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“Interesting. Any particular time and place?”
“My last book was about Caterina Cornaro, the last queen of Cyprus. The one coming out next is about the Merchant Adventurers Company and their outpost in Moscow. Cameos by Ivan the Terrible and Queen Elizabeth I.”
“Cress is a nominee for some prestigious book award for her Caterina Cornaro book. London is a stopover before the awards ceremony in Paris.” My heart squeezes with gratitude when Hills delivers this news. I may not have a vast circle of friends, but the few I have are stars.
“Congratulations. Write down the title for me and I’ll check it out.”
I pull a small notebook out of my bag and scrawl my name and the title, tear out the page and hand it to her. She tucks it into her wallet.
“Cress was telling me about her new man.”
Fiona smiles. “Fine with me. I’m always up for a good story.”
“Right. To catch you up, the first time I met Max was when we were both studying at Oxford University in the 1990s. I was a graduate student in history, and he was an undergraduate student finishing his last year in languages.”
“Did you have a memorable meeting?” She takes asip of water. Conversation halts while we survey the now loaded table with two silver-tiered servers filled with sandwiches, pastry, and scones with clotted cream and jam. The server sets a plate with one scone at Fiona’s place. A silver pot with strainer and porcelain dishes decorated with berries and leaves complete the table.
“We can have seconds or even thirds.” Hillary rubs her hands before diving in; her eyes glimmer with anticipation.
I groan. “Max is taking me to Clos Maggiore for dinner.”
“How romantic.” Fiona clasps her hands, enthusiastic. “The decor is fab. Lots of cherry blossom hanging everywhere.”
Oh no. Flowers. How could Max not remember my allergy? Especially after the visit to the emergency room last year when the bouquet he sent me brought on an attack. My alarm must show as Hills breaks in. “Don’t worry, Cress. All artificial.”
Breathing again, I smile gratefully.
“But with this sumptuous repast and the amazing dinner to come, you’ll need to run a few miles. Probably should have plumped for a scone, like my abstemious colleague.” Hills laughs at me.
We fill our plates from the assortment of sandwiches. Fiona nibbles her scone.“Go on with your story. Please.”
“I was new to Oxford and was late for my initial meeting with my supervisor. So, I borrowed a friend’s bike, thinking I could make better time. Instead, I ran into Max and knocked him down.”
“And you fell instantly in love. So romantic.” She sighs.
I roll my eyes. “Love, no, although Max evidently felt an immediate attraction, or so he says. At twenty, it was probably insta-lust on his part. Not that I was anything special.”
My younger self was too thin, with messy hair, nose a bit too long, and saggy clothes that made me feel bohemian but probably marked me as one step up from a vagrant. I was definitely no beauty queen, and awkward with it. Today’s smart outfit, courtesy of Max, makes me a well-dressed comic stick figure.
I pull my thoughts back and refocus on my audience. “I couldn’t wait to escape from this gorgeous, pretentious upperclass twit. After that brief encounter, I saw him all over town that year. He stood out and who resists looking at eye candy. But we never really met. I tried to put the whole thing out of my mind.”
I picture twenty-year-old Max, gangly, dressed in a tweed jacket and khaki slacks, his dark hair mussed from our encounter. “Our real meeting came last year after he saw me on television, being interviewed about the Cornaro book. It was after I heard about the award nomination. He still remembered me after twenty years.”
My listeners are sitting forward, faces rapt. Hillary is holding an egg sandwich but seems to have forgotten it. I pick up a cucumber one and take a bite, rolling my eyes with delight. “Ernest Worthing and Algernon Moncrieff would scoff the lot.”
Hillary chortles. “Poor Lady Bracknell, cheated again.”
We move on to the scones, and Fiona plays mother, pouring the last of the pot into our cups. The sommelier appears immediately to remove the empty pot. “Would you like more?” I nod, then savor another bite of scone before continuing with my story.
“Max showed up at my book signing and convinced us to let him tag along for dinner afterwards.”
“Sounds like he can talk the birds out of the trees, to use a tired cliché,” Fiona teases.
“And then he was persistent. Like a fly who keeps buzzing around but evades the swats.”
I think about our roller coaster of a relationship. How we come together and pull apart. It’s still so new; only a few months. Not surprising Max is still fighting his reluctance to tell me about his past. And how difficult I find overcoming my dread of betrayal. Our story is not simple. Not simple at all. How to explain the attraction, desire, and fear. Do I want to explain my past, talk about my insecurities?
“Tell us more.” Hills’ expression is avid. Being pried open, like an oyster, makes me squirm.
