But somehow, despite all rhyme or reason, Alexander remains immune to my bewitching powers and keeps staring down at the magazine as if it’s the most riveting thing on the planet.
And then the bus is gone, rolling away and flattening my dreams as it goes.
I’m alone again with my disappointment. It’s a different flavor this time. There’s the sweetness of having seen him again mixed with new sourness at having been so completely snubbed.
It’s a heavy blow, to feel invisible to someone I was so sure had seen me. Did he not feel the spark? Did he forget where my flat was? Is he already in a relationship and trying his very best to resist the monumental temptation I present?
Or,the other voice in my head—the kinder contrarian—interjects,maybe he’s simply too much of a gentleman to be caught staring up at a lady in her home.
It’s a fair point, and one I grip with both hands and feet. Could what I perceived as indifference actually have been self-restraint?
I don’t want to make excuses for him, but he was no doubt raised in a traditional household with prim and proper manners. And given how cautious the Brits are not to intrude upon other people’s space, it’s quite possible that Alexander was hoping I was looking at him—burning to know if I was—as he passed my flat just now, but was too respectful to verify it.
As my emotions tangle, relief rises to the surface. The one thing I know is that he consistently rides a 4 bus. It wasn’t just a one-off. He’ll be back again.
It’s Friday, and though I would usually welcome that fact, it now fills me with agony at having to wait untilnext weekto see Alexander again. For as down-to-earth as he is, he certainly spends his weekends in limos and private jets, not buses, and I can’t fault him for that.
Around sixPM, Harold sends me a WhatsApp message.Kitten! Come to Annabel’s tonight, we’re getting a table. Just mention my name at the door and you’re golden.
Since it’s the job of consultants to be on call 24/7 for our clients, I’ve had to provide Harold with my cell number. He doesn’t hesitate using it.
Annabel’s is one of London’s most glamorous members clubs, and if it were another occasion, I’d be all for tossing back espresso martinis and rubbing shoulders with A-listers. But the idea of having to be “on” for work snuffs all the fun out of the situation. I can’t have more than one drink without risking being deemed an airheaded party girl. And it’s not like Harold and his gang would be pleasant company. Far from it.
My name is Kat,I reply, more fearless over text than in person.And thanks for the invite, but I’m actually heading out of town for the weekend.
It’s not a lie—just an exaggeration. I’m off to Bath on a solo trip, but not until tomorrow morning. Tonight, I just sprawl out on the couch with a pint of brownie macchiato gelato, bingeingMarried at First Sight, a popular UK reality show that’s sort of the British equivalent toThe Bachelor.Strangers are matched in a social experiment, and the first time they meet is at their wedding. Some of the couples from prior seasons are still married and have kidstogether. I’ve become somewhat addicted to the show and the way it offers up evidence that fairy tales don’t have to be fictional.
I restrain myself from looking up spoilers for the current season, but there are two couples that I’m convinced will make it even after the filming ends. They have the most tender eye contact, and they’re definitely going to go the distance.
Just like Alexander and me.
CHAPTER FIVE
It’s in Bath where I really start to bond with Alexander on a deeper level. We have no shortage of things to talk about as I picture him walking beside me, arm in arm, through the postcard-perfect streets.
It’s a stunning sandstone town set down in a valley and named after the ancient Roman baths that were built around natural hot springs. When I get off the train and start past the grand colonnades, archways, and cathedrals, I expect the usual loneliness to seep in. The harsh juxtaposition of the external splendor to the internal emptiness. But the loneliness doesn’t arrive. Instead, I’m buoyed by a comforting sense of companionship. It’s so easy to imagine Alexander here with me, and the make-believe conversations we’ve been having feel more real than anything has in quite some time.
I ask his opinion on the art gallery I stroll through (he much prefers Romanticism to Modernism), hear him recount the details of his cousin’s wedding ceremony in Bath’s Assembly Rooms (the queen couldn’t attend but sent a handwritten card), and, after muchpersuasion, get him to divulge the story of the first time he was drunk (he was twelve, at the kids’ table, and the nanny accidentally put a pitcher of wine, instead of Ribena, at their table).
And as we rest on a bench in the abbey courtyard, listening to a busker strum along on the guitar, Alexander deftly turns the attention onto me.“And how about you, my lovely lady?”he asks.“Tell me your story. Is Kat short for Katherine?”
“Actually no, it’s just Kat, I say,”reveling in how delicately he says my name, like he wants to treat it with care. My dad says it’s because he can’t spell words that have more than one syllable.
I’m worried Alexander will think I’m from a total hillbilly family, but he just laughs quietly, in even increments that have a soothing effect.“What part of The States did you grow up in?”he wants to know.
“In the Midwest. Kalamazoo, Michigan, to be exact. Funny name, I know. Lots of cows and cornfields.”
“Is that quite near the Great Lakes?”he asks, contemplative expression ever so attractive.
“Impressive geography knowledge.”I applaud and show him a photo on my phone.“This is Lake Michigan. We’d go to the beach in the summer, or else just hang out on the little lake behind my parents’ house.”
“Stunning,”he says, but he’s staring more at me than at the photo.“Looks like the seaside in Cornwall where I learned to ride horses.”
“Michigan winters are freezing though. We had to walk two miles to school through feet of snow because the superintendent didn’t believe in snow days, even if the buses got stuck. And wow, I sound like my grandparents right now.”
“I reckon that’s a rather charming life,”Alexander says with his refined smile.“I quite fancy the idea of being off the grid. Escaping the rat race.”
“Well, you’re very welcome to come visit at Christmas,”I say.“My parents would simply adore you.”
