Finding It Read online

  “I could use a friend.”

  “We could all use a friend, my dear.” She gives the cab driver an address and then turns back to me. “Do you like French cuisine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Brilliant! I know a fabulous restaurant.”

  I glance at my frizzy-headed reflection in the cab window and wonder if Lady Posh makes a habit of treating less-than-artfully disheveled paupers to lunch. I wonder what she will say when she learns this pauper was just sprung from the pokey?

  “Thank you for helping me hail a cab,” I say, looking back at Lady Posh. “I am Vivia Grant, by the way.”

  “Vivia Grant? Not the Vivia Grant?”

  I remember what my mum said about the news of my arrest going viral, and for one horrifying second, I imagine my name on a BBC News ticker tape. American Vivia Grant arrested in London while wearing Burberry knockoff, accused of harassing Prince Harry.

  “Are you a columnist for GoGirl! Magazine?”

  “Yes.”

  Lady Posh’s cool, disinterested expression undergoes a radical transformation. She literally beams at me.

  “Poppy Worthington,” she says, thrusting her hand at me. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  I shake her hand.

  “I read your column. You’re really quite funny.”

  “Thank you.”

  My phone begins vibrating and blinging as I get a series of texts and e-mails.

  “Would you excuse me?” I fish my iPhone out of my pocket. “I’m expecting an important message.”

  “Not a’tall.”

  I key my password into my iPhone, tap the Safari button, and type Poppy Worthington into the search bar. Poppy might be a nice person, but she could be barking mad, too. What if she’s luring me to some seedy place so a gang of hairy Russians can bonk me on the head, jab a needle into my vein, and then I wake up in some dimly lit brothel in Cambodia, or worse, a bathtub filled with ice and a gaping wound in my abdomen? Okay, so I sound paranoid, but I am a single woman traveling abroad. Also, I have a healthy fear of human trafficking and organ harvesters.

  My search returns 7,980,000 entries. I click on the first, a Wikipedia page for one Poppy Whitney Worthington.

  “Poppy Whitney Worthington is a British socialite, hotelier, and philanthropist. Great-granddaughter of Sir Nigel Worthingon, Member of Parliament and founder of Worthington Hotels, and Lady Isabella Whitney, acclaimed poetess….”

  I scroll down the page.

  “…an undisputed social leader of the posh London set, Poppy has been romantically linked to actor Tristan Kent, playboy-mogul Sir Richard Blanchard, professional soccer player Trevin Larks, and billionaire software designer Colin Hardy.”

  Holy Shit! Tristan Kent? He’s hot!

  Tristan Kent is famous for playing a badass Wood Elf in a blockbuster fantasy trilogy. I don’t even like fantasy flicks, but I saw Tristan Kent’s movies three times just so I could watch him skewer villainous creatures with his bow and arrow.

  I continue scrolling and reading.

  “…elected CEO of Worthington Hotels after the death of her father… Worthington Hotels cater to the wealthiest and most elite travelers… Declared losses… In an interview with Hoteliers Magazine, Ms. Worthington announced her intention to transform the Brand into a boutique chain, renovating and rechristening the hotels under the names Luxe, Worth, Pamper, Voluptuary, and Pander.”

  The Wiki page includes a collage of photos of Poppy all glammed up at different red carpet soirees. I quickly close the Safari app and open my texts.

  Mum wasn’t exaggerating. My jailhouse tweets and cellfies have provoked a ridiculous amount of texts, including one from my best friend, Fanny.

  Text from Stéphanie Moreau:

  Congratulations! Getting arrested by Buckingham Palace Guards and tweeting “cellfies” makes your booze-fueled night with Jett Jericho look almost lame. Now get to Paris. Jean-Luc is waiting.

  Sixteen texts from my mum, which is shockingly low given her obsessive nature.

  One text from stupid old Travis Trunnell, my crazy-hot one night stand from college who made a sudden unwelcome reappearance last year that effectively destroyed my engagement to my then-fiancé, Nathaniel Edwards III. Serendipity works in unpredictable ways, though. If Travis hadn’t exposed my one, teensy-weensy, little lie—that I wasn’t a virgin when I met my fiancé—Nathan wouldn’t have broken up with me. And Nathan ending our engagement turned out to be the best thing to ever happen to me—besides my discovery of Spanx and the ionizing flat-iron. The humiliation propelled me to embark on a journey of self-discovery, to stop trying to be the Vivia I thought everyone expected me to be and to keep it real. If Nathan hadn’t broken up with me, I wouldn’t have met Jean-Luc.

  Text from Travis Trunnell:

  Saw you were arrested. Lucky police. I’d like to put a pair of handcuffs on you.

  Text to Travis Trunnell:

  Never. Gonna. Happen.

  Travis Trunnell’s brazen predatory behavior pisses me off. He frequently texts me flirty messages even though he knows I am committed to Jean-Luc. I have never encouraged him. Not even once.

  If I were to be one hundred percent honest, I don’t exactly discourage him, either. The sexy Texan still makes my pulse race. Remember when Fifty Shades of Grey exploded on the scene? Women were hiding books behind John Grisham novels, so they could read them on the subway and on the treadmill at the gym. Travis Trunnell is my Fifty Shades. He’s my secret ego-stroking guilty pleasure.

  Several friends and colleagues sent texts. Finally, I come to the two texts I have been dreading.

  Text from Jean-Luc de Caumont:

  See you in Paris.

  Text from Louanne Collins-London:

  What happened? Call me.

  Both Jean-Luc and Louanne Collins-London sent texts containing only four words.

  Four words.

  Four words like daggers, pricking my guilty conscience. How could four little words elicit such shame?

  The Prince Harry Debacle has called into question my professionalism and ruined my plans for a perfect Nicholas Sparks-worthy weekend in Paris. I’ve disappointed my boss and my boyfriend, and it’s killing me. Keeping it real, though? I am not sure which is killing me more: bungling an important assignment or dashing Jean-Luc’s hopes for an interlude romantique.

  “Bad news?”

  “What?” I look up to find Poppy studying me, her perfectly plucked brows knitted.

  “You’re frowning. Is it bad news?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Personal or professional?”

  “Both.”

  “Ah,” Poppy says. “I see.”

  This British blue blood hasn’t the slightest comprehension of the shit tsunami about to crash down on the shores of my life. Once again, I am going to have to grab onto a plank of wood, hold on, and hope for the storm to end.

  Whoa! A powerful wave of déjà vu is washing over me. Was it really just a year ago when I found myself in a similar situation: on the brink of losing my job and man because of one stupid little lie?

  I want to drop my face to my hands and sob at my apparent inability to break bad habits, but Poppy is staring at me.

  “My editor asked me to write a piece on what it’s like to be part of the young royal set. I told her I would because I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I don’t have any connections to young, hip royals.” My words come out in a guilty almost-manic rush. “The closest I’ve ever gotten to royalty is the Duchess of Yorkie—and she bites me anytime I try to pet her!”

  A small wrinkle appears on Poppy’s porcelain smooth forehead.

  “My mum has a domineering Yorkie-Poodle mix named the Duchess of Yorkie.”

  Poppy chuckles. “When do you leave London?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I think I am supposed to go to Bath in a few days for the Jane Austen Festival—that is, if I still have a job
.”

  “Pish posh!” She waves her hands dismissively in the air. “Why, that’s plenty of time for someone as resourceful and clever as you to write a bang-up piece.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I have a restraining order prohibiting me from getting within five hundred yards of any member of the royal family, and I really don’t want to spend any more time in a London prison.”

  Poppy chuckles and presses her hand to the strand of pearls at her throat.

  “Restraining order?”

  Chapter 4

  A Spotted Dick in the Mouth

  Poppy clutches the door handle and stares at me with wide horror-film eyes.

  “I’m not a serial killer.” I look her in the eye. “I promise I won’t eat your liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

  I stop short of making the Hannibal Lecter slurp, because I am not sure my new friend is ready for full-on Vivia dramatics.

  Poppy just blinks at me.

  By the time I finish giving her a synopsis of my run-in with the Buckingham Palace Guards, she seems more relaxed.

  “Misadventure seems to follow you wherever you go.”

  “Hashtag understatement!”

  We laugh.

  The cab pulls to an abrupt stop in front of a magnificent brick Georgian building. Poppy thanks the driver, hands him a twenty pound note, and turns to me.

  “Shall we?”

  I follow her out of the cab and up the stairs of the brick building. As we approach, a liveried door man snaps to attention with the bearing of a well-drilled soldier, back stiff, gaze fixed on a distant point.

  “Good day, Miss Worthington.”

  “Good day, Archie.”

  “Where are we?” I whisper.

  “The Luxe, one of the hotels in the Worthington chain,” Poppy says, smiling. “I have a meeting here this afternoon, so I thought we might have lunch in Délais.”

  “Délais?”

  “Our new French restaurant. It’s opening next week, but the chef is doing a test run of a tasting menu. Would you mind terribly being a guinea pig?”

  “Would I? Are you kidding me?”

  “Am I to interpret your unbridled American enthusiasm as an affirmative?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Poppy laughs. She has a pretty cool laugh. It’s not loud and unrestrained like mine, but a throaty, controlled, I-was-raised-in-a-finishing school kind of laugh.

  I follow Poppy through the lobby, the sharp tap-tap of her Louboutins on the marble floor announcing our arrival like the drumroll that precedes Hail to the Chief. Poppy could be the President. She strides through the hotel with complete confidence and authority, smiling at guests. I can’t help but wonder what people are thinking as they watch the cool, sophisticated blonde and her ginger minion.

  If the Rubens is posh, Luxe is über-posh. The two-story lobby is Georgian London meets Contemporary LA, with an elaborate plaster ceiling and sleek midnight black velvet Chesterfield sofas—like Jane Austen and James Bond collaborated on the interior design.

  Poppy leads me down a hallway, around a rope barrier, and through a set of plush velvet drapes.

  “Welcome to Délais!”

  The restaurant is swanky. Super swanky. With an elaborate plastered ceiling, glossy parquet floors, walls covered in an expensive silver metallic paper, and sleek black walnut tables, the dining room has the same Austen meets Bond vibe as the lobby. An eclectic collection of art covers one wall from ceiling to floor—photographs, portraits, landscapes, post-modern paintings.

  “Wow!” I whisper, awed by the sumptuous candlelit scene. “This is outrageous.”

  “Outrageous good or outrageous bad?”

  The waver in Poppy’s voice prompts me to shift my gaze from the art wall to her face. She’s nibbling on her perfectly lacquered lower lip, and a tiny crease mars her otherwise porcelain smooth forehead. I can’t believe what I am seeing. This cool, collected, cultured woman has a chink in her confident armor. What could poised and polished Poppy Worthington have to stress about? It’s not like she’s toting a ginger ’fro and enough baggage to fill the Louis Vuitton flagship store.

  “Outrageous good, Poppy!” I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers. “It’s like you opened a restaurant and cool cocktail lounge in the Louvre.”

  She stops biting her lip, but specters of self-doubt still hover behind her eyes. If we were better acquainted, I’d hug her and say, “Believe, Sister! ’Cuz you got it going on.” Since I’m not sure perfectly pressed Poppy would appreciate such an exuberant public display of affection, I give her hand another little squeeze.

  “This is the first hotel to be renovated since I assumed control of the Worthington Brand, and I am taking it in a totally new direction. Many don’t share my vision. They predict my changes will tarnish the Worthington’s golden reputation.”

  Poppy’s looks down at her lap.

  “You’re a visionary, Poppy. Visionaries always have detractors, those frightened by change. Look at Michelangelo.”

  “Michelangelo?” she says, looking up.

  “He was a visionary—painting naked saints and sinners on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—and he had his share of detractors. The Pope took one look at the masterpiece and lost his holy mind. He didn’t appreciate seeing St. Paul with his peter hanging out, so he ordered Michelangelo to paint fig leaves over the saints’ and sinners’ genitalia. True story.”

  “Thanks.” Poppy sniffs. “But I am no Michelangelo.”

  “Oh, I am not so sure about that.” I glance around the restaurant. “You’re an artist, Poppy Worthington, and this is your masterpiece.”

  “You can’t know how much your praise means to me. You’re precisely the demographic we had in mind when we designed Délais.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Young, hip, well-traveled, and well-educated. Traditional values, but with a slightly irreverent approach to life.”

  Hip? Me? In my trying-too-hard London ensemble? I don’t think so. “You got all of that from watching me hail a cab?”

  Poppy chuckles. “And reading your column for the last year.”

  “Well, I am not sure if I deserve such praise, but Délais definitely nails the young, hip, cultured vibe.”

  Poppy’s eyes fill with fresh tears.

  “Oh, bollocks!” She murmurs, quickly blinking. “It’s our GM. I mustn’t let him see me all weepy.”

  I shove my hand into my purse and fish around. I whip out a bottle of Visine just as an officious looking man wearing a Saville Row suit, and smug expression, saunters up.

  “Allergies are the worst. Here.” I hand the Visine to Poppy. “Two drops per eye usually does the trick.”

  “Thank you.” Poppy slips the bottle into her pocket.

  “Good Morning, Miss Worthington,” Saville Row says. “Might I have a word?”

  “Certainly, Malcolm.” She turns to me. “Would you excuse me a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  While Poppy takes care of business, I whip out my iPhone and compose a text to Big Boss Woman.

  Text to Louanne Collins-London:

  Thank you for springing me from the pokey. It was a mortifying misunderstanding. Am already working on another story that should be equally as enthralling. Super excited. Will call with details as soon as possible.

  All right, I’ll admit it; I lied to my editor when I said I had connections to the royal family, and I just lied to her again when I said I am working on an enthralling story. I have no idea what I am going to write about. Something tells me Louanne Collins-London wouldn’t appreciate a thousand-word piece on my extremely tenuous connection to Prince Andrew’s naughty ex. And I don’t think she would accept a rags-to-riches story about a plucky young hairdresser with a dream, who started off in a grungy chop-shop, but ended up styling the tresses of a disgraced Duchess.

  GoGirl! readers are young, stylish, professional women w
ho want to read smart, sassy, sexy pieces about life beyond their borders. Louanne Collins-London tells me they want to vicariously visit posh resorts, exclusive clubs, and offbeat shops. They want me to take them on adventures kayaking the Amazon, joining an archaeological excavation in Cairo, or hiking the Highlands. They want to meet larger-than-life characters—like spoiled debutantes, entitled movie stars, and jet-setting celebrities—but through my slightly distorted lens. They don’t want to read about my mother’s cousin’s hairdresser.

  Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:

  I am going to be a little late.

  Text from Jean-Luc:

  I read your tweets and was about to launch Operation Rescue Vivia.

  Tweet to Jean-Luc:

  Ha ha! No rescue needed, my French cowboy. The hostiles have released me.

  Text from Jean-Luc:

  Does that mean I should unpack my six-shooter?

  Text to Jean-Luc de Caumont:

  Keep your weapon holstered, partner—at least for a little bit longer ;)

  Text from Jean-Luc de Caumont:

  Would you like me to come to London?

  Text to Jean-Luc:

  No! I’m just going to grab something to eat and then I will be on the next train, plane, or ferry out of this miserable moldering country. I’ll send you my arrival info as soon as I have it.

  Text from Jean-Luc:

  See you soon, mon cœur.

  We’ve barely taken our seats in one of the banquettes when Poppy says, “Do you really have a court injunction prohibiting you from approaching the royal family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you spend time in prison? Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re quite serious, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”