The Marriage Of London Tipton
Chapter 2
Nearly 3000 miles away from Boston, just off the coast of Portugal, London Tipton was pacing across the cabin she shared aboard the SS. Tipton... and straight into the wall. Ow! She rubbed her nose which was beginning to become quite sore and cursed herself for once again forgetting how small the cabin was. There's more room to pace in my closet at home.
Feeling that three was probably enough times to walk into the cabin wall she sat herself down on her bed with a sigh, and instead tried to relieve her nervous energy by tapping her bedazzled shoes on the floor while staring at her watch. Let's see... If the big hand is... and the little hand is at... 8:55. Her father, industrialist and entrepreneur Wilfred Tipton had arranged, through his secretary of course, to see her at 8:30 which meant he was... ten... fifteen... twenty... erm...
He was late, and that was all that mattered!
She stopped trying to work out the time as it was making her head hurt, but found she couldn't stop looking at her watch... and not just because it was shiny. Normally she loved looking at her watch. Pure 24 carat gold inlaid with diamonds, it was delicate while still being eye-catching, plus if she angled it just right she could see her reflection and that was always fun. It said something that she'd had it for over a year, rather than throwing it away at the end of the month with her other jewelery.
Right now however something about it's appearance annoyed her. It's normal pleasing design looked strangely ugly to her and it felt much too tight around her wrist. She unfastened it and threw it carelessly onto the bedside table where it collided with a clatter against a picture frame. She then kicked off her shoes for good measure and proceeded tapping her bare feet against the cheap artificial fibers of the carpet.
Several more minutes ticked by unobserved until the cabin door opened and, without knocking, her father entered. At least, I think it's Daddy. It was difficult to be sure since he was, as usual, surrounded by bodyguards. Big burly men in tailored suits and sunglasses that hid her diminutive father from view. It was only because she recognized one of the men as the one who'd been sent to observe her 4th grade play in place of her daddy that she was sure it was him.
Her father waited for his entourage to shuffle through the narrow doorway and form a tight circle around him before speaking. "You asked to see me, Buttercup," his deep English accent rising from the midst of the expressionless guards.
See you? Maybe if you weren't always surrounded by those dumb men, London thought to herself. Normally she would have said it out loud as she rarely bothered to censor her thoughts before speaking them, but her father was a different matter. Although he spoiled his only daughter he was also a strict disciplinarian. He was the one person who could punish London or make her do something she didn't want to. He was also the only person she was scared of. Instead she said "There's a poster up on the entertainment deck..."
"I'm sorry London, I meant to talk to you before they were posted, bit of a mix-up in the advertising department," her father apologized, although without being able to see his face it was impossible to tell if he was sincere.
"The waiter I got to read it to me told me it said I was getting married," London continued hesitantly.
"That's right."
"It's just I don't remember getting engaged." London paused and then, because she'd forgotten lots of things in the past, added "I didn't, did I?"
"London, you're growing up and I think it's time you were talked to like an adult." Despite his words her father sounded as if he was trying to explain something to a child. "I'm afraid I'm bankrupt. Hardly a penny to my name." He sounded more miserable than London had ever heard him, much more so than when he'd split up with any of his wives, even the second one and he'd been married to her for over a year.
London tried to comprehend what her father was telling her, but found it just made her head hurt again. "But I'm rich," she exclaimed, then as if she was trying to prove the fact she added "I have a no limits credit card!"
"Not anymore. Everything, including the money in your account was tied up in the running of my oil fields." A heavy sigh arose from the space between the stony-faced bodyguards. "Unfortunately those damn natives decided they wanted their scrap of dirt back. Seems they had themselves a revolution; killed a few people, burnt down some farms and most importantly blew up my bloody refinery."
Unsure of what to say London offered, "That doesn't seem very nice?"
"Damn right, it wasn't nice!" Her father's voice burst from the middle of the group. "I've lost nearly everything thanks to those bastards!"
"What, even the diamond mine?" asked London, trying her hardest to come to terms with what her father was telling her.
"Yes London, everything."
"Even Tipton Motors and Elecfonics?"
Another heavy sigh rose from her father. "Yes, even Tipton Motors and ElecTRonics."
"Even the Tipton unicorn farm?" she asked with growing desperation.
"London, that was a drawing you did in the 2nd grade. but even if it did exist I'd have lost it," her father snapped with a voice that told her not to keep on with this line of questioning.
She was quiet for a moment while she considered the news of her father's bankruptcy, before emerging with a question she felt was quite sensible. "Daddy was has this got to do with me getting married?"
"Well Blossom, the one thing I have managed to keep hold of is the Tipton Olive Oil company." There was a pause during which the noise of a lighter and a column of thin gray smoke from behind the security signified her father had lit one of his cigars.
"Is olive oil worth a lot of money?" London asked hopefully.
"Not on it's own, No. That's were the Claret-Monet family come in. That bastard Pierre Claret-Monet produces half the world's vinegar. If I can convince him to merge businesses I'll own a portion of the largest vinaigrette business in the world. There won't be a salad from Tokyo to New York that won't be covered in Tipton/Monet salad dressing." She heard her father take another puff on his cigar as another cloud of smoke rose into the air. "Only problem is the cantankerous old frog wants to keep the business in the family, and that means finding a wife for his idiot of a son, Jacques. Which is where you come in, buttercup."
London hadn't really been able to follow the explanation of her father's business dealings, but she was sure she understand the last bit. "But I don't know anything about this... Jack."
"Jacques," her father corrected. "And he's heir to a $4 billion a year vinegar empire and his family own half of Bordeaux, what more is there to know?"
"I don't care how much of Mexico he owns."
"Bordeaux is in France, London." Her father explained, adopting the condescending tone he used when addressing the hired help. "You like France, remember. It's where all your shoes come from."
London looked down at the bedazzled pumps that were lying haphazardly on the floor where they'd landed after being kicked carelessly across the room. It was funny, she loved those shoes but right now they didn't seem as pretty or as sparkly as they usually did. "Daddy, I don't think I want to get married," she said using the quiet, sulky voice that nearly always got her what she wanted.
This time however, Daddy was not going to be wrapped around her finger. "Listen, young lady!" he snapped. "Do you have any idea how much money you've cost me over the years? Why, what you're wearing now is probably worth more than any of these men make in a year." If any of her father's security had a problem with his remarks about their pay they didn't let it show on their blank faces. "It's time you started giving something back to this family."
"But," London started, but her father wouldn't let her interrupt his tirade.
"You live a more than comfortable life, London. We both know you're not going to be able to function without the tropical holidays and the expensive clothes and the lavish shopping sprees, so why don't you just get on board with this wedding." There was some restless shuffling from the circle of security as they prepared for Mr Tipton's exit, clearly realizing the conversation was reaching it's conclusion. He had one last thing to say to his daughter before he left. "One more thing, I've arranged for you to have dinner with Jacques tomorrow night, during which I expect you to formally accept his offer of marriage. Take my word for it young lady, this wedding is happening."
London stood watching her father's security trying to squeeze themselves through the narrow doorway all at once, unsure of how she should feel. Her head was never busy with thoughts but now it seemed especially blank. Suddenly through the blackness one question took form. "Daddy?" she called after him, and the security bumped unceremoniously into each other as her father came to a halt.
"Yes?" came the weary voice of her father, clearly not in the mood for any further argument over the impending nuptials.
"Have we lost the Boston hotel?"
"London, I told you I've lost everything." Her father snapped clearly tired of answering questions.
"What about the people that work there?"
"They'll probably end up back on the streets." Her father replied, something in his voice suggesting that he didn't really care about their situation.
"And if I marry this France-ish guy then we'll get the hotel back and everyone will keep their jobs?" she continued hesitantly, unsure why she was asking or what ideas were forming in her head.
"Yes."
London then did something she'd never done before; spent a moment collecting her thoughts before finally coming to a conclusion. "Okay then," she spoke in an almost inaudible whisper, "I'll have dinner with him."
"Glad to hear it!" For the first time since he'd entered the room her father actually sounded happy. "He'll be expecting you in the V.I.P. dining hall on the top deck at 7 o'clock tomorrow night." With his final decree still hanging in the air with his cigar smoke, he and his entourage were gone without a word of goodbye. They hadn't even bothered to close the door after them.
She'd have done anything to be able to just forget about the conversation with her father. If only he'd been trying to teach me history or geography... or science, I always forget what people tell me about those. Unfortunately a reminder of her father hung in the air. She wrinkled her nose at the acrid, foul odour of his cigar.
Prying the room's porthole window open with some difficulty, she stuck her head out into the fresh night air. In the darkness the sea was an endless shadow without depth or color over which the lights from the ship played, unable to penetrate it's black, still surface. A cold breeze swept over the surface of the water, biting into her cheeks. Fresh from sailing through the heat of the Mediterranean it was strange to feel the cold again. It reminded her of Boston. It's always cold in Boston. For a moment she was back in the city, which was the closest thing to something she could call home, standing on the balcony of her penthouse.
It took her a second to realize that her eyes were filling with tears.
She turned away from the porthole as the tears started to run down her cheeks. Why am I crying? I must allergical to the sea, or the night time... or more likely Bailey's poorness she thought, glancing at her room-mate's cheap possessions. It was no wonder that London's first thought was that she was having an allergic reaction as she rarely shed tears. When she cried it usually just involved making a noise until somebody gave her attention... or anything else she wanted. But these tears rolled down her face with barely a sniffle, and no-one around to hear even that small sound.
She turned to her closet, knowing that gazing upon her clothes, touching them, maybe trying on a few pieces was the only thing that could lift her spirits on those rare moments she wasn't feeling her usually upbeat self. As she drew aside the sliding door the mass of expensive garments that she had crushed into the tiny space available to her sprang forth, falling into a heap at her feet. She looked down at the designer gowns, jewel decorated garments, the delicate fabrics, chiffon and silk that usually gave her rush of excitement and happiness, but was surprised to find that the tears only flowed more strongly.
How can I feel happy? she thought to herself, and the pile of clothes faded into a blur through her tears. All my favorite things are back in Boston!
TO BE CONTINUED...