Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye - Jacquelyn Middleton Page 0,102

about her one-of-a-kind Frill-Seekers gown. I wish you were alive to see this. You’d be proud. She sniffed. I’m finally on my way.

“Leia, come!” Mrs. Joy paused in her daughter’s footsteps. “Shantelle reserved us seats.”

“Oh, I’m not staying. My job ends tonight when Shantelle’s with the press. And to be honest, I’m dying to kick off my heels and crash on my sofa!” Leia laughed, meaning every word.

“I understand, it’s been a long day for you—but tonight’s your victory too!” said Mrs. Joy, her husband nodding in marital agreement. “You’ll celebrate tonight at home, won’t you?”

Yep, with a call to my dad, a take-out gyro, and Ross Poldark on my TV. Leia hugged Shantelle’s mom. “Yeah, the night’s still young, right?” Jeez, sound like Tarquin much? She twisted her grimace into a smile and pulled back, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “It’s been so wonderful seeing you again. Enjoy the film, okay?”

“We will!” said Mr. Joy, joining his wife and the steady stream of passholders entering Radio City Music Hall.

Leia stepped out of the way and scrolled through her pictures of Shantelle, smiling up a storm on the green carpet.

On my last night in London, Tarquin asked me to text photos of my gown at its first premiere, but what’s the point now? Heart heavy, she turned off her phone and meandered through the Sixth Avenue obstacle course of TV crews and rubbernecking New Yorkers, her thoughts far away from celebrities and honking taxis. I can’t stop thinking about it—Tarquin has a serious girlfriend. I thought I’d be fine with it when it happened. She sighed, aimlessly following the flow of pedestrians crossing West 50th Street as she plunged her hand into her tote, battling past her mini sewing kit, portable steamer, and comfy flats. But here I am, so freakin’ jealous of Cressida I could scream! Her hand resurfaced with her red telephone box keychain. Dammit! I shouldn’t be thinking of him—of her—today of ALL days. Frill-Seekers just made its movie premiere debut! That’s what I should be focused on. Lifting her chin, she chucked Tarquin’s London trinket back in her bag and widened her stride. So, this is it, girl. No more pining for him, no more wistful memories or asking Saz how he is. He’s moved on. I will, too. Today I’m done with Tarquin Balfour—for good.

Twenty

TARQUIN

Brooklyn, one week later

Taking a large sip of his beer, Tarquin leaned against the Williamsburg Hotel’s rooftop bar and squinted through his eyeglasses, the laughter of several bikini-clad women splashing in the pool teasing his attention away from his oldest brother, Nick.

“If you were smart, Tarq, you’d do something like this.” Long sleeves of his pink shirt rolled up just so, Nick was immaculately overdressed for their sun-soaked, midafternoon liquid lunch. His navy tie, Hugo Boss suit trousers, and shiny Oxfords belonged in a boardroom on Sixth Avenue, not poolside in trendy Brooklyn. Based in America the past three years, the former child actor, now a lithe six-foot-four inches of square-jawed handsomeness, held the esteemed role of vice-president of TV sales and co-productions for the BBC’s Manhattan office. His love of restaurants, boutique hotels, and the latest fashions meant that if something in New York was hip, happening, and expensive, Nick was all over it. “Old pubs and theaters are lovely, but just imagine the money you’d rake in building something new and spectacular like this.”

Tarquin yawned beneath his New York Mets cap, his sleepy eyes sailing away from the pool and across the East River. New York, you sure scrub up nice. With a bittersweet smile, he scratched his moustache and ogled the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings glinting in the late August haze. It’s strange, being back. His heart weighed heavy.

“You could still have the vibe of a repurposed building even when it’s not,” said Nick, sharing a flirty smile with one of the female bartenders. “This place just looks old because of that water tower and the reclaimed bricks. Why bother with all that legit ‘heritage designation’ stuff when you can fake retro just as easily?”

Fake it? Does he even know me? What a twat. “You reckon, Nick?” Battling jet lag and the prickly heat, Tarquin’s patience was dangling by a single thread. He glared through his glasses and tugged at the open collar of his baby blue shirt, his fading sunburn-turned-tan a lingering reminder of the previous month’s raucous weekend in Orkney. “First, it was the corrugated hardwood downstairs, then the brass accents, and the Brooklyn