“Sorry,” I say.
“Aubrey?”
“Yes?”
“Say yes. For me. For—for the shop. To help your mum. Do it for her, if nothing else. Wouldn’t that be brilliant, not to have a financial noose so close around your neck for once? There’s nothing to think about, as far as I’m concerned. And, importantly, it’s a chance to see Blake Sinclair again.” She winks.
Flushing, I shake my head. “I…well, I’ll think about it. The location. Not Blake Sinclair.”
“Promise?” Lily looks so hopeful that I don’t have the heart to say no and let her down. Even though someone like Blake is a fantasy far removed from my daily life. But…he’s a bit more tangible than a fantasy if he’s coming into my shop, I suppose. Though how to explain what happened in the trailer?
“I promise.”
I do mean it, because Lily is my closest friend, and I wouldn’t lie to her. And she’s got me on the finances side. Even one day of filming would be an incredible boon for the shop. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have money in the bank for the shop, an actual savings reserve. Money to do the repairs that need doing. But, most of all, money to make sure Mum’s all right.
“And promise me you’ll give this new man a chance, even if it’s a fling? I mean, at the very least, you ought to thank him for the flowers.”
“I’ll think about that, too. I mean, yes. I’ll do that. Of course.” I surprise myself, swallowing hard. “Let’s try not to be overly sincere, though. I’ve got a surly reputation to maintain, Lil. Truly offensive, in fact.”
“Go on with you.” She waves me off, not buying it for half a second.
However, the flowers were spectacular, and thoughtful. Obviously, he must have thought of me to send them at all. Acknowledging the flowers would be a start, wouldn’t it? No harm done. Then, there’s the question of the appropriate way to do that.
Mercifully, our sarnies arrive then, all fresh bread and colorful salads and grilled meat and vegetables. Relieved, I tear into the meal.
After we part ways with our ritual of air kisses, once I’m safely away, I pause in the shadow of a building. Admittedly, there’s some secret part of me that’s tempted to know what Blake’s up to on Instagram. Before returning to the shop, I give in to temptation by downloading Instagram on my phone for a convenient way to get another selfish peek at Blake Sinclair. Why didn’t I pay attention before to film people?
Then, I get sucked into a social media downward spiral in the street. Instagram leads to YouTube and a recent interview with Blake Sinclair, sitting relaxed on a talk show with his glorious tan and ready grin that warms me from my core out. “Yeah, I’m excited to filmHollywood Endingbetween L.A. and London. I’ve always wanted to visit the UK. Can’t wait to go and see what happens once I’m there.”
Chapter Six
When I return to Barnes Books after drinks, Gemma’s locked everything up for the night. Down the street, there’s still activity around the trailers. Commuters grumble their way home through public transport and pavements in Soho. The street’s alive with the evening theatergoing crowd. One intrepid cyclist maneuvers through traffic in bright yellow for visibility.
Once inside the shop, the air is still and hot. Flipping on a fan and parking myself in front of it, I gaze over at the small selection of cards that I have in a display by the entry. I’ve made a point to stock cards from London-based designers. There must be something in there I can use for Blake.
Going to the rack, there’s an assortment of the usual themes: happy birthday cards and sympathy cards, good luck cards and thank you cards. Plus, there’s a selection of blank cards. There’s no occasion card for a spontaneous blow job or to thank someone for the flowers that follow.
The obvious choice is a thank you card. Sign my name and it’s done. Except…that’s a cop-out. My gut twists at the thought. I hesitate over a thank you card before returning to the blank cards. I’ll make it personal. But which one?
I pluck one out, a pen and ink illustration of Soho. At least that’s appropriate. Cheerful-looking and bright. People like cheerful. The more conventional choice would be one of the cards with flowers on the front, but it doesn’t feel right.
Retreating to the fan by the front counter, I retrieve a fountain pen from the drawer. Now comes the hardest part: what to say.
There’s the simple and direct:Thanks for the flowers.Neutral. Nobody could take fault with that acknowledgment. Except…it has no soul.
Another take could be:Thanks for the flowers, they’re beautiful like you.I flush. Not a chance. Far, far too earnest.
Or maybe:Thanks for the beautiful arrangement. I’m sorry I left so quickly.
Which… I think that might be the way forward. Because all of that is true. And even though that apology makes me feel vulnerable, I imagine how he must have felt after I fled. Probably a bit shit, to be honest. Which makes me feel shit, because honestly? That’s the last thing I want him to feel.
Gulping, I write that last message into the card. At least my penmanship is decent. Which leads me smack into another problem. How to sign? First initial only? Before I can think too much about it, I add my phone number at the bottom.
Just in case he actually wanted to talk to me again.
I mean, if he had wanted, he could have put his own number on the card. Though, that’s probably risky for a celebrity. Even a third-string celebrity as he claims to be. Who knows who wrote the card? Did he write it himself? Or did someone write it for him? Privacy must be a thing.
Well, the good news about me being a nobody is that it doesn’t matter so much if my number’s out there.
