Royal Pain (27 page)

“Bron. I’ve written entire dissertations on statistical anomalies. I cannot have this conversation right now. I love you. Don’t take the morning-after pill. I’ll see you soon.”

She whispered, “I love you too” on her exhale, then hung up.

Max slowly took the phone away from his ear, double-checked that it was set to silent, and put it back in his pants pocket. He let himself back into the shiny black-painted front door and headed back to the conference room like a robot.

Thankfully, the final hours were mostly minor line-item changes to the contract documents from the project finance team. Max was in no frame of mind to contribute anything of any real value, so he opted for complete silence. He sat through the remainder of the meetings in a state of hazy worry. When all of the documents were finally agreed upon and everyone had left, Max reached for his cell phone. He dialed Bronte as he put on his suit jacket and put the revised documents into his briefcase. His call went straight to voice mail.

“It’s about,” he said, then paused into the recording as he looked down at his wristwatch, “six fifteen and I am desperate for a shower. I am assuming you are already on your way to the Osbornes, so I will meet you there. Realistically around eight o’clock. See you then.”

Bronte came out of the bathroom in white jeans and a fitted, pale-turquoise T-shirt. She had added a big, chunky, turquoise necklace and flat sandals.
The
cobblestones
just
outside
Max’s front door have beaten me into submission
, she thought as she looked down at her practical footwear.

She grabbed her big purse and headed out, stopping in the kitchen to pick up the bottles of wine and stuff them into her oversized bag. She had a good fifteen minutes to get to Willa and David’s and decided to walk to their flat. She knew roughly where she was headed, but as she got closer, she had to refer to her
A–Z
(she loved that
zed
) repeatedly, stopping to get her bearings, looking at the map, and then moving on.

“Bronte Talbott, as I live and breathe!” The deep, confident, laid-back American drawl was unmistakable.

Please. No.

There
are—what?—seven and a half million people in this city, and Mr. Fucking Texas has to be walking down the same fucking street.

“Uh. Hello.” That was about all she could come up with. She couldn’t very well walk right past him—them!—though the possibility crossed her mind… maybe she could later say she was partially deaf… and blind.

“So. Pretty weird bumping into you like this. Outta the blue, huh? Who woulda thunk it?” His accent sounded particularly ridiculous compared to all the plummy British English she’d been treated to lately, but he sounded strangely sincere.

The too-cute blond standing next to him was like a golden retriever puppy, practically wagging for attention.

“Oh yeah,” he said, turning toward his eager companion; Bronte almost felt sorry for the poor woman, the way he made her seem like an afterthought. “This is my wife, Marianne Scully. Marianne, this is Bronte Talbott.”

Bronte had never thought she would wish to be anything like Max’s mother, but at that moment, she had a deep desire to have that woman’s mastery of concealment, to show no emotion whatsoever, not even the concealment itself.

His
wife?! Fuck.

Willa should have mentioned that small piece when she’d given Bronte the heads-up that Mr. Texas was now residing on this side of the pond.

“Hi, Bronte! What a pleasure!” the blond bubbled.

“Bronte knows Willa and David,” Mr. Texas elaborated.

Bronte was going to mention that she was on her way to their place when the blond dove ahead.

“Really?!” Titter-titter. “Willa and David have been such godsends ever since we got here. Wait! Are you dating Max Heyworth? I think I saw your picture in
Hello!
yesterday. Was that you?”

Bronte nodded and looked sheepish.

Mr. Texas looked intrigued.

Puppy kept talking. “I have been dying to meet him! What’s he like? We were going to all get together tonight but Willa said there was some scheduling conflict or something so we’ll just have to all get together another night. Are you just here for a visit? We are absolutely loving living in London. It’s so great to be an expat… totally great! And newlyweds and all!”

He was still looking at Bronte. Really looking. Like he had never really looked at her until that very moment. She wanted to stand there all day—looking like hot shit, if she should say so herself—and let him know
this
is what she looked like when she was with the right man.

The pert blond, all of a sudden showing unexpected intuition, snaked her arm possessively through that brawny Texan arm. Staking her claim, as it were.

Suddenly, Bronte wanted to laugh. Riotously. Uproariously. She wanted to skip around the street and do a merry jig. How easily that could have been her being ignored on that man’s arm! What a near miss! Holy fuck! She wanted to shake the little creature and yell, “Run, you idiot!”

Or possibly shower her in grateful kisses.

She’d always hated that holier-than-thou pedantic aphorism, “There but for the grace of God go I,” but in that electrifying moment, Bronte actually felt as if her relationship with Mr. Texas had been a very narrowly averted collision with an oncoming train.

However, instead of showing said gratitude or even whispering a warning from the sisterhood (let’s be honest, camaraderie like that was not in Bronte’s repertoire), in a moment of what was probably nothing more than catty meanness, Bronte let her left hand (the one boasting the canary-diamond headlight) move slowly up to the side of her face, then carefully put a strand of hair behind one ear.

The little yipping thing was momentarily arrested by the sight of what Bronte now considered one of the best weapons in any woman’s arsenal. The blatant, flagrant, nearly grotesque material display of how much another man loved her, right there for everyone to see.

Given the brief silence, Bronte took the opportunity to hammer in the final nail. “Yes, Marianne, that silly
Hello!
magazine piece kind of let the cat out of the bag. Max Heyworth and I are engaged.”

“Oh…” She recovered, loosening her grip on her now-safe husband and switching gears almost immediately back to social-climbing pragmatist. “Oh! I can’t wait to meet him. We all must go out some time. That would be so much fun.”

Bronte took one more moment to look straight into those Texan eyes and telegraph every ounce of perverse gratitude that was coursing through her, then turned back to Marianne. “I’m sorry I have to rush off. I am actually on my way to meet him in a few moments and he’s terribly prompt. Bye.”

“Oh,” Marianne said. “Oh. Okay then.”

And then Mr. Texas smiled that big, generous (meaningless) smile and the pair watched as Bronte walked off.

Just like that.

Just like it was totally normal to have your fucking wife prattling on about this and that with the woman you were
fucking
before you met her. As if the time that he and Bronte had shared was nothing more than a few months with some random woman who turned out to be nothing more than… nothing.

Bronte stopped short at that.

She glanced at those memories, all that misery and depression about what a loser she had been for misreading every possible clue that he was a perfectly good guy whom she couldn’t quite catch, and was struck by another wave of near-hysteria. Suddenly it was all so clear: what she had really needed all along, what she deserved—what every woman deserved—was
not
a perfectly good guy, but a really spectacular one.

In that stunning moment, on the quiet side street that led to Willa and David’s apartment block, Bronte had the joyful realization that she wanted to drop to her knees and thank someone, anyone, for making sure that she didn’t end up with that perfectly good man.

He never
got
her. He never would have gotten her in a million years.

But Max did. Max
really
got her.

A few minutes later, despite being distracted by life’s little epiphanies, Bronte managed to find her way to the Osbornes’ apartment building, a wonderful Edwardian terra-cotta mansion block in Kensington. She practically fell through the front door when David opened it.

“Bronte! You look delicious, darling! Let me take a proper look at you; it has been, what, two years? You really do look divine.” Then he turned without missing a breath and shouted, “Willa!”

Thank
God
for
people
who
talk
too
much
, thought Bronte as she reeled a bit from her recent run-in.
They
offer
the
most
wonderful
reprieve
from
the
burden
of
speech
.

“Come see how fabulous Bronte looks! What are you doing? Get out here.”

Bronte extracted the clanking bottles from her bottomless pit of a bag and handed them, double-fisted, to David.

“And she’s brought two bottles of excellent wine, Willa!” He lowered his voice and returned his attention to Bronte. “Oh well, she’s probably fussing with her hair or some damn thing. Come into the kitchen with me while I get these into the fridge. Damn, you look great, Bron.”

After he put the wine into the refrigerator and shut the door, he turned to look at her.

“Are you all right?”

Bronte laughed and gave him a big hug. “Oh, David, I have missed you! You are such a talkative idiot!”

“Well, I’m not that idiotic—”

“Yes you are, darling!” Willa said as she swept into the kitchen, clearly having taken the curry theme from the menu and applied it to her dress code. She had a sparkly pink tunic with little gold stars silk-screened on it, matched with a pair of gold, shantung silk pedal pushers, and strappy little Grecian sandals in matching gold. “But you are
my
talkative idiot so no need to change on my account.”

David gave Willa a sweet kiss on the neck and put his arm around her waist as she continued, “Have you been able to get a word in edgewise, Bron?”

“Why would I want to interrupt a veritable torrent of nonstop compliments?”

“Get the girl a drink, David. She’s probably been counting the hours until she could remedy that hangover without seeming like a total lush.”

“I hate to admit it, but an icy-cold vodka would really make my day.”

David headed to the other side of the kitchen where he had set up a bucket of ice and some bottles of liquor.

Willa turned to Bronte. “It’s not just the hangover, though; I can tell. What is it?”

“Oh, Willa. Am I so transparent?”

“Not to talkative idiots, but maybe to other girls.”

“You’re right. It was the damnedest thing. I was standing on the corner of Kensington High Street with my nose in a map, and who should walk by but Mr. Texas and his blushing bride.”

“Good God! I totally lied and told her we had a scheduling conflict. Did you tell her you were coming here?”

“No, she said you had canceled so I just said I was on my way to meet my fiancé. Your lying, depraved ways are safe with me.”

“Likewise, I’m sure! But, you know, it’s the weirdest thing. It’s like she wants to be friends and I don’t know how to tell her that that is so
not
going to happen. She’s like a…”

“Puppy!”

“Puppy!”

They both laughed as the word came out of their mouths at exactly the same moment, as if on cue.

David handed Bronte a frosty martini glass with a handsome yellow curl of lemon rind floating in the center, then handed the same to Willa.

“Here you go, ladies. Let me grab mine and I’ll meet you in the living room.”

“Is there anything I can do to help with dinner, Willa?” Bronte asked.

“Of course not. Let’s get out of the kitchen.”

They walked down a bright red hallway and then into a sunny yellow living room accented in bold mid-century fabrics on the impossibly tall curtains. The furniture was a smart mix of new contemporary pieces and several threadbare, worn-from-love side chairs. The painting over the fireplace looked like a Sonia Delaunay. The evening sun in London seemed to stay out forever. The rays stretched in long golden strands through the double French doors and across the blond wood floors.

“What a great room, Willa!”

“I know! I mean, thank you, because the rest of the flat is sort of naff, but this room is stupendous, right? The view from here out to the private garden in the back, the light streaming in. It’s all a bit of all right.”

Bronte smiled at the familiar phrase, now happily devoid of her own negative memories, and encouraged Willa to continue.

“The bedrooms might as well be mole holes, but who needs light for anything back there, anyway, eh?”

“Cheers!” Bronte raised her glass to Willa’s, then took a welcome sip of the delicious, cool vodka. It trailed slowly down her throat. Nectar of the gods. “Jesus. This is tasting way too good.”

David walked in and sat down in the hand-me-down, scuffed, green-leather armchair near the empty fireplace, raised his glass, then took a sip. “So tell us, Bron. What’s the news?”

“Well, I suppose the old news is that Max and I are officially engaged, as you both know. And he gave me this fabulous ring.” She held out what she now considered her weapon of triumph, or at least a heraldic trumpet.

“Good God, Bron!” Willa practically ripped her hand from her wrist.

“Is it gauche?” Bronte was momentarily embarrassed by the sheer size of the central diamond, especially because she had used it so cruelly to give that Marianne a proper set down.

“Are you kidding? If anyone thinks this ring is gauche, they are nothing but jealous liars. It is quite simply the perfect ring. David, come look at the size of it, darling.”

“I can see it quite well from here, love,” he said to Willa, then winked at Bronte.

“Very funny, David.” Bronte heard her phone beep to alert her she had gotten a message. “Whoops. I’d better check that. Max wasn’t sure what his schedule was going to be, but I talked to him just before four and he thought he was going to be here after all.”

Willa’s landline rang and she excused herself as she got up to answer it.

Bronte took her phone out of her bag and noticed that Max had left her a voice mail; she clicked on it, listened, then returned her phone to her bag, vaguely hearing Willa’s half of her phone conversation.

Bronte took another sip of her vodka and Willa’s words started to sift into her peripheral hearing. That fearless puppy-wife had actually called to check in.

“…I know, such a small world… truly… such a coincidence…” Willa held up her martini glass and widened her eyes. “Yes… of course… some other time, I’m sure. Sorry to cut you short, but I have to run… will do… you too. Bye.”

Willa walked back to the sofa she was sharing with Bronte, sat down, and took a healthy swig of her martini.

“Holy mother of God, that woman leaves me gobsmacked!”

Bronte started laughing and David joined in.

Willa continued, “I mean, seriously, who invites themselves over to dinner with their husband’s ex-girlfriend… what the hell? I know you are still friends with him, David, but really, his wife is like this bizarre combination of savvy businesswoman and idiot savant. What was he thinking?”

Bronte almost spit out the sip of vodka she had just taken.

Willa was on a roll. “You know we Brits live in abject terror of that pushy American who won’t take no for an answer… I mean, we have been so conditioned to turn away at the slightest hint of rejection: ‘Are you around tonight?’ someone asks. ‘Well… ’ you answer. ‘Oh, no matter! We’ll get together another time!’ For us, the hesitation
is
the answer, you fool. Not to be met with, ‘I am happy to bring extra food if that’s the issue!’ Seriously!”

Bronte and David were practically snorting as Willa continued her stand-up routine.

“Stop! Stop!” Bronte was gripping her stomach, pleading for a break from the laughter. David and Willa had always made her laugh harder than anyone she knew. “Oh, God. Willa. You are too much. But don’t forget that you were guilty of encouraging me to get together with him in the first place, remember? All that might and muscle?”

“Oh, God, Bronte. Don’t remind me. I woke up the next day after that party with a splitting headache and the vague thought that I’d sent you down the wrong path. But look what he’s saddled with in the long run, so now you must thank me after all!”

“Careful, Willa! You need to be nice when you talk about her!”

“Why on earth?”

“Because, as of tonight, she is single-handedly responsible for making me the happiest woman alive! Can you imagine if I had ended up with him? What a disaster! It was almost as if I needed to see him with another woman, actually ignoring his own wife, to see what I would have suffered.”

“You’re absolutely right, Bron. David, let us all raise our glasses in sincere thanks to the lovely Mrs. Texas, Bronte’s unwitting savior!”

Bronte caught her breath and raised her glass in joyful agreement, then spoke after she took a sip. “By the way, that was a message from Max on my phone just now. He’s going to swing by home and be here around eight, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay! Etienne and Helena are going to be here after that. I’d intended to sit down around eight thirty or nine anyway. I forgot! I made some hors d’oeuvres. Hold on one sec.”

With that, Willa was up and out of the sofa again, a rush of hot pink and gold flying across the room.

“Oh my lord, David, you two are the best.”

“She’s a keeper.”

“Honestly. How long have you two known each other?”

“Forever. You know the story.”

“Yes, childhood friends and all that, but when I met you guys in New York, you were already an old married couple. When did you actually get together, you know, as more than friends?”

David smiled at the memory, clearly enjoying himself. “Our mothers were best friends going back forever, always foisting us upon one another at every opportunity. All through our early childhood we were happy mates, then as teenagers it was the worst: she was too tall and horsey and bossy and loud, and I was nerdy and into math and shy, and it looked like the mothers were going to be utterly defeated.”

He took a sip of his drink.

“Then, I think we were twenty or twenty-one, she’ll remember of course, and I went to a party in London. Max and I were staying at his parents’ place in Mayfair, came down from Oxford for the long weekend, and ended up at this ridiculous tea party at some old doyenne’s house in town. Max’s mother was there being all look-down-your-nosey at everyone, so Max and I spiked our tea with wickedly strong whiskey, and in walks this gorgeous, tall, confident girl.”

“And?” Bronte prompted.

“Well, Max had no idea who she was and gave her a quick once-over and then turned to me with a little check-that-out wink. And I thought, quite matter-of-factly, really, ‘Perhaps I shall murder Max tonight.’ And then I thought, ‘That’s odd, why would I want to murder Max?’ And I looked back, classic Bogie-Bacall double take, and saw it was Willa, and well… that’s when I knew we were—how did you ask it? Oh yes, more than friends.”

Willa was leaning against the frame of the wide entryway into the living room, listening to David tell their story. “Now do you see why he’s
my
idiot, Bron?”

“I do, Willa.”

They caught up on other mutual friends in New York, ate Willa’s delicious artichoke appetizers, and were just starting their second round of drinks when the buzzer sounded and Willa let Max into the apartment. David and Bronte had leapt up to greet him as well, David with hearty nuptial congratulations and Bronte with a silly-schoolgirl-crush feeling in her stomach. They’d only been apart for the day, for chrissake, but she could see he wanted to connect with her too.

Badly.

He was still shaking David’s hand and half-hugging him with his other when he locked eyes with Bronte and smiled the most delectable, melt-in-your-mouth smile.

“David. Willa. I am going to have to have a private word with my fiancée if you don’t mind.”

“Oooh, darling!” Willa trilled, locking her arm through David’s. “Remember when you used to have
private
words
with me, David? So romantic! Of course, off you go, you two. No hanky-panky, please.”

Bronte was flushed and happy as she followed Max down the dimly lit hall and into the first room on the left, a tiny guest room with a small desk. Max shut the door quietly then turned and took Bronte’s face in his hands and kissed her so deeply, so passionately, that she almost tilted right back onto the bed that took up most of the room.

“Mmmm…” she mumbled between hot kisses. “I had the most wonderful epiphany on the way here…” She spoke with her eyes still closed, kissing him wherever she could, neck, cheek, lips.

“Mmmm… and what was your epiphany?” he whispered between kisses.

“That you
get
me.”

He brought his hands down to her neck, then made a trail down her back, then along her hips and around her backside, all the while continuing to overwhelm her with those searing kisses.

“Do I ever!” he agreed. “I get you every chance I can!” He gave her a bawdy squeeze on her ass to make his point, then stopped suddenly, sniffed, and looked into her eyes. “Have you been drinking?”

“Of course I’ve been drinking!” Bronte laughed. “I’m with David and Willa and it’s after five o’clock… what else would I be doing?”

“But, Bron, what if you’re pregnant?”

She felt the tenderness leave as an icy, rebellious thread began to weave through her. “I beg your pardon?”

He whispered, almost reverently, “What if there’s a baby?”

“Max…” She let herself sit down on the edge of the bed after all.

“Bron, if there’s even a possibility, don’t you think it’s worth…” His voice trailed off as he saw through his incipient joy that Bronte may not hold out the same hope.

“Max… I don’t know what to say… and that’s saying something. I mean, is it really right to have a child—to make the most monumental decision of our lives—based on my having forgotten my pill pack? I mean, what—”

“Bronte, this is no longer just a matter of you forgetting your pill pack. We were always belts-and-suspenders when it came to birth control. I mean, who else in their right mind uses condoms
and
the pill like we did? When we… I mean, last week, when I stopped using the condoms, it was because we were together…
are
together… I mean, a family… not because I wanted to—”

“Look, how about this?” Bronte interrupted. She felt like she was drowning, the conversation spiraling away from her, into confusing and desperate emotional territory. “Let’s use condoms from here on out. I’ll go off the pill for the rest of this month. If I missed three pills, which in effect I have, or would have even if Carol FedExed me my pack, I am supposed to use alternative birth control anyway, but that’s assuming… well, we’ll just see what happens in the next few weeks. I’ll probably get my period in a few days anyway, but—”

“So you won’t drink until we know, then?”

There was something totally vulnerable and tender about the way Max asked, but something very deep in Bronte bristled nonetheless. He was treading carefully, but perilously, on the knife-edge of compassion and control.

If she feared the erasure of her psyche when it came to matrimony, she could only begin to imagine the total loss of self that accompanied motherhood. Especially when one was mothering the twentieth Duke of Northrop. How could he not see that?

“Max…”

“Please, Bron.” If she was pregnant, and it was a boy, the ramifications were more than Max could begin to contemplate or convey. He’d spent his entire life downplaying the importance of the title, making a concerted effort to have a clear, humble view of what it really meant. His father had been a wonderful role model in that respect, always joking with Max not to take
himself
too seriously but to always take his responsibilities seriously. Bronte might well be carrying the twentieth Duke of Northrop. That fact fell quite plainly under the Serious Responsibility column. How could she not see that?

“All right, I won’t drink until we know.”

But she wasn’t happy about it, and
that
Max could see. He gave her a tender kiss, tracing the inside of her upper lip with his tongue as he withdrew. He had to fight off the brief impression that her response had bordered on perfunctory.

“I love you, Bron.”

“I know. I love you too, Max.” She moved slowly past him and opened the door out to the hallway, the sounds of the other guests’ careless laughter wafting down the corridor.
Fuck
.

Max spent the rest of the dinner party pretending to listen to his friends’ cheerful chatter while he worried over Bronte. She had casually offered him her vodka when they returned to the living room, as if the thought had just crossed her mind to save David another trip to the kitchen to make one. She declined wine with dinner, easily explained because everyone already knew she had had more than her fair share the night before.

The other couple, Etienne and Helena, was charming and animated, but Max could tell that something about them was putting Bronte on edge. Her smile got a little too bright when Etienne was asking her about the time she had spent in Chicago. Max was trying to listen to Helena talk about a recent dustup at
H
& Q
involving a young male intern and a married senior editor whose indiscretion was now the buzz of the office.

“…but now they’ve reached the dreadful crossroads: destroy her family and move ahead with their own new life together, or end the affair and move back to some semblance of the nuclear family.”

Helena was an engaging dinner partner, and on any other night, Max would have been happily drawn into her sparkling account of the star-crossed lovers. He was distracted but tried to participate.