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Alessia tries to suppress her smile. He’s been fussing like a mother hen all morning, and it’s a side of him she’s not seen before. “I’ll be okay.”
“Text me if you need anything.” He kisses her quickly and climbs back in the cab, and Alessia strides up the stone steps to the glossy black door.
So many shiny black doors in London.
She rings the brass bell, ignoring the fluttering of nerves in her stomach, and the door buzzes open. Alessia steps inside a wide hallway painted a brilliant white, and from behind a reception desk, a young woman in a gray suit looks up, an open, expectant expression on her face.
“London Academy—” Alessia asks.
“Up to the first floor. Registration is through the door on the left.”
“Thank you,” Alessia says, surprised to be interrupted. She heads up the wide staircase that creaks beneath each footfall to the first floor and turns left toward a door with a discreet sign that reads: L A S E G. Inside the white, high-ceilinged room, she’s greeted by an older, smartly dressed woman with pearls at her ears and her neck, carrying a clipboard.
“Good morning,” the woman says pleasantly, her smile reaching her bright brown eyes.
“Hello,” Alessia replies.
“My name is Belinda Donaldson, I’m the administrator, and I’ll be checking you in. We use first or given names for our delegates here at the Academy to protect everyone’s identity.”
“Alessia,” Alessia replies.
“Excellent. Welcome, Alessia. You’re the first to arrive. Punctuality is the politeness of kings… and queens. Please help yourself to tea or coffee, and do take a seat.”
Alessia pours coffee into one of the delicate cups and takes a seat. She watches as women arrive and are greeted in a similar fashion by Belinda. They’re all elegant, some in dresses, some in pants like her, and most are young, like Alessia, but there’s one older lady who must be in her fifties. Alessia is grateful to be wearing her new black pants, white shirt, and tailored jacket; knowing she’s well-dressed has boosted her confidence. For the first time, she feels like she belongs with these women.
A breathless young woman with flowing red hair stumbles into the room. “Hello,” she says, gasping for air. “I thought I was going to be late.”
Belinda regards her coolly. “Good morning. Take a moment. You have time.”
“Great. Thanks. My name’s Tabitha, Lady—”
“I’ll stop you right there, Tabitha. We operate on a first-name basis only. Please. Come and sit down and help yourself to tea or coffee. We will begin shortly.”
After a delicious pub lunch yesterday afternoon, Alessia and Maxim had attended an exhibition of pre-Raphaelite art at Tate Britain, a gallery not far from their apartment. With her long red hair and flowing chiffon dress, Tabitha reminds Alessia of one of the subjects in the paintings.
The assembled women resume their quiet chatter among themselves as Tabitha sits down beside Alessia. “Hi, I’m Tabitha,” she introduces herself. “I thought I’d be late!” She makes a face, and Alessia smiles, feeling a little more relaxed as she introduces herself. She’s drawn to Tabitha’s bright grin.
“I was too early,” Alessia confesses. “I am nervous.”
Tabitha beams as if she’s met a long-lost friend. “You’ll be fine,” she says and Alessia feels lighter, buoyed by Tabitha’s warmth.
* * *
On Sunday, my phone had blown up with texts about Dimitri’s party and the photos of Alessia and bloody Charlotte. I’d ignored the messages, choosing to spend quality time with my wife. And what a wonderful day we had—we seem to have turned a corner. We’ve survived our first major argument, my mother’s interference and her revelations, and some extremely unwelcome press attention.
And Alessia finally seems to be standing up for herself.
If you kiss anyone else, I will remove this organ.
I shake my head, smiling at my possessive, jealous wife.
But as I sit at my desk and try to read up on the rules for distilling alcohol in the UK, I’m finding it impossible to concentrate. My brain continues to pick over my mother’s disclosure like it’s carrion. I’ve called and left messages for Maryanne so we can compare notes on the drama, but she’s not returned either.
Is she angry with me?
I suppose I prompted the fallout and didn’t tell Maryanne about Kit’s genetic counseling.
Hell.
And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel after Rowena’s shocking news.
Numb?
Distracted?
Angry?
Yeah, all those feelings.
Dude, get a grip.
My second meeting of the day is at the Mayfair mansion block refurbishment with Oliver and Caroline. We’re going through design and décor plans for the foyers, the common areas, and the show apartment. Caroline and Oliver are already in the foyer, making what sounds like awkward small talk. Oliver, for some reason, looks a little flustered while Caroline observes him with cool detachment.
“Maxim!” Caro brightens, greeting me with a quick peck on my cheek.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
