Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124971 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
“About the presents . . . ,” I said, raising my voice. “I don’t think I can find anything open at this hour.”
“Of course you can!” Gretchen sounded appalled. “This kind of attitude is why you Brits lost an empire, Daphne. Step up to the challenge. You can, because you must. I believe in you. Now I ask you—do you believe in yourself?”
I believe I should’ve accompanied these biscuits with some wine. And maybe an Adderall.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
“And make sure the gifts are with me before I leave for Greenwich at six tomorrow.”
“Six in the evening?”
“Six in the morning, silly.”
“What?” I shrieked. “I can’t—”
But it was too late. The line had gone dead.
I stared at my mobile, calculating my next move. Not that I had many options to choose from. Gretchen was still my boss for the next two weeks. Knowing her, she’d tarnish my name in every news agency in New York if I crossed her now.
Reluctantly, I picked up my mobile and called BJ.
My ex-boyfriend, BJ. The same BJ I broke up with tonight. Yup, that prat.
“Duffy!” He sounded both delighted and smug. Why wouldn’t he be? My parting words were that I never wanted to speak to him again. And that was forty-five minutes ago. “Changed your mind, huh? Why don’t I call you an Uber, and you can come to my place and discuss everything?”
“Actually, I need your help.” Bold assumption, though. “It’s an emergency. Do you know anyone with a toy store, or someone who could pull strings to open one this time of night?”
The only reason I felt comfortable asking him for a favor was because I’d bailed BJ out of loads of trouble over the years. I’d written his entire dissertation when we both attended Cambridge, made last-minute birthday cakes for his family members, and once physically expressed his mum’s elderly Yorkshire terrier’s glands.
“Adult toys or toy-toys?” he asked.
“The latter.” I reared my head back and scowled at the phone. “Purchasing a vibrator is not usually an emergency.”
He let out a grunt. “Gretchen again?” Were we really having a normal conversation, like he hadn’t told me earlier that he was leaving for Kathmandu, Nepal, within the next few days, as if we hadn’t spent the last half decade together?
“Lyric has a birthday tomorrow,” I confirmed.
“Give me a few minutes. I’ll hook you up.”
“Cheers.”
Brendan Ronald Jr. was an Abbott, which meant privilege simmered out of his ears, he was so fortunate. The Abbotts were a well-known family in New York. Their last name opened doors . . . and wallets. BJ being connected gave him a shine I’d only ever seen on telly shows. Me, I grew up in a council flat in Tooting Broadway, with my parents only recently graduating to a semidetached a block away from the flat we grew up in. When I first met him in Cambridge all those years ago—me on a full ride, him with a library section under his family’s name—all I could think about was how to keep him. To make his good fortune my own. Literally and figuratively.
My stepdad owned a chippy, and Mum was a homemaker. We were the opposite of influential. What would that be called? Outfluential. Mum would buy discounted potatoes at the Portuguese shop downstairs and constantly try to find Lidl coupons to buy milk and bread.
My mobile vibrated three minutes later.
I swiped the screen. “Yes?”
“Midnight. FAO Schwarz. A woman named Kayleigh is going to open the store for you. But you only have ten minutes, and the lights are gonna stay off,” BJ said reluctantly. He must’ve been pissed about my not falling at his feet.
“Oh, come on, Duffy. You know I’ve been working my ass off for the past few years. I deserve this vacation. And it’s only for six months. I’m gonna hang out with monks. Learn how to meditate.” Fractions of our breakup conversation, which had taken place at our favorite restaurant, assaulted my memory.
“That’s more than I’ll need. Thank you.”
“. . . you promised, BJ. You said you’d pop the question. I counted on you. That’s why I stayed put. My visa expires in two weeks. You can’t do this to me.”
“So . . .” BJ seemed reluctant to hang up. “I feel like you’re still mad at me. Are you ever gonna hear me out?”
“Jesus, Duff, talk about putting me under pressure. No wonder I’m second-guessing our engagement. I feel like a walking, talking meal ticket. Besides, you can always come with me to Nepal.”
“No, I cannot. I can’t leave the US if I want to stay, you wanker.”
“I heard you out at the restaurant,” I clipped out. “Honestly, I’d bleach my own ears if it meant unhearing some of the things you’ve said.”
“If all you care about is the freaking visa, just find some other sucker to marry, Duff. Just because you and my mom are pressuring me to do it doesn’t mean I’m ready for marriage. I know I said I would be, but people change their minds. It’s called growth.”