Ch 65 ~ Tea For Three

The Rosebery isn’t what Rachel would imagine if someone asked her to have afternoon tea.  In fact, after she’d given her order to the waitress, she found that the literature on the table had it tagged as one of the “most fashionable” destinations in London. 

Rachel would’ve been intrigued either way, but fashionable, classic or Buckingham Palace didn’t much matter to Jon when it came to tea.  He’d no interest in what he considered a ‘chick thing’ and, when she’d asked him to join her, Jon begged her to go alone while he was at sound check.

“Rach, please don’t make me eat scones and drink tea with my pinky in the air.  I shopped with you.  I took you to Paris.  I bought you a big fuckin’ ring and had my proposal stuffed back down my throat for the seven hundredth time.  Doesn’t all that count for something?”

It did.  It counted for a lot – which was why she was analyzing the unique décor seated alone at a table for two on a Tuesday afternoon.   

Whereas one could be forgiven for assuming petite cabbage rose upholstered chairs, heavily curtained windows and walls covered by portraits of the Duke of Earl and his entire family tree, The Rosebery didn’t fit that traditional mold.  The chairs were more art deco club chairs with nubby avocado upholstery and the art was... Well the brightly hued abstract paintings were definitely not family portraits. 

No, this definitely wasn’t someplace Miss Havisham would have festooned, but the menu was nothing short of classic in its offerings.  Sandwiches came with options of smoked salmon tartar, Cotswold egg and mustard cress, cucumber and cream cheese.  There was, of course, scones and the requisite clotted cream as well as expanded options of strawberry jam, rose petal jelly and homemade lemon curd not to mention a wide variety of classic and exotic teas. 

Rachel was most intrigued by the pastries menu, however.  She had already placed her order for a variety of the finger-sized sandwiches along with a whole rosebud tea, but she couldn’t seem to decide on her dessert pastry.  Which would be most ‘English’ - blood orange curd tart, citrus macaroons, strawberry gavroise or Black Forest gateau?

She had just folded her hands on the table, having nearly decided on a madeleine when a very familiar voice summoned her attention.

“I must say that the photos didn’t do justice to your new ring.”

Swiveling around in disbelief, she discovered that her ears had not been playing tricks on her.  James was here.  Now.  Pulling out the empty chair on the opposite side of the small table. 

“James.  What are you doing here?”

It was an idle, passing thought that he looked tired.  Dashing as always in a baby blue Polo shirt and khaki slacks, but tired. 

“I must say that I’ve asked myself the same question more than once,” he admitted, leaning back in the retro chair and hooking one leg over the other.  “Yes, I had a business meeting with one of our counterparts in the city, but it could’ve been easily accomplished by a video call.  Instead, I chose to fly across the Atlantic so that I could make a side trip to assure myself that you aren’t making a huge mistake.  Although it’s turned into more than that now.”

Rachel was dumbfounded.  “You’ll have to excuse me if I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

His chiseled chin dipped toward her left hand, which was currently perched on the linen tablecloth.  “From all accounts and appearances, you’ve gotten yourself hitched.”

“Oh.”  Her eyes flicked to the magnificent specimen of jewelry that adorned her ring finger, absently wondering if she’d ever look at it without a trill of excitement hastening her pulse.  “I’ve been blissfully unaware of the media’s take on my new jewelry.  Are they saying I’m engaged?”  Then she laughed at herself, realizing that was absurd.  “I should ask, are they saying Jon is engaged?”

“Flashy diamond ring.  Left hand.  He has a wedding band of some sort.  Speculation is that you’re married.”

The pulse that went double-time at the sight of her diamond took another jump.

Married.

To Jon.

For all intents and purposes, she was and that was the objective behind the rings.  Rachel didn’t know why the fruition of that flummoxed her so much. 

“I see.”

“What I see is that you’ve been practicing saying nothing when you speak.  Very celebrity-esque.” 

Her eyes flicked up to his eyes, surprised that there was no annoyance creasing the familiar brow that she’d known for so long.  James actually wore a bemused smile, seeming entertained by her neutrality rather than frustrated. 

She returned his smile, for a moment being transported back to a time when they had been as close as any two people could be.  This was the James she remembered from her younger years.

                                                           ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Would you like another, sir?”

Richie tore his eyes away from the pair in the tea room next door to smile at the bartender.  “Always assume that the answer to that is yes, unless I’m unconscious.”

On par with what he felt to be the typical British demeanor, the bow-tied barkeep didn’t display even the slightest hint of mirth.  Geoffrey merely nodded his understanding and poured a replacement for the adult beverage that Richie had just imbibed.

No fuckin’ sense of humor, these limey bastards.  If it wasn’t for The Beatles and The Stones... and Led Zeppelin.  And The Who.  Oh, and Queen.  Well, anyway, they wouldn’t be...

Rachel’s lilting laughter distracted him from his silent rant against the Motherland, and he turned back in that direction with his fresh drink in hand.  Tipping the glass to his lips, he sat back to enjoy a bit of people watching. 

He had no idea who the GQ-looking dude was, but Rachel clearly knew him.  They looked very...  chummy. 

Huh.  They don’t make a bad lookin’ couple either.

Not that Richie would ever make that observation aloud.  If he relished his job – and his friendship with Jon – that little factoid should be added to the list of secrets that went to the grave. 

He snorted. 

Secrets to the grave with himself. 

Hell if that isn’t some kind of Vulcan mind-meld, psychologically deranged shit. Next thing you know I’ll be my own best friend and prick my hand so I can be my own blood brother.

GQ George accepted a bite of Rachel’s food, making a screwed up face of disgust.  That must have delighted her, because the lilting laughter from earlier became heartier and drew the attention of a few more patrons who turned toward the couple with smiles of their own.

Clearly, he wasn’t the only one who thought they looked okay together. 

Whoa.  What the...?

Rachel had slipped the ring from her hand, passing it to her companion with a careless shrug.  The ring that Richie personally knew carried a price tag heftier than his last several royalty checks.  That Jon had gone to great pains - he’d had his assistant interview at least six jewelers – to select specifically for Rachel.  The guy had even gone so far as to ask Richie’s opinion on the style and size of the ring, wondering if it was too much or not enough. 

Yeah, that ring was just passed over with a casual, blasé attitude so that GQ could offer it a look of semi-disgust before he palmed it and stashed it someplace that Richie couldn’t see. 

Richie pushed to his feet. 

Oh, I know that fucker didn’t just pocket Rachel’s engagement, commitment, wedding, what-the-fuck-ever ring.  And I know that she didn’t just let him.

No, she didn’t.  Her palm was out and her manicured fingers were wiggling in the universal gesture of “give it to me”. 

Resuming his barstool, Richie huffed with satisifaction and signaled for another drink even as he remained vigilant. 

If that fucker doesn’t cough the rock up, I will rip off his GQ head and shit down his Ralph Lauren wearin’ neck.

He needn’t have worried.  Not only did the man return the ring, he put it on Rachel’s finger – with a look in his eyes that virtually screamed “she’s mine”.

And Rachel let him.

Holy mother fuckin’ rat shit sonofabitch....

                                                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

“Tell ‘em to go fuck themselves,” Jon groused the instant he found out.  “You’re mine for another few days and I don’t want you leaving early.”

“Jon…”  She took a deep breath and tried to explain again, patiently.  “I’m not any happier about this than you are, but it’s my job.  I have to go and take care of business.”

“A job you don’t need, Rachel.  A job you’re taking away from somebody who doesn’t have a…  boyfriend, significant other, life partner, whatthefuckever I am… to provide for her.”

“Oh my word, now you’re being ridiculous!”

“Am I?”  He ran an impatient hand through his hair and smacked his hat from the desk, not caring when it careened into the lamp before dropping to the floor.  “You don’t need to work and you know it.”

“Um.  Yes, I do.”

If for no other reason than her own sense of self-worth, she needed to work.  Rachel had been gracious about the house, the car and the credit cards, but she would give them all back in a split second if he didn’t get this.

“Stop acting like a spoiled brat, Jon.  You’re completely overreacting to a situation that is nothing more than an annoying inconvenience.”

His response was to glower at her.  Silently.

“If you had to dart off somewhere in the name of work and I couldn’t go with you, I’d kiss you goodbye and wish you a safe trip,” she reasoned.  “I would appreciate the same courtesy and lack of drama.”

“That’s different.  I have to work.”

“Do you?”  Rachel propped her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him.  “Do you really?  Because your net worth of a gazillion dollars isn’t enough?  Because you and your kids are going to drain the millions of dollars you have in this lifetime?  You could go home now and live the rest of your life on your royalties, and you know it!”

He grumbled something under his breath that she couldn’t make out.

“What did you say?”

“I said I want a fucking football team!”

She rolled her eyes and sighed, approaching him slowly.  When she got close enough, she tugged his arm until she could wrap hers around him.

“Want, not need.  Just like I want to work.  Goose, gander.  Pot, kettle.  Any of that ring a bell?”

He frowned petulantly, but still draped his arms around her waist.  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No.”  Popping up on her toes, Rachel pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.  “And I love that you don’t like it, because right now I don’t like it either.  We just have to deal with it.  Okay?”

“Whatever,” he huffed, although he was noticeably free of his irrational anger now.  “But you’d better be in Jersey for Meadowlands.  That’s all I’m sayin’.”