KATE SAT IN A BOOTH in Claridge’s Reading Room and picked at a tomato and Parmesan salad. She hadn’t eaten anything except an egg sandwich since the plane landed this morning and now it was past 10:00 p.m. But she moved bacon around her plate and realized she wasn’t hungry. She should have spared her expense account and ordered a cup of tea.
She was rarely hungry when she worked because there was so much to think about: whether the camera crew was getting the right angles or the wireless microphones were picking up sound. The reception in the Fumoir ended at ten and everyone went to bed. Noah left early and she couldn’t blame him. Being responsible for Louisa must be exhausting.
Kate could tell Louisa was out of her depth. It was bold of Noah to pluck her out of a bakery kitchen on the Lower East Side and put her on a plane. But they didn’t have a choice, and now they were all in it together.
Kate fiddled with her glass and knew worrying about Louisa wasn’t the only thing that made her lose her appetite. And it wasn’t the excitement of being in a foreign city that let her exist on the occasional sandwich and endless cups of coffee.
The magazine was propped up on the silver bread basket and she picked it up. It was the picture on the cover that made her heart beat a little faster.
A British country manor with stone statues and English rose gardens stared back at her. A woman wore riding boots and her chestnut hair was tied in a ponytail. Beside her stood a man in a navy blazer and tasseled loafers. The caption read: “Sir Trevor Skyler and his wife, Susannah, great niece of Queen Elizabeth, at home at Yardley Manor in Sussex.”
But it hadn’t been Sir Trevor when she knew him at St Andrews ten years ago. It had been Trevor with hair that was too long and fell in his eyes, and pants that were too short because they were castoffs from a wealthier friend.
Trevor helped her get through applied mathematics because the math was completely different from what she’d learned in high school in Santa Barbara. She and Trevor spent hours studying on the lawn in front of the Student Union while other students played Frisbee. The Scottish autumn was so short; you had to take advantage of good weather.
Trevor didn’t mind. He was as allergic to exercise as he was to peanut butter. But Kate watched young men with floppy dark hair and girls with fair complexions laugh and toss the Frisbee and wondered why she came all the way to Scotland for university if she was going to bury her head in a textbook.
And she had helped Trevor in return. He wouldn’t have passed freshman English if she hadn’t shown him how to decipher Beowulf. He refused to read anything in Old English, and he wrote a paper trying to convince the professor to start with Shakespeare. He got an F on the paper and Kate couldn’t help laughing.
She remembered all the afternoons they spent exploring the alleyways of St Andrews. The university was spread out through the town, like daisies popping up in a field. Stone buildings with stained-glass windows and peaked roofs were wedged between the butcher with pork hanging in the window and a newsagent selling girlie magazines and Violet Crumbles.
They took long walks on the sand dunes of West Sands beach that adjoined St Andrews golf course. When she arrived, she thought that color green couldn’t be real. It was like the emerald in a priceless pendant.
How did the boy who would rather eat cold meat pies in his room than attend festive communal dinners in McIntosh Hall marry a minor member of the royal family who was famous for her house parties?
The article said every year Sir Trevor and his wife held a house party that lasted the whole week before Christmas. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge were known to attend and there was hunting and fishing.
Dinners were served in Yardley Manor’s dining room and a well-known chef created each meal. Jamie Oliver prepared sweet potato and cardamom soup and Marco Pierre White served venison with beets and heritage carrots. The whole estate was decorated for Christmas: a Fraser fir tree with ornaments from Harvey Nichols and stockings hung from massive stone fireplaces and a toy train set that took up the entire library.
She hadn’t seen Trevor in ten years. And she’d taught herself not to think about him. Her memories of St Andrews were packed away with her yearbooks and the tartan scarf Trevor gave her for her birthday.
She put down her fork and thought she should be upstairs planning tomorrow’s schedule. They were going to film Louisa strolling past the boutiques on Carnaby Street and examining the Christmas hampers at Fortnum and Mason.
She glanced around for a waiter and saw a man standing in the lobby. A trench coat was folded over his arm and he scribbled on a note card.
Even before he looked up, she knew it was Trevor. Somehow she wasn’t surprised; the article mentioned that Claridge’s was Trevor’s favorite hotel in London. Perhaps he was giving a lecture or attending some holiday function. Where else would he stay when he was in town?
Once early in their friendship, Trevor marveled at how they had the same tastes. They both had porridge with sliced peaches for breakfast and didn’t eat big lunches. In the evenings, while other students played drinking games and danced on tables at the pub, they found each other sitting on the fire escape, looking up at the stars.
Should she get up and say hello? Afterward she’d need a large scotch. But she was a grown woman and her job was to tackle difficult situations. She couldn’t slink away like a wallflower at a dance.
She searched her purse for her charge card and heard a male voice. She looked up and Trevor stood next to the table. His suit was tailored and he had an expensive haircut, but he had the same brown eyes and narrow cheekbones.
“Kate?” he asked incredulously. “What are you doing in London?”
“Trevor! I was just reading about you.” She pointed to the magazine. “‘Sir Trevor was knighted by Queen Elizabeth for his contribution to the field of mathematics. The ceremony at Buckingham Palace was followed by a private party at Annabel’s given by his wife, Lady Skyler, and attended by London’s fashionable set.’”
“One can never trust the media to get it right.” He sighed. “Do you remember when you subscribed to Hello and complained they made the stories up?”
“Which part did they get wrong?” she asked.
“That Lady Skyler is my wife,” he said slowly. “We’re separated.”
“Separated!” she exclaimed.
“To be fair, it hasn’t been announced.” He shrugged. “It’s a recent development.”
“I’m sorry, I had no idea,” she answered.
“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked. “I’ve driven from Sussex in the rain. My suite isn’t ready and I don’t feel like sitting in the bar and listening to Christmas music.”
“I was about to go upstairs,” she stammered. “Perhaps we could meet for breakfast or—”
“Kate.” He stopped her. “We haven’t seen each other in ten years. We have time for a brandy.”
Trevor was right. They had been close for four years; she could manage one drink.
“Why not? I can never sleep after a transatlantic flight and a Brandy Alexander sounds delicious.”
The waiter set down two Brandy Alexanders and she fiddled with her hair. This was a bad idea; she didn’t know where to start. Did they talk about St Andrews or the last day they saw each other?
“Is it still Kate Crawford?” He glanced at her hand. “Or are you one of those modern career women who has a husband and four children but doesn’t wear a wedding ring?”
“I’m not married.” She felt the brandy warm her throat. “I’m the producer of a television cooking show. It’s like being a surgeon and attorney and parent at once. There’s always some disaster to stitch up and crisis to solve and feelings that need soothing.”
“I’m not surprised, you were the most capable person I knew. Member of the History Society and Save the Elephants Society and Mermaids Theatre Committee.” He fiddled with his drink and his eyes darkened. “You were even capable of breaking my heart.”
Kate put down her glass. “It’s late, I should go.”
“I’m sorry, I’m overtired,” he urged. “I’ve been sleeping in the den because the bedrooms are full for Susannah’s house party. She doesn’t want her friends to know about the separation so I had to sneak down after everyone went to bed. The central heating doesn’t work in the left wing and the blankets were spoken for,” he said. “I finally gave up and booked a suite at Claridge’s.”
“A last-minute suite at Claridge’s the week before Christmas?” Kate raised her eyebrow. “You must be important.”
“Terribly important,” he laughed. “Prize-winning mathematician and related by marriage to Queen Elizabeth. If you come back next summer, I can get you a box at Wimbledon.”
“I’m sorry about your marriage.” She waved at the magazine. “I read the whole article. Thirty-room Sussex manor and stable of hunters and summer home in Spain.”
“Did they mention the dogs?” he asked. “In the end, they were the only ones who talked to me.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“When Susannah and I met, I won the Hirst Prize for Mathematics. I was different from her set who worked in The City and drove flashy cars. Susannah can be lovely when she’s alone, but when she’s with her friends she becomes another person.” He sighed. “A mathematician who would rather spend his evenings looking through a telescope than drinking Taittingers at London clubs wasn’t a suitable husband.”
“Do you have children?” she wondered.
“We were planning on it. But Susannah hadn’t scheduled it around her gymkhanas.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’m not going to cry into my brandy the week before Christmas. We were from separate worlds, it was like parking a Volkswagen in the garage of Buckingham Palace.”
“You must have been in love to get married,” she said and stopped.
Trevor’s eyes flickered and he stabbed his drink with his straw.
“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business.” She stood up. “I’ll have the waiter add my drink to my check. It was nice to see you.”
Trevor stood up and she remembered how tall he was. Except at St Andrews his clothes hung on him like a skeleton at Halloween, and now he filled out his suit.
“I’m tired too.” He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “You look beautiful, Kate. Being a successful producer agrees with you.”
* * *
Kate entered the living room of her suite and slipped off her pumps. She was grateful that Claridge’s upgraded her to a suite. The eggshell satin walls and white wool rugs and bouquets of roses were so soothing. Even looking at the art deco bar with its bottles of aged cognac and chocolate truffles made her feel better.
She filled a brandy snifter and stood at the window. It was past eleven and silver Bentleys idled outside the entrance. Men and women wore elegant evening wear and there were flashes of diamond earrings and gold watches.
She felt as rattled as when they filmed a show in Paris and her cameraman came down with the flu. She had to find a doctor who made house calls, and then run to a pharmacy in the pouring rain.
But she didn’t mind; that was her job. This was so personal. Her heart hammered and she could barely breathe.
The hotel phone rang and she started. She unclipped her earring and picked it up.
“Kate,” a male voice said. “It’s Trevor.”
“Trevor!” She flushed. “Why are you calling? We just said goodnight.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner tomorrow night,” he began. “We can go to Quaglino’s, it’s one of the most famous restaurants in London. Princess Diana used to sneak in through the kitchen and diners have been known to pocket ashtrays as souvenirs.”
“I don’t have time for dinner,” she said quickly.
“You have to eat, you taught me that,” he laughed. “You used to hide my textbooks until I went to the Student Union and ate a sausage roll. Then you’d make sure I didn’t throw half of it away so I could get back to solving algorithms.”
“You were so thin, you couldn’t afford to miss meals,” she remembered.
“We’re both alone in London the week before Christmas,” he urged. “It would be a shame if we spent every night sitting alone, pushing steak tartare around our plates.”
“You must have other friends in London.” She fiddled with her glass.
“Susannah and I had friends, but they’re all at Yardley Manor taking long walks and playing charades.”
“It’s not a good idea,” she insisted. “And I really am busy, we have a tight schedule.”
“We’ve always enjoyed each other’s company and I’ll tell you what to see in London.” He paused. “Let’s make a deal. We won’t talk about the past. We’ll eat chicken liver parfait and I’ll give you tidbits for your show—who serves the best Bloody Mary and where to spot young royals: Loulou’s and Bunga Bunga and The Brown Cow.”
“We really won’t talk about the past?” she gasped.
“It’s a promise.” His voice softened. “It’s only dinner, Kate.”
“All right, dinner.” She nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Kate hung up the phone and replaced her earring. What had she done? She really didn’t have time and they had so much history. But Trevor was right: she was alone in London at Christmas. It might be nice to explore Oxford Street without a clipboard.
She sipped her brandy and the past washed over her, like the sea at White Sands beach. God, they had fun! Walking down South Street and eating so much tangy cheese at the Old Cheese Shop she was sure she’d get a stomachache.