Dreaming in Technicolor (18 page)

“Who?” MJ picked up her pair of opera glasses.

“The gorgeous blonde who keeps clutching his arm.” At that moment, said gorgeous blonde whispered something in his ear and Alex threw back his head and laughed.

I lowered my glasses, feeling sick. “He did that with me too.”

“Does he have another sister?”

“No, just Delia.”

“Well maybe it's a cousin or something. Don't jump to conclusions, Pheebs.”

My stomach unclenched, and my face brightened.
Note to self:
Relax. Breathe. And listen to wise friend. Remember, back in Barley you
assumed Cordelia was Alex's girlfriend. So rein in the neuroses already.

When the curtain began to fall, I whispered to Mary Jo, “Okay, let's book it. We don't want to miss them.” Hurrying to the other side of the theater, we affected a casual stance on the far side of the curtain outside their box.

Delia appeared first and gave us a big wink, followed by her parents, who didn't notice us, and finally Alex and . . . that woman. Seeing the too-gorgeous and way-too-skinny blonde with her arm linked through Alex's made me hesitate and wonder if I was doing the right thing.

But it was too late now.

I nodded to Mary Jo, who began to hum “As Time Goes By.” Then I took a deep breath and said in my best Bogie voice, “Of all the theaters, in all the towns, in all the world, you walked into mine . . .”

[chapter ten]

Surprise Attack

a
lex dropped the blonde's arm and spun around, his gorgeous, kissable mouth hanging open.

“Care to buy a vowel?” I teased.

“Phoebe! Mary Jo! What are you
doing
here?”

Coming to see you, you big goof. So why aren't we in a lip-lock yet?

Down, passion girl.
My cold-shower voice of reason held me in check.
You don't want your first kiss to be in front of his parents, do you?

Well, maybe not . . . But he could at least run up and take me in his
arms.

“Surprised?”

“Surprised? I'm gobsmacked!”

“Gob what?” Mary Jo moved in to give Alex a friendly hug.

He returned her hug and laughed. “Sorry. There goes my English. Gobsmacked—stunned.” Then he turned to me and gave me a hug as well.

Just a hug? And second in line? This is so not what I had in mind.

Remember about jumping to conclusions . . .

“. . . to see you,” Alex was saying. A line creased his forehead. “H-how, when did you get here? Is everything all right?”

You tell me. Why are you acting so strange and stiff?

“Everything's fine.” I gave him a bright smile. “We just found some great airfares and decided to take advantage of them. Gordon's idea, actually. We got in yesterday.”

Alex chuckled. “How is old Gordon? And everyone else in Barley?”

The mystery blonde gave me a speculative look that lingered on my sweater. I pulled my jacket tighter. She was even more gorgeous up close and personal, with cascading Jessica Simpson hair but a much-smarter- than-Jessica look on her heart-shaped face. And she was teeny-tiny to boot—

No whispering thighs on that woman.

—and she barely came up to Alex's chin, while my Manolos gave me a bird's-eye view of the top of his curly head.

Next to her, I felt like Pinocchio. Only instead of my nose growing, it was my thighs that were getting larger by the second.

“Alex?” a deep voice intoned. “Are you going to introduce us?”

He whirled around. “Oh. Sorry. Dad, Mum, these are my friends Phoebe and Mary Jo from Barley. You've heard me speak of them.” He turned back to us. “Phoebe, Mary Jo, these are my parents, David and Grace Spencer. And this is my sister, Corde—” He stopped short when he saw her grinning face. “You little minx. Why do I have the feeling you've already met?”

Delia fluttered her eyelashes at him as she hugged first me, then Mary Jo. “Someone had to help with the surprise on this end, brother dear.”

“Well, you certainly surprised me.” Alex finished up the introductions by gesturing to the gorgeous blonde. “And this is George—Georgina—Fairchild, Dad's right arm and mine.”

My mouth dropped open. “
This
is George?”

Open mouth; insert big, ungainly foot.

I shook her tiny proffered hand and was instantly back in junior high again, the wallflower at the school dance. I felt like a wide-hipped, thunder-thighed Amazon next to this doll-like vision.

“Let me guess. Dear Alex never said I was a woman, right?” She gave him a playful punch on the arm. “Thank you very much indeed.”

“Go on, George. Give him what for,” Alex's father said, bestowing a fond smile on the two of them. He turned to me, still smiling.

“George is practically one of us. Our families have been friends and neighbors for years. And these two were at university together.”

Well, isn't that special?
The old
Saturday Night Live
church lady took up residence in my head.

“Was journalism your major as well?” I asked George politely.

“Oh, good Lord, no.” She laughed—not a rich, full-bodied guffaw like mine, but one of those lovely, petite, musical laughs that sounded like expensive crystal clinking together.

Crystal I'd like to break.

“There's no money in journalism unless you're part of the Spencer dynasty,” she added, giving Alex a playful poke in the side this time. “I studied law.”

My smile stuck to my lips. And I longed to give her a not-so-playful poke.

Now I knew how Kate Winslet felt in
Sense and Sensibility
when she entered the glittering society party and saw the man she adored standing beside a wealthy, glittering debutante-type.

“What was your concentration, Phoebe?” Gorgeous George asked me.

“Journalism.”

Her tiny hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, sorry! I've gone and put my foot into it, haven't I?” But her contrition didn't quite reach her eyes. “No offense meant. Really.”

“None taken.” I meant to give her a subtle but dismissive once-over, with a cool glance from head to toe. But that intention fell apart when I glanced down at her little feet. And died.

She was wearing the same Manolos as I was—the very model Alex had given to me as a Christmas present. Only on her they looked dainty and demure. I haven't been dainty or demure since I came out of the womb.

“Great boots.” I croaked past the lump in my throat.

“Thank you,” she said, trying not to preen. “I just love my Manolos.”

“Me too.”

Then George looked down and noticed that our feet were twins. Or quadruplets.

So did Alex, who flushed and tugged at his collar. “I thought they looked familiar.”

“Well, they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” Alex's father clapped his hand on his son's shoulder and grinned.

His gracious, Anglicized mother saved the day. “Phoebe, it's so lovely to meet you,” Grace said. “Alex has told us such wonderful things about you and your family. How long will you be here? You must come round for dinner. Or tea, perhaps?”

Alex cast her a grateful look. “Absolutely. Yes. Phoebe, Mary Jo, if you don't have plans for tomorrow night, let's all have dinner together.”

“I'm afraid we have that dinner meeting with the board,” George reminded him.

He frowned. “Blast. I'd forgotten.”

“Oh, and your father and I are leaving for the country tomorrow afternoon, dear,” his mother said with a chagrined look.

“Right. Of course. Don't know where my head is tonight. Sorry.”

Poor man. He's totally flustered. I should have listened to Mary Jo and
given him some warning.

“Oh, please—don't worry about it.” With a monumental effort I adopted a nonchalant, free-spirited air. “We know this was spur of the moment, and we certainly don't expect you to rearrange your schedules for us. We're flexible. Right, MJ?”

“Right. We'll be in England a couple of weeks. We can always get together later.”

His mother laid her soft, manicured hand on my arm and offered a welcoming look that included Mary Jo. “You must both come visit us in the country. We would love to get to know you better. Besides, you can't leave without seeing the Cotswolds. They're considered one of the most picturesque spots in all of England.”

Her husband grunted. “Don't let a Yorkshireman hear you say that, my dear.”

Mary Jo's face creased into a huge smile. “Hey! We're planning to visit both Yorkshire
and
the Cotswolds. I'm a big James Herriot fan,” she added.

“Are you?” David Spencer gave her a meaningful nod. “I rather enjoy his horse stories myself.”

Mary Jo followed his gaze down at her green sweatshirt with the horses scampering across the front. She'd added her orange turtleneck underneath to dress it up.

A flicker of disdain crossed Georgina's face as she took in Mary Jo's outfit. Then she turned her fashion attention to me. “That's a rather special top, Phoebe. Dior, isn't it?”

I nodded, pleased anew at my thrift-store find.

“My mother used to have one just like it.” Her eyes narrowed as she fake-smiled. “It was her favorite, but she tore it riding one day, so we gave it to a charity shop. It was just a tiny tear near the bottom, and we figured some lucky woman handy with a needle wouldn't mind.”

Alex cleared his throat. “Speaking of riding . . . Mary Jo has a stable in Barley and gives riding lessons.”

“Well then, we'll have to arrange for a ride when you come out to the house.” Alex's dad exchanged another fond when-are-you-going-to-become-my-daughter-in-law smile with his colleague. “Nothing
like a nice, brisk morning ride in the country, eh, George?”

“It's one of the things I miss most when I'm in London,” Georgina said, returning his smile. She turned to me with an innocent look. “Do you ride as well, Phoebe?”

As well as what? The kids on the plastic vending horse in front of the
market?

Mary Jo started to snort, but turned the snort into a cough when she caught my eye.

“A little,” I told George just as innocently.

Alex raised his eyebrows.

Delia jumped into the mix. “Just so you don't take them on one of those barbaric fox hunts, Dad.”

Her father's face flushed. “Cordelia, riding to the hounds is an English institution.”

“That doesn't make it any less cruel—the poor little defenseless fox against all those snapping beasts waiting to tear it apart.”

“Defenseless fox indeed. Do you know the damage those creatures do to our chickens?”

“Well, then, set a humane trap.” Delia's nostrils flared. “But don't make a festive sporting event out of it and say it's to protect the chickens.”

“All right, you two—enough,” Grace said gently. “This isn't the time nor the place to rehash that old family squabble.” She turned to MJ and me. “You'll have to forgive my husband and daughter; they're always arguing about something.”

She softened her rebuke with a fond look at both of them. “That's because they're both so much alike.”

Delia smiled at her father, who returned it with a gruff one of his own. I noticed he was looking rather pale and remembered his heart attack just a few months ago.

Grace then changed the subject. “So what have you girls planned for tomorrow?”

I glanced at MJ and smiled. “We need to do a little shopping—Mary Jo's favorite sport. But we also want to go to St. Paul's and then maybe afternoon tea somewhere. I've heard the Ritz is fabulous.”

Please let the money be in my account tomorrow.

“Yes, the Ritz is quite nice,” Grace said, “but if you want the quintessential English afternoon-tea experience, you must go to Brown's. It's one of the oldest five-star hotels in London and has lots of lovely dark paneling and wonderful antiques. Agatha Christie used it as a model for her mystery
At Bertram's Hotel.”
She looked at her daughter. “What do you have on for tomorrow afternoon, Delia? Can you take them to tea?”

Delia pulled her planner from her purse. “Actually, I have meetings 'til around twoish, but we could meet there at three o'clock, if that's all right with you?”

“MJ?” I asked.

“Fine by me.”

“Right. I'll make reservations then.” Delia glanced apologetically at our outfits. “I'm afraid jeans and sweatshirts are frowned upon.” She lifted her nose toward the ceiling and gave an exaggerated sniff. “All very posh and civilized, don't you know?”

“That's okay.” I smiled. “We have no problem doing posh. Right, MJ?”
Just as long as my suitcase arrives.

“Right.”

Grace returned her attention to us. “Where are you girls staying?”

“King's Cross,” we replied in unison.

George's perfectly arched eyebrows lifted, and she exchanged a telling look with Alex's father.

“King's Cross?” His mother frowned. “Are you sure that's safe, dear?”

“Oh, it's fine. No problem.”

“How are you getting home?”

“Same way we came,” MJ said. “The tube.”

Alex looked at his watch. “Not this time of night, you're not. The last train left ten minutes ago.”

I gulped, thinking of the cost. “Oh well, we'll just take a taxi then.”

Grace glanced at her husband, who by now was looking very peaked. “Darling, shall we go? I'm getting a bit tired.” She kissed Mary Jo, then me, on the cheek. “Lovely to meet you. I'm so sorry I won't be able to join you for tea tomorrow, but Delia will make sure you're taken care of.” She reached in her purse. “Here's my card. Please do ring and let us know when you'll be in the Cotswolds, so we can have a longer visit.”