Finding It (4 page)

Text to Travis Trunnell:

Never. Gonna. Happen.

Travis Trunnell’s brazen predatory behavior pisses me off. He frequently texts me flirty messages even though he knows I am committed to Jean-Luc. I have never encouraged him. Not even once.

If I were to be one hundred percent honest, I don’t exactly discourage him, either. The sexy Texan still makes my pulse race. Remember when
Fifty Shades of Grey
exploded on the scene? Women were hiding books behind John Grisham novels, so they could read them on the subway and on the treadmill at the gym. Travis Trunnell is my
Fifty Shades
. He’s my secret ego-stroking guilty pleasure.

Several friends and colleagues sent texts. Finally, I come to the two texts I have been dreading.

Text from Jean-Luc de Caumont:

See you in Paris.

Text from Louanne Collins-London:

What happened? Call me.

Both Jean-Luc and Louanne Collins-London sent texts containing only four words.

Four words.

Four words like daggers, pricking my guilty conscience. How could four little words elicit such shame?

The Prince Harry Debacle has called into question my professionalism and ruined my plans for a perfect Nicholas Sparks-worthy weekend in Paris. I’ve disappointed my boss and my boyfriend, and it’s killing me. Keeping it real, though? I am not sure which is killing me more: bungling an important assignment or dashing Jean-Luc’s hopes for an interlude
romantique
.

“Bad news?”

“What?” I look up to find Poppy studying me, her perfectly plucked brows knitted.

“You’re frowning. Is it bad news?”

“Not yet.”

“Personal or professional?”

“Both.”

“Ah,” Poppy says. “I see.”

This British blue blood hasn’t the slightest comprehension of the shit tsunami about to crash down on the shores of my life. Once again, I am going to have to grab onto a plank of wood, hold on, and hope for the storm to end.

Whoa! A powerful wave of déjà vu is washing over me. Was it really just a year ago when I found myself in a similar situation: on the brink of losing my job and man because of one stupid little lie?

I want to drop my face to my hands and sob at my apparent inability to break bad habits, but Poppy is staring at me.

“My editor asked me to write a piece on what it’s like to be part of the young royal set. I told her I would because I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I don’t have any connections to young, hip royals.” My words come out in a guilty almost-manic rush. “The closest I’ve ever gotten to royalty is the Duchess of Yorkie—and she bites me anytime I try to pet her!”

A small wrinkle appears on Poppy’s porcelain smooth forehead.

“My mum has a domineering Yorkie-Poodle mix named the Duchess of Yorkie.”

Poppy chuckles. “When do you leave London?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I think I am supposed to go to Bath in a few days for the Jane Austen Festival—that is, if I still have a job.”

“Pish posh!” She waves her hands dismissively in the air. “Why, that’s plenty of time for someone as resourceful and clever as you to write a bang-up piece.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I have a restraining order prohibiting me from getting within five hundred yards of any member of the royal family, and I really don’t want to spend any more time in a London prison.”

Poppy chuckles and presses her hand to the strand of pearls at her throat.

“Restraining order?”

A Spotted Dick in the Mouth

Poppy clutches the door handle and stares at me with wide horror-film eyes.

“I’m not a serial killer.” I look her in the eye. “I promise I won’t eat your liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

I stop short of making the Hannibal Lecter slurp, because I am not sure my new friend is ready for full-on Vivia dramatics.

Poppy just blinks at me.

By the time I finish giving her a synopsis of my run-in with the Buckingham Palace Guards, she seems more relaxed.

“Misadventure seems to follow you wherever you go.”

“Hashtag
understatement
!”

We laugh.

The cab pulls to an abrupt stop in front of a magnificent brick Georgian building. Poppy thanks the driver, hands him a twenty pound note, and turns to me.

“Shall we?”

I follow her out of the cab and up the stairs of the brick building. As we approach, a liveried door man snaps to attention with the bearing of a well-drilled soldier, back stiff, gaze fixed on a distant point.

“Good day, Miss Worthington.”

“Good day, Archie.”

“Where are we?” I whisper.

“The Luxe, one of the hotels in the Worthington chain,” Poppy says, smiling. “I have a meeting here this afternoon, so I thought we might have lunch in Délais.”

“Délais?”

“Our new French restaurant. It’s opening next week, but the chef is doing a test run of a tasting menu. Would you mind terribly being a guinea pig?”

“Would I? Are you kidding me?”

“Am I to interpret your unbridled American enthusiasm as an affirmative?”

“Absolutely!”

Poppy laughs. She has a pretty cool laugh. It’s not loud and unrestrained like mine, but a throaty, controlled, I-was-raised-in-a-finishing school kind of laugh.

I follow Poppy through the lobby, the sharp tap-tap of her Louboutins on the marble floor announcing our arrival like the drumroll that precedes Hail to the Chief. Poppy could be the President. She strides through the hotel with complete confidence and authority, smiling at guests. I can’t help but wonder what people are thinking as they watch the cool, sophisticated blonde and her ginger minion.

If the Rubens is posh, Luxe is über-posh. The two-story lobby is Georgian London meets Contemporary LA, with an elaborate plaster ceiling and sleek midnight black velvet Chesterfield sofas—like Jane Austen and James Bond collaborated on the interior design.

Poppy leads me down a hallway, around a rope barrier, and through a set of plush velvet drapes.

“Welcome to Délais!”

The restaurant is swanky. Super swanky. With an elaborate plastered ceiling, glossy parquet floors, walls covered in an expensive silver metallic paper, and sleek black walnut tables, the dining room has the same Austen meets Bond vibe as the lobby. An eclectic collection of art covers one wall from ceiling to floor—photographs, portraits, landscapes, post-modern paintings.

“Wow!” I whisper, awed by the sumptuous candlelit scene. “This is outrageous.”

“Outrageous good or outrageous bad?”

The waver in Poppy’s voice prompts me to shift my gaze from the art wall to her face. She’s nibbling on her perfectly lacquered lower lip, and a tiny crease mars her otherwise porcelain smooth forehead. I can’t believe what I am seeing. This cool, collected, cultured woman has a chink in her confident armor. What could poised and polished Poppy Worthington have to stress about? It’s not like she’s toting a ginger ’fro and enough baggage to fill the Louis Vuitton flagship store.

“Outrageous good, Poppy!” I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers. “It’s like you opened a restaurant and cool cocktail lounge in the Louvre.”

She stops biting her lip, but specters of self-doubt still hover behind her eyes. If we were better acquainted, I’d hug her and say
, “Believe, Sister! ’Cuz you got it going on.”
Since I’m not sure perfectly pressed Poppy would appreciate such an exuberant public display of affection, I give her hand another little squeeze.

“This is the first hotel to be renovated since I assumed control of the Worthington Brand, and I am taking it in a totally new direction. Many don’t share my vision. They predict my changes will tarnish the Worthington’s golden reputation.”

Poppy’s looks down at her lap.

“You’re a visionary, Poppy. Visionaries always have detractors, those frightened by change. Look at Michelangelo.”

“Michelangelo?” she says, looking up.

“He was a visionary—painting naked saints and sinners on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—and he had his share of detractors. The Pope took one look at the masterpiece and lost his holy mind. He didn’t appreciate seeing St. Paul with his peter hanging out, so he ordered Michelangelo to paint fig leaves over the saints’ and sinners’ genitalia. True story.”

“Thanks.” Poppy sniffs. “But I am no Michelangelo.”

“Oh, I am not so sure about that.” I glance around the restaurant. “You’re an artist, Poppy Worthington, and this is your masterpiece.”

“You can’t know how much your praise means to me. You’re precisely the demographic we had in mind when we designed Délais.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Young, hip, well-traveled, and well-educated. Traditional values, but with a slightly irreverent approach to life.”

Hip?
Me
? In my trying-too-hard London ensemble? I don’t think so. “You got all of that from watching me hail a cab?”

Poppy chuckles. “And reading your column for the last year.”

“Well, I am not sure if I deserve such praise, but Délais definitely nails the young, hip, cultured vibe.”

Poppy’s eyes fill with fresh tears.

“Oh, bollocks!” She murmurs, quickly blinking. “It’s our GM. I mustn’t let him see me all weepy.”

I shove my hand into my purse and fish around. I whip out a bottle of Visine just as an officious looking man wearing a Saville Row suit, and smug expression, saunters up.

“Allergies are the worst. Here.” I hand the Visine to Poppy. “Two drops per eye usually does the trick.”

“Thank you.” Poppy slips the bottle into her pocket.

“Good Morning, Miss Worthington,” Saville Row says. “Might I have a word?”

“Certainly, Malcolm.” She turns to me. “Would you excuse me a moment?”

“Of course.”

While Poppy takes care of business, I whip out my iPhone and compose a text to Big Boss Woman.

Text to Louanne Collins-London:

Thank you for springing me from the pokey. It was a mortifying misunderstanding. Am already working on another story that should be equally as enthralling. Super excited. Will call with details as soon as possible.

All right, I’ll admit it; I lied to my editor when I said I had connections to the royal family, and I just lied to her again when I said I am working on an enthralling story. I have no idea what I am going to write about. Something tells me Louanne Collins-London wouldn’t appreciate a thousand-word piece on my extremely tenuous connection to Prince Andrew’s naughty ex. And I don’t think she would accept a rags-to-riches story about a plucky young hairdresser with a dream, who started off in a grungy chop-shop, but ended up styling the tresses of a disgraced Duchess.

GoGirl!
readers are young, stylish, professional women who want to read smart, sassy, sexy pieces about life beyond their borders. Louanne Collins-London tells me they want to vicariously visit posh resorts, exclusive clubs, and offbeat shops. They want me to take them on adventures kayaking the Amazon, joining an archaeological excavation in Cairo, or hiking the Highlands. They want to meet larger-than-life characters—like spoiled debutantes, entitled movie stars, and jet-setting celebrities—but through my slightly distorted lens. They don’t want to read about my mother’s cousin’s hairdresser.

Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:

I am going to be a little late.

Text from Jean-Luc:

I read your tweets and was about to launch Operation Rescue Vivia.

Tweet to Jean-Luc:

Ha ha! No rescue needed, my French cowboy. The hostiles have released me.

Text from Jean-Luc:

Does that mean I should unpack my six-shooter?

Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:

Keep your weapon holstered, partner—at least for a little bit longer ;)

Text from Jean-Luc de Caumont:

Would you like me to come to London?

Text to Jean-Luc:

No! I’m just going to grab something to eat and then I will be on the next train, plane, or ferry out of this miserable moldering country. I’ll send you my arrival info as soon as I have it.

Text from Jean-Luc:

See you soon, mon cœur.

We’ve barely taken our seats in one of the banquettes when Poppy says, “Do you really have a court injunction prohibiting you from approaching the royal family?”

“Yes.”

“Did you spend time in prison? Truly?”

“Yes.”

“You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This morning. In fact, I had only just been released from Belgravia Station when you found me on the street flagging a cab.”

Poppy presses her hand to her throat again and takes an audible swallow.

I give her the low-down on my bogus rap, and by the time I am finished telling her my story, she is dabbing tears of laughter from her eyes.

The sommelier arrives with a bottle of Château Doisy-Daëne, removes the cork, pours the golden liquid into two glasses, and then silently retreats into the shadows.

“A toast,” Poppy says, lifting her glass. “To Prince Harry!”

“Huzzah!” I laugh. “To Prince Harry!”

Poppy and I spend several minutes getting acquainted, and you know what? She’s really cool. She’s not the uptight etiquette Nazi I feared she would be. She didn’t even flinch when I sipped my wine without swirling, sniffing, or checking for legs—a ritual that remains mystifying despite Jean-Luc’s many attempts to educate me of the wonders of wine.

“I was probably setting my price tag too low—as my BFF Fanny likes to say—but I didn’t understand why someone as polished and poised as you would want to hang with me until…”

Filter Vivia! Filter! Damn my unfortunate habit of articulating my every thought
.

“Until you discovered I am a sad, neurotic mess with premature crow’s feet?” Poppy finishes my sentence.

We both laugh.

“I think we shall be great friends, Vivia.” Poppy raises her glass. “That is, as long as you leave the hailing of cabs to me.”

A short dark haired man strides confidently up to our table, his strong Gallic nose tilted at an arrogant angle. I recognize the haughty expression immediately—the upturned nose, the slightly hooded eyes indicating boredom and disdain.
Il est Français
!