Spare Me

Chapter 2

H aving just attended a royal engagement party at Buckingham Palace should push one firmly into the “thriving” column of life. Maddy Cartwright, however, definitely wasn’t there. Yet. Three months earlier, her parents had sat her down, told her they loved her but it was time for her to figure out her next move, and put her on a plane to London to work for one of her father’s closest Army buddies, who happened to be the US Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And while she hadn’t exactly made the independent choice to uproot her life and move across an ocean, she’d determined, upon arriving, that she was going to pull herself out of her guilt-laced grief swamp, and become Maddy 2.0. She’d made herself a list and everything.

Maddy 2.0:

Go to London and live like an independent single lady for at least a year

Finally apply to master’s programs

Have a casual fling

Learn to bake

As she stood up in the Winfield House pastry kitchen, having just slid a tray of millionaire shortbread into the oven, she could at least check off that last one. Sort of. Nadia Chatterjee, the pastry chef at the ambassador’s residence, had immediately latched on to Maddy and forcibly become her friend, chipping away at the chain mail Maddy had wrapped herself in over the last year and a half. Even though Maddy wasn’t entirely convinced she was in a good place to be someone’s friend at the moment, she’d appreciated the effort and seen it for the opportunity that it was: she’d at least be able to check off one thing on The Maddy 2.0 List. Sure, she wasn’t making the caramel herself yet, and Nadia had saved her chocolate from being over-tempered at the last possible second, but the shortbread part? Maddy more or less had that down.

Besides that, she really hadn’t made any progress on her goals. Was she living in London? She was. But she’d been there for six months, and besides jogging the ring around Regent’s Park and the occasional happy hour with some of the other attachés, she still hadn’t really managed to make herself leave Winfield House. Which made item three, “have a casual fling,” significantly more difficult. She also had a number of tabs open on her personal laptop with information about various master’s degrees in foreign service and international affairs, but she hadn’t gotten further than starting a list of prospective programs on a yellow-lined notepad on her coffee table.

“Okay, so next time, we’re going to do what?” Nadia asked, expectantly looking at Maddy, her crisp white chef’s coat and pristine sage green headscarf a stark contrast to Maddy’s flour-streaked black apron..

“Not get lost in thought while we’re stirring the chocolate,” Maddy said, simultaneously chastised and annoyed. This wasn’t the first time she’d nearly ruined one of Nadia’s desserts for an event.

“Right,” Nadia said. It seemed like she was about to say something else when they were interrupted.

“Pardon me, girls!” The cozy British-accented words came from behind a veritable flotilla of flowers.

“Eddie, what in the world is that?” Maddy asked, quickly making space on a counter for her favorite of the Winfield House butlers to put down his load.

“They were just delivered for you, Ms. Cartwright,” he said, his ruddy face finally emerging from behind the giant floral arrangement as he set it down.

“Those can’t be for me,” Maddy said dismissively. “They have to be for Mrs. Stewart. Or the ambassador. And where did they find ranunculus in October?”

“It says right here, Madeleine Cartwright,” Nadia told her, peering at the card sticking out of the aromatic riot of pinks and whites. “Have you been hiding a secret lover from me?” she demanded, looking up at Maddy with intense curiosity.

“Of course not!” She reached over and took the card from Nadia. “This has to be a mistake.”

The card was indeed addressed to her, so she opened it and started to read. Dear Madeleine , it began—only Mrs. Stewart called her that, and these definitely weren’t from her— Allow me to apologize again for my clumsiness last night. I hope your dress isn’t ruined. Please do send the dry cleaning bill to my secretary. ” A phone number and address followed. “ Warmest regards, A.W. ”

“Well?” Nadia demanded, the intense desire for the gossip sparkling in her brown eyes.

“Uh, it’s from Mr. Martini.”

“Who?”

“Okay, that’s not his real name. I don’t know his real name, although apparently his initials are A.W. Last night at the party this guy accidentally spilled an entire cocktail down my dress. He apologized all over himself and told me to send him my dry cleaning bill, but then he disappeared before I could get his name. Not that I’d send him the bill, anyway.” She paused for a second. “But he also didn’t get my name… so how the heck did he know where to send me a full greenhouse of flowers? Should I be creeped out?”

“Oh my god, that is like something out of a rom-com!” Nadia gushed. “Let me see the card!” Maddy obligingly handed it over, and Nadia scanned it quickly. “Damn, Maddy, this is some next-level romantic shit.”

“Or some next-level stalker shit.”

“Nah, there were so many important people there last night. I’m sure all he had to do was tip someone from the secretary’s office to get the guest list. How many Americans could have possibly been there?”

It was a fair point and, Maddy admitted, kind of a relief. She had come here precisely to escape everyone recognizing her, and so far it had worked. She wasn’t ready to dive back into being under a microscope constantly.

“I’m going to take these downstairs before anyone else sees them and starts asking questions,” Maddy said, hoisting the vast arrangement into her arms. “Can you get the door for me?” She peered around the side towards the door to her rooms. “And any chance there’s any lunch left?”

The embassy staff usually ate lunch at the cafeteria in the gigantic modern embassy in Nine Elms London, but the fancy LEED-certified building had sprung a number of fancy LEED-certified leaks, which meant that most of them were now working out of spare offices in Winfield House, the sprawling mansion nestled in Regent’s Park that had been home to every American ambassador in London since the 1950s. Nadia and Pierre, the main chef, had teamed up with the chefs from the embassy to start churning out lunch for the hundred or so attachés, clerks, and various other staff, serving in the vast state dining room that was normally only used for state visits and large events. Maddy had missed lunch service that day, though.

“Definitely,” Nadia said, reaching around the flowers to open the door for her friend. “How does soup and a salad sound?”

“Heavenly,” she said from behind the fragrant wall of ranunculus. “You’re the best. I’ll be right back.”

She descended the wooden stairs carefully, wondering where on earth she was going to find space for such a large arrangement. The average cultural attaché didn’t live in the embassy with the family, but then again, the average cultural attaché had to undergo a series of interviews and navigate miles of bureaucratic red tape before being assigned a duty station, whereas Maddy’s father had made a phone call to an old Army buddy.

Her rooms had once been part of the scullery, but had been retrofitted at some point during the multiple expansions and renovations of the mansion. As a result, Maddy descended an exposed stairway into her living area. It was small, and somewhat hilariously furnished with assorted pieces that had overstayed their welcome in various parts of the main house. There was a cozy sitting area at the bottom of the stairs with an overstuffed couch and an armchair circling a comically fancy coffee table juxtaposed with an oval rag rug. Beyond the living area was a small dining table with two chairs and a tiny kitchenette with a mini fridge, kettle, and microwave, as well as a microscopic bathroom with a shower and toilet. Then, opposite the entry staircase was another small staircase that led to a lofted bedroom. One entire far wall of the loft space was a soaring, arched wall of windows. It filled the room with near-blinding light when the sun was out, gave her the vague feeling of being in the dining area of a fast food restaurant circa 1992, and, she feared, would probably be chilly in the winter, but she appreciated having her own space and the fact that she didn’t have to find her own apartment on short notice in a foreign country.

After quickly assessing her options for placement of the flowers, she landed on the small table in the kitchenette since she never sat there and if she left it on the coffee table she wouldn’t be able to see the TV. As she stood back, looking at it, dwarfing everything else in her small living space, she pushed back the feelings that threatened to bubble up.

The last time anyone had sent her flowers they had been under much different circumstances. At that point she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to see a rose without feeling deep grief and gnawing guilt. She found herself idly fingering the chain that hung beneath her ivory silk boatneck shirt. This wasn’t like that. This was just a friendly, if over-the-top, gesture from a random stranger she’d probably never see again. The flowers really were pretty. She allowed herself a quick sniff of the nearest ranunculus, wondering again where Mr. Martini had sourced the flowers so far outside of their typical growing season. She let her mind wander briefly back to Nadia’s assumption that they were from a lover. The last thing she needed was to entangle herself in another relationship.

Just then, the door to the main kitchen opened and Nadia’s voice echoed down. “Come on, love! Before your soup gets cold!”

Maddy jumped, pulled from the memories of the past. She drew her hand back from the front of the blouse where, despite its existential weight, the chain made only a faint disturbance. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her navy-blue pencil skirt, and headed back to Nadia and her lunch.

When Maddy got back to the kitchen, Nadia had set a place for one with a steaming bowl of cream of roasted red pepper soup and a small garden salad. A can of Maddy’s favorite sparkling water stood next to it, and Nadia had taken the bar stool next to Maddy’s.

“So! Tell me everything about the party!” Nadia urged, leaning in expectantly.

Maddy thought back to the night before. “I mean, it was a very fancy cocktail reception,” she said. Fancy people nonsense , a familiar voice echoed in her brain. She knew her lack of enthusiasm was going to be disappointing to her friend, so she tried to dredge up some enthusiasm or interesting details. “The most exciting part was definitely getting doused with a full martini,” she said, reliving the cringeworthy moment, “and then having Mrs. Stewart ask me if I’d bathed in gin.” Nadia winced, obviously clearly imagining how that interaction must have gone. “Oh, and they had a full-on dinner gong. Like something out of a symphony hall!”

“I mean, it’s a palace. I’m sure they have a few of those just laying around. Did you see Ben and his fiancée?”

“Are we on a first-name basis with the heir to the British throne now?”

“I mean, his family colonized my country, and my taxes pay to heat his country homes and fuel his private helicopter. I think I’ve earned it.”

“Fair enough,” Maddy replied wryly, pausing to drizzle Caesar dressing over her salad. “Well, I heard the ruckus when they made their entry and sort of saw their heads over the crowd. I could see she had on a blue dress, but that was about it.”

Nadia sighed. “Next time you have to find an excuse to get closer!”

“Oh yes, I’m sure there will be many more occasions on which I get to share air with the heir.”

“Okay, well what about Prince Alex? The tabloids are all saying he’s back for good this time. ”

“Sorry, Nadia.” Maddy sighed, knowing she was disappointing her friend. “I wouldn’t be able to pick that guy out of a lineup if I had to.” She paused for a moment. “But I probably actually should Google him. Supposedly he’s coming to the planning meeting for the Armistice Day concert on Monday.”

“You think?! You definitely better Google him or you might wind up curtsying to the wrong person!”