A Brit Complicated Read online

  “I have nothing against the Queen’s English. It’s the Queen’s spelling I object to,” says Tom. “As for the colonies, let’s just note which side of the pond I’m on.”

  Tara laughs. “Indeed. Long live the Queen.”

  I don’t want to get into a long political discussion – ironic, I know, given where we are – so I nudge Tara in the side. “Greyson and Claire are just there. Do you see them?”

  She nods and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “I still can’t get over that you know Greyson Vaughn. Do I look all right?”

  Point A – Tara looks way better than all right. Her long black hair hangs in messy waves to the middle of her back, and with her full lips and slightly hooded eyes, she always looks like she’s just finished a super-hot make-out sesh. She could be a model if she were taller, but at just under five feet, she’s shorter than most twelve-year-olds.

  Point B, which I say out loud, “Greyson’s with Claire. Trust me, he’s not going to notice you.”

  “Well that’s depressing.” Tara makes a face. “If she wasn’t your friend all bets would be off, you know. I don’t meet potential sugar daddies every day of the week.”

  My heart aches a little for Tom and I say, “What on earth do you need a sugar daddy for? You’re going to make your fortunes as an architect at WS.”

  “I know.” Tara rolls her eyes. “But it’s just so much work, especially given the WS part of that equation.”

  Because Tara and I are roommates and coworkers, we’ve had our fair share of bitch sessions about Bradley Waring-Smith and his insane expectations. But before I can agree, Tom says, “Hey, no work talk, remember? Besides, here are your friends, Scarlett.”

  Sure enough, there are Claire and Greyson three feet in front of us, looking adorable. Claire’s got an arm around Greyson’s back and he looks…relaxed? I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen them together in public and Greyson’s always on high alert. Like he’s expecting the paparazzi to descend and catch him with his hand down his pants.

  “Hey, you two,” I call, tripping across a guy’s foot to land toe-to-toe with Claire. “Sorry. Trying to make an entrance.”

  “We’ll just call you Grace,” says Claire, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

  Greyson smiles and leans down to kiss my cheek, too. “It’s good to see you. I was surprised when Claire said you’d be here. This doesn’t seem like your thing.”

  Seriously? On one hand, it’s good to know my reputation is consistent. On the other, my reputation is consistently kind of crap.

  Before I can respond – either in self-defense or sarcasm – Tom extends his hand and says, “Hi, I’m Tom George. It’s nice to meet you. I figure I should get the ‘I’m a big fan’ thing out of the way.”

  Greyson shakes Tom’s hand. “Great to meet you, too. Where are you from in the States?”

  I hear Tom say Long Island and turn to Claire. “Hey, lovely. You remember Tara? Beware, she’s got a thing for your boyfriend.”

  “I do not.” Tara bumps my arm and turns her attention to Claire. “I think we’ve met. You were at the flat a few weeks ago and I buzzed in to grab my purse.”

  Claire nods. “I remember. You had a date waiting at the pub down the street. Did it work out?”

  “They never work out, but I like to keep the door revolving.” Tara offers a fleeting grin and says, “Should we try to move up a little?”

  Number Ten Downing Street is almost right next door to Horse Guards Parade, and given the size of the crowd, I’m not sure there’s much moving to be done. Claire looks skeptical, too, and says, “I’m all for staying here until the actual march starts.”

  “Speaking of, what are you guys doing here? This seems like the kind of thing that would make Greyson break out in hives,” I say.

  “God, no. The minute he found out about this, he texted and asked me if I would meet him so we could come together. He’s so frustrated by the whole global political situation that having something tangible he can do is a win-win. Plus, I’m not too pleased with the way this has been handled. Who does the PM think we are?” Claire’s voice rises to a level usually reserved for talking about her grandmother.

  “The way I see it, if we don’t stand up, it’s the same thing as approval,” Tara starts. She continues talking as Claire nods and I tune her out.

  On the other side of me, Greyson and Tom debate the merits of various New York pizza places. All around me, people talk, gesture, and wave signs. The atmosphere is upbeat. It’s not a party, but it’s not a far cry from angry and angsty. Definitely not what I expected. Maybe this does beat being in the office?

  When a whistle sounds over the crowd, a cheer erupts. Followed by the group next to me starting to chant, “Human rights are not optional.” I peek at my watch. Six o’clock on the dot. Brits are nothing if not prompt, even in protest.

  The crowd surges forward and I stumble, grabbing the arm of the guy next to me. I look up to apologize and freeze. Shit, shit, shit, what are the odds? A million to one? Greyson Vaughn to Jack Black? That doesn’t even make any sense, which is a clear sign I’m flummoxed.

  Because the arm my silver-painted nails dig into as I try to regain my balance belongs to none other than Bradley Waring-Smith.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Scarlett?” Bradley Waring-Smith looks down at my hand. “What are you doing here?”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I settle for the truth. “I came with Tom and Tara.”

  Bradley looks around and then back to my hand, which is still wrapped around his forearm. His very muscular forearm, if my grip doesn’t deceive me. I let go like he’s on fire and he says, “Well, good to see you.”

  That doesn’t sound convincing, but instead of saying something similar and moving away, I can’t help asking, “What are you doing here?”

  Let’s face it. If being at a protest march doesn’t seem like my thing, it certainly doesn’t seem like Mr. Workaholic’s. So, it wouldn’t surprise me if his being here were accidental. As in, ‘I was trying to get to Regent’s Park and took a wrong turn.’ I would believe that. Harder to believe? When Bradley says, “Taking a stand like everybody else.”

  “Against the U.K. government, the company they’re keeping, or both?” Bradley Waring-Smith is American, but he’s expanding his business in the U.K., which means he’s impacted by U.K. politics. I get that. But I still don’t get why he’s here.

  “If I had to choose, I’d protest your PM, specifically. Silence in these situations is the same as consent and I can’t condone that.” For a second I’m afraid Bradley’s going to start listing issues and I’m going to have to pretend to be more well-informed than I really am, but instead he says, “Where are Tom and Tara?”

  Oh crap. I don’t want to get separated from them. I look around, but I can’t see them. Or Greyson and Claire. They were talking and moving, and for all I know they’ve been swallowed up by the crowd. Which means I’m here with Bradley Waring-Smith or on my own. At least that choice is clear. “I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll find them.”

  I move to step away, but then Bradley says, “Why don’t you stay with me until you do?”

  Um, because if I stay with you the chances we’ll have to speak go up by a thousand percent, which seems like a bad idea all around. Worse if I take into account we’re not in the office with a stack of papers in front of us, so what on earth do we talk about?

  It’s not like Bradley and I have never talked. We have. But not spontaneously. Unless you count the few times we’ve met in the kitchen and chatted while waiting for the kettle to boil. But that’s a minute, maybe two, always with an end in sight. This? Not so much.

  However, there’s no graceful exit now. Besides the fact my friends have disappeared, I’m not keen on getting through this crowd. So I say, “Sure, thanks. Great idea.”

  Bradley shuffles forward with the crowd and I follow. I want to pull my phone out and call Claire or Tara, but what if that comes acr
oss as I don’t want to be here with you? I don’t want to be here with him, but I don’t want to look desperate to escape either. Then again, what if he’s waiting for me to phone them? He said he’d stay with me until I found them, but it wasn’t exactly an invitation.

  I’m second-guessing myself all over the place, so I’m distracted when Bradley says, “Pardon me for saying so, but this doesn’t seem like your scene.”

  “Wow. I’m glad to know I’ve made such a positive impression all around.” The words are out before I can stop them.

  Bradley raises his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “You’re right. Tom guilted me into coming, so here I am. Otherwise, I’d still be sat at my desk working on my designs.” This was beating that by a hair, but not anymore.

  Bradley raises an eyebrow at me. “Well, surely being here at this march you want no part of is better than still being in the office? It’s a gorgeous evening.”

  I swear there’s a smile lurking in his eyes, but it doesn’t make me feel any less flustered. I mean, yes, being here is better than being in the office. Sort of. But I can’t say that to the boss. I settle on, “Let’s just say it’s nice to be out of the office at six o’clock.”

  “If you want to be out of the office by six o’clock, why don’t you leave at six o’clock?”

  “I thought…” I don’t know what I thought. The truth is I thought putting in more hours would make me appear more dedicated, which I thought would help me rise through the ranks more quickly. I want to be part of the luxury accounts team within the year, which is next to impossible, I know. But I didn’t write my grad school thesis, “The Impact of Color and Art in the Workplace on Employee Satisfaction,” to be relegated to workplace design even if – as my mum is so fond of pointing out – my current job description could have been lifted almost word-for-word from my thesis. However, as my mum’s also fond of pointing out, if there’s anyone who’s got an eye and a taste for luxury, it’s me.

  I also didn’t park my dream of being a “real” artist to be stuck designing meeting rooms, but that’s another thing altogether. A thing I try not to dwell on.

  Bradley shrugs. “There’s no policy about working hours. Tom leaves at six most nights.”

  This is true, but I thought it was because he’s already paid his dues. “Has he always done that?”

  “Apart from client events or occasional crises, yes.”

  I’m about to ask what constitutes a crisis when the crowd around us erupts into chanting as we approach Downing Street. It takes me several rounds to figure out what they’re saying until I realize the chant is, “Worker’s rights are human rights.” When I look up, Bradley isn’t half-heartedly chanting along, he’s shouting. The veins in his forehead stand out and his tie looks too tight around his neck. It’s disconcerting, and not only because he looks angry, but because he looks so…passionate.

  I mean, sure he’s passionate at work. It’s his company after all, and you don’t achieve his level of success at such a young age without passion. But that’s work passion. This is boardroom-to-bedroom type passion. It’s…hot.

  My eyes dart away from Bradley Waring-Smith faster than if he just flashed his privates at me. Good God. It’s one thing to think he’s hot within his glass castle. It’s another when he’s next to me on the street without a design document in sight.

  I pull my phone from my bag and scroll to Claire’s number. Screw it. I don’t care if I look rude or self-involved. It’s better than looking interested.

  In my boss.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Unfortunately for me, Claire doesn’t answer. But Tom does when I call him next. “Where the hell are you?” I yell into my mobile.

  “Just past Number Ten,” Tom yells back. “What happened to you?”

  “I turned around and you were gone. I’m fine, but where am I going to meet you?” I need an escape plan. Fast.

  “We were talking about going over to Punjab in Covent Garden for a curry. Do you want to go or do you need to go back to work?” Of course Tom would ask this question. He knows my schedule as well as I do.

  I glance up at Bradley. He’s stopped chanting along with the crowd and is looking at me now. Shit, shit, shit. I’m going to have to invite him and his muscular forearms to join us. And his flushed face and straining neck muscles that, yep, are still hot. Dammit. I need to get that thought out of my head right now. Maybe I don’t have to invite him. But will it be awkward if I don’t?

  To Tom, I say, “I’m in. Text me when you’re leaving and I’ll find my way. It’s going to be madness to try to meet up with you here.”

  Tom says something and hangs up and I turn my brightest smile on Bradley. “Tom says afterwards they’re going over to Covent Garden for a curry. Do you want to join?”

  Bradley’s eyes go wide. “Join whom?”

  It doesn’t escape me that he uses proper grammar, which makes me want to giggle for some reason. Instead I amp up my smile. “Tom, Tara, my friend Claire, and her boyfriend.”

  “Why are you inviting me?” Bradley’s face is expressionless.

  Because I feel bad making plans in front of you that don’t include you. Aloud, I say, “Um, why not?”

  “We don’t normally socialize.” The way he says it is matter-of-fact, but I kind of want to sink through the pavement. “I wouldn’t want to make you and your friends uncomfortable because you had a moment of goodwill.”

  He also doesn’t say he’s not keen to come. Just that he wouldn’t want to make us uncomfortable. Which puts the ball in my court. “My goodwill is variable, but the offer stands. You’re out of the office early, too. May as well live a little.”

  “Depending on which dish you choose, your stomach may wish you’d stayed in the office.” This time Bradley does smile. It’s a small one, but it transforms him enough that I catch myself smiling back.

  “Tara and I hit this place pretty often. I promise we won’t lead you astray.”

  “What’s your favorite dish?”

  “I usually go for chicken tikka masala. Don’t worry, I know it’s lame.” A fact Tara points out every single time we go out for Indian food. A few years ago, chicken tikka masala was proclaimed the national dish of Great Britain. Tara says this is proof that it’s boring because you can’t have high hopes for the new national dish from the country that coined bangers and mash.

  “That is lame.” This time when Bradley smiles, it’s accompanied by a small laugh.

  “Oh, come on. What do you usually have?”

  “I like the tasting menu at Bhaati over off King’s Road. It reminds me of my mom’s cooking, but with exceptional presentation. Failing that, I like a decent lamb rogan josh or a vindaloo if I’m feeling up to challenging my digestive system.” Anyone else would sound like a total tosser saying that, but not Bradley. He sounds…real.

  “Is your mum Indian?” I’m not sure why I find this so surprising, but I’ve never thought of Bradley as even having parents. Of course, I’ve not thought about Bradley outside of work, period, but let’s focus on one thing at a time.

  “She’s Pakistani, but she cooks both Pakistani and Indian dishes. My father always preferred more traditional Indian food, so we had more of that.”

  So is his dad not around anymore? And is/was his dad American? Those are the questions I’m dying to ask, but what I ask instead is, “What’s the difference between Pakistani and Indian food?”

  Bradley turns to look at me, his mouth agape. “That’s like asking what’s the difference between Japanese and Chinese food. It shouldn’t even be a question.”

  His disdain is palpable, and I shrivel a little inside. “My bad. I didn’t realize.”

  “I’m no connoisseur, but perhaps I’m more of one than you, Ms. Chicken Tikka Masala.” Bradley smiles, but before I can retort, he continues. “Maybe you’ll join me at Bhaati one day and you can see what real Indian food tastes like?”

  Note: we’ve veered into the Twilight
Zone when Bradley Waring-Smith is asking me to dinner.

  I’m smart enough to understand it’s not a real invitation, but I’m sure a river in hell is freezing over nonetheless. “That would be, um, great. There’s a good Thai place over there, too.”

  Bradley nods. “I like Thai food.”

  Oh God. He doesn’t think my invitation is real, does he? That would only happen in the Twilight Zone. “Tonight we’re still talking Indian. Are you coming with?”

  Bradley stops and stares at me like he’s trying to read my innermost thoughts. Problem is, my innermost thought right now is, “Rescue me.”

  Especially when he says, “Being asked to join you and your friends isn’t the same thing as being welcome.”

  For fuck’s sake. This is what I get for trying to be nice to my boss. Note to self: never do that shit again. “Shall I decide for you? Come with. Leave when you feel uncomfortable. The end.”

  Bradley gives me that long stare again and nods. “Okay. That would be nice. Thank you.”

  “Fabulous.”

  Who am I kidding? So not fabulous.

  Bradley and I shuffle along through the crowd and as we reach the end of the protest route, we veer off towards Covent Garden. The crowd thins and it becomes even more apparent we have nothing to say to each other. My mind spins, but everything I think of is either work-related or too personal and I don’t want to go in either direction. So we trudge along in silence that feels like being stuck in a sleeping bag with a broken zipper.

  Until it doesn’t. I’m not sure when the tension between us dissolves, but as we pass by the Royal Opera House, Bradley turns to me and says, “I forgot how busy it is over here. I don’t get out to this part of the city as much as I’d like to.”

  “I’m sure it’s more so than normal tonight because of the march. And you were right. It’s kind of a perfect summer evening.” The temperature is warm but not hot and there’s still plenty of sun, even approaching eight p.m.

  “I should get out of the office more.” Bradley smiles a little and rolls his eyes. “I may as well be in Cleveland for all I’ve seen of London.”