Chapter 10
Maggie verified the directions to St. Audrey’s as she left her key at the desk. Linda was there, having spent the better part of an hour filling in the morning staff on everything that was reported by the night shift. Mrs. Angiolini did look a bit fatigued as she headed off for Sunday Mass, and as soon as the maids got to work, Linda was going up to the room to check the bed and see if any towels were lying about in odd places.
“Liam brought up the bottle and talked to him,” Linda explained to Mr. Barnes when he came on duty at the desk. “He told him all about her not using the bed, about her being married and all.”
“Some people, married or single, have if off in odd places, even the back seat of a car, Linda,” he assured her, trying to appear disinterested. “Two people don’t need a bed to have a bit of fun, and there are plenty of women with a husband and a boyfriend.”
“You forgot to give her the phone messages, Mr. Barnes,” Linda gasped, looking at the papers that were folded and set into the slot behind the desk. “It was Mr. Harwood looking for her yesterday and again last night. Do you think she’ll have him today?”
“Only if she is some sort of nymphomaniac, silly girl. A night with Ciaran Doyle ought to last her a week at least.”
Trevor cursed himself all night long on Friday, angered at his inability to ask Maggie for something as innocuous as a quick drink or a quiet dinner. He called the hotel Saturday morning, fully prepared to cancel his weekly tennis game if she was free to see him, but she was off sightseeing. He threw the phone against the chair when he thought about their long talk, when he could not get up the courage to ask her if he could give her a tour of London. His son Will, home for the weekend with bags full of dirty laundry to be washed at no charge in Dad’s facilities, stared at his father’s strange behavior.
Will drove to the tennis club with his father, whose once familiar patter was completely changed. There was none of the usual talk about Will’s studies or new girlfriends, only a periodic outburst about cowardice and being tongue-tied like a sixth-form boy facing the headmaster. “Do you walk up to girls and ask for sex, Will? Does that sort of thing really happen, or is it all bragging by young men?” Trevor blurted out his thoughts.
“No, Dad, I do not solicit prostitutes,” Will assured his father with an annoyed sigh. He knew better than to cause any scandal, not with his Dad’s reputation and fame. It was the price that the children paid for their father’s name, although Will was so used to it that he never was bothered by the need to be careful.
“No, no, your girlfriends,” Trevor put in, sounding exasperated.
“Yes, Dad, Susan and I are sexually active. We practice safe sex, we love and respect each other, what else is troubling you?”
“What am I supposed to say?” Trevor asked, but Will could see that the question was not directed to him. It was becoming apparent that, after two years of mourning, his reclusive father was finally crawling out from under his rock, and somewhere in London was the object of his desire.
“Hello is always a good word to start with,” Will said, suppressing his desire to laugh. “And then you ask her if she’s free for dinner or a quick shag.”
“She’s American, she wouldn’t know what a shag is. And then won’t I look like some kind of sex crazed maniac when I bring her home.”
“Then ask Mr. Barrington what an American would say to a woman he wanted to sleep with.”
“Are you mad? Ask my neighbor for handy tips for seducing women? I’d be the star of the cocktail party circuit with that reputation. God, I can just imagine the looks I’d get. And the snickering behind my back. It’s so blasted impossible.”
The tennis game went badly for Trevor. His play alternated between wild aggression, with the volley careening out of bounds, or he was distracted and let the shots go by. Roger Barrington took Will aside, to ask about Trevor’s odd behavior. “I think he’s in love, Mr. Barrington,” Will chuckled, “with an American woman.”
The gentlemen found the entire incident delightfully droll, and Ian McCullough was elated to discover that the mystery lady would also be attending the wrap party on Tuesday night. Trevor’s friends would soon know all about this lovely lady, for one could count on Dorie Barrington to uncover all the details of this new love affair, with her gift for interrogation so artfully hidden by her friendly demeanor.
With Callista at the house, trying to help with preparations for the party on Tuesday, and Will paying a weekend visit, Trevor obliged his children by providing hours of amusement. He nervously wandered through the place, examining the Regency reproduction wallpaper in the drawing room to check for loose spots in the seams, and then calling Strand House about five times over the course of Saturday afternoon. At one point, the children found their father heading up to the garret to sweep away the cobwebs and dust.
“What on earth are you doing?” Callista called after him as he bounded up the stairs with a broom.
“I want to show Maggie the beams. She’s very interested in history,” he shouted as he made his way to the upper story.
“Does she like old things, then, Dad?” Will asked with a leer, but Trevor was too distracted to catch on to the joke.
Callista was reviewing the menu when Trevor popped his head into the kitchen. “Be sure the caterer brings something vegetarian. Maggie doesn’t eat meat, red meat at any rate, but better to be on the safe side. Oh, and she likes Veuve Cliquot; make sure they bring an extra case.”
“Is this Maggie an alcoholic, Dad?” Callista asked in mock horror. “A whole case for one woman?”
“No, two cases, two extra cases, we’ll need that for Wednesday,” he replied, thinking out loud, and his children almost began to cheer. If it amused them to crow about his re-entry into the known world, let them laugh all they liked. He was determined to succeed.
“What flavor for the condoms, Dad?” Callista asked at Will’s urging. They were really up to speed now, watching their normally confident father withering into a self-conscious lump of fear. He had not been so serious about a woman before, not once since their mother had died. Callista had been encouraging him, very gently, to find a new partner for his old age. It was plain that Will made no secret about his great wish that his Dad would find someone to look after him now that the children were grown.
“Chocolate, strawberry, I don’t know. See if Harrod’s can deliver strawberries dipped in chocolate. Women like that sort of thing, don’t they?” Trevor asked, wandering back to the sitting room.
“With or without ridges?” Will kept at it, teasing his father.
“Ridges? What are you talking about? Strawberries don’t have ridges, they have seeds.”
“For the condoms, Dad. Does your Maggie like ridged or smooth?” Will asked, trying with all his might to keep a straight face.
“Dear God, William, this is not something I care to discuss, and it is not something to discuss with your father,” Trevor snorted, growing angry and short-tempered. “And this is not funny, so stop your snickering.”
As Trevor bounded off on another aimless journey, Will and Callista retreated to Will’s bedroom. From his personal supply he selected a fine variety of prophylactics, generously dipping into his cache which was stored in case of dire emergency in his childhood home. Poor Dad had been out of circulation for so long that he was unaware of proper dating etiquette. If he was as madly in lust as he seemed, he would need a few soon if he expected to get even a second glance from the mysterious Maggie. Was this a serious interest, Callista pondered, but her question was answered at once when she found her father trying to call the woman again for what felt like the twelfth time already.
“Apparently she has gone sightseeing,” Callista reported to Will as he carefully chose a varied assortment for Maggie’s enjoyment. “And now he’s storming through the house because he forgot to ask her if he could take her for a drive on the weekend.”
“He didn’t forget, Lis, he’s too afraid to ask,” Will said with sad certainty. “Afraid she’ll say no and he’d be wrecked.”
“Go easy on him,” Callista defended her dear old Dad. “Keep in mind that time he went to Los Angeles right after our mum died.”
“But that was totally different. Uncle Nigel has been referring to someone as the Gay Divorcee, and he couldn’t be happier about the fact that she’s not married any more. I would swear that’s he’s been talking about Maggie.”
Callista shuddered as she recalled the trip, when she went along to be a little company, wanting to put her mother’s passing behind her. She was the one to answer the knock on the hotel room door, the one to entertain the husband when he came to retrieve his wife. It was nearly impossible for Callista to hide her embarrassment when she learned that the man’s wife was the woman who had spent the night with Trevor Harwood. “Do you think she’ll get the part she read for?” the man had asked, and Callista truly believed that she was about to vomit, running to the bathroom because the nausea was so overwhelming.
“Aunt Bea’s been taking someone named Maggie around town. Do you think it’s the same person?” Callista probed for answers from her brother. “Uncle Nigel’s quite keen on the Gay Divorcee, and Bea’s really fond of Maggie; she said Maggie was a lot like Mum, a very lovely lady. Let’s hope.”
“Here we are, six lovely French caps for the lovely lady,” Will waved the packets at Callista. “Seem excessive? Either Dad will be inspired, or he’s stocked for the next year.”
They were two children delivering a secret present as they quietly stole away to the master bedroom, where their father continued to sleep on one side of the bed. Will put the colorful array on the lamp table on the opposite side, where Maggie would find them on Tuesday night. Spread out in an overlapped arrangement, they would provide a comforting assurance that Trevor Harwood was prepared and ready for love, without an unplanned pregnancy or disease to mar the relationship. He was going to start out on the right foot with Maggie, if he could only take the first step.
With preparations for the party to fill his mind, Trevor passed a pleasant Saturday evening with his children. Callista had prepared dinner, experimenting with a new recipe that she wanted to try out before serving the dish to her fiancé. They ate in the kitchen, exactly as they had when they were young, talking over the events of the day. Feeling rather sorry for their father, who was lost in his struggle to break out of his old world, they stayed in to watch television with him. At the same time, they did all they could to pump out a little information about Maggie. In essence, all they learned was that she was beautiful, someone sent from heaven because she was such an angel. Every time Trevor thought about her, his eyes would glaze over and his face would slip into a rather silly smile. All that talk of Maggie prompted him to make one more call, as Callista rolled her eyes with impatience, but Maggie was still out. Trevor sulked for the rest of the evening.
By Sunday morning, the man had become so edgy and downright cranky that Callista sent him off on an errand, to purchase the makings of a salad for Sunday dinner. His children had never seen him so keyed up before, and Callista was about ready to call Nigel to find out if her father was slowly descending into madness. Annoyed by his daughter’s melodramatics, Trevor started out for the market, but with Maggie in his thoughts he quickly forgot about lettuce and tomatoes.
There was an idea forming, to get to Strand House before Maggie could get out, and he could take her to the flea market at Covent Garden. Sometimes there were delightful little antiques available at one of the stalls, or perhaps he could buy her something for a souvenir. Something from England, he posited, a knickknack made of English porcelain would be the perfect thing to hunt for. A crowded market was certainly safe and not threatening, being a very public place. It was also a great place for Trevor to suggest, since the concept of shopping at Covent Garden Market sounded so harmless. If that went well he thought that he could recommend stopping for lunch, and then from there he would come up with some plan to keep them together for the afternoon. With his confidence building, he laid out the scenario that would begin with a ride on the bus before dinner and end with the two of them in a wonderful room at the Strand House Hotel.
Passing a flower shop that was open on a Sunday morning reminded him that it was Valentine’s Day. He slammed on the brakes, looking rapidly for a spot to park his car. Fortunately, it was relatively quiet on the road this morning, and the ease of finding a nearby parking space made him feel positively buoyant. His first thought was to buy out the store and fill her hotel room with every flower he could find. Quick as a flash, Hal’s advice jumped up for attention, and Trevor immediately changed his mind. He would send a single blossom, and it was going to have to be something really eye-catching.
The florist tried to convince the middle-aged gentleman that a dozen red roses was the more traditional gift, but in the end the shopkeeper tied a red velvet bow on a narrow box that held a solitary stem. With one delicate bloom nestled on the passenger seat of his car, Trevor continued on his quest for Maggie. After parking his car again, he strolled into the lobby of the hotel, with an attitude that told everyone in view that Trevor Harwood was ready to take on the world. Much to his surprise, the man at the front desk knew that he was there to see Maggie before he even asked for her. Without a doubt, Trevor detected a raised eyebrow on the face of the desk clerk.
“She left about fifteen minutes ago, sir, for Sunday services,” Mr. Barnes said with the cool demeanor of an experienced professional. “Would you care to wait?”
Waiting sounded like a brilliant idea to Trevor. The story that Hal had related came to mind at once, and the actor was very tempted to imitate Ciaran Doyle by popping into Maggie’s bed as if he were her personal Valentine. However, there was something about Mr. Barnes’ manner that had taken a little of the wind out of Trevor’s sails, and he began to picture Maggie laughing at him when she came back. With that in mind, he searched for an even worse outcome. Should Maggie be insulted by his thoroughly forward approach, she would tell him to get dressed and get out. Taking all that into consideration, he reached his verdict. It was better to hunt for his elusive quarry at the church, and take advantage of the facilities that offered a conduit to God’s divine intercession.
“No, I think I’ll walk over and catch her up on the way. I have a little gift for her, though, could I possibly drop this in her room?” he asked politely.
“Certainly, Mr. Harwood,” and Trevor was turned over to the care of Tim Horton, hotel bellhop.
It was a very nervous man who chattered about Mr. Harwood’s brilliant performance in Nelson and Pellew, which had been re-broadcast two weeks ago. Tim was quite worried that Mr. Harwood would see Maggie’s room, the room that had been shared with Mr. Doyle the night before. The maid had not been there yet to tidy up, and no one knew what might be found in the dustbin. Horton found himself nervously clearing his throat, all the while hoping that nothing was lying about on the floor. Mrs. Angiolini was playing a dangerous game, with only a few hours between men, and the bellhop decided that he would wait in the hallway and remain blissfully ignorant until Mr. Harwood was gone.
As the door opened, Trevor half-expected a blinding light to greet him, as if he were entering the home of a goddess. He spotted the unmade bed, and with a smile he noticed that Maggie slept on one side, the side farthest from the door. The bellhop was standing outside the door, waiting patiently, and Trevor slyly picked up the pillow and held it to his face, to find a trace of Maggie’s perfume on the cover.
What drove him to poke around in her dresser drawers he would never know, but he opened the top drawer very slowly. A row of brassieres, very neatly set into the bureau, were the first things that he observed. Rolled up nylon tights and panties were arranged in meticulous order, with slips and camisoles making for a very tidy grouping of lingerie, all the lucky fabric that stroked her skin. He carefully pulled out a black bra, a lovely and feminine tidbit that was all sexy lace and little bows. Checking to see that the guardian at the door was not looking in, Trevor slipped on his reading glasses and examined the label.
“Lejaby. Thank you God, thank you. Size, size, oh my God, what a blessing, 34C, my dream, you have sent her to me, this is heaven, I have gone to heaven. Please be real, please be real,” he prayed as he returned the bra to its proper spot. So utterly and completely happy, with jubilation sending his heart to racing, he scanned the top of the dresser. Like the lingerie drawer, it was very tidy, with only a bottle of perfume, a hairbrush and her cosmetics bag set off to one side. There under the mirror was a little box, Irish porcelain judging by the style of it, with little green shamrocks sprouting from the top. Looking up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.
There was no denying that he was a middle-aged man, but he could boast of a full head of hair and he was still in reasonable shape. Granted, he knew he was not as attractive as the Ciaran Doyle type of male with all those muscles and twinkling eyes. Trevor turned from side to side, assessing his shape, and he convinced himself that he would be appealing, even sexy, to a woman of Maggie’s years. He had known her for such a short time, but he refused to look on Maggie as the shallow sort of person who would judge him by his outward appearance.
He decided to put the box on her desk, with the bow and ribbon arranged so that they draped in the most attractive way. There were postcards strewn about the desktop as if she had left in the middle of her correspondence. He knew almost nothing about her, except that he was in love with her, and he tried to be casual and detached as his fingers sorted out the cards until they were separated and lying all over in a wild mass of colorful images.
The pictures were all completely tourist oriented, with things like Big Ben and Buckingham Palace, the Tower Bridge, and Kew Gardens in spring. Trevor flipped them over, looking at the names of the recipients with a deep curiosity. Joey was probably her son; he could guess that by the brief note that wished the boy good luck on the big science test and various bits of motherly advice. Kay Griffith had to be her sister, and Fabrizio Nerini was identified as the live-in boyfriend or husband; maybe Kay was one of those modern sorts who kept her name after marriage. The address was the same as the one on Joey’s card, both in River Oaks. It was not such a puzzle, since he could presume that Maggie’s sister was staying with the son or the son was living with his aunt. Either way, Mr. Angiolini was not caring for his boy while his ex-wife was away on business. Another card was being sent to Mom and Dad, all as expected, but the image of Stonehenge was going to Mr. and Mrs. Angiolini and Trevor held his breath.
It was absolutely bad manners to read someone else’s mail, but Trevor simply had to find out who Mr. and Mrs. Angiolini were. That Maggie would send a friendly note to her ex-husband and his new wife was not out of the ordinary; even Bea sent Nigel a letter or card when she was out of town. “Dear Nonna and Nonna,” he read the greeting and he could exhale. Those were Italian pet names for grandparents, he understood that much. Finding that she was so considerate of Joey’s grandparents was a delightful discovery, proving that Maggie was not only fascinating but also thoughtful. He looked at every single card, to study every single address, but all he found were strange names and unfamiliar towns. There was not one word to Mr. Angiolini, not a single scrap of paper was being mailed to the man that Trevor thought of as a cold and heartless bastard. At that instant, his most tender thoughts were on poor Maggie, who had been deserted by a man who apparently could not be bothered to look after his own child.
“Trevor is here to pick up the pieces, Maggie, if you’ll let him,” he whispered to himself. The bellhop cleared his throat again, and Trevor quickly checked his watch. With a groan, he realized that the service at St. Paul’s started in about a half-hour. His only hope would be that Maggie stayed for communion to give him enough time to find her in the crowd.
He drove to the historic cathedral, as it was now too late for a leisurely walk. Parking was impossible, and he had to practically run the three blocks back to the church after he finally found a spot. Inside the church, he fell into a sea of dark coats and blonde heads that filled the pews, with many women wearing hats. Sighing at the futility of picking out one woman in a crowd when he did not know exactly what she was wearing, he took a seat in the back. Trevor kept an eye on all the major exits, but he suspected that Maggie was likely to walk around and tour the building, or at least view as much as was allowed on a Sunday. If she were moving around it would give him an even better opportunity to find her.
They could join the congregation at St. Paul’s, he thought as he pictured their future while the minister spoke to his congregation. After a weekend dinner party, they would pray like dutiful adults, and he would thank the Lord God for sending someone like Maggie to rescue him from the solitude that threatened to strangle his heart. Brilliant dinners, with a few close friends, and after a night of passion they would march off to Sunday services, setting a good example for their children. A place for animal lust and a place for prayer, that was how they would compartmentalize their affair. Not that he was an avid churchgoer, but he would drag himself out of bed on a Sunday morning for her sake, compromising his sleep for her religious sensibilities. They were well suited, he decided, far better a match than Maggie and that other one, the wanker from Manchester.
He reflected on Maggie as he scanned the crowd, trying to understand why she left him tongue-tied and senseless. It was her American-ness, he reasoned, the way that she talked so fast that he could scarcely keep up with the sentences. By the time that he could formulate a response she was laughing at him with her eyes, chuckling at his stodgy pace. When they talked on the phone it was much easier for him, since it was far less unnerving if he did not have to look in her eyes and think about her lips on his. Recalling his reconnaissance of her under things, he knew that it was really hopeless now. The next time that he saw her he would be thinking about those delicate strands of lace that were hugging her body and touching her skin where he wanted to touch her. Harwood’s addled brain was focused on French lingerie when he became aware of people stirring, going home at the end of matins.
She was not there, not anywhere in the crowd, and he cursed himself for not asking which church she had gone to. There were so many historic churches in London; she could have tried St.-Martin-in-the-Fields today and was saving St. Paul’s for next week. Perhaps she was going to take communion at a different church every day so that she could see more of them. Now there was a perfectly innocuous first date, the thought popped into his head, he could offer to drive her to morning Eucharist and then they could stop for breakfast.
A breathless and disheveled Mr. Harwood ran into the lobby as if he were being chased by a murderous mob, racing to the front desk and assaulting Mr. Barnes. “Is she back yet?” he gasped, a glint of fear in his eye.
“I did tell her that you had stopped in, looking for her,” the clerk said. “But she has gone to Covent Garden Market, I believe, with two other ladies. Once the women get into the flea markets, Mr. Harwood, we cannot expect to see them again until after dark.”
“Damn,” Trevor hissed, frustrated, “damn, damn, damn. Would you give her a message, please? When she returns, would you ask her to phone me? Any time, no matter how late.”
Callista berated him for being gone for ages and then completely forgetting about the vegetables she had asked for. He snapped back at her, diffusing a little of the anger he felt at himself for not taking the bold move once again. No one had to tell him that if he had waited in Maggie’s room he would not have missed her, and at the very least he would know if there was a chance for him. If she had asked him to leave he would know where he stood and he could make an end of it, if that was how things had to be. His stomach was churning as he poked his head in the refrigerator, while his daughter mumbled angrily under her breath. Frustrated, he slammed the door without taking anything to eat, and then he stormed off to his study to try to read the new script that his agent had sent at the end of last week. After a few pointless minutes he realized that he could not concentrate.
“Will, have you seen the papers?” he called up the stairs. Before Maggie, in that other lifetime, he would put up his feet on a Sunday morning and read the news. Those days used to be relaxing, when he would pour over the Times and the Mirror for real information and then flip through the Sunday edition of News and Views to stay on top of the latest gossip. With a cup of coffee and his reading material, he could pretend that this was a normal day, just another Sunday in London.
“I had to clip a couple of articles for a research paper,” Will explained as he handed over the thoroughly reviewed newspapers. “Nothing that you’d miss. We haven’t seen the gossip rag, don’t think it turned up this morning. Can I get you a coffee, Dad, let me bring you a cup.”
But Dad was already on his way to the kitchen, where he surprised Callista. She had the Sunday edition of News and Views, the inane tabloid that was notorious for its candid photos of Great Britain’s famous and infamous. His daughter had a most peculiar look on her face, while she was whispering into the phone with her eyes glued to page three.
“Too late, Aunt Bea,” Callista said as her father looked straight at her, demanding an explanation.
She handed him the phone as he looked at the photo spread, with the popular Ciaran Doyle prominently featured during a day in London with his arm around a new woman unknown to the reporter. And there they were again, dining in Kensington, with Ciaran’s hot gigolo lips nibbling at Maggie’s mouth.
“Don’t believe the paper, Trevor,” Bea was shouting, almost hysterical. “Trevor, answer me. For God’s sake, she turned him down.”
Finally, Trevor focused his eyes on the last photo in the tale, the one that featured the charming couple sneaking into Strand House through the back entrance and hoping that no one noticed them. Reading the article, Trevor found a description of “Ciaran’s latest paramour”. According to a reliable source, she was identified as a married woman of somewhat offbeat tastes. That sentence made Trevor think, because there was something amiss that he could not quite make out through the tears that blurred his vision.
“I was too slow, Bea,” he said quietly, his heart beginning to crack. “Another old fool.”
“Listen to me, I have to get back, they think I’m in the loo,” Bea said in a near whisper. “Please don’t ask me to explain because I promised not to tell anyone, not all the details. Last night they talked, that is absolutely all that happened. Nothing else, Trevor, do you hear me?”
“She’s a grown woman, she can do as she bloody well pleases,” he replied tersely before he hung up the phone. Will and Callista were staring at him, not knowing what to do or say. “Well, Mr. Doyle, let’s see who can keep her longer. I know your games, and I’ll have that piece of American ass before she’s gone, she won’t be your exclusive plaything.”
“Poor Dad,” Will sighed as his father flew out of the house in a fury. The rant about stealing Maggie from under Ciaran’s nose was left behind as the front door slammed shut. “He’s in over his head, Lis, and it’s his first time back.”
“I think he just declared war on Ciaran Doyle,” Callista said in awe. “Wait until Tuesday night, Will, because we are going to see some fireworks.”
“What did Aunt Bea have to say about all this?”
“That Maggie and Ciaran are friends and not lovers. She said that Maggie is too Catholic to do anything sinful, whatever that means. Oh, and Maggie’s not married, the story was all wrong.”
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