Chapter Text
I wouldn’t say it was love at first sight. If I had to label it as anything I would have to say it was lust.
Pure lust.
The evening she showed up, tanned and confident, that was the day my life changed.
Forever.
Her name was Nicole. What am I saying? Her name still is Nicole, Nicole Haught, as in Very, although I eventually found out her actual middle name from Wynonna. How did she know? How did my sister know this person who would rock my world?
Where to begin?
Perhaps the first time we met would help set the scene. So, here’s what happened. I had come to the conclusion a year travelling the world was what I truly needed before heading off to university. Several of my friends were thinking the same, although trying to persuade my best friend, Chrissy, to come with me was proving harder than I imagined. She had been looking forward to going to Oxford, while I had my doubts. I knew I would go, eventually, I just needed some me time to kick back, get enough rays on this body of mine to not look like a blanched almond in a bikini, enjoy not having to open a text book for a few months.
Sure, I completely understood all of Chrissy’s reasons for not wanting to go on the trip with me. Like the cost of travelling, both in time and funding said excursion. Except, I felt if I didn’t go then the opportunity might pass me by. It terrified me to think I’d roll out of university with a respectable law degree, then roll into some well-paid job that trapped me on the never-ending treadmill of corporate domination, then roll into middle age as a fat forty-something, without ever having done anything interesting with my life.
Plus, Wynonna was enjoying herself in Greece.
Chrissy finally bowed to pressure and agreed to come with me, but only for a few weeks. That was enough. Knowing I had convinced her to get on a plane with me was the first step. Once she got to wherever we decided would be our first destination, I knew she would fall in love with the idea of travelling and forget about rushing home to study. I can be very persuasive when I need to be.
Where did we choose to go first? Greece, of course. I'd had the occasional postcard from Wyn. Let me rephrase that. I had had precisely one postcard from my wayward sister, the image on the front too rude to reveal, saying she was having a fantastic time, suggesting I should visit once my exams were over. Okay, I’ll admit she didn’t exactly say visit. It was something along the lines of, I should think about travelling before sticking my nose in more books. That’s what she had done, and regretted not taking the chance to go see other parts of the world sooner.
That’s where they met, Wyn and Nicole. So I guess university wasn’t all bad afterall. They were in the same class, I think, or had friends in the same class. Or, some sort of connection. Something bonded those two out of the hundreds who were in their year. A shared passion for having fun, for sticking it to the establishment, for not giving a damn about consequences.
Did I mention she’s American?
California. The first American I ever spoke to. It’s weird because she’s exactly how I imagined Americans would be, loud and overly-confident, and full of it, as we Brits would say. Yet, she was also not like that at all. She could be shy if she didn’t know someone well, so quiet when thinking about things, and intelligent, super-intelligent, the kind of intelligence where she could suss another out real quick. Just like Chrissy could. Street smart. I think it’s fair to say, she’s also a heart breaker. The kind, I imagine, who does it with a smile, so you don’t feel the real pain until their bags are packed and they’re long gone.
Me, I’m far too British, read reserved, to do anything like that. I would rather suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous love than let someone know they bored me to tears. Sorry, where was I? Greece. That’s right. Wyn was glad to see us, sorting out a spare room in a friend’s house where we could stay. Nothing glamorous, a double bed which Chrissy and I shared, a small wardrobe and an equally small chest of drawers. We didn’t bother unpacking as we only intended staying a few days. Plus, Wyn’s American friend was rocking up that weekend, so we needed to be out before she arrived.
I’d not really heard much about her, other than she got a First, which apparently annoyed my sister who believed she deserved the same. Still, it didn’t seem to affect their friendship, as far as I could tell.
We were in our usual bar the evening she turned up, the bar where Wyn worked, the music loud, everyone having a good time, lots of booze, I mean lots of booze. I forget which number cocktail I was on when she arrived. More than two, less than ten. I remember her approaching the bar looking for someone. I assumed she might be lost, talking to the bartender, Wyn nowhere to be seen, probably in the store room, or taking a break. She was wearing white cut-off shorts and a black vest top, although it could have been dark blue, her hair swept off her face, her legs going on forever. Wyn never mentioned she had an American friend who had legs to die for, or that she was a redhead. But then, there’s a five-year age gap between us, so that might be the reason. The ‘little’ sister thing. Too young to understand thing.
I knew one thing as an eighteen year old sipping cocktails in that bar that particular night. The American turned heads.
I watched as my sister and the American hugged and kissed, Chrissy noticing too. “I think that’s Wyn’s friend from uni,” I told her.
“She’s fucking gorgeous,” I remember her saying. “Knows it. Guessing she’s a model.”
“Lawyer,” I offered.
“No way. With legs like that. She’s doing modelling on the side.”
Wyn spotted us looking, dragging her American friend over. “Girls this is Red. Or, as we affectionately call her Hotpants.”
I remember holding out my hand to introduce myself. Why I did that I have no idea. Such a dumb thing to do. So awkward. I’m guessing she took it out of politeness, having been around us Brits long enough to recognise we needed these silly customs to get to know one another. Assessing the strength of grip, maintaining eye contact, not too much in case you came across as weird, and not to vigorous in the movement when shaking. “Hi, I’m Nicole. You must be Waverly.”
She must have seen my pupils dilate at her knowing my name. We were still holding hands, my fault having failed to let go, Chrissy digging me in the back to be introduced. “Hi, yes I am. This is Chrissy. She’s with me. I mean, she’s travelling with me.”
“Wynonna didn’t tell me you were going to be here. Another member for our gang.”
“Yes,” hearing Chrissy snigger behind my back.
“You girls need a refill?”
“Yes. Actually, no. I’m way beyond my limit.”
“Sure I can’t tempt you?”
Oh, she could tempt me alright. It was clear she knew the effect she had on others, even women, relishing the discomfort of the person trapped by those intoxicating eyes, those sultry orbs of pure indulgence. Those, those. Where was I?
Chrissy pulled me towards the restroom for one of her private chats. “You know she’s gay right?”
My cheeks responded before my mouth could. “Totally obvious. I mean.”
“I’m betting your sister has.”
“Wyn! No, I don’t think. She would have said.”
I remember watching Chrissy apply a layer of lipstick, offering it to me. “She’s wearing a ring. Might be bi.”
I hadn’t noticed the ring. How had Chrissy noticed the ring and not me? Mind you, Chrissy was extraordinarily observant when it came to others. Her party trick was to guess a person’s profession simply by the way they walked. It’s how she got Nicole wrong. She did walk like a model, with those long legs, and that body of hers oozing sex appeal, dripping from her like honey off a sausage, which I’ll admit I loved before turning vegan. Wyn calls it my sickly sweet secret, but I don’t care. She puts sugar on tomato slices, so I feel perfectly justified in my own culinary conundrum.
“You do realise she thinks we’re gay,” Chrissy continued.
Chrissy must have seen the deepening tone of my cheeks by the laugh she let out, making others in the restroom stare. “Oh fuck. Do we tell her?”
“Nah. More fun if she thinks we’re a couple. And, we’re sleeping together, remember.”
“Do not say that,” I replied. “If she finds out we’re sharing a bed. God, I should say something.”
“Relax. It’s not like we are. Although, I might be tempted if she looked in my direction.”
“Chrissy!”
“A bit of girl on girl. Always wondered.”
“We went to a convent school.”
“All the more reason. Let’s get back, or she’ll think we’re making out.”
“Stop it. I won’t be able to look at her now. Why did I force you to come on holiday again?”
“Because you need me to keep you from getting into trouble. There’s a guy who’s been eyeing you up all evening.”
“Where?”
“Far end of the bar. White shirt with anchors on it. Not a sailor. A banker. Next drink says he’s an investment wanker.”
I knew Chrissy was right about the investment banker eyeing me from the other end of the bar. I had spied him too, not interested that particular evening in chatting to someone about how much money they made, or where they lived, or anything that reminded me of all the other dull conversations I’d had with men back in England, who thought all they needed to do was itemize their latest bank statement for me to hop into bed with them. I’d made a secret pact with myself, before we set off, that the only people I would bed would be those who were extremely good-looking, and who didn’t talk about how much money they made. I wanted ‘no-regrets’ sex with anyone not looking at me as future girlfriend material. I guess I should explain why.
As the youngest daughter of the tenth Earl of Portsmouth, I'd come to realise, with the help of Wynonna, I was being sized up by others as a potential future baby canon. Not that it matters to what I'm telling you here, but the eighth Earl moved from England to America where he lived as a rancher in Wyoming, becoming an American citizen in 1891. Having inherited the title of Earl of Portsmouth when his older brother died, he was only allowed to take his seat in Parliament after renouncing his American citizenship.
Sorry, back to my family. We live in what I would consider a modest house compared to other families in a similar situation. The promotional blurb for our ancestral home kind of sums us up: Farleigh Wallop offers the quintessential country house experience. A delightful property set in an idyllic private estate in leafy Hampshire, less than an hour’s drive from London. An ancestral seat, the estate has been beautifully restored to offer luxurious accommodation and elegant living spaces, while retaining a wonderfully relaxed and homely feel. Perfect for weekend getaways, with eleven bedrooms, catering for corporate retreats and the celebrations of discerning clients looking for a beautiful property, combined with that personal touch.
Returning to the bar, Wyn’s American friend was being introduced to other people she worked with, the guy who had been eyeing me up all night making his move. “Hi, I thought you’d left.”
“No, still here. Which bank do you work for?”
He seemed genuinely pleased I might have guessed. “Err, Goldman Sachs. I’m hoping to get into J P Morgan.”
I saw her looking over. “Kiss me.”
“Right. Only, don’t you want to know my name?"