Her voice is sharp and stern, and I straighten in my seat as though I’m in trouble with the headmistress.
“Lady Meade, how are you?”
“Where are you?”
“On the train to Hertfordshire. If this is about Cordelia’s truffle oil, I’m on my way to the shop and will be back with it as soon as possible.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by truffle oil, but that can wait. I need you to come to our house,” she says urgently. “When can you be here?”
“Uh, well, I guess I could see what stop I can get off to come back into London.”
“If you would, thank you.”
“Is everything OK?” I ask, gripping the phone. “Has something happened?”
“Yes, something has happened. Please send me a message to let me know your timing. I can send a car to pick you up from whichever London station you return to.”
“Oh! Thanks so much, I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”
“Thank you, Emily. Goodbye.” She hangs up.
I quickly search the fastest way to get back into London and, thankfully, check just in time. The next stop has a train going to King’s Cross in ten minutes, and we’ll be at that stop in five. As I pack away my laptop and gather my things, I wonder what on earth requires such urgent attention.
By the time I get into the shiny black car that collects me from King’s Cross, my mind is whirring through possibilities, ranging from something silly, like Cordelia refusing to wear a priceless family necklace, throwing it into a pond, and they need someone to fish it out, to Jonathan having realized it might be a good idea to marry someone who can be kind occasionally and threatening to call off the wedding.
“Oh, good, they’ve gone,” Joe, the driver, says, as we approach the house.
“Who’ve gone?” I ask, peering out of the window.
“The photographers. They were lurking outside this morning, flicking their cigarette butts all over the pavement.” He tuts. “They must have got bored.”
“There were press here earlier?” I breathe a sigh of relief that they’re gone. “Why?”
“Lord Dashwell was out last night and they photographed him with an American pop star. Now they’ve assumed something’s going on. Happens all the time. One of the family says hello to someone, and the next day it’s all over the papers that they’re romantically involved. Exhausting. Anyway, he’s having his Chelsea house renovated, so he’s staying here at the moment and the press was swarming around the door all morning.”
“Wow. Which pop star? Have I heard of her? What’s she like?”
I don’t know why this annoys me. For goodness’ sake, I’ve only met him twice. It’s completely unreasonable for me to be irritated by this news. Just because he was nice to me at the engagement party. He’s single and good-looking and aviscount.He’s one ofTatler’s most eligible bachelors. He must date all the time. And even if he didn’t, he’s hardly going to look twice at me.
Not that I’d want him to. I’m too busy to date.
Ugh, why am I even thinking about it?
“I’m not sure who the pop star is.” Joe chuckles. “She’s got brown hair.”
“Ah. Her.”
“Sorry, I’ve never been good with that sort of thing.” He laughs, parking outside the house. “I get confused.”
“Right. Yeah, someone like him, he must have a new famous girlfriend every week.”
“You’d think,” Joe says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “But not so much, these days. I’d say he’s grown out of thatscene. They both have. You should have seen some of the types Lady Cordelia dated! One lad used to stick gum to the roof of the car every time he rode in it.”
“That’s awful!” I say, undoing my seat belt. “Thank goodness she found Jonathan.”
“Exactly. Someone who might finally be good enough for her. Not that I’m sure anyone is, as you’d agree! She’s much too good for all of them, in my opinion.”
“Uh. Sure, yeah. Well, thanks so much, Joe,” I say, climbing out of the car, wondering if we’re talking about the same Cordelia. “So kind of you to come and get me.”
