Say Hello, Kiss Goodbye - Jacquelyn Middleton Page 0,128

granddaughter, Alex.

Leia watched the two of them, wrapped lovingly in a hug. Take it from Joan. Be present. Enjoy this. Business crap can wait.

“Naomi?” She nodded at the stunning actress.

“Cheers, Leia.” The long-legged Franco-Indian beauty licked her lips and strode forward like she was playing the role of a famous supermodel. Ben and Riley would follow, and then Shantelle, who was scheduled to close the festivities by Leia’s side.

With seconds to spare, Shantelle appeared in a floor-length crimson gown. She weaved her fingers through Leia’s. “Sorry, Scotty. My timing is terrible. I just couldn’t keep the news secret from you a second longer. Please don’t hate me?”

Leia offered a consolatory smile as all her models joined Ben and Riley, reuniting with the runway for one final lap. “Of course I don’t. If you’re happy, I’m happy for you. The rest will sort itself out, somehow.”

“Thanks, Ley! Okay, you ready to show London who’s boss?”

“With pleasure!” Leia squeezed Shantelle’s hand and they claimed the spotlight, side by side, the cheers and applause growing louder with each step. Lucy, Alex, Joan, Sarah, et al. hung back in front of the white backdrop with its Frill-Seekers logo, celebrating together as one proud family.

Reaching the end of the runway, Shantelle beamed and let go of Leia’s hand, clapping enthusiastically for the designer along with all the appreciative fashion fans filling The Arches. “They love you, Leia! Just look at ’em!”

They’re all still here! A pleased giggle burst from Leia’s throat as her bright eyes surfed the crowd, sweeping past cheering strangers, well-dressed fashion bloggers, and a tall, dark-haired stranger whooping up a storm with an unlit cigarette bobbing between his lips. But it was the clean-shaven gent beside him, dimples framing a huge smile and arms filled with a massive bouquet of primroses who stole the show for Leia.

Twenty-Six

TARQUIN

“I’ve told her, you know, Tarq—countless times. She’s a bloody natural on the catwalk!” Tom Chadwick-Smythe waved his lit cigarette with a flourish in front of his loosened tie. “And modeling jobs are a nice little earner between acting gigs. I should know—I’ve strutted my stuff a few times! But wifey doesn’t want to hear it.” The one-time roommate of Alex and Harry plowed his free hand through his unkempt brown hair. Rakish with a mischievous glint in his blue-green eyes, Tom’s glory days of one-night stands pre-marriage to Naomi were legendary and life-changing. “She thinks adding ‘model’ to her CV cheapens her acting cred, but hey, us thesps have to pay the piper somehow.”

And his baby mamma. His son must be, what? Three, four by now? I wonder how often he sees him. Tarquin nodded politely, wishing he was stuck with anyone but Tom, who he’d always found a bit exhausting. He cradled the bouquet of primroses in his arms and stared at Tom’s gold wedding band as the actor scored another glass of free red wine from a server. Who’d have thought? Here I am, envious of what Tom has. Well, except for the child support…

“And really, what’s the difference between acting and modeling? You’re still on display. You’re still being ogled by strangers. Actually, when my new play starts in December, I’ve got a scene where I’m…”

Fuck, he sounds like Mum, prattling on about show business. Eyes glazing over, Tarquin zoned out, absentmindedly massaging his right elbow. Five weeks post-dislocation, the pain, plaster backslab, and sling were history, but stiffness and daily rehab were his new normal. He glanced away, his attention wandering the large space teeming with exuberant fashionistas and press waiting for Leia’s reappearance. Where the fuck is Harry? Backstage, maybe? He’s in for an earful. So is Lucy. What were they playing at? Not telling me Leia was in London…

Wrapping up his long-winded ramble, Tom cleared his throat. “Anyway, I knew you’d understand, mate!”

What? Tarquin snapped back into the conversation. “Yeah. Of course. Absolutely!” He chuckled, pretending he’d heard every word.

“Actually, speaking of people who don’t listen…” Tom interrupted his crooked grin with a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette.

Is he having a go at me? Wanker!

Tom puffed a parade of one, two, three smoke rings into the air, to the annoyance of a passing blogger. “I talked to my sister last week.”

Okay. I’m done. Tarquin coughed. “Mate, you know you can’t smoke in here!” Wincing, he batted at the smelly vapors. Was I this annoying before I kicked the habit? He looked away and caught Alex’s eye. Lex! SAVE ME! he signaled through gritted teeth, flashing a glare toward