I’ve decided on my ‘Tilly kinda place.’ I said to Drew on the phone. “A jazz club. Not a seedy one mind you. A classy one.”
“That, darling I can do. Are you sure? Don’t feel influenced because of the circus that surrounds me.”
“I’m not. I’m intrigued.” I replied.
Now, replaying the line…‘The circus that surrounds me’ in my head it’s tempting to grab the statement and delve into the truth of the media coverage; the accusations that Drew is a ‘James Dean wannabe, an array of models he has cast aside, leaving them with bitter hearts and stories to tell.’
The media is hardly a source of bona fida information. Yet, are lack of facts, indeed often twisted facts, a weighty enough reason for me to blatantly ignore it all? Is it my place to ask so soon? To date, Drew has givenmeno reason not to trust him, so…
Gah! A bad rep though, hovers like a distant hawk, always knowing when to strike. Always ready. I would be foolish not to listen to its low beat hum surely? Not that I would admit ANY of this to Vic or Erin you understand.
This analysis lark is far too heavy for a Monday morning, especially when it’s my day off. There’s only one antidote. Self-beauty day.
I wave to Harriet and the other staff on the way out. An hour later I wave at them all again when I return with purchases of foot scrub, a new eyeliner and exquisite thick writing paperembossed with a flower in the cornerof eachpage.
No one pays much attention to me though, as a loud, young American woman is demanding to speak to the manager. Harriet looks frazzled by the woman, who is appalled no less, because the book she wants isn’t available, not just any book, HER book.
I dither by the new author display and the door to Vic’s office whether I should go and rescue Harriet, then Vic flies out the office door like the hawk that is always ready… I’ll deal with this Tilly.” She says. Cool with me, I’ve feet to pamper. It seems in hand so, carefree, I return to my boudoir for the day.
I’ve fluffed and buffed everything that can be, blow dried my hair, smoothed the waves, applied a little blush to my cheeks and matt pink lip balm. I stay seated at my dressing table and place my new paper carefully down in front of me to write…I totally should be in Paris for this.
Dear man with the arrow in his heart with my name on it
Dear random man in Paris
Why are you so elusive? Why do I find it so hard to meet you? Are you Drew or another you who won’t break my heart?
Do I keep making a wrong turn on the right day? Or something equally dumb,so I keep missing our fated meeting? Am I destined to be alone and become a strange old woman who owns a bookstore and has loads of cats?
I don’t understand it at all, I’ve seldom had luck in the love arena. I’m a good catch (I think) and at times, I feel your presence in my space. It’s like your spirit has shown up before you have. I wonder if you feel me in that way too.
I have a career ahead of me and a life style to admire. I know my age and I know my blessing,I truly do, but where are you? Life doesn’t fit quite right without you. It hurts. Although you elude me and confuse me, you are as precious to me as fingers are to a pianist. I hope you know this.
I hope one day the spirit I feel will have a beautiful face and a hand to hold. That we will cherish our talents, live our passions and adore each other’s soul.
Please note, you,I like my high standards and old school ways. I expect romance, authentic style and honesty (always), but you’re a gentleman so you will know this anyway, but I thought I would mention it just in case the masses have made you forget the importance of how to treat a lady.
Until our next rendezvous in another letter or, for real…pass the glam babe, it’s you. I’ve always known it was you.
P.S Expect more of these letters, I like to write them. Far more sexy and warm don’t you think?
I spray the letter with a squirt of perfume, place it an envelope and write ‘To You’ on it.
I slide my secret box out from the top shelf of one the boudoir’s cupboards. It’s an old box made from mirrors, with clear crystal knobs on its drawers. I think it’s meant for jewelry and trinkets, but I put important conversations in it.
I pick out other notes, letters and pictures I have placed in it over the years and Damn! I’d forgotten about this one, I open the envelopeand read it.
My idea for the bookstore! A high fashion,yet old school section, well experience, not a section – that – would be boring and insulting to the glamour etiquette. An idea similar to the children’s one mum and dad created. This would so work in Paris too.
Tilly, you are brilliant sometimes. A pure genius I tell myself in the mirror as I reach for my phone.
“Mum, it’s me. Call me back. Seeing as you and dad won’t make it back to London. Why don’t I come to Paris for my birthday instead?”
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