A/N: Happy New Year, everyone!
I hope everyone is starting out 2021 well. That's all I'll say about that (for now). ;)
Okay, so I wanted to add more to this chapter to get us to the teaser I posted on Facebook a couple of weeks ago, but things have been so hectic that I haven't had time to finish that. I know. I suck. Anyway, I'm posting this bit, and I should post the rest in a couple of days. Originally, I'd wanted to finish this story by New Year's, but obviously, that's not happening. Sigh.
Anyway, thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts. Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 9 – The Girl Who Received a Page Six Mention
Open. Shut. Open. Shut. Open…
It's a war my eyes and I have been waging all. damn. night.
And it's beginning to look like the eyes may have it – pun intended. Although, I do carry a few battles here and there, catching a handful of non-REM winks, a few minutes where my heart, lungs, etc. relax…and my brain waves slow…
But then synapses twitch and snap, the damn eyes pop open, and I remember him…
No, not that him. That him never kept me awake like this, not when he was snoring loudly right beside me nor even after a straight night of fu-
Ahem. Anyway.
I mean Edward, of course. I mean sweetly teasing, chivalrously arrogant, respectfully eavesdropping Edward Cullen – aka Lord Masen.
Well, I don't care about that last part, but really, who can blame my poor brain waves for being so keyed up? How could they not be? When you've experienced your very own fairy-tale, dream-like night, at that point, why sleep? Why waste one's precious few hours on Earth with fictitious dreams, or alternately, with a vacuous mind-void as mundane as health-and-skin-regenerating sleep? Much better to allow your brain free rein to replay every second of the night. Leave the dealing with dark circles and wrinkles for the morning.
In between fighting with my eyes and cycling through periods of non-REM, I sit up restlessly, trying not to jostle Alice's side of the bed when I draw back the window shades on my side. Outside, the ebony night is backlit by a bright, twinkling city. Glistening raindrops pitter-patter rhythmically against glass, creating an iridescent, satiny sheen my fingertip can't help chasing up and down and across. Somewhere below, shared laughter rings out, and when I press my forehead to the glass, I spy a man and woman standing on the sidewalk, their faces so…so close together. It makes me smile.
"Bella, lay down and go to sleep already." From the other side of the bed, how Alice manages to make a whisper sound exasperated, I don't know; but she does.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
She mumbles something incoherent, which, of course, is an invitation to start a conversation.
"You know, I'd never noticed before how London at night resembles a ballroom. From the lights to the rain to the laughter," I whisper, "it's like a beautiful, glittering party – like a picturesque castle with a glossy, polished dancefloor where guests laugh and mingle while admiring a handsome…though eavesdropping prince as he waltzes with a peculiar, pirouetting princess."
Proverbial British, stiff-upper-lipped crickets greet my sleep-deprived soliloquy, which is fine. I answer myself by quietly humming the tune to that wonderful waltz. And just as I've forgotten all about Alice, she peeks over my shoulder.
"Okay, the tossing and turning, the restless sitting up and laying back down, the sighing, all that I could've dealt with. But the humming is just one step too far. Bella, those blue-bloods must fix their drinks with some premium, hallucinogenic-grade shit because you're either still drunk or you're high on lo-"
"What are you talking about?" I smile.
"B, London at night looks absolutely nothing like a fucking ballroom." She chuckles and reaches around me to open the shades wider. "Let's break down this scenario, shall we? Take a look at that fog rolling in and shrouding most of the city lights. I'd say it lends London less of that Nutcracker-y Ballet feel you've got dancing like sugarplums in your head and more of a Jack-the-Ripper-y vibe."
"Not sure that you can ever add a cutesy 'Y' to the end of Jack the Ripper? But yeah, I see your point on that one. But the pitter-pattering rain-"
"B, that's not a pitter-patter. That's a deluge, and it sounds less like a waltz and more like war drums."
"I suppose it is rather frenetic… But there were just a pair of lovers down below-"
A pair of loud voices startle me – it's the laughing couple from a few minutes earlier, though now that they raise their voices higher, to be heard over the deluge, I begin suspecting that they're not exactly sharing laughter.
"Miranda, get your arse in here and out of the bloody rain, now! You look like a drowned cow!"
"Not until you say you're sorry, you bleedin' wanker!"
Releasing the shade, Alice and I both pull away from the window. Alice pats my shoulder as she lays back down.
"Go to sleep, B," she chuckles. The mattress shifts and dips while she makes herself comfortable again. Meanwhile, I sit there, mind still racing but now with thoughts of just how much I've turned this into a fairy-tale – when it's not.
There's the fact that, as I was reminded more than once during the evening, the picturesque castle was more of an aging manor house. And I've got to admit, the peculiar princess wasn't so much a princess as she was a vacationing American who didn't pirouette as much as she fumbled around the dance floor.
Additionally, if one looked closely last night, one would've noted that the guests didn't admire Edward's and my dance so much as they scowled at it. If one deigned to peer even closer, one would've spotted the fire-breathing, Dragon-Lady-Grandmother and the viper-tongued, Lady-in-Red-Ex-Girlfriend among those scowlers. Finally, the handsome, chivalrous prince wasn't so much a prince as he was a solicitor, and though he'll one day hold the non-royal title of a Baron, that title does seem to carry some form of responsibilities with it.
Perhaps, like Clara with her Nutcracker prince, my fantasy-fueled imagination did create a night that didn't transpire quite so magically.
The foggy, rainy night gives way to a pearly silver, London morning. Gray mist hugs the glass, ebbing and flowing like the Thames then finally dispelling. It leaves behind the quasi-daylight of a new dawn.
My cellphone vibrates over the nightstand.
"Motherfuck, I was just finally falling asl…"
When I read the text, my tantrum ceases.
Good morning, my peculiar American. Happy Christmas Eve. I hope you slept well. I, on the other hand, did not. But that's quite alright.
Yes. Unlike Clara and her Nutcracker Prince, I've got more than a wooden toy as a reminder of the previous evening's adventure.
Alice opens her eyes and finds mine already open.
"Dear Jesus, B, have you slept at all?"
I merely offer her a shrug as I type away
That's so strange that you didn't sleep well because guess what? I didn't sleep well either!
Might be something in the air then. Or perhaps it was the wassail's fault.
Yep. Definitely the wassail's fault.
"Who is that and what are you smiling so widely about in your sleepless state? I'm scared," Alice says.
Fine, fine, you stubborn American. I'll be the first to lay all my cards out. It wasn't the wassail that kept me awake. It was remembering the two, beautiful left feet of the best waltz partner I've ever had.
Really? Because for me, it was completely the wassail. I chuckle to myself as I send that one out, and wait for the responding bubbles to turn into words.
So much for flattering a girl to woo her. Didn't seem to get me far.
Is THAT what that was? Flattery and woo? Because if it was, your flattery and woo game are pitiful.
You call my woo game pitiful when I call your feet beautiful – both the left foot AND the supposed right foot? Or I should say, as much as I saw of them peeking out from your shoes were beautiful. They appeared quite smooth, too. And your arches seemed to have just about the perfect curve.
Are you seriously talking about the curve of my arches. Buddy, if this is how you Englishmen flatter and woo, then all those rumors about your culture being suave and charming have been greatly exaggerated.
Once again, you're confusing us with the French.
My back arches off the mattress as I burst into laughter.
"Alright, is whatever you're reading really that funny, or are you just delirious at this point?"
"I have no clue," I chuckle. "He's being ridiculous."
"He as in-"
"No! He as in Edward. Edward."
How about if I promise to woo you properly, with the best, bloody, toe-curling flattery ever uttered by an Englishmen on this side of the pond?
Edward, I'm beginning to worry you have a toe and foot fetish.
Very well. I'll try not to woo your feet anymore. Or your toes. You have my word (more or less).
Oh. Well, having your more-or-less-word makes me supremely confident that there'll be no more foot woo.
What can I say? Your feet are distractingly pretty.
Now my feet have been downgraded from beautiful to merely pretty?
Not merely pretty, DISTRACTINGLY pretty. Both words in tandem equate Beautiful.
Why are you still wooing my feet?
Bella…
He sends the one word, but the bubbles on the screen indicate he's not done.
"Bella, I think you're falling-" Alice begins, but I shush her with a sharp, "Shh!" as if her speaking will somehow slow down Edward's typing. My heart races as the text comes through, and it's a long one.
I spent all night lost in thoughts of you – of us. I recalled every part of us. I recalled all our conversations and how your dark eyes tend to sparkle and add expression to all you say, so that I don't know whether to watch your mouth or your eyes as you speak. I recalled our dance and how amazing you felt in my arms, how sublimely you fit even while you were tripping. I recalled your laughter and how it rings out above the din, drowning out all else around it so that when you're laughing, everything else becomes background noise. I recalled your mouth and your lips, and how kissing them is at turns like kissing the softest cloud or being consumed by the most demanding tempest. Bella, I spent the night recalling everything about you (including your feet).
Now, my heart feels as if it may beat right out of my chest. My pulse is off the charts—my face burns. For a moment, my thumbs remain frozen over the cellphone.
Alice chuckles. "Look at you all red like a tomato. Did he just sext you?"
"No," I breathe. "No, he didn't. He did better."
And as I release a series of successive sighs, he sends another text.
How was that as far as flattery and woo? )
Edward…THAT was good flattery and woo.
See? Who says the French do it better?
YOU said that.
Either way, I believe I've just proven that they don't. I'll see you tonight for a continuation of the wooing?
Yes. See you tonight. Can't wait.
You have no idea, Bella.
My chest expands, and exhaling a long sigh, I set the cellphone back on the nightstand. In my periphery, I see Alice watching me. I turn to her with a smile, hugging my pillow.
"Al, who the hell needs a Nutcracker prince? I've got a real-life, flesh and blood Eavesdropper."
OOOOO
"B, move that rump over and stop hogging the sink. I've got to brush my teeth!"
Alice nudges me with her hip, and I nudge her back. A struggle of sorts ensues where we end up squeezed in front of the bathroom sink. While she crouches and brushes away, I lean over her and dab a bit of concealer under my eyes.
"That's what you get for fucking humming in the middle of the night instead of sleeping," she says through a foamy toothpaste mouth.
"Oh, shut it."
She chuckles and spits into the sink. "Couldn't get your mind off your Baron, could you?"
"His name is Edward, and he's not a Baron; he's an heir to a baronetcy – and I don't care about that."
"But you're beginning to care about something when it comes to Edward, huh?"
Rose wanders into Alice's bathroom and takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub. Meanwhile, Alice eyes me, grinning as she straightens and wipes off her mouth.
"Maybe even more than just beginning?"
"You two tag-teamed me, didn't you?" I accuse. "You were just waiting for an opening to grill me on all things Edward."
"I do not deny it," Rose replies breezily. "Al, are you denying it?"
"Not at all," Alice replies.
Rose holds her cell phone up in front of her and pretends to fix a few strands of her hair as she speaks, feigning nonchalance when I know very well this is heading somewhere. We're not meeting in a tight fucking bathroom for nothing. They want to get to me before we officially start our day.
"As our national hosts would say, you were making quite merry last night. I haven't seen you that happily carefree since…Al, when was the last time we saw B that carefree?"
Al pretends to ponder that. "Hmm. Try never. And you should've seen and heard her in the middle of the night, with all things Edward dancing in her head. And she's still got those rosy, Santa apple cheeks going on." Alice pinches my cheeks. "You're so cute when you're falling in-"
I swat away her arms, which makes them both laugh.
"I don't know why I love you two so much."
"Yeah, you do," Rose chuckles. "Because we love you back – which is why we wanted you to hear this from us first."
I lean my butt against the sink. "Hear what?"
Again, Rose peeks down at the cell phone she has clutched in her hand. Clearing her throat, she begins reading aloud.
"According to The Daily Sun, 'What began as yet another yearly holiday ball hosted by the Masen line's matriarch, the Honourable Dowager Baroness Masen, Lady Charlotte Cullen, would have hardly been worth the ink with which to print its usual, two-sentence mention.'"
"Ooh," I suck my teeth. "Those Brit tabloids are rough."
With a quick palm-up, Rose shuts me up. "Masen Park, the family's centuries-old seat, was beautifully decorated, as is always the case. The guest list was the requisite guest list of the peerage. The food was divine," – her voice takes on a melodramatically apathetic British accent – "and most people in attendance displayed the impeccable…yet archaically dull manners we've come to expect from our peerage. In fact, the entire grand party had all the markings of another tedious, self-aggrandizing affair, a yearly throwback to days-gone-by…by an aging institution."
Here, she stops.
"That's it? Well, Edward did mention there would probably be a couple of sentences written up about it, maybe something on social media?" I shrug it off. "They could've been nicer about it; I'm sure Lady Charlotte won't be too thrilled with that write-up. But I guess that's tabloids for ya, huh?" With that, I turn back around, meaning to complete my beauty routine, which will require a few extra steps this morning, thanks to the non-sleep issue.
When I look through the mirror, Alice and Rose are both still seated on the bathtub's ledge, watching me.
"Well?" I ask,
"There's just a little, teeny-tiny bit…" Rose squeezes her thumb and forefinger together in front of a squinted eye, "more."
Turning around once more, I lean against the sink again. "O-kay," I say, waving a hand in a 'get on with it' gesture.
And again, Rose clears her throat.
"That is, had it not been for the fresh air breathed into it this year by the young solicitor, Lord Edward Cullen, the only son of the senior Right Honourable Lord Edward and heir to the Masen Baronetcy," – grinning broadly, Rose takes a deep breath – "and a beautiful yet undeniably clumsy young American."
"Holy fuuu…"
"The first sign that this holiday ball – which also marked the young Lord's thirtieth birthday – would not be the usual affair came early on in the party. Lady Charlotte, who makes no secret of her disdain for the word 'no' unless she happens to be the one uttering it, apparently hatched a plan for a reconciliation between her grandson and Lady Irina Thorpe, inviting the lady and her parents, the Duke and Duchess of Thornbury, even though she and Lord Edward called things off months ago. However, it appears to have slipped the Masen Matriarch's mind that her eldest grandson has never been one to march to her aristocratic tune. Lord Edward foiled her first attempt to throw them together, a plan to partner him for the traditional first dance of the evening with Lady Irina, by instead leading the alluring yet graceless American onto the dance floor."
"Alluring yet graceless-?"
"Shh! 'Although Lord Edward is known to be quite a good ballroom dancer, the pair stumbled and laughed their way through the entire waltz. In the end, they finished off the dance with a dip and with what was likely the steamiest kiss that ancient manor had seen since the days of yore when the lords of the manor went around secretly shagging their chambermaids.'"
Rose throws back her head and bursts into laughter so hard she almost slips off the tub's edge. Meanwhile, I palm my burning cheeks.
"Oh, fuck, please tell me they didn't write that."
"Oh, they wrote that," Alice laughs along.
My palms slip over my eyes. "Lady Charlotte is likely mid-coronary right now. Okay. Alright. I suppose it could've been worse. At least my name…"
Rose stops laughing and grins impishly as she eyes me.
"There can't possibly be more," I breathe.
"Listen," Rose commands. 'Now, whilst the kiss left most of the gentry collectively picking their aristocratic jaws off the floor, for the rest of the evening, young Lord Edward only had eyes for his American. They disappeared together 'round the castle for a long while, then reappeared right before the wassailing. At that point, the attractive yet uncoordinated American almost shattered Lady Charlotte's ancient crystal punchbowl by distracting the poor server charged with its care. But why does the eccentric Lady insist on having that heavy thing lugged around year after year?"
"Alright. I'm on the next flight back to New York."
"The hell you are," Alice snickers.
"During Christmas dinner, Lady Charlotte's next attempt to reconcile her grandson with Lady Irina involved a seating plan which left the latter practically seated on Lord Edward's lap. Too much of a gentleman, it seems, to embarrass both his grandmother and Lady Irina, the dinner had Lord Edward morosely ingesting his main courses before rearranging his own seating for the desert course. And while the rest of the guest list enjoyed fig pudding for the sweet course, Lord Edward was seen cozying up once again with his nameless American pie."
Alice interrupts Rose. "American Pie? That's somewhat sexist, isn't it?"
"It's totally sexist," Rose agrees. "Damn tabloids."
"Pie? Really?" Alice shakes her head. "Couldn't they have come up with something less-"
"Seriously? Is this what you two are focused on?" I hiss. "The pie reference? Is that the end of the article?"
"Uhm…" Rose hesitates, though I see her lips twitching in continued amusement, "there's just the tiniest bit more."
"What the fuck, did they run a ten-page spread?"
Rose chuckles. "No. Not exactly." She resumes her reading. "As of early this morning, we've discovered that the dazzling yet klutzy American is twenty-four-year-old Isabella Swan, a junior architect with Volturi Architecture in New York City. My fellow Brits, more and more, it's looking like by the time this American invasion into our aristocracy and our royalty ends, our peers and royals will be wearing sweatpants on the daily and speaking with a lazy drawl. And I say cheers to that!"
There's a long moment of silence.
"In case you were wondering, that's it," Rose grins.
"That's it?" I breathe, chest heaving. "That's it?"
"Hey, at least you won't be known as American Pie. That would've sucked. All the connotations…" Alice shudders. Then, they both laugh, and I grip my hair.
"You guys think this is funny?"
"It's a little bit funny," Rose says. Again, she does the thumb and forefinger thing in front of her squinted eye, but the expression on her face says she finds it more than just minutely humorous.
"It's not funny!"
"Oh, come on, B," Alice says. "So what if a few tabloids and websites are running silly stories?"
"A few tabloids and websites?" I squeak. "You mean it's more than just this one? You mean all of Britain knows about Edward and me?"
"And Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland – basically the U.K.," Rose clarifies. "And the U.S. tends to get these publications too. And we do live in a global-"
"I get it, Rose," I smirk. Then I shake my head. "Everyone knows."
"What's the big deal?" Alice chuckles. "You're single, and Edward is single." She stresses that fact. "In this relationship, you don't have to hide a thing."
"I just…I hope Edward and his family aren't too embarrassed."
"Embarrassed was the last thing he looked last night while he was all over you," Alice snorts. "As for his family, his parents seemed to love you."
"And from what Emmett and Liam say, Grandmother Charlotte would only be pleased if Edward married Irina or someone with a similar pedigree."
"Mm," I hum. "That's basically what Irina said last night as well."
Rose peers at me through narrowed eyes. "You're not actually buying her bullshit, are you? That you're out of your league? That's not what this is about, right?"
"No. Give me a break. What are we, living in a Jane Austen novel?"
"Exactly," Alice agrees.
"Exactly," Rose repeats. "We're about two hundred years of female empowerment, proper underwear, and flushable toilets past all that."
"I know that. It has nothing to do with Edward's status as a member of the peer."
"Then…what is it?" Alice asks, knowing that it's something.
"It's just…you and Alice were right; I should've never allowed him to sweet talk me into even considering the possibility I'd go back with him. What does that say about me?"
"It says you're human, Bella," Alice says simply.
"And we all make mistakes. You live, and you learn from them," Rose adds.
"And don't forget that you didn't actually do anything with him once you found out he was married. That counts for a lot," Alice continues.
"Yeah," I sigh. "I suppose."
Rose stands from the tub's edge and walks over to me. "Bella, stop beating yourself up over it. And don't let the lies that other asshole told you make you doubt your worth – or doubt Edward's worth."
"I don't doubt his worth, but what if he doesn't want his business known by all and sundry? What if he wanted to keep this private until-"
"B, just because the other one was secretive-"
Just then, my cellphone vibrates. Wearily, I pick it up off the sink's ledge.
"It's Edward," I breathe.
Bile rises in my throat as I begin reading, afraid of what he'll say. Maybe he was a bit drunk…and feeling a bit quixotic last night too, and he didn't actually mean it when he spoke so nonchalantly about our names being linked in the press.
Hey, Bella. So…update. There was stuff written, as I mentioned last night there might be. I hope you weren't too embarrassed about it. The British Tabloids can be bloodthirsty bastards. So, I'm just checking to make sure you don't absolutely hate me and that you're still okay with my stopping by the pub this evening to see you. (Please say you are.)
I'm grinning as I type out my reply.
Hey, Eavesdropper. Yes, I read some of the stuff written, and I was kind of worried you'd be upset about it.
His reply comes in quickly.
God, no! You got me a half-page coverage! How could I be upset?
What about your grandmother?
Well, based on the earful she just rang to give me, she's quite alive and kicking, so I wouldn't worry about her. Luckily for me, I sent her straight to voicemail.
And what about your dad? He's a member of Parliament! And your Mom…
Again, they were sent straight to voicemail, but Dad is thrilled Masen Park got more than a two-sentence mention, and Mum couldn't stop laughing long enough to utter her actual thoughts. Seriously, Bella, I don't live my life in secret, and they know that.
"He's so different from the other one," I breathe while Edward continues typing.
Bella, I can't wait to see you tonight – Page Six be damned.
Yeah. Death to Page Six.
And to pages 7 through 10 as well.
I chuckle aloud while Alice and Rose hold a conversation around me.
"It doesn't seem like he's upset. What do you think, Al?"
"Nope. Doesn't seem like he's upset to me at all."
I'm looking forward to seeing you too, Edward.
Brilliant. 'Til then, beautiful (yet somewhat clumsy) American. ;)
My ensuing grin feels as if it might split my face in two. I'm not really sure how long I stand in the small, cramped bathroom, just grinning like a fucking maniac. Finally, with a deep breath and still grinning, I turn to Alice and Rose.
"He's not upset."
"No!" Rose exclaims. "You don't say?"
"Seriously, B. Don't let what that other guy did affect your trust in Edward," Alice smiles. "That wouldn't be fair to him."
"You're right," I agree quietly. "You're right."
Rose slips an arm around both Alice's and my shoulders.
"Alright, my bitches, let's get ready for a hell of a Christmas Eve!"
A/N: Thoughts?
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Happy New Year!