Page 110 of Valentine Nook
There’s a pile of newspapers on the desk, the top one of which I was flicking through when Alex stormed in. He picks it up, letting out a low whistle, his eyebrows rising the more he reads.
“Someone’s been busy.”
I reach for the coffee Alex dismissed. “I’ve been living my life. It’s the paps who’ve been busy.”
“I see that.”
Splashed across several pages of the worst British tabloids are photos of Holiday and me—Claridge’s, the polo match, Paris, and walking into a restaurant in Berkeley Square when she joined me for my monthly trip to London last week. None from Valentine Nook, for which I’m grateful.
I don’t normally read tabloids, but the reason James put it on my desk in the first place is that this particular paper, with this particular article, decided to run a comparison between Caroline and Holiday. It covers everything from their net worths to achievements to jobs to education and background.
But the majority of the article focuses on the canceled wedding and the alarmingly accurate reasons why, alongside a picture of Jeremy and Caroline.
In truth, I’m surprised it hasn’t been reported on until now, but as hard as I’m trying to find one, it appears I’m all out of fucks to give.
They made their proverbial bed. They have to lie in it. And according to Jeremy, Caroline’s bed is exactly where he wants to be.
And I’m no longer bound by shame and guilt. I’m not going to lie and say that I wasn’t wearing a small smile when I was declared the victor of this fucked-up comparison.
“This is a good picture of you.” Alex bends the page and shoves it toward me.
It’s a photo where Holiday and I are walking along the Seine, taken the evening after her first meeting.
I smile at the memory. “Yes, I like it too.”
“Uh-oh, they’ve made it official. ‘Lando Burlington, the eleventh Duke of Oxfordshire and England’s Most Eligible Bachelor, is off the market,’” he reads aloud, and I hear him chuckling behind the paper.
He can laugh all he wants. I wait for him to reach the bottom of the page, and when he does, he snorts loudly.
“Ah. . . the crown has been passed to me again.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He tosses the paper contemptuously onto the chair beside him and bows his head. He’s silent for a moment, crossing his legs, picking off a piece of thread from his jeans and dropping it on the floor. “What’s happening with you two?”
I knew the question was coming, I just wasn’t surewhoit would come from. Since Holiday and I returned from Paris, every family member has acted with uncharacteristic indifference, even Miles. Which means all of them are chomping at the bit for information.
“What do you mean?”
“C’mon, Lando, you know what I mean. It’s great and all that you’re happy again. I love it. God knows something needed to pull you out of the funk. Butthat”—he points at the paper he tossed—“is more than something. Miles said he’s seen you leave Bluebell every morning this week.”
Iknewit. I knew they’ve all been gossiping about me like they have nothing better to do. I just wish I knew what the answer to Alex’s question was.
“I didn’t realize Miles ever woke up early enough to spy on his neighbors.”
It’s a pointless deflection because now that he’s begun, Alex is obviously going to take his role as family informantseriously. He can’t go back empty-handed, and he continues like I haven’t said a word.
“Lando, you’re together all the time. What are you going to do when she leaves? Is this just a prolonged friends-with-benefits arrangement? Or more?”
It’s a question I’ve been asking myself.
I know Holiday’s time in Valentine Nook is finite. I might not want to admit it, and I certainly don’t like it. But Iknow.
Her life and career are back in America, while mine is here. I’ve been trying to figure out a plan for us when the time came for her to leave, but there isn’t one that doesn’t involve either of us spending half our life on a plane.
I don’t want to be stealing moments between all the publicity and photo shoots, and months on a set wherever she happens to be in the world at that moment. And I doubt she does either.
Some mornings, I wake up next to her, blond hair fanned around the pillow watching her eyelashes flutter as she dreams, her lips parting with each breath, and think I’ll give it a few days until I see her again. No big deal.
