Page 135 of Valentine Nook
“I think you should.”
“Don’t you start.” I swipe the foam from my top lip. “She’s got an amazing role on Broadway. Short of moving the theater to London, there’s nothing I can do.”
Hmm. There’s an idea.
Miles shrugs and gets out his phone. “I have something that will cheer you up.”
“Nothing’s going to cheer me up.”
“How much d’you want to bet?”
I groan, “Miles, if you’re going to be deliberately annoying, then I’d rather be left alone if it’s all the same to you.”
Unfortunately, it doesn’t deter him. Quite the opposite. “Okay, no bet, but how about you shut up and listen? This morning, I was watching one of those American chat shows they have, you know the ones on late every night, and Holiday was on it.”
“I’m not interested,” I lie. I’m very interested. I can’t help it. I want to know everything she’s doing. I just don’t want anyone else to know that’s what I want.
I need time to lick my wounds in private. If that includes watching her on some goddamn American TV program where she’s smiling and laughing and moving on with her life while I’m here being my most miserable self, then so be it.
It’s bad enough that twice this week I’ve seen Holiday’s face staring at me. Once from the back page of theFinancial Times, where a full-sized ad had been taken out for the same Guccicampaign that’s on the side of the buses. The other was a movie poster for her upcoming film.
I’m never going to escape it. Her beautiful face will follow me for the rest of my life.
I’ve already told the board that my monthly meetings in London will need to be conducted remotely until next year.
Miles slaps a set of headphones in my palm. “Stop being a dick and watch this.”
I don’t have the energy to argue.
Sitting back, I stare at the screen paused on Holiday’s face. Immediately, my chest seizes. Even a little pixilated, she looks beautiful, and she looks happy. She’s in her natural habitat.
This is where she belongs, not here in Valentine Nook surrounded by cows. I was stupid to ever think it could be a possibility.
I press play, but I’m so focused on her face that I barely hear what the host is laughing about as he shuffles his question cards.
“That’s good. Now tell me what you’ve been doing since you won your Oscar. Has it been crazy?”
Holiday turns and smiles at the audience. As she does, there’s a split second when she looks directly into the camera, and it feels like she’s looking straight at me.
“Actually, no. It’s been very peaceful and relaxing.”
“And is it true you met an English duke?” He pronounces it dooke. Just like Holiday does.
I barely breathe as Holiday laughs. A sound I’d almost forgotten. “It is.”
“I can’t blame you because this guy . . .wow, I didn’t know they made English guys who looked like this?—”
My eyes almost get stuck from rolling so hard. What an idiot.
But then one of the shots of Holiday and me in Paris fills the screen, followed by the polo match, and one from the FallBall I haven’t seen before. The studio audience claps and squeals, and when the camera pans back to Holiday on the sofa, her cheeks are pinker.
“Are you going to be inviting us around for afternoon tea,guvnor?”
“You know, Jimmy, maybe I will.”
“Can we have those little cucumber sandwiches?”
“Sure.” She laughs again. “I’ll see what I can do.”
