t hungry. She should have spared her expense account and ordered a cup of tea.

  She was rarely
hungry when she worked because there was so much to think about: whether the camera crew was getting the right angles or the wireless microphones were picking up sound. The reception in the Fumoir ended at ten and everyone went to bed. Noah left early and she couldn’t blame him. Being responsible for Louisa must be exhausting.

  Kate could tell Louisa was out of her depth. It was bold of Noah to pluck her out of a bakery kitchen on the Lower East Side and put her on a plane. But they didn’t have a choice, and now they were all in it together.

  Kate fiddled with her glass and knew worrying about Louisa wasn’t the only thing that made her lose her appetite. And it wasn’t the excitement of being in a foreign city that let her exist on the occasional sandwich and endless cups of coffee.

  The magazine was propped up on the silver bread basket and she picked it up. It was the picture on the cover that made her heart beat a little faster.

  A British country manor with stone statues and English rose gardens stared back at her. A woman wore riding boots and her chestnut hair was tied in a ponytail. Beside her stood a man in a navy blazer and tasseled loafers. The caption read: “Sir Trevor Skyler and his wife, Susannah, great niece of Queen Elizabeth, at home at Yardley Manor in Sussex.”

  But it hadn’t been Sir Trevor when she knew him at St Andrews ten years ago. It had been Trevor with hair that was too long and fell in his eyes, and pants that were too short because they were castoffs from a wealthier friend.

  Trevor helped her get through applied mathematics because the math was completely different from what she’d learned in high school in Santa Barbara. She and Trevor spent hours studying on the lawn in front of the Student Union while other students played Frisbee. The Scottish autumn was so short; you had to take advantage of good weather.

  Trevor didn’t mind. He was as allergic to exercise as he was to peanut butter. But Kate watched young men with floppy dark hair and girls with fair complexions laugh and toss the Frisbee and wondered why she came all the way to Scotland for university if she was going to bury her head in a textbook.

  And she had helped Trevor in return. He wouldn’t have passed freshman English if she hadn’t shown him how to decipher Beowulf. He refused to read anything in Old English, and he wrote a paper trying to convince the professor to start with Shakespeare. He got an F on the paper and Kate couldn’t help laughing.

  She remembered all the afternoons they spent exploring the alleyways of St Andrews. The university was spread out through the town, like daisies popping up in a field. Stone buildings with stained-glass windows and peaked roofs were wedged between the butcher with pork hanging in the window and a newsagent selling girlie magazines and Violet Crumbles.

  They took long walks on the sand dunes of West Sands beach that adjoined St Andrews golf course. When she arrived, she thought that color green couldn’t be real. It was like the emerald in a priceless pendant.

  How did the boy who would rather eat cold meat pies in his room than attend festive communal dinners in McIntosh Hall marry a minor member of the royal family who was famous for her house parties?

  The article said every year Sir Trevor and his wife held a house party that lasted the whole week before Christmas. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge were known to attend and there was hunting and fishing.

  Dinners were served in Yardley Manor’s dining room and a well-known chef created each meal. Jamie Oliver prepared sweet potato and cardamom soup and Marco Pierre White served venison with beets and heritage carrots. The whole estate was decorated for Christmas: a Fraser fir tree with ornaments from Harvey Nichols and stockings hung from massive stone fireplaces and a toy train set that took up the entire library.

  She hadn’t seen Trevor in ten years. And she’d taught herself not to think about him. Her memories of St Andrews were packed away with her yearbooks and the tartan scarf Trevor gave her for her birthday.

  She put down her fork and thought she should be upstairs planning tomorrow’s schedule. They were going to film Louisa strolling past the boutiques on Carnaby Street and examining the Christmas hampers at Fortnum and Mason.

  She glanced around for a waiter and saw a man standing in the lobby. A trench coat was folded over his arm and he scribbled on a note card.

  Even before he looked up, she knew it was Trevor. Somehow she wasn’t surprised; the article mentioned that Claridge’s was Trevor’s favorite hotel in London. Perhaps he was giving a lecture or attending some holiday function. Where else would he stay when he was in town?

  Once early in their friendship, Trevor marveled at how they had the same tastes. They both had porridge with sliced peaches for breakfast and didn’t eat big lunches. In the evenings, while other students played drinking games and danced on tables at the pub, they found each other sitting on the fire escape, looking up at the stars.

  Should she get up and say hello? Afterward she’d need a large scotch. But she was a grown woman and her job was to tackle difficult situations. She couldn’t slink away like a wallflower at a dance.

  She searched her purse for her charge card and heard a male voice. She looked up and Trevor stood next to the table. His suit was tailored and he had an expensive haircut, but he had the same brown eyes and narrow cheekbones.

  “Kate?” he asked incredulously. “What are you doing in London?”

  “Trevor! I was just reading about you.” She pointed to the magazine. “‘Sir Trevor was knighted by Queen Elizabeth for his contribution to the field of mathematics. The ceremony at Buckingham Palace was followed by a private party at Annabel’s given by his wife, Lady Skyler, and attended by London’s fashionable set.’”

  “One can never trust the media to get it right.” He sighed. “Do you remember when you subscribed to Hello and complained they made the stories up?”

  “Which part did they get wrong?” she asked.

  “That Lady Skyler is my wife,” he said slowly. “We’re separated.”

  “Separated!” she exclaimed.

  “To be fair, it hasn’t been announced.” He shrugged. “It’s a recent development.”

  “I’m sorry, I had no idea,” she answered.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked. “I’ve driven from Sussex in the rain. My suite isn’t ready and I don’t feel like sitting in the bar and listening to Christmas music.”

  “I was about to go upstairs,” she stammered. “Perhaps we could meet for breakfast or—”

  “Kate.” He stopped her. “We haven’t seen each other in ten years. We have time for a brandy.”

  Trevor was right. They had been close for four years; she could manage one drink.

  “Why not? I can never sleep after a transatlantic flight and a Brandy Alexander sounds delicious.”

  The waiter set down two Brandy Alexanders and she fiddled with her hair. This was a bad idea; she didn’t know where to start. Did they talk about St Andrews or the last day they saw each other?

  “Is it still Kate Crawford?” He glanced at her hand. “Or are you one of those modern career women who has a husband and four children but doesn’t wear a wedding ring?”

  “I’m not married.” She felt the brandy warm her throat. “I’m the producer of a television cooking show. It’s like being a surgeon and attorney and parent at once. There’s always some disaster to stitch up and crisis to solve and feelings that need soothing.”

  “I’m not surprised, you were the most capable person I knew. Member of the History Society and Save the Elephants Society and Mermaids Theatre Committee.” He fiddled with his drink and his eyes darkened. “You were even capable of breaking my heart.”

  Kate put down her glass. “It’s late, I should go.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m overtired,” he urged. “I’ve been sleeping in the den because the bedrooms are full for Susannah’s house party. She doesn’t want her friends to know about the separation so I had to sneak down after everyone went to bed. The central heating doesn’t work in the left wing and the blankets were spoken for,” he said. “I fin
ally gave up and booked a suite at Claridge’s.”

  “A last-minute suite at Claridge’s the week before Christmas?” Kate raised her eyebrow. “You must be important.”

  “Terribly important,” he laughed. “Prize-winning mathematician and related by marriage to Queen Elizabeth. If you come back next summer, I can get you a box at Wimbledon.”

  “I’m sorry about your marriage.” She waved at the magazine. “I read the whole article. Thirty-room Sussex manor and stable of hunters and summer home in Spain.”

  “Did they mention the dogs?” he asked. “In the end, they were the only ones who talked to me.”

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “When Susannah and I met, I won the Hirst Prize for Mathematics. I was different from her set who worked in The City and drove flashy cars. Susannah can be lovely when she’s alone, but when she’s with her friends she becomes another person.” He sighed. “A mathematician who would rather spend his evenings looking through a telescope than drinking Taittingers at London clubs wasn’t a suitable husband.”

  “Do you have children?” she wondered.

  “We were planning on it. But Susannah hadn’t scheduled it around her gymkhanas.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not going to cry into my brandy the week before Christmas. We were from separate worlds, it was like parking a Volkswagen in the garage of Buckingham Palace.”

  “You must have been in love to get married,” she said and stopped.

  Trevor’s eyes flickered and he stabbed his drink with his straw.

  “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.” She stood up. “I’ll have the waiter add my drink to my check. It was nice to see you.”

  Trevor stood up and she remembered how tall he was. Except at St Andrews his clothes hung on him like a skeleton at Halloween, and now he filled out his suit.

  “I’m tired too.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “You look beautiful, Kate. Being a successful producer agrees with you.”

  * * *