“Does he know where you work?”
“No. At least I don’t think he does. I haven’t said anything about it, and he hasn’t asked. I suppose he thinks I work in a shop or office. Not that it matters.”
“Why not?”
“This isn’t going anywhere. I mean, he’s handsome and interesting and I’ve had several nice evenings with him, but it’s never going to lead to anything more. I’d be an idiot to think otherwise. And it is fun, you know. It gives me a little peek into how the other half lives.”
“‘The other half’？ Ah—one of your idioms. It does make sense, does it not? Although I doubt as many as half the people in this country live as well as he does. Do you remember the people at his table that night? There was no mistaking them for anything but aristocrats. They had that soft look about them.”
“They did at that. Right—it’s well past ten now, and we’ll both be in a state tomorrow if we don’t get to sleep soon.”
“Are you worried? About finishing on time?” Miriam asked.
“Didn’t you tell me, not even a month ago, that it was no different from any other gown? That we just had to work as we always do and we’d be fine?”
“Yes, but I had not realized how many people would care. Everyone is so anxious at work. I can tell they are.”
“We’ve survived rushes like this before. Not even a year ago the royal family was off to South Africa for weeks and weeks, and we had to turn out dozens of gowns and outfits for the queen and princesses. They needed so much that some of the work was given over to other designers. All told, we only had a month or so to get everything done, and we managed it then with time to spare.”
“How did you feel when you finished?”
“Exhausted. I could have slept for days. But I also felt so proud I thought I might burst. We’ll feel like that again when we see the princess in her wedding gown. I promise we will.”
Chapter Eighteen
Heather
August 31, 2016
The rain made everything look so pretty. The sun was winking out from behind the clouds, conjuring rainbows from puddles and burnishing the pavement until it gleamed. If there’d been time she’d have stopped to take a picture, but she was running late already. Her little umbrella had vanished, or maybe she hadn’t remembered to pack it after all, and if she paused even for a second she’d end up soaked through.
Fortunately, the French House was just around the corner from her hotel. It was impossible to miss, with a marine-blue exterior, jauntily striped awnings, and a tricolor flag above the entrance. She paused just inside, patting her face dry with a crumpled tissue and tucking her hair, now frizzing madly, behind her ears. So much for making a polished first impression.
The interior was cramped and dark, with little in the way of Gallic flair to enliven its decor. A few men stood at the bar, their conversation subdued, and most of the tables ringing the room were empty. She glanced at their occupants: a man and a woman, their hands clasped, their conversation earnest, and just beyond them was a man on his own, not much older than her, his attention fixed on a book. A Country Road, A Tree. It had been ages since she’d seen someone reading a book in a bar or restaurant; most people pulled out their phones to pass the time.
“Miss Mackenzie? Heather?” The man with the book was coming toward her. “I’m Daniel Friedman.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I saw you, but I thought—I mean, I was imagining someone, um—”
“Older? Tweedier?” he asked with a disarmingly boyish grin. He was dressed casually, in worn-out jeans and an oxford-cloth button-down shirt, its sleeves rolled back untidily. A braided leather bracelet, the sort of thing you might buy on holiday, circled his left wrist, and half-hidden beneath it were a few lines of script. Whether they were a reminder scribbled in ink, or an actual tattoo, she couldn’t be sure.
“You’re not the slightest bit tweedy,” she said honestly, and shook his outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Friedman.”
“Daniel. Please. Why don’t you give me your coat and I’ll hang it next to mine?”
He took care of her coat and then came around to pull out her chair. No one, apart from her father, had ever done that for her. Maybe it was an English thing.
“I’m sorry I was late,” she said, still a little unnerved by how far he differed from the middle-aged, rumpled, and somewhat nerdy stereotype she’d concocted in the hours since they’d exchanged emails.