“There’s only one little thing,” she adds, like it’s a treat she’s about to offer. That’s promising—maybe I can even start with the upcoming summer evening exhibition, just to convince her I’m her gal.
“Sure. What is it?” I ask, ready for anything at all.
Bring. It. On.
Miranda’s smile widens. “As you may be aware, our elite little auction house has been growing so quickly and winning so much business that the older ones have sat up and taken notice.”
“Right, of course. Earlier this month, we beat out Christie’s, Sotheby’s, and HighSmith for the Abernathy collection,” I say. That was quite a coup—winning the chance to run the auction for one of Europe’s most celebrated art collectors.
Miranda runs a finger over her pearls, her reward for that successful auction. “Ah yes. That one made me quite happy. So happy, in fact, that when HighSmith came calling with an offer too good to refuse, I didn’t refuse it.”
My brow knits as I try to solve her riddle. “What sort of offer?”
“HighSmith is buying Bancroft.”
“Oh,” I say. That wasn’t what I expected to hear today. Or tomorrow. Or any day.
“It’s a great offer,” Miranda goes on, “and the best part is, HighSmith wanted to know who they should keep on, my top employees. I said you, of course.”
Despite the glow of pride that inspires, I’m dying to know what the heck it means. “Thank you. I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“You deserve it, but here’s the thing: HighSmith wants to keep you, but they’ll be relocating your current job,” she says, like she’s handing me the keys to The Met. “If you’d like to stay on, we’ll be sending you to London. And in a month, you can make your pitch to Emily Hathaway, the department head there.”
London?
Did she say London?
The air goes still.
My muscles tighten.
My throat constricts.
Memories of the last time I was in that city rush painfully into the present. The summer I spent there studying. The things that went down. The backstabbing secrets.
The betrayal.
“London?” I ask weakly, making sure I heard her correctly.
She seems delighted for me, as if she can’t imagine I wouldn’t want to up and move to another country. “Yes. It’s fabulous there, isn’t it? If you want to keep your current job, we need you to start in a week. And I’m confident the pitch you just made will be a terrific one across the pond too.”
I slap on a smile that’s fully fake.
I don’t really dislike anything. I’m not that kind of gal.
But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s bloody fucking London.
The next morning, Emerson announces she’s coming to the rescue with cinnamon rolls.
Emerson: They make everything a little better. I promise. See you soon.
Thirty minutes later, I swing open the door with a beleaguered sigh.
With her chestnut hair bouncing in a high ponytail, my friend walks in, a purple box balanced on one hand, her purse and messenger bag on her shoulder. “I’m here to save the day.”
“With breakfast?”
She gives me a duh look. “Breakfast is a very important way to reorganize all the dread in your life. Plus, I rounded up some strays.” She nods behind her, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “One of them is related to you, but we’ll still consider him a friend.”
“Thanks, Em, for the heartfelt endorsement,” Easton deadpans as he appears in the hall behind her.
“You’re welcome.” She sweeps into my apartment, along with my cousin and more of our crew.
“Just so you know, London isn’t that far,” TJ says, straight to the point, as usual. He drops a friendly kiss onto my cheek, his bearded jaw scratchy and familiar. I’ll miss his scratchy hellos. His wise words.
Even though he’s wrong. “It’s like living on Mars.”
Nolan plays the caboose, coming in last, and gives my shoulder a squeeze. “Look on the bright side—the food’s better in London than on Mars.”
I pretend to gag. “That’s not saying much.”
With slumped shoulders, I head to my purple couch and flop down. Everyone joins me in the living room. Easton hands me a coffee before he settles into a red chair. “Just the way you like it, Miss Perky,” he says.
I groan but clutch the cup like it’s the holy grail. “I’m already missing coffee. The coffee is awful in London.”
“I don’t think London can be all bad,” Emerson says, flipping open the box of baked goodies.
“London is awful. And you know why,” I say.
“I do,” Emerson says sympathetically. “Poppy and everything.”
A shudder rolls down my spine at the name of the woman who was once like a sister to me, something this only child desperately craved in my early twenties. Something I needed terribly given the way my world fell apart during my master’s program.
It’s been so long, though.
So many years ago.
“Will you have to see her?” TJ asks, his tone careful.