Page 72 of Hot Nights in Morocco
Not anymore.
“Why’s that, Charlotte? He couldn’t take his eyes off you at the charity gala.”
“That’s because we were having an argument. It’s more satisfying to fire angry words at each other and watch them detonate on impact.”
“Before that, silly. When he was trying to extract himself from those pop stars. I know when a man’s interested, darling. He’s a little older than I was expecting, but he’s very…” The sentence is left hanging, but we both know what she’s implying. Jake is well-connected and filthy rich—all the things instrumental to my mother’s happiness.
Oh, shut up, Mom,I silently rage at her, dragging my thoughts back to that charity night. I seem to remember him rather enjoying their company, but the events that followed suggest otherwise.
“What exotic location is he whisking you away to next?”
“Um…nowhere. My contract’s expired,” I say bleakly.In more ways than one.I’m nearly at Hungerford Bridge. I can see the London Eye winking at me in the distance.
“Oh, I see.” I can sense my mother digesting this information and weeding out the negatives. “Well, you must come for dinner. Courtney and Harold are coming to stay. Harold has the most delightful British nephew. You simplymustmeet him. He’s only twenty-seven, but he’s just inherited his father’s dry cleaning business. A hundred stores nationwide, would you believe?”
What aboutmybusiness? I want to scream at her. I fell hard twice in Morocco. Once for a man who broke my soul, and the other for an industry that I’m hoping will fix it. But my mother’s on a roll. She’s now happily spelling out to me the many benefits that would come from dating a dry cleaning tycoon.
“And he has a house in Weybridge, darling. On that fancy estate where all the Beatles used to live.”
My mind starts to drift. I’m formulating a plan, a “save Charlie” kind of plan—one that’s going to resurrect me from the ashes of Jake Dalton. After this call ends, I’m going straight over to the TV studios on the South Bank and requesting a trainee job application form. If I can’t have Jake, I’ll have the next best thing.
“Will you at least think about it, darling? A coffee perhaps? A quick macchiato to break the ice, and then dinner the following week?”
“Fine, Mom. Whatever.”
“Marvelous!”
Satisfied that she’s pinned me down to a date with Harold’s family success story, my mother makes her excuses and hangs up.
I’ve reached the Royal Festival Hall, but I’m like a salmon leaping upstream against the tides of people coming the other way. The South Bank has always been my favorite part of London. It’s teeming with energy and there’s a carnival atmosphere radiating out from the litany of cafés and restaurants and their colorful awnings. The River Thames is running alongside me, urging me on, enveloping me with its chilly, stale odor. Big Ben is behind me, guarding my back. St Paul’s and the skyline of London are stretched out before me like some modern-day Canaletto painting.
Today will be a good day, I tell myself. Today is the day I take my life back.
As I approach the great gray edifice of Queen Elizabeth Hall, I spy a familiar sight. A hub of activity has closed off huge sections of the walkway, and a tangle of trailing camera cables are jutting out from the group like an electrical umbilical cord. An army of baseball caps and North Face jackets has descended on the South Bank, and they’re all darting in and out of their black-clad security detail like border collies in an agility class.
I stop to rubberneck like everyone else, and hear a familiar shout.
“Oh, my gawd, will youpleasehave these people moved on? This place is so claustrophobic. They’re taking up my oxygen. I can smell their fish and chips!”
There’s a ripple of excitement as Cassie Lee struts into view wearing a full-length black puffa. A glitzy gold cocktail dress is peeking out through the open gap in her jacket and her blond hair is piled on top of her head in some fancy updo. Her endless legs elicit many admiring murmurs from the men. Even the leaves in the trees seem to approve as they swish and sway in time to the catcalls.
I’m not so easily impressed. There’s nothing pretty underneath all that makeup. I duck my head and keep on walking until I’m shoved out of the way by an over-enthusiastic autograph hunter. He sends me hurtling into the broad, muscular back of the tallest North Face prince, which, in turn, sends his mocha latte flying.
“What the fuck?” he yells, rounding on me furiously.
“I’m so sorry!”
He glares down at me and we both get the shock of our lives. “Shit, Charlie, is that you?”
Is it?I’m not so sure anymore.
I don’t know who’s more stunned—me, to see Brad Wilson this far from L.A., or him by my flattened, waiflike appearance.
“Excuse me, madam, you can’t stand there,” says an officious-sounding security guard, shooing me away from Brad.
“No, Danny, it’s okay, she’s with me.”
I am?
