Mr. Park Lane (The Mister)

“More exciting?” She made a puffing sound through her completely bitable lips. “Like you could have a more exciting time than battling your way up and down supermarket aisles. Especially when you had me for company.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her comfort around me. The feeling was mutual. There was something too easy about being in her presence. “Yes, so exciting.” I had to fake the sarcasm.

She laughed, a warm, sunny laugh that threatened to clear the rainclouds. “Aha! This will be perfect.” She presented an empty, oversized jam jar that she’d found lurking in one of the cupboards. “How much do you think you would have spent ordering in dinner tonight?”

I couldn’t help but wonder if whatever I said would result in a scornful reprimand. “I’m not sure. Why?”

“I want your money.”

“I thought you didn’t want my money, or at least the apartment I rented. What do you need?”

“What would you have spent on dinner tonight?”

I gave up trying to understand what she was trying to say. “I don’t know. Fifty or sixty quid.”

She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and held out her hand. “Okay, hand it over. Give me fifty pounds.”

She was asking me for money to peel her potatoes? I didn’t have the energy to argue with her. I just pulled out my wallet and handed over three twenty-pound notes.

“Perfect.” She unscrewed the gold metal lid of the jar and dropped the money inside. “Medicines Sans Frontiers is always in need of additional funds. This will help. Thank you.”

I wasn’t sure if it was the cause or her, but something in my gut shifted. Her passion for doing good was admirable. “You going to volunteer with them again?”

She pulled out a baking sheet then shrugged. “I’ve done it three times. My mum doesn’t want me to.” She fell silent. “But I like to be busy.”

“You really don’t think you’re going to be busy in a London hospital, Hartford?”

She nodded enthusiastically, like she was trying to convince herself. “I hope so. My job at the hospital starts on Monday. Plus, I’ll try to get as much experience as possible by volunteering for extra shifts.”

This focused, driven woman didn’t seem to share any resemblance to the flighty dancer I’d known when we were kids. Had this side of her always been there, and I simply hadn’t noticed? I tried to think back but couldn’t remember.

“Somewhere in there, you should find some time to have a social life.”

“What do you call this?” She shot me a smile as she sprinkled rosemary on the chicken.

It was strange how shared experiences and people in common could create a history with someone. I wasn’t sure I’d said two full sentences to Hartford before she turned up at the airport, but it was as if I’d known her intimately for the last thirty years.

“This is manual labor,” I replied, smirking. A part of me liked the idea I was her social life. “You want me to arrange a massage for you at the spa or something? My treat.” I mentally batted away images of her laying face-down on a massage table, curves sloping gently under a thin sheet, waiting for—

“You’re so funny.”

I wasn’t trying to be.

“Tell me about your job,” she said. “What does ‘PR and marketing’ really mean? It’s easy to think that medicine is the only thing in the world when you’re surrounded by it all day.”

“My company devises and implements marketing and PR strategies for luxury brands.”

“Yeah, I’m going to need more detail.”

What was this? An interview? Usually I loved to talk about my business, but not today. Not with her. “It means that a luxury goods company—”

“Give me an example of what a luxury goods company is.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. I was surrounded by people who didn’t need to be told. Even outside of work, my best friends were wealthy and knew how to indulge. Hartford came from a different world. A simpler one. One I hadn’t known for a very long time. “You know—Moet et Chandon or Tiffany or Dior. You might not like to indulge, but tell me you understand the concept of luxury?”

She narrowed her eyes as if she were trying to work it out, and I got the feeling she was only half-joking. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“These companies give us money to devise a brand strategy. Sometimes we just put together an ad campaign. Sometimes we get involved in everything from packaging and price points to which shelves the products are going to sit on.”

“I think I get it. And this hotel,” she said, gesturing around vaguely, “is it a client?”

“No, but I’d like it to be.” This small group of international luxury hotels was in our wheelhouse, but at the moment I was too focused on keeping my current clients—and one client in particular—to think about anything new.