Hi!
Work finally is no longer kicking my ass, so I'm now all caught up with review replies. Thank you SO MUCH for all your thoughts and insights, I love seeing which details everyone picks up on.
Alice's White Rabbit, Midnight Cougar and SunflowerFran wield the red pens. RobsmyyummyCabanaboy and Deh are my plot coaches and shoulders to cry on. I am a tinkerer, though, so any errors left are my own boo-boos.
Congrats to all the winners in the Twific Fandom Awards, they are all 1000% deserved. And thank you to the dream team behind it for all the work you put in every year.
Next up, the Admiral makes an appearance. So, without further ado ...
Enjoy!
BUSINESS CLASS GIRL – Chapter 32
Edward
I can't sleep.
I tossed. I turned. I counted sheep. I went downstairs and brewed chamomile tea. I also drank it.
I still can't fucking sleep.
Bella, on the other hand, sleeps like the dead. She isn't going before the Spanish Inquisition in less than ten hours.
Something keeps nagging at me. My dad's words, though true, are not staving off my attack of the nerves. Suddenly, an idea hits me. I grab my phone off the coffee table and dial. He answers on the second ring.
"Dammit, Eddie Boy, why are you not sleeping? It's the wrong side of the butt-crack of dawn in Camelot!"
With a fleeting thought, I reconsider my decision to call him. "Hi, Emmett."
Some rustling and mild banging filter through the speaker.
"Man, what crawled up your skinny English ass and died?" he says, his boisterous voice slightly toned down.
"Am I that obvious?"
"Let's see. It's what, three a.m. over there, and you're not in bed with my sister. As much as I'd do without the visual, there's gotta be something wrong with this picture."
Leave it to Emmett to lend his inappropriate remarks to a spot-on analysis of my mental state from 5,400 miles away.
"Well, we did get that part of the night taken care of, mate."
A loud groan rumbles in my ear. "Dude, I still don't want to know. Now, spill."
My turn to groan, with a different inflection. "Bella and I are meeting your father for lunch tomorrow."
"UUUUUUUHHHHHHHHH. Admiral-induced jitters. That I can relate to. Talk to Doctor Em, Eddie Boy."
If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to think he was finding some glee in my present misery.
"How in the ever-loving fuck do I show up, talk to the man, and not shite my pants, Em? How?"
Cackles. The fucker cackles at me through the phone. Loudly.
"I'm glad my inner turmoil amuses you, dickhead."
"Uh, touchy. Getting some isn't easing you up any, man. Relax. You got this one in the bag. Trust me."
"UGH. So everyone keeps telling me. Why does everybody seem to think it's a foregone conclusion the Admiral will love me, and we'll become drinking buddies in no time? Why?"
"Then fucking believe us. Would any of us ever bullshit you on something like this?"
I debate for a second. I know for a fact there is a long list of instances in which Emmett would bullshit me without any compunction. Probably not in this case, though.
"The mere mention of that man fucking intimidates me, Em. I'm fucking petrified I'm going to say or do the wrong thing, and he'll hate me."
"Not possible."
He's adamant. He must know a lot of things I don't. Even though he talks to his own father less than I talk to my accountant.
"You're not helping," I hiss into the phone with a string of hushed profanities when my frustration eventually overtakes the concern that any loud noises might wake my girl.
"Okay, okay. You're serious." That must have sobered him up. "Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't get you were that freaked out."
"Well, I am. Throw me a bone. Or a bottle of Valium. Or both."
He heaves a deep sigh into the speaker. "Okay. I'm gonna say this once, and if you ever repeat any of this to BeeBee, I will deny, deny, deny."
"I'll be as silent as the grave."
I hear him gulp down—he must be on the fifth or sixth litre of water of the day by now—before he starts speaking again.
"BeeBee can do no wrong in my father's eyes. Yes, he's strict. Yes, he's an overbearing, interfering stick-in-the-mud. Yes, he can be intimidating to the point of tears—yours, not his. But he's never been that way with Bella. Ever. He's just always wanted her to be happy and safe. He tried all his usual methods.
"He thought having her on a short leash would work. It didn't. He thought her being paired up with the highfalutin Sir Wanker at Oxford would work. It didn't. He thought having his pal Russell watch over her would work. It didn't. Not the way he thought, anyway. The two have become thick as thieves, and even Russell knows you can't compel Bella to do anything she doesn't want to do. He thought her working with Jasper would work. It didn't. Hell, he even hoped they'd end up together. They didn't.
"Do you know what finally fucking worked? Her running in the opposite direction, straight to L.A. Her taking the last job he ever thought she'd take, living in the last city he ever thought she'd want to be in. And do you know where that led her? Straight into your arms. She's happy. She's writing. She might be published by this time next year.
"When he sees her with you, it will take him five minutes tops to figure it out. He's an admiral, not a fucking moron. He's damn perceptive. Don't think for a minute he doesn't know what's been going on these last few months. He has eyes and ears everywhere. After taking a good look at you two together, it wouldn't matter to him if you had three eyes and a huge hairy wart on your nose and bowed legs. You'd still be the best thing to happen since the Battle of Trafalgar because you're making his baby girl happy. So there.
"Of course, it doesn't hurt that you're kinda easy on the eyes—but I will deny ever saying this out loud—and you're a smart, successful guy. Plus, you're not a fucking Yankee. But all in all, you're gonna be in good shape. Stop being a fucking emo about it."
I take it all in. The bit about eyes and ears everywhere is disconcerting. The rest makes sense. Everything everybody's been telling me still makes sense. Nerves are irrational. Let's hope my brain resumes its functions by lunchtime tomorrow. Later today, that is.
"I don't mean to pry, but …"
"Spit it out, whatever it is," he interrupts.
"What the hell happened between you and the Admiral? Why does Bella have it so easy with him?"
He sighs. "No, you're not prying. It's a fair question. Remember what I told you about Bella and her mom, about what went down when she and the Admiral divorced?"
I do. Emmett ended up doing most of his schooling in the US while Bella stayed in Italy with her mother. They didn't have a ton of interaction until she got to Oxford—Bella and Emmett, that is.
Emmett continues. "Dad is from a fairly traditional family. He had expectations of me—that I'd follow in his footsteps. When my reply was a resounding 'hell, no,' he didn't take kindly to it. Football was a waste of time to him. He thinks I took the easy way out, and whatever talent I may have is wasted doing what I do."
"That doesn't explain why Bella can do no wrong in his eyes. Though I must say, that sounds shitty of him. Not that I'd tell him to his face."
"He feels guilty, man. Guilty for not being there in her childhood. He hopped from NATO base to NATO base throughout her formative years and hardly ever made the time to see her. By the time she got into Oxford, she had a mind of her own and a plan of what she wanted to do in life. I dunno, I like to think he regrets our own falling out after all, and maybe he didn't want to make the same mistake with BeeBee. Beats me. He's a good man underneath that inflexible exterior. We just don't mesh."
I ponder everything he just said. I can't help but compare it to my experience and how accommodating the good doctor and my mom have been with Alice's and my career choices.
"Thanks for telling me, mate. I mean it."
"Yeah, yeah. Doctor Em is the best. How many cases of bubbly do I get?"
My turn to cackle at him. He had to find a way to turn this into a competition of sorts.
"Three? But don't tell Rose."
"I guess we're even. Now go to sleep, Eddie Boy. I'll see you when I see you. And as far as my sister goes …"
"… we never had this conversation."
"Which conversation?"
Just like that, the nerves start dissipating.
Then, I sleep like the dead, too.
###BCG###
The next day, Mr Broomstick drops us off on the Strand in front of a posh Edwardian building complete with a copper-roofed rounded corner turret. The polished brass plaque at the door says we're at One Aldwych. After I cock an eyebrow at Bella, she informs me it's Uncle Russell's choice.
"What? Never been here, Mr Hot-Shot Actor?" she quips, walking a step ahead of me toward the two liveried attendants who instantly usher us in.
"Actually, no. You?"
"Nope. But I've booked a ton of lunches for Russell and Jasper here over the years. Professional hazard."
I follow her through the hotel lobby, down to the entrance to Indigo, one of the hotel's three restaurants.
The maître d' welcomes Bella like a long-lost family member when she informs him that we're part of Mr Devlin's party. He doesn't even spare me a glance.
This place clearly sees a fair share of upper crust patronage because I get none of the gawking and not-so-covert whispering and pointing I'd be subjected to in more low-key locations. It's the one upside of these hoity-toity establishments. Since their clientele might include, on occasion, actual members of the royal family, a mere actor like me is not even a blip on their radar. It affords me some much-desired anonymity. Once again, I'm struck by the thoughtfulness behind the gesture; although, to be honest, it could be Uncle Russ's favourite restaurant, for all I know. At that point, my presence is not a factor in the choice of location.
We are following the maître d' through room after room, quite away from the front of the house, with a few twists and turns, no doubt the result of weird spaces created by subsequent bouts of remodelling in an old Edwardian building.
"What sort of place is this, exactly?" I finally whisper in Bella's ear as I lead her by the small of her back.
"Besides a maze of sorts?"
"That too, love."
"It's a popular spot where hot-shot City people mingle, nibble, and schmooze."
"So, Chateau Marmont, Goldman Sachs edition?"
She titters behind her hand, trying to hide it from the prim and proper maître d'.
"Apt description, Mr Cullen," she answers, glancing at me from over her shoulder. She can't hide she's giving me a good once-over, which I return because who am I to pass up a chance to look at my girl and see just how much of a lucky bastard I am?
She's sporting another of her total black outfits, with skin-tight, shiny, black pants that make her legs look sinful, and a weirdly shaped, flowy and soft cashmere sweater that hugs her hips. When she moves, the sweater sways off her shoulder enough for me to catch a glimpse of a sheer black strap. And I'm the only lucky bastard who knows the decadent piece of French lingerie it belongs to. The only pop of colour—because Alice would say the white wool coat we dropped off at the cloakroom doesn't count—is a turquoise scarf that matches one of her unique-looking rings.
In view of today's momentous meeting, I ditched my usual off-the-clock hobo attire. When Bella threw a dress shirt and the freshly pressed jacket from my premiere-night suit my way this morning, I figured cleaning up a tad wouldn't hurt. If I don't walk out of here alive, at least I'll leave behind a well-dressed corpse.
"Ma'am, sir, your table," announces the maître d' when we come to a table at the very back of the house, in a smallish upstairs recess that overlooks the main area of the restaurant. There are no other patrons at the tables around us.
Russell spotted us when we entered the room and is already standing to greet us. I swear, the old chap hasn't changed one iota.
"Isabella, darling, let me look at you!" he erupts, enveloping my girl in one of his avuncular hugs.
"Russ! So good to see you! How's Celia? Randall? Claire?"
Of course, Bella remembers the names of Russell's wife and kids. And probably their birthdays, allergies, and whatnot, too. I scan my memory for the same information. I should know. But I don't.
"Fine, fine. All hale and hearty. But you're still a traitor, young lady. I am quite put out," he counters, shaking a finger at her.
"Oh, Russ! Still? Can't you play with Dad?"
"Well, no! He'd pitch my handicap straight into the loo. You know that!"
She shakes her head at him with a cheerful laugh. As I predicted, Uncle Russell hasn't even registered my presence. Best to make myself known with an artful cough.
"Now, now, what do we have here?" says Russell, eyeing me over Bella's shoulder.
"Uncle Russ, good to see you," I reply, coming forward to shake his hand just as he grips me by the shoulder instead.
"Come here, son. I haven't seen you in a while."
I get a pat on the back and a wink. I begin to count my blessings since he's not yet said anything to embarrass me.
"Now, Isabella, are you trying to tell me I lost my golf partner because you prefer to go gallivanting around with this hellion here?"
Or not. I used to like you, Uncle Russell.
"Aw, Russ. Don't be mean. I do like the guy," she retorts with a wink, planting a kiss on my cheek.
I can't help my goofy grin. I reciprocate with a peck to the top of Bella's head, winding my arm around her waist to gather her close to me.
"You have a point, uncle. I'm just a lucky sod she even gives me the time of day."
Russell raises an eyebrow at my confession but doesn't comment. Instead, his gaze wanders away, behind Bella and me.
"Charlie. Good of you to join us."
Ah. There he is. The man of the hour. Behind me. Close behind me. The room suddenly feels small. Air also appears to be in short supply. The fine hairs at the nape of my neck tingle, almost sensing the Admiral's presence. I haven't even laid eyes on the man yet, and I'm already feeling two feet shorter. Do I turn first and bravely face the executioner?
"Dad!"
Bella saves me, turning around to face her father. I follow suit. At this point, it would be rude not to greet him.
She launches into her father's arms. He reciprocates with an awkward half-hug that's more closely related to the pat on the back I got from Russell. Charles Swan does not favour public displays of affection. Duly noted.
"Isabella," he says in a level, gruff voice, laying his hands on her shoulders. "You look well, Hot Stuff."
Even her father uses that bloody nickname? And I thought my family was weird. Then it occurs to me the man shares genetic material with Emmett, so there's no telling what he's capable of.
"You, too, Dad."
He then averts his eyes from his daughter to see what the cat dragged in.
When my own gaze lands on him, I see just how true my earlier assumption is. This man stands more than a few inches taller than me—possibly even topping Emmett by a couple inches, give or take. He's as broad-shouldered as Em but not quite as bulky. He's leaner yet just as strong and fit. Other than his stature, his colouring matches Bella's, with the exception of a dapper-looking grey streak in his hair and a perfectly groomed Magnum PI salt-and-pepper moustache.
"Dad, this is my Edward," Bella announces with her hand protectively perched on my shoulder. My heart swells with pride when she says, "my Edward".
I extend my hand, standing a little taller, and look the man in the eye. An older version of Bella's eyes take me in. Without a word, he nods and shakes my hand. With a firm and resolute handshake to boot.
"Edward Cullen, sir. It's an honour to meet you."
"Admiral Charles Archibald Francis McCarty-Swan. You may call me Admiral," he replies, without missing a beat.
"Dad, don't do that!" Bella protests, swatting at his arm with her hand.
The Admiral's moustache twitches; mischievous laugh lines appear around his eyes. He's pranking me.
I think.
"Now I see where Emmett gets his tricks, sir."
Russell chuckles from behind us. The old fart is enjoying the Edward Cullen Misery Show.
The Admiral and Bella are having a silent conversation. He replies with a curt nod and an almost imperceptible look at her. Slowly, one of her blinding smiles graces her face.
Russell cuts in before the awkwardness gets so thick we can wrap it around us like overcoats. "Archibald, since you're late, does that mean you're picking up the check this time? Perhaps, we can sit down, too? We've kept the lady standing too long."
I don't miss my cue. I pull out a chair for Bella, and she obliges, patting the armrest of the chair beside her in silent instruction. As if I was going to sit anywhere else.
After throwing a diverted glance at Russell's jibe, the Admiral follows this brief exchange in silence.
"You and I are going to get along just fine, son. Let's get a seat and see if they're going to feed us."
Bella threads her fingers through mine, tugging on my hand. She leans into me, her elbow propped on the armrest of her chair. "Relax. You're golden."
I nod and resist the urge to kiss the living daylights out of her. Her father might rethink his decision not to maim me.
The Admiral and Russell take the two seats on the opposite side of the table.
A waiter appears with menus and offers of refreshment after pouring flutes of Prosecco "on the house, Mr Devlin."
"I have no clue why you've dragged us out here, Russ, honestly. We would have been fine at the usual place."
The Admiral doesn't appreciate the venue, does he? I wonder why.
"Give it a rest, Archibald. Bella mentioned an errand in this neighbourhood; I had a meeting at Goldman Sachs earlier. Two birds, one stone."
"Bah, humbug. Still don't like the micronized portions they pass off as food here."
I stifle a snort. Apparently, the Admiral is less of a stick-in-the-mud than Emmett believes, and he has a wicked sense of humour. With a touch of Dickensian lingo.
"Well, it's nice to finally know what this place looks like on the inside after booking yours and Jasper's never-ending lunches here for years, Russ," Bella interjects.
"Speaking of which, Hot Stuff, how do you like the new job? Booking more lunches?"
Please let this not turn into a repeat of Marcus the wanker's past attempts at putting down Bella's job.
"Actually, Dad, Edward's the one who books our lunches. At Morton's, where they serve real food. Steaks, that sort of thing."
Did the Admiral just groan? Figures—apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Emmett is practically addicted to grilled dead cow.
Before the Admiral can protest, Bella cuts him off. "And I won't have you interrogating me or him about what his or my job entails. I'm happy doing what I'm doing. Period."
"There's my little spitfire," Russell comments, not even trying to hide he's elbowing the Admiral.
For the second time in a span of minutes, I can't suppress my own smirk. I pat Bella's thigh under the table, trying to be stealthy just so the Admiral doesn't catch me pawing his daughter in broad daylight.
"Fine," he concedes. "No interrogations. Can a father at least enquire after his only daughter's well-being? Since you saw fit to move halfway across the globe and all?"
The Admiral seems tense as he starts to speak, but his voice ends in a softer, indulgent note that clashes with his rough-around-the-edges exterior when he reaches across the table to clasp Bella's hand in his.
Bella squeezes his hand back before replying. "I live with Emmett, Dad. It's not like I'm surrounded by complete strangers. Edward moved in two doors down in January. Angela is my agent—and Edward's, for that matter."
"Weber's kid?" he asks, a look of mischief playing in his eyes.
"That one is a real spitfire," I interject, hoping they don't mind me butting into their conversation.
"She sure is," he answers. "Does she ever give you a hard time?"
"Every single day, sir," I deadpan, remembering the Admiral and Ang's dad go way back. No sugarcoating necessary where Angela is concerned.
Bella—who knows what's what—can't suppress an unladylike snort. "So, Dad, how's MB doing under your care?"
Bella Swan, fine purveyor of non-sequiturs.
"Who's MB, love?"
The waiter, his arms laden with starters and salads that look artistic on these immense plates, but quite insubstantial, reappears out of thin air, interrupting Bella's answer. When he leaves, the Admiral beats Bella to it.
"Your feline fiend has requisitioned my favourite armchair. Are you still set on not reuniting with him?"
I turn towards Bella. "You have a cat? Why am I only hearing about this now?"
For some reason, I never pegged her as a cat person. She shrugs. "It just never came up in conversation. I didn't take him to L.A. because of the quarantine requirements. He's getting up in years. It's kinder to let him live out his twilight years in the treacherous Albion."
At the words "treacherous Albion," the Admiral slightly chokes on his Prosecco.
I shake my head with a chuckle. "Does this feline fiend have a name other than initials? Or is he a lawyer, too?"
Russell chuckles at my reference while the Admiral grumbles something unintelligible over Bella's answer. "MB stands for Merlin Britannicus."
With a raised eyebrow, I look across the table at Russell and the Admiral, and then back at Bella, still chuckling. "Only you could name a cat after a warlock from an Arthurian legend."
"Shut it, Cullen. One, Merlin is a druid, not a warlock. Get your facts straight. Two, you already know I'm a nerd. A nerd who manages your calendar, I might add."
Across the table from me, Russell is straight out laughing and shaking his head at us.
"If she starts threatening your calendar, retreat with honour," the Admiral offers, spearing a perfectly seared scallop with his fork.
Russell's zinger isn't far behind. "Would you rather we old fools sat at another table, kids?"
Bella blushes, hiding her face in her napkin. "Russell, be serious …"
"Do not embarrass the lady, Russell. If you can."
Even if he's smirking as well, the Admiral takes the words right out of my mouth. And since I agree with the sentiment, I nod at him. He sobers up and throws me a look I can't decode.
"Have you thought about my invitation, Hot Stuff? Moor Lodge?"
The invitation—or summons—he extended on the day Datagate erupted in our faces. Bella abandons her artfully crafted salad and takes a sip of her Prosecco before answering.
"I have, Dad. Now's not the time, though."
"How so?"
Russell's gaze bounces from his old friend to Bella and back like during a good old tennis match at Wimbledon. Eventually, he turns to me, his eyes narrowed to calculating slits.
"Our schedule, Dad. We're booked solid for the next six months. Who knows, though, stuff gets shuffled around all the time," she counters with a non-committal shrug.
"'Our' schedule, darling? What about your schedule?"
Here we go again. I'm getting rather fed up with these recurring assumptions. They're thrown around by everyone and anyone without a care what havoc these thoughtless comments wreak with Bella's sense of loyalty—to her father, to her career, and ultimately, to me—and her own self-worth.
"Bella can take time off whenever she needs to," I interrupt with a huff, not caring one iota that the tone of my voice is less than cordial. I flex my fingers and let my fork clatter to the table when Bella's hand lands on my thigh with a comforting squeeze.
"Bella is right here," she replies with a wink in my direction, "and I already told you, Dad, no interrogating or questioning my job—or Edward's. Period. No beating about the bush. No underhanded comments. You want to know something? Ask outright. Your training in interrogation techniques won't work on me."
The Admiral's shoulders sag within the crisp confines of his Navy uniform; his starter of seared Orkney scallops suddenly captures all of his attention.
"Girl's got your number there, Arch," says Russell, elbowing the Admiral again.
"Uncle Russ, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're relishing the Admiral's misery."
"Oh, I am, lad. I am. He knows better than to poke a hornets' nest. Or should."
Bella snorts, only to recompose herself when the waiter comes up to clear away our plates.
"I'm a hornets' nest now, Russ?" she quips at Russ, who's refilling her wine glass.
"Of course not, darling. You're our wonderful, fabulous, fantastic, brilliant Isabella. Isn't she, Arch?"
Laying it on a tad thick, Russell, are we?
She snorts. Again. That is three times over the course of starters alone. "And you're a shameless flatterer, Russ."
"Whose side are you on, Russell?" asks the Admiral, drumming his fingers on the pristine tablecloth.
"On the side of my golf partner, who coincidentally read my emails and calendar for years. Who do you take me for, Arch?"
"I'm outnumbered. I know when to quit, even if I'm behind."
"Do you, Dad?" asks Bella, arching an eyebrow at him.
"I'm sorry, Hot Stuff. I just worry about you. It's in my job description, after all. It's what dads do." Is the Admiral sounding almost … sentimental?
"I'm doing perfectly fine, Dad. There's nothing to worry about."
Bella's voice, on the contrary, is taking on a prickly edge I know very well. It surfaces during long meetings with Angela or when studio execs want to order her around as a mere coffee girl just because they don't know her. As a rule, they get told off within mere seconds of making that capital mistake. And something niggling at the back of my mind tells me she would have no issues at all taking the same fight to the Admiral.
"Nothing? I do read the papers, you know?"
Bella's answering look hovers at the junction of "try a better excuse" and "who are you, and what have you done with my father?"
The battle of wills is interrupted, yet again, by the waiter armed with our entrees. Once he's dispensed a Scottish langoustine to Bella, Scottish beef to the Admiral—who managed to find grilled cow at this pesky establishment—lamb for Russell, and gnocchi for me, he disappears with a promise of more Prosecco for the lady and red wine for the carnivores.
"What am I going to do with you, Charlie?" she asks; the harder edge to her voice now all but melted away.
"Fine. You want me not to beat about the bush."
"Yessir," she replies with a nod and a hint of a salute. Somehow, it occurs to me such a flippant retort wouldn't fly if Emmett ever tried it.
"Well, is this," he starts, wielding his steak knife back and forth between Bella and me like a windshield wiper, "you two going public, is this going to be a safety concern of any kind? And spare me the big girl crap, Isabella."
My turn to raise my hand and squeeze Bella's shoulder. She's in this mess because of me. My mess, my responsibility to sort it out and reassure the Admiral I'm not an absolute screw-up, and I don't take Bella's safety for granted.
"Sir, if you'll allow me …"
"Edward, you don't have to …" she interrupts.
I turn to face her. I know exactly what her argument is going to be. So does the Admiral, apparently.
"I'm not fighting your battle, love. It's our battle."
By some miracle, I manage to keep my voice level firm. I turn into the textbook picture of self-confidence, even though no one's writing my lines now. Bella tries, faintly, to cut me off again with a hint of protest, but the Admiral silences her.
"Let the man speak for himself, Isabella."
She stares at me for a long handful of seconds until she finally nods and raises her hand to squeeze mine that's still resting on her shoulder. United front. In the open.
"Sir, if I may," I begin again. The Admiral motions with his hand for me to continue. It's such a typical Bella gesture that I'm almost distracted from pleading my case, but, again, somehow manage to keep on track.
"Bella's safety is my primary concern. We have security around us whenever we're out in public. Especially while we're on the job or when we travel. It's a stipulation in my contract, and Angela is very finicky about it. There's a strict protocol for official events. The studio insists on it wherever we go."
He nods, munching slowly on a mouthful of beef that's so rare it may have seen a grill in passing within a one-mile radius.
"And when you're not on the job?"
Bella chooses this exact moment to cut in. "It's one of the upsides of living with Em, Dad."
"I said, let the man speak for himself, Isabella. You're his girlfriend, not his damn babysitter."
She huffs, crossing her arms. Russell winks at her, and the Admiral just throws me a look that says, "get on with it, chap."
"Perfectly valid concern, sir. As you know, I live two doors down from Emmett and Bella's place. It's a gated community guarded like a bunker. For better or worse, there are quite a few celebrities on that turf other than yours truly."
"Well, the pair of you can't just spend every waking minute walled up at her brother's or at your house, can you?"
Is he raising an eyebrow at you, Cullen?
"Pfft," is Bella's eloquent retort. "We're out and about all the time anyway. They'll get bored with us eventually. Look around you, Dad. Do you see anyone taking our picture here or bothering Edward for autographs or worse?"
"Bella has a point, sir. Londoners don't really give a sh … they're not …"
I almost choke on my linguistic faux pas when the Admiral starts chuckling. And dammit, if he doesn't sound like Emmett when he does.
"Tell us how you really feel, lad."
"All right. Londoners don't give a crap, sir. They're not going to hound me—the fans might, but that always happens in rather controlled environments, with more security. Photographers … they won't be as nasty here as in the US."
"We've been at Montagu Square for a couple days now, Dad. No leaks of our whereabouts."
"Yet," he corrects.
"Yet," I concede. "Thank you for letting us stay there, by the way. It's been a lot better than if we'd stayed at the Dorchester the whole week. That was a smart idea, love, by the way," I add, bumping my shoulder into hers.
"Thank you," she replies with a wink.
"Still, what happens when you two go back to Los Angeles after photographs of the pair of you have been plastered on the entertainment news for weeks on end?"
"As I said, we have security with us whenever we fly in and out of the country. Our return to L.A. will be no different. We'll reassess the situation with Angela if any concern arises, sir."
He levels me with a serious look and nods. "Well, it sounds like you've given this some serious thought, and you both know what you're in for. Good enough for me. Now let me eat my damn steak before it gets ice cold, son."
The Admiral takes his steak very seriously, to the point he stops participating in all conversation to have a one-on-one with the hunk of Scottish rib-eye he ordered.
So far, so good.
No Spanish inquisition. No firing squads. No executioner's block. A man of few words, for sure. But far from the insufferable prick Emmett made him out to be.
Before long, we've all polished away our entrees, and right on cue, the waiter reappears to clear away our empty plates. Hot on his heels, the maître d' makes an appearance.
"Mr Devlin, I trust you and your party are being well taken care of?" he asks, taking in the whole table with a cursory glance that lands on me.
"Everything is satisfactory, as usual. Stellar job with the table."
"You requested privacy, sir. We aim to please."
Ah. It was Russell's doing. I gave him a silent nod of approval and thanks. On occasion, he might behave like the embarrassing drunk uncle at your third cousin's wedding, but he's always been family to me. It touches me that he's gone to these lengths to be considerate of our—my—situation.
The maître d' disappears with promises of varied desserts after Bella quizzes him rather insistently on their coffee machine and whether they make espresso just so—meaning, the only way she'll drink it. Once she's satisfied they know what they're doing with her favourite beans, she does order an espresso to go with her dessert and amends the order to two after silently asking me whether I want one too.
Your girl knows you, Cullen.
"Do you still ride, Bella?" asks Russell almost off-hand.
If it's possible to choke on sparkling water, I think I just did. Bloody Russell. Fuck my one-track mind.
Bella, ride … bad association of ideas when her father is staring at me from across the table. He might still revisit his decision not to have me disposed of and make it look like an accident.
"I wish you'd stay away from those steel traps, Hot Stuff." The man's words act as an instant coolant for the brewing trouble in my nether regions and for my lust-addled brain.
Bikes. Russell means the motorbikes.
"Not as much as I'd like, Russ. Sometimes, speeding along the PCH is a good anti-stressor. Cheaper than shrinks."
"I honestly still want to wring your brother's neck for buying that thing for you."
"Emmett bought the Tiger for you?" I cut in. My brain just conjured up the memory of Bella on that bike the first time I met her at Angela's office.
She nods. "It was a graduation present."
"What about your other bike, Bell?" asks Russell.
"Another bike?"
You said that out loud, Cullen.
She nods again with a mischievous smile.
"Speaking of which, I had it looked at a month or two ago, Hot Stuff. It's not doing it any good to sit around in a garage."
There must be some history there. First, he doesn't want her to ride steel traps, then he goes and has one of them detailed.
"You could ride it, Dad. I'm sure it would earn you brownie points with your underlings."
He shrugs, his moustache twitching before he responds. "It will be there whenever you get there."
"You should see it, Edward. It's a thing of beauty," Russell cuts in, his voice almost reverent. I know he has a thing for classic cars—Aston Martins and Bentleys, chiefly. I never knew he had a soft spot for motorbikes.
"Is it? Bella's other bike is pretty cool," I reply with a wink in her direction.
"The Tiger is hot; it's not cool. Big Blue is … a different speed."
"I feel terribly out of the loop here, love. Some help for those of us without subscriptions to Bike Magazine?"
The Admiral is trying to hide a laugh with a surreptitious cough just when the waiter reappears with our espressos and desserts.
Once Bella is armed with her liquid drug of choice, she launches into her explanation. "The Tiger is an MV Agusta F4 CC. Only a hundred of them were made. About 1,000 cc displacement, maximum speed around 300 km/h, six gears. Dry weight about 190 kilos. It's a sports bike. In plain English, it's fast. Whole lotta fast."
I gulp down more Pellegrino to keep from drooling over her as she gets all mechanic on my arse.
"Big Blue is a fully restored 1968 Triumph Bonneville. 650cc displacement, about 160 kilos in dry weight, four gears. Top speed, around 185 km/h. It's a roadster. It's a fantastic leisurely ride. For the English countryside. And it seats two people—which the Tiger, as you know, does not."
"You have an antique bike? Where?"
"Stop gaping like a fish, Cullen. Yes, I do. It's at Moor Lodge. Dad helped me restore it."
"You are going to make me go prematurely grey, girl," I sigh.
"Now you know what I have to put up with, son," interjects the Admiral, with a snicker while throwing a cursory glance at his watch. "It's been a pleasure, but …"
"Duty calls, Dad?"
"Precisely. I'm expected at the Admiralty," he replies. He stands at the same time as Bella and me to come around our side of the table.
"Think about Moor Lodge, Hot Stuff," he says, embracing his daughter.
"No strings?" she asks with her "No B.S. B" look, as Emmett calls it.
"None whatsoever. Edward, son, it's been …"
"Enlightening, sir?" I try it on for size, extending my hand to him. He surprises me with a pat on the shoulder.
"Most enlightening. Don't let her give you any crap, right?" he retorts, giving Bella a fake dirty look, which she reciprocates with a not-so-fake dirty look of her own.
"I will try, sir."
"Knock off that 'sir' crap. You're not one of my cadets—thank God. Call me Charlie."
"Thank you, s … Charlie."
He nods at me again with a serious look, pats Bella's arm one last time, and then leaves.
The Admiral has left the building.
I smile to myself—that went well … I might need a T-shirt to memorialise the occasion: I survived the Admiral.
CluelessWard meets the Admiral and lives to tell the tale.
One Aldwych is a very posh hotel in London, at this very same address. The restaurant where our gang has lunch is inside the hotel and is called Indigo; you can go check it out on the hotel's website. There are pics of both of Bella's motorbikes in the Google Images album (link on my profile).
See you all next week, and happy Easter to all who celebrate!