13. Thirteen

Thirteen

T he nerves I felt at the initial mention of afternoon tea with Barbara return with a vengeance as we pull up outside the grand frontage of The Ritz Piccadilly. A doorman wearing a smart black suit and top hat is standing at the top of the white marble steps that lead to the double front doors. A navy-blue canopy hangs over the entrance, bearing the gold emblem of the prestigious hotel.

Art buzzes the driver's window down as the valet approaches, and the two men exchange words. I smooth my navy dress over my knees and pull down the mirror to inspect my make-up.

"You look beautiful," Art assures.

I tuck my hair behind my ear and look at him. "Thank you, but I can't help feeling nervous."

"There's no need to be nervous."

"This will be the first time I've properly met your mum. I'm going to feel nervous. We can't all be super confident."

He shrugs defensively. "I get nervous."

I frown. "Really?"

"Of course."

I'm intrigued. "What about?"

He looks out of the window, avoiding my gaze. "I dunno … stuff."

He's being evasive, but I want to know more.

"You look beautiful, and Mum already loves you," he assures me.

"You don't know that. And what if she doesn't? Or what if she does and changes her mind after today?"

He unfastens his seat belt and laughs. "That's incredibly unlikely. And Mum's a great judge of character. Anyway, I wouldn't care if she didn't like you."

He rests a hand on mine and gazes at me. My heart skips a beat. For one wild second, I'm convinced he's going to tell me that he loves me. I'm literally waiting with bated breath.

Disappointment extinguishes my feeling of hope as he looks past me, out of the window, and instead says, "Shall we make a move?"

We climb out of the car. Art passes his keys to the valet and takes my hand as we walk up the steps and into the hotel.

Opulent carpet stretches across the floor beneath grand white marble arches. Magnificent gold chandeliers hang from the curved ceilings. I knew this place was going to be fancy, but this is a whole new level of posh. We're greeted by an older gentleman with a mop of grey hair, wearing a smart three-piece black suit.

"Good afternoon, sir"—he looks at Art and then glances at me and smiles politely—"madam. Welcome to The Ritz. How may I help you?"

"Hi, we're here for afternoon tea. A table for three in the name of Black," Art replies.

"Of course, sir. The other member of your party is already seated. Please, this way."

My heels sink into the thick carpet as we follow him into the vast Palm Court. Spectacular high, arched ceilings and magnificent floral arrangements decorate the lavish room. Mellow tones coming from the grand piano provide the backdrop to the hum of conversation from the guests.

Art gives me an easy smile and squeezes my hand, looking totally at ease. I'm anything but. A knot of nerves sits in my stomach at the prospect of meeting Barbara properly for the first time. I glance at the other diners, all dressed to impress. And Art's no exception. His painfully expensive charcoal-grey suit fits his broad frame like a glove. He looks sharp and sexy and is receiving lots of admiring looks from the female guests as we pass by the tables. Self-conscious, I glance down at my dress and check my nude patent heels for scuff marks.

"You look perfect," he says, leaning into me.

I beam at his words, and he gives my hand another reassuring squeeze.

Barbara stands as we arrive at the table. She's wearing a cream linen trouser suit, finished off with a chic pale pink floral neck scarf. Her eyes sparkle as she smiles at me. "Hello, Sophie. How nice to meet you again."

I smile politely. "Hello, Barbara. It's good to see you again too."

Art shifts round the table and kisses her on the cheek. "Afternoon, Mum."

"Thank you, darling," she replies. "Shall we take a seat?"

He unfastens the single button of his jacket as we sit. I survey the white china cups, plates, and silver cutlery, perfectly laid out across the pristine white tablecloth. Yes, this is very posh.

"Well, isn't this lovely?" Barbara enthuses. "What would you like to drink, Sophie? Tea, coffee, or champagne?"

I've barely eaten all day because I've felt so nervous. One glass of champagne will go straight to my head. I can't risk getting tipsy. "Tea will be fine, thanks."

I look round, taking in my surroundings, and a waiter appears with menus for all of us.

"They do all kinds of tea," says Barbara.

As I glance down, I see she's right – no fewer than eighteen types of tea are listed. It makes the choice of five we offer at the hotel seem rather feeble. I stare at the list, feeling a bit panic-stricken.

Barbara lowers her voice and leans across the table a fraction. "This place prides itself on the variety of tea they offer, but I don't think you can beat a decent cup of traditional English breakfast."

That I'm familiar with. I smile. "That sounds wonderful."

"I'll have the same," Art says.

A waiter arrives to take our order. Once he's left, Barbara interlaces her fingers and looks at me. My nerves are back. I want to make the right impression.

"It's so lovely to have an opportunity to meet you properly, Sophie. Art tells me you're a wedding planner at the hotel?"

"Yes, I've been there for three years."

"That must be such a wonderful job. Do you enjoy it?"

"Yes, I do," I admit. "I love it. It's really nice, getting to know each couple and planning their special day for them."

"It sounds lovely," Barbara says. "I've often thought I might have liked doing something like that when I was a young woman."

We're interrupted by a couple of waiters arriving with trays. They set down the silver teapots and sugar bowl along with a couple of four-tiered cakes on stands. My stomach rumbles at the tempting sight of dainty finger sandwiches, colourful macarons, and cream scones.

The waiters pour the tea, and we thank them as they leave.

"Where were we?" Barbara says, slicing a scone in half. "Ah, yes. Your job."

Art slides a cup of tea towards me and smiles. "Sophie's very good at her job."

I blush and pick a cucumber finger sandwich from one of the stands. "It's because I enjoy what I do. I think if you love doing something, you naturally excel at it, and it's not a chore."

"Absolutely." Barbara smiles as a thought strikes her. "I know my son's all work, work, work, but I hope he's a little easier on his staff. Is he a slave driver, Sophie?"

I hesitate.

Art raises his eyebrows and lifts a cup to his lips. "Go on. You can be honest. I won't be offended."

I turn the silver fork over in my fingers. "To be honest …" I glance at him.

He's still watching me carefully, and although he comes across as though he doesn't care what his staff thinks of him, I don't believe this for a second. He does care – about the hotel and the staff – which is why he's trying hard to turn the place around. Just like he did with Dark Desires.

"Although I hate to say it"—I pause again. I'm stringing this out because moments when I have the upper hand with him are few and far between, and I'm savouring it—"and risk inflating his already-large ego, he's a good boss. I didn't think so when I first met him. I think we were all nervous. Perhaps Art was too. But he's firm but fair with the staff. I think the hotel needed someone like Art to come in with fresh eyes and a good business sense."

He gives me a full-on smile, which confirms my thoughts. He very much does care.

Barbara chuckles at my teasing and takes a sip of tea.

I pick up my cup. "So, do you think you would have liked to have been a wedding planner, Barbara?"

"I do enjoy planning events. Don't I, Art?"

He tucks into a sandwich. "You're always organising one thing or another."

"It keeps me out of mischief. I've been involved in the charity for many years – since before we met Art." She looks across the table at him and smiles. "Arthur and I had fostered for five years before Art was placed with us. We couldn't have children of our own, but we had so much love to offer a child. Fostering seemed like the right thing to do."

I'm touched by her warm words. "It really is a wonderful thing, giving a child the chance of having a loving, normal family life." I glance at Art, conscious that I'm really talking about his younger self.

He's not looking at me and focussing on his food.

Did he really think this wasn't going to come up in conversation today?

"So, how long have you been a patron?" I ask, trying to veer the conversation onto a slightly different course.

"The last ten years or so. After we adopted Art, we chose not to foster any more children, but since Arthur died, my work keeps me active, and I get to do a role that I love. And as you said, Sophie, if you love doing something, it's not a chore at all." She places her fork down and smiles, as if remembering. "Actually, I've brought along a few photos."

She dips a hand into her handbag on the floor beside her and retrieves a pair of frameless glasses.

Art gives her a wary look. "Photos of what?"

Barbara puts on the glasses and then pulls out three photos from her bag. "What do you think, darling? Of you, of course. I thought Sophie might like to see them."

Not even my mum got out the embarrassing baby photos when she first met Art.

"Sophie would love to see them." I grin.

Art makes a noise that's a cross between a defeated groan and a sigh and sits back in his chair. He's hating this. I'm in my element.

"This first one was taken just a few days after Art came to us," she says, passing it to me.

It shows a skinny, anxious-looking Art sitting on a dated sofa. His face is pale and drawn, and his dark fringe looks uneven. He's not smiling, and there's a haunted look in his eyes. He looks much younger than ten. My heart breaks, and I press my lips together. I'm not sure what to say.

Barbara peers at the second photo. "Ah, yes. This was taken on his eleventh birthday. We bought him a BMX." She laughs. "Do you remember, Art?"

I glance at him. He's staring down at his tea, fingers drumming against the table, signalling his discomfort. "Of course I do. I loved it," he says quietly.

The eleven-year-old Art looks like a different child to that in the first photo. His eyes are glinting with happiness as he proudly sits on a dark blue bike in the garden.

"You look like you had a good day," I say.

He drags a hand across his jaw. "It was the first proper birthday I'd ever had."

I put the photo down. He's not awkward because I'm being shown embarrassing photos of him as a child. It's because I'm being shown his past, and he's clearly not comfortable with it. He said he'd talk to me about it in time, but he's obviously still not ready. I shift in my seat, conflicted. I know this isn't about me. It's about him feeling ready to open up to me. It's just another layer I've yet to peel back. I know I can't push him on this.

"This was taken when he graduated." Barbara beams, handing me the last photo. "It was a glorious late July day. Do you remember, Art? You were absolutely baking in your gown."

"Mmhmmm."

I smile at him, dressed in a white shirt and black hood, standing in front of a pair of heavy-duty-looking oak doors, grinning. He's clean-shaven, and his hair is cut in a shorter style.

"Oh, wow. That suits you much better than it did me," I say. "I looked a right idiot in my graduation gear."

"Where did you study," asks Barbara, "and what – was it something hospitality-related?"

"Yes, I did hospitality management at Bournemouth University."

We talk more about me – my work, my parents, Dad and his painting. Barbara wells up when I tell her about losing Dad, and she gives my hand a reassuring pat. She's warm and kind, and it's clear she loves the bones of her family. Although I was so nervous to begin with, I'm really glad to have had this opportunity to get to know her better. Of course she wanted to find out what kind of woman her son was involved with – any mother would, especially if the son had a childhood as troubled as Art's. I'm thankful when he begins to relax, and by the end of lunch, he's back to his normal self.

We leave the restaurant, give Barbara a lift to Green Park tube station, and say our goodbyes.

"I told you, you had nothing to worry about," Art says as he pulls into traffic.

"Do you think I've got your mum's approval then?" I'm only half-joking. I want Barbara's approval.

"I think she'd adopt you if she could."

I laugh. "Shut up."

"I'm serious. When you popped to the ladies', she was going on and on about how lovely you were, like I didn't already know."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere," I tease.

He smirks. "Okay, well, I'm sure I can think of something else to impress you when we get back home."

I smile to myself and look out the window. I can't deny I'm relieved this afternoon went perfectly. Only one thing dampens the memory. I take a deep breath and decide to broach the subject.

"Are you okay?" I ask, glancing at him.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" He looks at his watch and flashes a wicked grin. "I'm twenty minutes away from being inside you."

Lord help me .

My body tingles in response to his words. I press my lips together and drag my eyes back to the window. It's like he knows what I'm about to say, and he's trying to distract me. Maybe he is.

"I mean, after this afternoon, with your mum and the photos."

A muscle twitches in his jaw. He keeps staring directly ahead.

"You seemed upset," I press.

"I wasn't upset."

"You seemed it."

"I wasn't upset," he says firmly.

This is hard work. It's obvious he's not ready for me to prod any further.

"It's just … I said before, I'll be here for you whenever you're ready to talk." I look at him. "And I meant it."

His jaw works as he reaches over and places his hand on top of mine. "Thank you," he says quietly. "And I will. In time."