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Chapter One
Nine years ago
I’ve
never gone on a blind date. Actually, I’ve always been that girl who laughs at
people who talk about blind dates as if this was the most amazing way to meet
people. However, there is always a first time. In an effort to keep my nerves
under control, I reach for the champagne flute that Franky poured for me, but
is still untouched. He clicks his tongue. Obediently, I let my hands clasp
together over my lap after returning the glass to the vanity and sigh,
defeated.
“So,
who is this guy you invited to sweep me off my feet?” I ask, mildly curious.
The truth is that I’m in no shape to start dating again. Not after what
happened with Jared.
“I’ve
told you twice, Gracie,” his answer carries some exasperation, which in turn
makes me apologize with a lame ‘sorry’.
Kirk
Belen’s classic Mercy is playing
downstairs as our friend Marc is welcoming guests to my twenty-first. In the
meantime, I’m trying to sit as patiently as I can, and wait for Franky to
finish applying what looks like copious amount of eye shadow to my eyes.
“Henry
Huntingdon the Third,” Franky adds,
his footsteps announcing that he’s moved back to the vanity and I groan
inwardly, hoping he’s not putting more make-up on me.
“The
Third, wow!” I reply, fixing him with a mischievous smile, hoping he doesn’t
get hung up on the sarcasm dripping from my voice. However, Franky knows me oh,
so well. He shoots me a chiding look before I close my eyes again.
“Yes, but you won’t have to curtsy.” There’s a
smile in his voice as he teases me; at least I know he’s not mad. “He’s
twenty-eight and perfect for you to get over Jared,” he declares, making it
sound as if I were dying of a broken heart.
“I
am over Jared,” I protest, keeping my eyes closed. It’s a lie, of course, but
it’s better than admitting out loud that I’m still hurting.
My
thoughts pull me away from Franky and the party. They go back to just a few
nights ago. Jared proposed to me to hide a deeper and darker secret: he cheated
on me. In a way, I’m glad things are out in the open, but I can’t hide the way
my heart felt when it was torn by his words. One night after he proposed, he
called me up on the cell phone and said: I
can’t do this, I cheated on you.
“Yes,
sure, you’re over Jared like I’m over Orangina and rum,” Franky says, his voice
bringing me back to reality.
“What
does Henry Huntingdon, the Third do
again?” I probe, feigning interest and refraining from telling him that drink he
likes so much is disgusting.
“His
father is a publisher. He works as a talent scout and he also travels around a
lot, acquiring manuscripts, stealing authors, sleeping with authors, etcetera.”
Franky replies. The disapproval is clear in his voice, prompting me to peek at
him from under my eyelashes. He runs a hand through his honey-colored hair and
then adds, “I’m sure you’ll have loads to talk about. You work with actors,
models, and singers, and soon you’ll also be poaching people from other
agencies…like Henry does.”
“Hardly,
I’m still training to be an agent,” I reply before I catch my reflection in the
mirror and words escape me. He’s done it again; my make-up is picture perfect. I
groan inwardly, bemoaning the fact that I suck at applying make-up and I’ll
probably never look this good again.
“You
look great. Let me finish the hair,” he says as I roll my eyes, knowing he’s
going to spray the whole new hairspray can over my tresses. “Anyway, he’s
single. Not in the market for a relationship. And it’s great because you need
to get laid and not complicate your life.”
“So,
he’s a man-whore and you’re turning me into a slut,” I tell him, looking at the
dark and gold eye shadow covering my eyes and the delicate liner turning my
otherwise simple look into a very old-fashioned, but somehow chic one.
“Not
a slut,” he corrects me and punctuates his annoyance with a huff. “You need to
move on. And from what I’ve heard about Henry, he’ll definitely help you with
that.” Franky states, waggling his eyebrows before I throw the nearest pillow
at him.
“Idiot.”
“Come
on, you’ll thank me in the morning.”
“How
can you be so sure that he’ll even like me?” I ask before he lets out a
dramatic sigh while undoing the hot rollers in my hair. “Or that I’ll actually
have a one-night stand? I’ve never done that. It’s not like I’m going to sleep
with him on the first night after meeting him,” I add, trying hard to remain
still.
“Because
he’s a ginger man with a thing for ginger girls,” he tells me as I stick my
tongue out at him.
“Great,
so now I’m a fetish?”
“Plus,
he’s seen you at the gym. I know he’s totally into you,” he adds, putting the
rollers on the vanity. “And I’m sure that when you see him, you’ll change your
tune.”
I
know I should trust Franky, he’s, after all, a good friend, but after the Jared
fiasco, my brain’s telling me to run for the hills. “How come he’s single?
Don’t answer… he’s probably a good looking but crazy stalker.”
“Ye
of little faith,” he tells me with a look that says he’s thinking about something
else to add. “Well, even though I shouldn’t tell you this, I will. Because
Henry won’t ever tell you himself,” he pauses while I frown, “he was married.”
“Oh,
great, a divorced man,” I say disapprovingly.
“A
widower,” Franky corrects me. “He married young, at twenty-three. By
twenty-four he was working with his father here in London. His wife was working
in the city. She was expecting their first baby,” he runs his hands through my
hair, making sure the curls are perfect. “One day, after meeting her parents at
Canary Wharf, she was on her way to work and a fight broke out in the Tube.
Henry’s wife was too close to the edge of the platform, and someone
unintentionally pushed her. She fell on the tracks as a fast train went by.” He
sighs sadly before taking a step back.
The
scene plays in my head as my eyes prickle. I can’t imagine the pain he went
through, or him getting over losing his young bride and baby in four short
years. There’s no way anyone can get over
that.
“I guess his lack of commitment stems from
that.”
“Ya’
think?” I blink away the tears before grabbing one of the tissues from the box
on the vanity.
“It’s
been four years, I’m sure he’s ready to move on,” he assures me. “Or, at least,
he’s ready to shag with no attachments.”
“That’s
what you think,” I sulk, staring at the tissue in my hand.
“Well,
I’ve known him for six years. He was hardly a regular at my uncle’s gym when I
met him, but after that happened; he came to box every night. Then I heard the stories
from the girls. Actually, I had to make sure he would stop sleeping with the
women at the gym.” He explains with a wink. “What are you afraid of? It’s not
like you’re going to fall madly in love with him,” he says, reaching for the
hairspray once more. “Cover your eyes.”
***
A
party back home in the States usually involved my friends sprawled over the
house like they belonged. We would play video games, or board games. In the
summer, my parents put up a huge projector screen in the garden, and we would
sit around in lawn chairs watching movies and drinking soda until dawn.
London
parties, in contrast, are painfully grown-up. Most of the guests are waiting
patiently in the back garden of Franky’s West London house, with a drink in hand
and huddled under the heaters.
Once
the greeting of the guests starts, Franky’s like a peacock. He struts around
kissing, hugging, and shaking hands. Many of the guests are people who I’ve
only met once before. At least, he managed to invite my new colleagues, who all
seem nice and completely drunk by the time I get to them.
“Here
you go,” he hands me another glass of champagne as I eagerly reach for it. “Oh,
he’s here!” He grins, looking to the door with no subtleness at all.
Marc,
Franky’s best friend, is talking animatedly with Henry Huntingdon the Third,
waiting for his coat. A smile plays on his lips as he takes the coat off and
hands it to Marc, who looks ecstatic. At least someone is laughing at what is
probably one of his lame jokes. My eyes stay on Henry, noticing how his eyes
crinkle when he laughs and I can’t help but smile.
As
my eyes move away from his face, I notice that Henry is rather tall. Marc and Franky
are both six feet tall, and Henry towers easily over them by a few inches. The
black turtleneck he wears wraps tightly around the well-defined biceps as I tell
myself to stop ogling him. His crystal blue eyes scan the place before meeting
mine. The smile on his perfect lips knocks the air out of me. I notice how he
runs his fingers carelessly through his ginger hair, not caring that he’s
messing it up. I would swoon, but I’m trying hard to remember that Franky’s
pawning me like a freaking two cent hooker.
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