Chapter Text
Mel loves London.
She’s always loved it, ever since she’d done a play on the West End in her 20s. London was busy and hectic, like New York, but there was just something magical about London that New York lacked. New York was where she slogged away waiting tables and doing every audition that came her way until her big break almost ten years ago. New York was where she’d lost her parents, where her longtime boyfriend broke up with her when she got “too busy,” where she takes meetings with publicists and brand managers and does press—everything she doesn’t like about her job. At least LA has Becca. And sunshine.
So London—although very rainy, but she’s learning to love it—doesn’t have the same baggage. London is still shiny and beautiful and full of potential.
Less people recognize her here, which is also nice. She can wear a hat and sunglasses—as long as she avoids the braid she’d become famous for—and disappear in the crowd. Although she lived in London for eight months and has visited so many times she’s lost count, she’s never visited Notting Hill.
Outgoing text, 12:47pm
Just going to try out a few more shops
Then I’ll be ready to be picked up!
Jack, 12:52pm
I’ll send Donnie over.
Outgoing text, 12:53pm
Thank you!
Mel dodges several people on the sidewalk—it’s a busy day in Notting Hill, apparently—and makes her way across the street to a sweet looking bookstore. A bell rings as she opens the door, and she automatically looks down at the floor, hiding her face from view.
“Hi there,” the cashier says from behind the counter. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” Mel mumbles, and makes her way down the nearest aisle.
She’d always loved bookstores. Used bookstores, especially—knowing that the book she’s taking home has a history, has had a life before it wound up on her shelves, that’s always been thrilling. It’s a little fanciful, but Mel likes to think that while she’s away her books talk to each other, tell each other their stories, their previous lives on different shelves. It makes her happy to think that she’s cultivating a little community of books, of whole worlds on her shelves.
Makes her feel better about leaving her beautiful home in LA alone for so much of the year.
Mel picks a pretty looking book off the shelf—it’s a travel book, which she wasn’t expecting, but that’s on her for being drawn to colors instead of titles. Mel puts the book back—she’s not in the market for a travel book on Turkey—and makes her way down the aisle, around the end, and to a different section. Maybe there’s some mystery novels in this corner.
Well, no, apparently. Just more travel books.
Mel wanders through the small store—it’s overflowing with books, she feels right at home—but is disappointed when she only finds more and more travel books.
“You missed the sign didn’t you?”
Mel looks up to see the cashier from before making his way down the aisle.
“What?”
“It’s a travel bookshop,” the man says. “We only sell travel books.”
“Well that’s great news,” Mel responds lightly, trying to not be embarrassed. “As I’m in the market for a travel book.”
The man grins, and Mel finds herself a little taken aback by his dimples and slightly dazzling smile.
“Can I ask where you might be looking to travel? Maybe I can help.”
It’s at this moment, Mel realizes this man is speaking in an American accent.
“Oh,” she says stupidly. “You’re American.”
“As are you,” the man answers, leaning against one of the shelves. He is frightfully attractive, isn’t he, all hair and dimples and jawline. “But I’m nice enough not to mention it.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m just kidding,” he says, sticking out his hand for her to shake. “I’m Frank.”
“Mel,” she proffers before she can think better of it. She shakes his hand and realizes the exact moment he places her because the motion stops but he doesn’t let go, his eyes widen and he lets out a gasp of a laugh.
“Mel,” he says lightly, seemingly amused. “Yes, you are.”
Mel retrieves her hand and smiles tightly. “I’m looking for a book on London, if you have it.” She’s not. “A local’s guide, maybe? Not something with all the touristy stuff.” She’d lived here for eight months a few years ago, she certainly doesn’t need a book, but. Needs must.
“Sure,” Frank says, tilting his head. “Just up here.”
Frank leads the way back to the front—thankfully the books on London aren’t in any place she’d checked yet, so she doesn’t look like too much of an idiot—and hands her a thick book with a fading image of the London Eye.
“That’s the one you want,” he explains. “It’s got a bit of the tourist places, but it focuses mainly on the hidden gems, the out of the way things.”
“That’s perfect,” she says with a small smile. “Thank you.”
Frank gives her a strange look and Mel abruptly wonders what he’s seen her in. She can tell usually—any young kids who stop her are usually prompted by their parents who know she voiced the latest Disney princess. Anyone in their 20s loved her in the medical drama she became famous for—she had a will they/won’t they romance with a colleague on the show that 20something women usually want to ask her about. And anyone older knows her from the father/daughter action movie she did with Harrison Ford several years ago.
For some reason, she’s curious as to what Frank knows her from.
“How much do I owe you?” she asks, running her hand over the cover of the book.
Frank frowns. “Oh, don’t worry about it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It’s not every day a real life celebrity graces the shop,” Frank jokes, and there’s something about the way he crosses his arms over his chest that makes Mel’s heart flip over in her chest. “And this is an old copy, truly, don’t worry about it.”
“But—”
“Miss King, really—” he makes eye contact with her, and she feels struck dumb looking in his bright blue eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”
“If you insist,” she ends up saying, but she’s not entirely sure how it comes out of her mouth, given that she doesn’t remember how to use her voice at all.
“I do,” Frank says, taking the book from her hands and wrapping it up for her. He hands the small plastic bag back to her—Harry’s Travel Books is printed neatly on the outside—smiles, and says, “That book helped me a lot when I first moved here, I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Mel replies, suddenly desperate to leave so she can get a hold of her somersaulting heart. “Thank you. Frank.”
His breath catches in his chest and he lets out a small, aborted breath. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
Mel exits the bookstore—quickly and clumsily, she’s sure—and it’s only when she’s safely ensconced in the towncar that she even thinks to look at the book she’s just been given.
It’s an old book, that’s for sure, maybe 20 years old? The cover is faded with age and sun, the spine is broken in and the pages are worn, like they’ve been thumbed through quite a few times. And on the title page, an inscription—
Maybe this book will help you be on time next time, Francis.
Much love, Harry & Elsie.
Oh.
This book is Frank’s. A book from Frank’s parents, maybe? To him? Why would he give this away? Gifted books, loved books are so special, they deserve to stay with those that loved them.
“Hey, Donnie?” she calls out to her driver, running her hands over the cover once more. “I’m so sorry, do you think we could go back? I think I left something.”
“Sure thing.”
“Sorry, Donnie.”
“No worries.”
They wind their way through the streets of London back to Notting Hill, where it’s still as busy as ever.
“I don’t mind the walk, Donnie,” she tells him when he can’t find a place to park. “Just let me out and take a lap or two? I’ll be back soon, I promise.” Mel gets out of the car, loved book in hand, and makes her way through the crowded street back to the bookshop.
She’s almost there, can see the little blue awning and Harry’s Travel Books on the window, when someone runs into her and splashes orange juice all over her white sweater.
“Oh, fuck,” the other person yelps, and Mel has to stifle a few choice curse words herself. “Here, let me help you—”
“I’m fine,” Mel insists, groaning at the enormous stain setting on one of her favorite sweaters. “Really, it’s fine—”
“Oh—hello again.”
Mel looks up to see Frank, bright blue eyes, messy hair, dimple out in force, standing in front of her with a half empty cup of orange juice.
“Frank,” she laughs. “I was just coming to look for you.”
“For me?” he asks, incredulous. “Why?”
“This book, it’s too much.”
“The book?” Frank’s eyebrows raise. “Too much?”
“Yes, you have to take it back, it’s too—”
“Here,” he says, his eyes darting between her face and the—no doubt—widening stain on her shirt, “why don’t we get you cleaned up and we can talk about it. I live just across the way, just right there, the big blue door.”
Mel follows his pointed thumb to see the aforementioned big blue door and before she can think better of it she’s nodding. “That would be great, thank you.”
It’s only when he shuts the door behind them that she thinks he could be a murderer. He could be a serial killer, a stalker, a paparazzi, she doesn’t know him. All she knows is he runs the cash register at a travel bookshop and probably recognized her. That doesn’t mean anything.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, stepping over some children’s toys, and Mel’s shoulders release some tension.
Would a serial killer have Peppa Pig stuffed animals and an open jar of peanut butter on the table?
“No worries,” she says lightly, amused at how frantically he moves about the space trying to clean up. “Do you have a shirt or something—”
“Yes!” Frank exclaims, holding up an old newspaper and a stuffed animal in his excitement. “Yes, one second.”
Mel looks around the apartment as Frank absconds up the stairs. It’s not large, but it’s not small. Well, maybe Mel’s gotten too used to staying in nice hotels, it’s actually a lovely apartment. The kitchen they had just walked through is kind of small, but there’s enough room for a small table, and from the looks of it there’s a decent sized living room just up the stairs a little. It’s clear that children spend time here, but it’s also clear that children don’t live here. There are toys everywhere, but there’s not a huge mess like she might expect from children. No crayon drawings on the wall, no clothing strewn everywhere, just a myriad of toys and stuffed animals in various places.
“Okay, I have a few different options,” Frank calls from a few floors above as he thunders down the stairs, “although they’ll all probably be fairly big for you—”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” she says, setting Frank’s book on the table. Truthfully, the orange juice has started to congeal with the sweater, creating an awful texture on her skin, so Mel will be thrilled to be in literally anything else.
Frank rounds the corner with several different shirts and sweaters in hand. “Take whatever you want, the bathroom’s on the top floor, the knob’s a little fiddly, sorry—”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine, thanks,” Mel placates, taking a few steps up the stairs towards him and accepting the clothing from his outstretched hands. “Top floor?”
“Top floor,” Frank nods, and Mel makes her way up the stairs.
She decides on the generic Pittsburgh sweater—they’d lived in Pittsburgh until she was 8, so she feels drawn to it anyway, but it’s also a beautiful deep blue and the font is slightly faded, like he’s worn it a lot. It reminds her of the book he gave her—loved—and Mel finds herself at home in the soft, worn cotton of the sweater.
When she walks back down the stairs she feels silly. She feels nervous, for no reason, which makes her feel silly. She never likes to think of herself like this, but she’s a movie star, for god's sake. A boy shouldn’t make her so nervous, no matter the color of the eyes or the cut of his jaw.
But Frank gave her a book that was loved, and a sweater that was very worn, and his eyes are very, very blue, and she feels a little taken aback by it all.
“Thank you,” she says halfway down the stairs to announce her presence. Frank turns from his place in the kitchen—it’s all remarkably cleaner than when she was just here, and it amuses her that he’s spent the last few minutes frantically tidying.
“Well, it was my fault in the first place, it’s the least I could do to try to fix it.”
“Nonetheless.”
Mel takes the last few steps slowly, becoming more and more on level footing with him. When she finally steps down and moves closer, she’s slightly alarmed by how far she has to look up to see him. Had he been this tall in the bookshop?
“I was just surprised, by the way,” she blurts. “That you were American.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I didn’t mean anything by my comment, I just wasn’t expecting it.”
“I moved here to be with my wife.”
Wife. Sure. Of course. Makes sense.
“She’s English and wanted to be near her folks when we started having kids,” he explains, and she doesn’t know this man at all, but she’s disappointed, for some reason, the more he explains. “That’s where the book comes from, actually.”
Mel perks up. “Yes, I noticed the inscription, that’s why I wanted to return it.”
“My father-in-law gave me that book after I made me and my wife late for our first dinner all together.”
Well, that explains the inscription.
“And he did not want that book, or the bookshop, back after the divorce.”
Divorce?
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mel forces herself to say. She’s not sorry, not really sorry at all.
Frank shrugs. The movement shouldn’t be attractive, and she supposes it isn’t, it’s more the tilt of his head, the motion of his hair across his forehead that’s so captivating. “The shop gives me something to do,” he explains. “And I hate my father-in-law just enough to not really care about how it will surely go under any day now.”
“Oh. Well.” That sure explained several things. “The book just seemed so personal, I didn’t want to—”
“You’re fine, Miss King.”
“Mel.”
Frank stops short, his weight shifting to the back of his heels as he rocks back—she hadn’t even realized he’d been leaning forward.
“Mel,” he says quietly, his eyes softening.
Mel barely suppresses a shiver.
“I love used books,” she proffers, eager to be a normal person. “I love when books have a story.”
“Well, I’d say if a book doesn’t have a story, it’s a pretty sad excuse for a book.”
Mel can’t help herself—she snorts. Embarrassed, a hand comes up to cover her mouth, but it’s too late—Frank’s eyes are widening with joy and the dimple in his cheek is back, his lips tugging upwards in a delighted smile.
“I didn’t realize you owned the shop,” Mel says quickly, clasping her hands in front of her. “That must be nice—”
“Yeah, it is,” Frank answers distractedly. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“What was what?” Avoid. Deny. Pretend.
“I’m pretty sure I just saw two time Emmy award winning actress Mel King snort at a joke I made.”
So he really did know her, then, wow.
“Well I’m not sure anyone will believe you,” she jokes lightly.
“Yeah,” Frank breathes, his eyes roving over her face in a stunned sort of awe. “I don’t think anyone will.”
As media trained as she is, Mel’s always had a tough time following moments. Every so often a journalist or a talk show host will imply something that Mel simply can’t follow or intuit. Or a boyfriend will break up with her saying that she just misses too many things, doesn’t get the signals. She’s never had an easy time understanding subtext and signals and implications, so truthfully the only reason Mel catches this next moment is because she is so diligently watching him watching her.
It’s almost imperceptible, but he glances down at her lips and takes just the slightest lean in. It happens in a fraction of a second—he immediately focuses on her eyes again and stands up straight—but Mel is sure it happened. Sure that he wanted to kiss her.
“I’m sorry to ruin your sweater,” he says chipperly, clasping his hands behind his back and leading the way back through the apartment to the front door.
“It’s alright, really, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“I think out of the two of us,” Frank says as he arrives at the front door, “it’s fairly clear which one of us is a graceful movie star and which one of us is a clumsy idiot.”
“Well,” Mel admits with a teasing smile, “I would like it stated for the record that I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Frank jokes, a hand coming up to lean against the wood of the door as she stops in front of him. “But you keep the sweater. As penance.”
“If you insist.”
“I do. It was uh, nice to meet you. Mel.” He’s looking at her again, with that strange expression that makes Mel feel like he’s looking through her to see her work. Or maybe he’s just seeing through her, reading her mind, because he leans in imperceptibly again—she wants him to lean in further—before thinking better of it and straightening quickly to unlock the top lock of the door. “Surreal,” he continues, turning to her with those bright blue eyes. “But nice.”
It’s the eyes that do her in. The second he finishes his sentence—what the hell does “Surreal but nice” mean anyway—she’s surging forward on her tiptoes to kiss him, both hands coming forward to lightly cup his jaw.
He seems shocked, and honestly, so is she. Mel never just kisses people, especially strangers she’s just met. But there’s something about how homey Frank feels—an American in London, with a beautiful bookshop of books she has no interest in, with a home full of children’s toys and soft sweaters—she has no choice but to kiss him.
His lips are soft. It’s the first thing she notices—it’s a light kiss, a tender kiss, but more than anything Mel is struck by how soft his lips are. His jaw’s a little stubbly, a little coarse, and while she’s not brave enough to run her hands through his hair it sure looks like it’d be soft and silky.
She lets him go quickly, sinking back on her heels. Being brave and impulsive is only tenable for a precious few seconds before reality presses back in and Mel has to remind herself that this is a bad idea. But Frank’s eyes are still closed, his mouth partially open in shock, and all Mel wants to do is bury herself in his chest.
Mel leans up on her tiptoes once more, this time to kiss him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you,” she whispers as his eyes softly blink open. “For the book and the sweater.”
“Anytime,” Frank whimpers, his voice croaking in an adorable way that makes Mel smile.
Before she can make any more bad decisions, Mel pushes sideways past Frank and opens the door to let herself out. She doesn’t look back—she can’t, because apparently looking into Frank’s eyes makes her do stupid things like kiss him—and she disappears into the throng in Notting Hill to find Donnie again.
It isn’t until she’s safely ensconced in her bed in the hotel much later that she realizes she’s left Frank’s London Travel Guide on his kitchen table.
She might have to get that back. It was a gift, after all.
—
“So I might’ve done something stupid, and I think I’m going to do another stupid thing.”
Abbot doesn’t even blink, just keeps scrolling through his phone across from her on the couch. “Is it something I should be aware of?” he asks, glancing up at her briefly.
Mel shakes her head. “Not yet.”
“Is it something Samira needs to be aware of?”
Mel shakes her head again. “No. I just wanted someone to know I’m doing something potentially ill advised.”
Abbot nods. “Go for it. Have fun while you’re young.”
“Samira wouldn’t say that,” Mel admonishes with a soft smile. As much as she loves her publicist, Samira is wound very tight. It’s her job to be, to take care of Mel’s image, and as much as Mel loathes the word and the very concept of having to protect an image, she does recognize that it’s very important, and that Samira is very good at her job.
“Samira,” Jack says, tilting his head towards the woman across the hotel room talking quickly on the phone, “needs to have a little fun every once in a while.”
Mel giggles. She loves Jack, has ever since he became her manager at 26 years old, fresh off her first Emmy win. He’d helped her make the leap from beloved TV actress to silver screen darling, so really, it’s his fault she’s in London right now doing press for a sci-fi movie she barely understood, spending all her spare time thinking about a tall man with bright blue eyes and goofy hair.
“That is true,” Mel replies a little belatedly.
“Here,” Jack says, standing up and putting a hand out to her. “I’ll create a distraction. You go do…whatever you need to do.”
“What, really?”
“Go, go—Samira?”
Mel sees Samira pause in her pacing and hang up immediately, giving her full attention to Jack. They’ve always had a soft spot for each other—as much as Samira tries to maintain professional distance—and Jack fully exploits it now, walking into Samira’s space with soft questions about where to go for dinner.
Mel takes the distraction and absconds to her room, sitting herself down on the edge of the bed and taking out her phone.
Harry’s Travel Books does not have much of an online presence, but it does in fact have a number that she can call, which she does only after allowing herself a little bit of panic.
“You’ve reached Harry’s Travel Books, please leave a message.”
Damn, she really should have thought this through more.
“Hi, I’m looking for Frank?” she starts with. That’s a good start, right? “This is… well, this is Mel.” This is such a bad idea. “I think I left the book you gave me. If you were serious about giving it to me, I would really appreciate it.” Mel clears her throat, embarrassed. “I’d come back to get it from you, but I’m actually a little swamped over the next few days.” Press for two days straight, culminating in a movie premiere she nor her stylist are prepared for. “But if you wanted to stop by, I’m at the Ritz. I don’t know when you’ll get this but I should be available tomorrow after 4pm. I hope to see you. Um, ask for Rapunzel, they should send you right up. Okay. Bye.”
Mel hangs up the phone and lets out a deep breath.
Well. This will be interesting.
—
“Mel? There’s a journalist from Horse and Hound here, he mentioned you were expecting him?”
Mel rubs her temples and lets out a groan. This press junket was supposed to have ended two hours ago, but according to Jack they’re running about two hours behind. Press is always the most exhausting part of her job—regurgitating talking points, repeating charming anecdotes for the ten millionth time, remaining graceful and poised for hours on end—and today is no exception.
“What?” she mumbles to Samira. “A journalist from where?”
“From Horse and Hound?” Samira repeats. “I don’t have him on the list, but he said you were expecting him. Frank something?”
Oh. Oh.
“Uh, yes,” Mel stammers, straightening out her suit jacket and not running her hands through her hair like she wants to. (Her stylist would kill her.) “Yes, I actually am. Could you send him in, please?”
“Sure thing.”
Mel stands, unsure of what to do, of where to put her hands. She’s just wiped them off—god her hands are sweaty, why is she nervous?—when Samira opens the door again, Frank in tow.
He’s dressed up a little, which is heartwarming. He may or may not have been wearing crocs the first time they met, so seeing him in dress shoes is a nice change, and seeing him in a relaxed blazer and an open collared shirt is almost more than she can handle.
“You’ve got five minutes,” Samira announces, before closing the door behind her.
“Hi,” Frank says with a cheeky smile. Electricity zings through her body and Mel represses a shiver. She’s a movie star for god’s sake, it’s her job to be surrounded by some of the most attractive people on the planet, but there’s just something about Frank, about his eyes and his smile and his hair and his jaw and his dimples. She feels like she’s 15 years old with her first real crush, not 34 years old with a stranger she met two days ago.
“Hi,” she repeats softly. “Thank you for coming.”
“You can’t refuse a summons from the closest thing America has to royalty, can you?”
“I don’t know about that,” she blushes. She’s heard the comparison before, but for some reason it feels different coming from Frank’s mouth—feels sweeter, feels affectionate, rather than like she’s on a pedestal, doomed to fall off of it. “But I appreciate it, nonetheless.”
Mel smiles up at him, and it feels like everything softens. The light in the room is warmer, less bright and harsh, the chaotic sounds from the room next door fade away into the background like someone’s turned down the volume, and all that’s left is her and Frank and quiet.
It’s rare she gets quiet these days.
“I, uh, brought you your book,” he says softly, handing her the worn copy, which she’s only just noticed has several daisies sticking out of it.
She takes it eagerly, putting her nose to the flowers and inhaling. “This is so sweet.”
“I’m sorry I forgot it,” he says sheepishly, running a hand through his unruly hair. “I feel like I keep manufacturing ways to see you again, but it was an accident, I swear.”
“No, of course,” she rushes. If anything it feels like she’s been trying to see him—she’s the one who left the book at his house by accident, she’s the one who found his number, who called him. “This means a lot, thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, really—”
The door creaks open and out of the corner of her eye, Mel sees Jack enter the room, sitting at the desk with phone in hand. He’s been in and out all day, taking care of things, making sure journalists stay within their allotted time and approved questions. It’s been lovely all day, a steady presence, a firm boundary—but now Jack’s presence feels stifling.
“Uh,” Frank stutters, floundering, but Mel just sits down gracefully and motions for him to do the same. “You’re so kind, Miss King,” he says loudly, sitting down in the plush chair across from her. “I think I’ve actually got everything I needed—”
“You’ve got time for a few more questions,” Jack announces from the other side of the room, not looking up from his phone.
Frank’s eyes widen, and it’s so comical, all Mel can do is raise her eyebrows and tilt her head at him. What’s he got?
“Of course. Thank you.” Frank looks at her, eyes wide as saucers, lips pursed in panic. “Well you’re so wonderful in the movie, that’s no surprise,” he begins hesitantly, “but I was wondering…”—it’s so slow going it’s almost painful— “if you’d ever thought about…” —Mel can almost see the tumbleweed blow through his brain— “having more horses, in the film?”
Abbot looks up.
“Well,” she begins, avoiding Jack’s gaze, “that would have been lovely, but maybe a tad difficult, seeing as the movie was set in space?”
Frank’s eyebrows raise and he nods, pursing his lips in thought. “Of course, of course,” he agrees, looking down at the fabric of the carpet like it might provide another question for a movie he has definitively not seen.
“I suppose if you did have to ride a horse,” Frank continues, looking up at her a little helplessly. It’s all very endearing, if she’s being honest with herself, but Mel makes eye contact with Abbot and nods her head to the right, hoping he’ll get the gist—“Would you be the one riding the horse? Or would you have a double or something?”
Jack thankfully takes her suggestion—she’ll have to buy him a drink later—and exits the car crash that is this fake interview quickly and quietly.
As soon as the door closes behind him, Frank puts his head in his hands. “I’m so sorry, I have no idea what I’m doing—”
“No, this is my fault, I thought this whole thing would be over by now.”
Frank laughs, and the sound is so lovely Mel almost forgets where she is. Why is she so charmed by him? Why is he so endearing? She’s spoken to him for a total of 20 minutes, her heart should not be doing the flips it currently is.
“I just wanted to apologize for the, uh, the kissing thing.” She’d had many reasons to call him—the book, the eyes, the hair—but this was probably the most important. Or at least, it should be the most important. “I don’t really know what came over me, and I just wanted to apologize.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Frank murmurs, and his voice is so gentle, his face so open and warm that Mel feels her heart thud loudly against her ribcage, like it’s trying to break free. “Honestly,” he says, the edge of his mouth tugging upward in a slanted smile, “if you hadn’t apologized, hadn’t called, I probably would’ve convinced myself that I’d made the whole thing up.”
“Well you didn’t.” It slips out before Mel can think better of it, but as soon as it’s out there, hanging between them, Frank’s eyes dart to her mouth and she can’t find it in herself to regret it. “You didn’t imagine it.”
“No, I did not,” he says, bringing his gaze to reach her eyes. She’s not quite sure what he sees in her face—embarrassment? An ill-advised crush? She’s an actress, she should have more of a poker face—but whatever he finds in her expression he must like, because he scoots forward on his chair just a little, his eyes drop to her mouth again, and Mel just knows.
She leans forward on the couch too, not a lot, and maybe a bit hesitantly, but it’s enough that she hears Frank take a sharp inhale before leaning forward even more—
The door opens and Frank stands up quickly, running a hand through his hair awkwardly.
“Time’s up,” Samira says from the door, another journalist standing awkwardly behind her.
“Can I get just another minute?” Mel asks Samira, and Samira grimaces—Mel will pay for this later, no doubt—but dutifully closes the door.
Mel stands up and reaches out a hand for Frank to shake. She can be professional.
“It was nice to see you again,” he says, engulfing her hand in two of his. Her hand feels so small, so warm in his. No one ever shakes her hand anymore. It makes her feel a little more human.
“Surreal, but nice,” she jokes, and she feels Frank squeeze her hands tighter.
“This feels a little stupid to ask,” he says, letting her hands go, “but are you doing anything later?”
“Yes.” Dinner with an important director who she may be working with soon, and then drinks with the producers of her current movie before the premiere tomorrow.
Frank closes his eyes, wincing, but smiling all the same. “Of course, right—”
The door opens again, and this time Samira walks further into the room, purposefully interrupting them. “I hope you got everything you need, Mr. Langdon.”
“Just about,” he says, giving Mel a secret smile. “Thank you for your time, Miss King.”
“Of course,” she answers. “Mr. Langdon.”
Frank and Samira exit, and Mel lets herself fall into the pattern of yet another interview. How did she memorize all that technical space jargon? (She’s an actress, it’s her job.) Did she get along with her castmates? (Yes, they were all very pleasant to work with.) Does she still keep in touch with Jamie, her old co-star? (Yes, she tries to keep in touch with all her old co-stars.)
Only the last one is a lie, but she’s used to telling it.
Two (and a half, thanks Jack) hours later, she is utterly depleted. She sits in the living room with Jack, who seems as tired as she is, as well as Samira and Victoria, who’ve been strategizing over what to post on some app for at least half an hour. (If it takes over five minutes to discuss social media strategy, Mel wants no part in it, and thankfully, the team respects that.)
She reaches over to the side table where she’d laid Frank’s travel book down and pulls it into her lap.
“What’s that?” Jack asks from the other side of the couch.
“Nothing. Just a gift.” Mel opens the book—after the premiere tomorrow she’ll have more time, maybe she could see some sights—only to be immediately distracted by fresh ink on the title page. Under Harry & Elsie’s initial message is something new:
I hope this book is as giving to you as it was to me.
(In all honesty, I hope it’s kinder.)
If you ever need a travel buddy,
you know where to find me—
Frank
And under his name, a number.
“I’ve gotta make a call,” Mel announces to the room. Jack hums, but no one else blinks at her stealing away for a moment. She finds herself in the same room that she’d been in all day, looking out the window at the bustling streets of London below, nervously fiddling with her phone.
It’s probably not a good idea to give her number out to a stranger.
She’s going to do it anyway.
Thank god, the line only rings twice before Frank answers.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Frank?”
Mel hears a loud clatter and a muffled “Fuck, dude,” and then Frank is on the line, a little breathless, saying, “Yeah, hi.”
“Hi, it’s Mel.”
“Yeah, I,”—another clatter— “gathered that.”
“I just saw your note, your inscription—”
“I’m sorry if it was presumptuous—”
“Not presumptuous at all,” Mel interrupts. Well, maybe a little. But a good kind of presumptuous. The kind she’s grateful for. “I’d actually love for a local to show me the sights.”
“Oh?” He sounds pleasantly surprised. “Really?”
“Really,” she answers. “I’m busy the next few days, but if you’re available, I’m free Saturday.”
She’s not really free Saturday. But she could become free Saturday.
“I can do that!” Frank agrees quickly, and Mel wishes she could see the look on his face. He sounds excited, surprised, which she maybe should have expected, but it thrills her all the same.
“Do you have a favorite place?” she asks. “From the book?”
“Yes, actually! I think it’s page 164, 165?”
The fact that he knows the exact page sends a small thrill through her. Not only has she met another bookworm, someone who knows and cares about books like she does, who memorizes pages and inscribes them for her, but he willingly gave her a book he loved once.
Maybe it’s silly. Maybe it’s fanciful and stupid and looking too deeply into things, but Mel so rarely gets to feel fanciful and stupid anymore and she loves to look too deeply into things. Loves to find the magic in the mundane, loves to feel special.
So she opens up to page 164—the top left corner of the page is dog-eared deeply, like he wanted this page easily available to him at any moment, didn’t want it to get lost—sees a lovely, very faded picture of a garden, and sighs contentedly. “Oh that’s beautiful. I can meet you there at noon, if you’d like?”
“Absolutely.”
“See you then, Frank.”
“See you then. Mel.”
—
Clearing Saturday is easier than she thought it would be. Samira doesn’t blink, just says, “Yeah, I figured you’d want time alone after the premiere, I already cancelled your afternoon.” And Jack fully covers for her—for a manager who’s supposed to care about her every move he seems awfully fine sneaking her out of the hotel and sending her out into the city sans bodyguard—just asks her to not wear a braid (she never does), wear a baseball cap (already in her purse), and be smart and safe (she always is). Mel does indulge a little and lets Donnie drive her to the garden and promises to call him if she needs anything, but otherwise she’s just a normal girl exploring London for the day. With a stranger.
With Frank.
She’s a little nervous, honestly. This is ultimately a bad idea, she knows that—she hasn’t told Samira for a reason—but she feels drawn to Frank for some reason. She wants to learn more about him, about where he’s from, how he ended up with a bookstore in a divorce, what he did before. They haven’t spent much time together, but he’s never made her feel like a celebrity, like she’s up on a pedestal, like she’s not human. In fact, Frank makes her feel more in touch with the world than she’s felt in a long time.
And she likes that feeling.
So even though this is probably not a good idea—a terrible idea, in all honesty—Mel finds herself telling Donnie she’ll call him when she’s ready, putting on a baseball cap, and stepping out of the car.
Frank’s already there, sitting on a ledge outside the entrance to the garden, gazing down at a book in his lap. He looks up at the sound of the car door and smiles before tossing the book in a small leather backpack and jogging over to her.
“Hi,” he greets, a little breathless.
“Hi,” Mel returns, feeling a little breathless herself. He’s wearing a loose fitting linen shirt, the first two buttons undone in the humid summer heat. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his backpack is falling off of one shoulder, and in all honesty, he looks like a movie star himself. “Thanks for showing me around,” she says, swallowing some saliva that had pooled in her mouth at the sight of him. “I appreciate it.”
“I mean, I think there’s probably much better, more seasoned tour guides out there,” Frank says, grinning and squinting in the sun, “but I’m more than happy to try my hand at it.” Mel lets out a pleased little noise and Frank huffs out a laugh before outstretching his hand towards the garden. “After you.”
“What were you reading?” she asks after they’ve entered the garden, dodged several children playing soccer—football—and made their way up a row of flowers, away from the majority of visitors. It really is a beautiful garden—busy, but not too busy, with a stunning array of tulips and daffodils and even petunias. She could probably spend hours here and not get bored—she can see why Frank likes it.
“Hmm? Oh, I was studying.”
Intriguing. “What were you studying?”
At this, Frank blushes, which is interesting, because she doesn’t know how such an innocuous question could warrant any embarrassment.
“Uh, medicine?”
Mel bursts out laughing. She hasn’t played a doctor in almost seven years but Frank’s blushing like she’s playing one now.
“Tell me about medicine, then,” she prods. “Tell me what you’re working on.”
He tells her that he was an emergency medicine attending in the States several years ago before voluntarily leaving to handle his addiction. (He’s a little over six years sober apparently and seems very nervous to tell her this, but he’s also very quietly proud that Mel can’t help but be proud of him as well.)
He tells her his wife moved them to London to be closer to her parents and although he loved his community in Pittsburgh, his job, after everything he’d put her through he couldn’t say no. (Mel has some choice opinions on this ex-wife of his, but if he’d stayed in Pittsburgh they would never have met, so Mel bites back whatever she’d like to say about her.)
He tells her that he’s owned Harry’s Travel Books for six years now (the age of his son Tanner—his daughter Penny is four, and he’s been divorced from his ex-wife Abby for two years now), and that he misses the adrenaline of the emergency room so much that he’s currently studying to pass some exams and become certified to practice medicine in the UK.
On the other hand, Mel tells him that she’s in town doing press (which she despises, but is a necessary evil of her job), and while she loves London, she misses her home in LA. She misses her books, her plants, her sister Becca. (Frank’s very curious about Becca and asks a million questions which Mel happily answers. No, Becca’s not in the spotlight, she’s in a fabulous care facility full time and whenever Mel’s in town she visits her all the time. No, they’re not twins but people always said they could have been. Yes, Mel misses her more than life itself whenever they’re apart.)
Mel tells him how she fell in love with acting—how she was cast as one of the princesses in her middle school production of the Little Mermaid (not Ariel, and that fact would be the subject of many a late night talk show during her press tour for the latest Disney Princess movie) and was actually seen and valued for the first time. How she became someone other than herself and was rewarded for it, and that it’s been the subject of many a therapy session in the intervening years.
Mel tells him about her big break, about how she went from theaters in basements in New York to a sound stage on the Warner Brothers lot in LA, how she went from reciting Shakespeare to reciting pages upon pages of medical jargon. How medical professionals reached out to tell her how much her portrayal meant to them, and how much that still means to her today, years after leaving the show and putting that character behind her.
Time passes so quickly, but also so, so slowly. Mel knows they’ve been talking for several hours—she’s watched the sun drift through the sky, watched the shadows move across the grass, felt the temperature dip just enough to know that they’ve been chatting for most of the afternoon—but it also feels like they’ve been talking for twenty minutes. She’s honestly lost track of all time—it feels like she’s known him for years, not days, and it feels like they’ve been talking for maybe millennia and not several hours. There’s nowhere she has to be, no one demanding her time or her energy, and she gets to give it all to Frank.
When his phone rings, she’s almost alarmed.
They’d settled in a quiet section of the garden several hours ago, sitting down in the grass, no care as to the wet stains they’re probably leaving on their jeans. All had been lovely and beautiful and quiet—she’s managed to stay undiscovered all day, thankfully—chatting about everything and nothing, watching the kids play football, watching the birds fly overhead, watching the cars bustle by—as idyllic as this has been, it’s still London on a Saturday in June—until his phone rings so loud that several other guests of the park turn to look at them.
Frank winces, seemingly as taken aback as she is by the loud, intrusive noise coming from his backpack. “Sorry,” he apologizes, opening up his bag and searching for the phone. “Oh, it’s my sister,” Frank explains with another wince. “I’m so sorry, I have to take this.”
“No worries,” she says, adjusting her legs underneath her and trying to remember everything she can about his sister. It was something masculine, maybe? Teddy or—
“Hey, Theo.”
Theo! That was it.
“Hi, yes, what?” Frank says into his phone, mouthing silent apologies to her. Mel smiles and waves him off, watching his eyes widen in panic before he says, “No, of course I didn’t forget your birthday dinner, why would I forget that?”
Ah.
“About that…”
Mel laughs as Theo’s disembodied voice raises in uproar.
“Yeah, I’m with someone, I’m sorry, something came up—”
“I can come with you,” Mel suggests quietly. Again, probably an insane idea, but she’s been full of them lately. Why not add another one to the pile.
Frank’s eyes widen. “Wait, just a second Theo—” Frank mutes the call and then turns back to her. “You’d go with me? To my sister’s 40th birthday dinner?”
“Yeah,” Mel shrugs. She wants to keep spending time with him, so. “I’d love to.”
Frank looks at her skeptically, but unmutes the phone all the same. “Yeah, Theo? I’ll be there, but uh, I’m bringing a date?”
Frank asks this hesitantly, his eyebrows and his voice raising as if he’s asking a question, and Mel just nods with an eager smile. She’d love to be his date.
“Yeah, okay,” he says into the phone, amused. “We’ll be there in an hour.” He hangs up the phone, not listening to whatever Theo is saying, and turns back to her. “So,” he begins, a wide smile blossoming on his face. “Dinner?”
—
The trip to Theo’s house on the outskirts of London doesn’t take too long, but they do make several different stops to find just the right flowers to bring her. (As much as Frank protests, he absolutely forgot it was her birthday today, but he blushes when he says it, like maybe he’s been occupied the last few days, so Mel forgives him fairly quickly.)
The look on Theo’s face when she opens the door is one of absolute incredulity and a little bit of panic, but then Mel holds out the bouquet of flowers and incredulity and panic make way for general confusion and befuddlement.
“Happy birthday!” Mel says as Theo takes the flowers hesitantly.
“Theo, this is Mel,” Frank says, putting a hand on Mel’s upper back.
“Right,” Theo says skeptically, still looking a little bewildered, but she reaches out a hand for Mel to shake, which is nice. “It’s nice to meet you…Mel.”
“Thanks for letting me come,” Mel says, trying not to get distracted by the warmth of Frank’s hand on her back. They’d touched a little today, little things here and there—arm brushing as they walked in the garden, hands lightly touching as they walked slowly, their legs pressed together on the Tube—but nothing deliberate, like this, nothing this intentional.
She’s being very normal about it.
(God, when was the last time she had a crush? When was the last time she felt so buzzy, so many butterflies? She’s dated here and there over the years, but has it really been since Jamie since she felt this bubbly, this excited?)
“I’m thrilled you both could make it,” Theo answers with a slightly pained smile before stepping out of the doorway and ushering them in. They walk down the narrow hallway and in through the doorway on the left to an open space—the living room on the left where a few people are sitting, the kitchen in the middle where Theo immediately walks over to the chef cooking over the stove, and then the dining area on the far right.
“Hey everybody, sorry we’re late,” Frank says as they enter. His hand has drifted to her middle back and she has to stop herself from sinking back into it. “This is Mel.”
The two people sitting on the couch immediately stand up to greet them, and Theo gives her wife a hip bump and ushers her over. Cassie introduces herself with wide eyes and an even wider smile, Parker gives her a handshake and gives Frank a very meaningful glance, while John introduces himself by trapping her in a bear hug and looking utterly unbothered by the entire thing.
Dinner is delightful. Everyone relaxes fairly quickly, and although there is a tenor of good natured confusion and delighted uncertainty over the entire night, all of Frank’s loved ones are very polite and don’t treat her strangely, which is lovely. They also tease Frank mercilessly (not about her, thank god), which makes Frank laugh, which makes her laugh, and it makes her feel right at home.
Theo and Parker make a great couple. They met in London apparently, when Theo came to visit Frank several years ago, and hit it off enough that Theo moved to England six months later and they got married soon after. Parker is beautiful and funny and never lets Frank get away with anything, and Theo is clever and witty and looks after Frank in that older sister kind of way, and it’s just so clear that this is Frank’s family. She’s only known Frank a few days, but it feels like a privilege to see him interacting with his family like this, to see how very loved he is.
Cassie apparently is a more recent addition—moved to London for work and found Frank through the relatively small Americans-living-in-London community. Her son, Harrison, has had a tough time adjusting to living overseas, but he loves football, apparently, and has recently started to really enjoy himself on a local youth team. Cassie and Frank get on like a house on fire—apparently they’d bonded over both being sober—and Cassie’s the one who ends up taking pity on her, asking her (politely vague) questions about what she does and ensures that Mel has a place in the conversation. It’s very kind, and she feels very taken care of.
Mel doesn’t know what to make of John Shen. It’s clear that he has no idea who she is—which is honestly refreshing—but he’s just so odd, she doesn’t really know what to make of him. He and Frank were apparently introduced by Frank’s ex-father-in-law when Frank needed a place to stay during the divorce, but Mel has no idea how John knows the family, or how John, another American, ended up in London in the first place. He’s lovely and clever and a bit of an oddball—he helped himself to the kitchen and made himself a latte at 8pm—but he’s delightful all the same, and it’s clear he fits right in with this little family.
It’s John, actually, that surprises her the most at the end of the night. They’re all sitting around the table, laughing at another childhood Frank story Theo’s told—Mel feels like they might be trying to scare her off, but they’re all just endearing her more to him—when John takes the plate of brownies at the center of the table and announces, “Well, there’s only one brownie left, and I feel like we all need to fight for it.”
“You don’t think it should go to me?” Theo cries next to Mel. “On my birthday?”
“See you might think that,” John says with a mischievous smile, “but it’s your 40th birthday, and you are married to the cleverest person in the room—sorry Mel—so I feel like your life is going pretty well. I think we should give the brownie to the saddest act here.”
“You just want the brownie for yourself,” Parker complains, leaning over and resting an arm over the back of her wife’s chair.
“I mean, I think I’m the saddest act here,” John answers with a shrug. “I work in a job I don’t understand, the only Dunkins in the city are crazy out of the way, and I am tarnishing the reputation of all bisexuals because I can’t fucking pull. I think the last time I had sex we had a different president.”
“As the person who shares a house with you,” Frank says lightly, “I am grateful the parade of scantily clad people in my kitchen on a Saturday morning has stopped. That’s not a conversation you want to have with a six year old.”
“I said sorry,” John laughs, seemingly not very sorry at all. “But no, no, no, I think we should all fight for it. I’m ready to win this brownie through combat.”
“Fine,” Theo admits, sinking into Parker’s side. “Cassie?”
Everyone laughs and turns their attention to Cassie.
“Well it’s gotta be me, doesn’t it?” she says, laughing. “My job transferred me here, I apparently took the job from someone in the department so everyone under me despises me, and Harrison hates London most of the time anyway. And my ex is threatening me to drag me back to the States for custody hearings, and it’s all just…” Cassie shrugs here, still smiling, but Mel can see the real hurt lingering underneath the expression. “Kinda awful, isn’t it?” She clears her throat and crosses her arms over her chest, sinking back into her chair a little. “But surely that’s worth a brownie?”
“I dunno,” John smirks with a tilt of his head. “What about Frank?”
Frank squeezes her fingers where he’s surreptitiously holding her hand on his thigh underneath the table. (He had reached over to her hands in her lap an hour ago, hesitantly threading his fingers in between hers and guiding their joined hands into his lap. His hands were big and warm and inviting and it had taken almost a half an hour for her heart to stop beating out of her chest.)
“What about Frank?” he sighs, resigned.
“Well, you’re 37,” Parker says pointedly, which makes the whole table erupt with laughter.
“And you’ve only had two meaningful relationships in your whole life,” Theo tacks on. “One of which broke your heart so bad you went out with a redhead on a student visa, who you then married. Who then stole you away to England, gave you two kids, and then promptly divorced you.”
“And is now going out with someone who looks like a young Hugh Grant,” Parker finishes.
“Hey,” Frank interjects good naturedly, “if you think about it, Abby’s the only reason you now have a wife.”
Parker tugs Theo in for a kiss, and Mel thinks the Frank ribbing might be over until Theo pecks her wife one last time, settles into her embrace, and grins mischievously. Oh dear— “And you’re surely never going to hear from Mel again when she hears your nickname in school—”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Was Floppy.”
Mel snorts loudly, which makes Frank turn to her with a sheepish smile. “Floppy?” she remarks lightly, running her thumb over his palm to soothe him.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Frank sighs, shaking his head at Theo. “I’m sorry to say it was the hair, and it did not get better, just floppier.”
“I like the hair,” she pipes up, and even though everyone at the dinner table exchanges knowing glances immediately, she can’t bring herself to regret it because Frank blushes rather beautifully.
“Well that’s good,” he chokes out, swallowing hard, the sudden pink in his cheeks spreading to his neck. “See, Parker, I haven’t aged that badly.”
“Alright the votes are in,” John says, reaching for the plate with the singular brownie, “and the votes say John is the most pathetic, yay!”
“Wait, don’t I get to try?”
Everyone turns to her.
“You think you deserve a shot at the brownie?” Parker asks, raising an eyebrow.
“At least a shot at it,” she shrugs. Parker waves a hand towards her as if to say the floor is yours, and Mel clears her throat. “Let’s see…” What’s sad but not sad enough to turn the mood of the party? “I’ve been on a diet every day since I was 24,” she starts with. That’s easy. “Which basically means I’ve been starving for a decade.” She says it lightly, like a joke, which makes the whole table laugh, thankfully, but it is the unfortunate truth.
“I have a sister, Becca, who’s autistic with pretty severe needs,” she continues, swallowing around some emotion in her throat. “She’s in a great care facility in LA—she’s thriving, she’s fine—but I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like. This job just takes me away from her, and that’s really hard a lot of the time.”
Frank squeezes her hand and Mel squeezes back, throwing him a grateful half smile.
“And I think,” she begins again, “if I’m regurgitating the things my therapist would say about me—” the table chuckles again, which she takes gratefully, “—then I would say it’s hard to be myself.”
She looks up at Frank again, who’s looking at her curiously. “My entire life I’ve only ever been valued when I’m someone else, when I’m pretending,” she explains, looking down and avoiding everyone’s gaze, “and I just think that does something to a person, does something to the psyche.” Mel looks up at this—Parker (the clinical psychologist) is nodding, which is helpful, and the rest of the table is looking at her curiously, but with affection and tenderness, not skepticism or incredulity like she often gets.
“I love what I do,” Mel continues, “I love that I’ve been given the opportunities I’ve been given, I know how rare it is, but whenever I’m myself, truly myself, it just feels like I’m punished. Like I’m not enough on my own.” It’s a long standing issue with her therapist, something they talk through often, whenever she’s in LA and not overwhelmed by work. The issue of masking, of being able to be herself with people, is something she’s been working on for years and it’s something she’s not quite cracked yet, unfortunately. “And I know that sounds silly, maybe, coming from me, it’s not like I’m solving world hunger or anything, but—” she swallows and tilts her head, tearing her gaze away from everyone, feeling a little too vulnerable, “—it’s something I’ve found really difficult. ”
The table is quiet.
Mel’s stomach sinks. Everyone had been sharing their woes, she thought this would be safe space, but everyone’s too quiet and she can’t even bring herself to look at them—
“Nice try sweetheart,” John says across the table, breaking the silence jokingly. “But there’s no fooling me—pathetic effort to hog the brownie.”
The group erupts with laughter—Mel included—and Parker leans across the table to swat John upside the head.
“Why go through this charade if you just wanted the brownie for yourself?” she chides as she sits back down, which just makes John smile even wider.
“It sounds like the brownie is mine—”
“Oh, just take it,” Frank says, letting go of her hand to lean forward and pass the plate with the singular brownie on it over to John. When he sits back down he pulls her arm into his lap, interlacing her fingers with his and running his other hand up and down her forearm soothingly.
The party ends fairly soon after. After saying goodbye to Cassie—the babysitter needed to be relieved—another cup of tea, and then helping Theo and Parker clean up, she finds herself saying her goodbyes in the entryway of the house.
Parker hugs her tightly. “I know you probably have a million people,” she whispers in her ear, “but if you ever need to talk just let me know.” Parker releases her and gives her a steady, kind of intense look that fills Mel with appreciation—Parker really means it, and that’s not something she gets every day.
“I will,” Mel promises with a smile. “It was nice meeting all of you!”
Theo, Parker, and John all wave and say their goodbyes as Frank puts his hand on her back and ushers her out the door.
“Well, that was eventful,” Frank says lightly as the door closes behind them.
“It was fun,” Mel agrees. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“Thank you for coming,” he says, tucking his hands in his pockets as they walk down the front steps and out to the street.
“That was Mel King?!”
Mel cackles, hearing John’s disembodied voice from behind the door.
Frank huffs out an embarrassed laugh. “I’m so sorry—”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Mel says, giggling. “It was lovely to hang out with your family.”
“What the fuck?!”
“Let’s get out of here,” Frank says, his cheeks turning pink.
Mel giggles again, but follows him onto the sidewalk and across the street.
The silence is nice, between them. Oftentimes silence around her feels awkward, heavy, with all the cues and unsaid things she’s not understanding despite her efforts. But this silence with Frank doesn’t feel empty or fraught, it feels safe and comfortable and warm. Like a cozy blanket or a hot chocolate or her favorite reading chair in her library that overlooks the garden.
“I had a really nice time today,” Frank says softly, several blocks later, after they’ve brushed elbows several times and she’s snuck in several glances. She’s not quite sure if they’re heading anywhere in particular or just wandering, but she’s happy to stay in his presence for as long as she can.
“I did too,” she agrees, gathering the courage the safe silence brings and wrapping her hands around his arm, leaning her head into his shoulder.
Frank doesn’t waste any time, just flexes his fingers and soon enough they’re holding hands. His palm is warm in hers, and her hands know his—they wrap around his fingers so quickly, so easily, like they’ve done it for years, not twice under the table at a dinner with his family.
They walk slowly, quietly for another block, just content in each other's presence, until Mel looks up and sees a beautiful iron gate surrounded by greenery in the middle of the street.
“What’s that?” she asks, pausing them in front of it.
“Oh, it’s a garden, I think,” Frank answers. “It’s gated, it’s just for the people who live on the outskirts.”
“I love a garden.”
“I know you do,” Frank says softly. Tenderly.
Mel tilts her head up at him—Frank’s already looking at her with a soft smile, affection heavy in his gaze, and Mel doesn’t even hesitate. Just leans up on her tiptoes and presses her lips to his.
Frank meets her halfway this time—she can’t quite reach him on her tiptoes—prepared for her to kiss him, rather than when she kissed him by the door, surprising both of them. But he meets her halfway and gives a soft sigh when their lips meet, like he’d been waiting to kiss her all day and she’s finally put him out of his misery.
His fingers tighten around hers, where they’re linked together, his other hand coming to cup her face, a thumb on her cheek and his fingers carding through her hair at the nape of her neck. Mel gives a soft moan—it’s been a long time since she’s felt this delicate, this taken care of, this needed—and when her lips part, a louder moan on the heels of the first one, Frank takes the opportunity to kiss her again, deeply this time.
Mel finds herself lost in his mouth—Frank kisses so carefully, so softly, like he’s still shocked she’s here with him and doesn’t want to scare her off. Mel takes her free hand to cup his hand on her face and the movement must surprise him because he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead on hers.
Mel watches his face, eager to catalogue every emotion, every movement—his eyes are shut tight and he’s breathing hard, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact that she’s kissed him. Twice. But then he opens his eyes—they sparkle in the orange glow of the streetlight—and huffs a laugh, grinning at her.
“Well then,” he says quietly, not breaking the serene silence of the street, “let’s get you to a garden.”
—
Dating Frank Langdon is a revelation.
Well, dating might be a strong word. They’ve certainly hung out every day since Saturday, since they spent all day in a public park, all night in Theo’s home, and then several hours in the early, early morning breaking into a private garden and experiencing the garden’s nighttime beauty—read: making out on a bench. He’s taken her to some touristy places, to the movies—not hers, thankfully, she can’t stand to watch herself—and perhaps most importantly, he’s taken her to approximately one trillion used bookstores.
She’s not sure what he’s been doing with Harry’s Travel Books all this time. He’s made himself available to her all week—except for Wednesday evening, which was busy with a meeting with a director for her (rescheduled from earlier that week), and Tanner’s football game for Frank—and while she’s been curious if the shop’s just been closed all week or if he has another employee he’s never mentioned, she hasn’t had the opportunity to even ask. They’ve been talking nonstop for almost a week, their conversation easy and fluid, and any time Mel remembers to ask, he says something that makes her giggle or snort and suddenly she’s forgotten again.
They just mesh, for some reason. Frank is so open and honest and interesting, and seems so captivated by her, in a really genuine way. It’s not often she gets genuine connection—even her team, who she loves (and has been avoiding for almost a week), is part of her team because she pays them. Mel knows—deep down, knows—that they care about her, but she also has a deep-seated fear that if there was some kind of scandal or something, they would jump ship, and leave her stranded on her own.
Frank doesn’t make her feel like that.
Frank makes her feel like she’s a person, not a product. He makes her feel like she’s good and intriguing and captivating and worthwhile.
It’s exhilarating.
Mel is trying not to get too attached too quickly—a bad habit of hers—but it’s difficult. She knows that she has to go back to LA in a few days, go back to her life, back to Becca, back to her next project, but it’s hard to even imagine it.
What was life like, before Frank? Before bright blue eyes, a kind smile and a delightful dimple? Before flowers and gardens and so many books she’s not sure the plane will survive with the extra weight?
How can she go back to LA, knowing that Frank exists?
She’s trying not to think about it.
There’s a deadline, Mel knows there is. She’s already postponed their leaving by five days, she knows she’s due back in LA on Monday and there’s no getting around it.
But Frank kisses her—he’s getting bolder and bolder, getting more and more comfortable with the idea that he’s allowed to—and it makes Mel want to move to London and settle down. To do more plays, to do less interviews, to live in a nice house in Notting Hill above a bookstore that doesn’t sell a lot of books.
(Mel has a lot of ideas about how to reinvent the bookstore, but Frank’s also just a few months away from becoming licensed to practice medicine in the UK, so it’s a moot point, apparently.)
Even now—maybe especially now, walking hand in hand with Frank, listening to him recount Tanner’s football game after a wonderful dinner at a cozy café near her hotel—Mel knows this: any relationship between them would be difficult. He’s so normal, and her life is…very much not, most of the time. This week she’s carved out with him is very much an exception to her normal routine.
Mel knows this should be the end of their time together. Knows it in her mind, but her heart keeps winning out in the arguments she has with herself.
So, as they idle in front of her hotel, fingers entwined, instead of bidding her goodbyes and telling him how nice this week has been, how lovely it’s been to get to know him but how she has to leave in a few days and they should probably end their friendship here, she buries her head in his chest, squeezes his fingers for courage, looks up at him, and quietly asks, “Would you like to come up?”
Frank’s eyes widen.
“I thought—”
“Everyone’s out for the evening,” Mel finishes his thought. It’s the reason she told him no a few days ago—Jack and Samira and Victoria had all been waiting for her in the hotel room to discuss something, so she’d had to politely (and very regretfully) decline Frank’s request for a late night coffee.
(Even with her difficulty reading subtext, even Mel knew what a late night coffee was code for.)
(His penis.)
“And if you’d like to,” Mel continues, watching as her every word registers in his face, “I’d really like it if you’d come up.”
“I’d really like that,” Frank answers after a few moments, his voice earnest and a little croaky, and Mel feels a wave of affection for him wash over her.
“Give me a few minutes?” she requests, thinking about the mess she’d left in her bedroom in a rush to get to him this morning. “So I can freshen up?”
Frank swallows and then nods shakily. “I can do that.”
“I’ll see you soon,” she promises, leaning up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss. Before she can fully pull away, Frank takes two hands and cups her face, keeping her to him and kissing her deeply before letting her go.
“I’ll see you soon,” he repeats, and Mel smiles and nods before turning and entering the hotel, shaking her head as a blush rises to her cheeks.
She’s on Cloud 9 the entire trek through the hotel—across the lobby to the elevator, then up the elevator, down the hall, and into her hotel room, where…Jack is there?
“What are you doing here?” she asks, alarmed.
Jack crosses the living room to her quickly, putting a hand on her shoulder and lowly saying, “You have a visitor.”
“I have a—”
“Mel, hi!”
Oh.
Oh no.
Dennis waves at her from across the room, takes two steps towards her, and then promptly knocks a lamp off a side table.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, wow,” he says to the lamp, but all Mel can do is look at Jack in wide eyed panic.
“What is he doing here?” she whispers, alarmed.
“He’s here promoting his latest movie, his agent got him on Graham Norton with you tomorrow night.”
“Wait, I’m on Graham Norton tomorrow?”
“The studio was wondering why you were still in London and not meeting with producers in LA this week,” Jack says pointedly. “I improvised.”
Mel flinches. “Okay, but what is he doing here, in the hotel?”
“He wanted to say hi, apparently,” Jack answers, more annoyed that she’s seen him in weeks.
Mel looks at Dennis across the room, situating the lamp onto the table. Once it’s settled he stands upright and looks back at her with a helpless smile, and it clicks.
Dennis wants to strategize.
They’re contractually dating, is the thing. She’d signed a contract about five months ago, they’re due to break up in a month or two, and now they’re booked on Graham Norton and have to be a couple. Anytime they’ve walked a carpet or had a staged paparazzi opportunity at a coffee place, he’s wanted to strategize, make a plan, set boundaries. And with apparently the Graham Norton show looming over their heads, of course Dennis would find his way into her hotel room at the most inopportune time.
“Okay,” Mel whispers to Jack urgently. “I have to do something, can you occupy Dennis for a minute?”
“Done,” Jack nods, turning around immediately and slapping a hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “Have I shown you the view from the other living room? You’ve gotta see it.”
Almost as soon as Jack shepherds Dennis out of the room, Mel hears a knock on the door. In two seconds flat, she’s thrown her purse on a nearby chair and run back to the door, opening it a little frantically. “Frank—”
Whatever she’s going to say is immediately muffled in his mouth as he leans down to kiss her, hard. Her breath is completely taken away as he buries his hands in her hair, tilting her head up further so he can kiss her better.
Frank breaks apart to steal a breath and Mel tries again. “Frank, please—”
Frank misunderstands her, or maybe he’s not really paying attention, because he leans in and kisses her again, taking advantage of her open mouth to lick her bottom lip and then slide his tongue into her mouth.
Mel moans, her hands coming around his waist to clutch at him as she kisses him back—it’s Frank, and he’s just such a good kisser, and she’s just a girl, she can’t be blamed for forgetting where she is.
Several (long) moments later, Frank pulls back and rests his forehead against hers. “Mel,” he whispers raggedly, wrecked. “I can’t believe I get to do that. It’s still so, so crazy, I can’t believe—”
A loud crash sounds from the other room.
Shit.
Frank pulls back. “What—”
“You have to go,” she says urgently, extricating herself from his embrace and running a hand through her messy hair. “I’m so sorry, you have to go.”
“Go?” Frank laughs. “What—”
“Frank, I’m so sorry, but please—”
“Mel?”
Mel turns to see Dennis walk into the room with Jack on his heels. Jack grimaces and shrugs as if to say sorry, and Dennis, poor, well-intentioned, Dennis, makes his way confidently over to her.
“Who’s this?” Dennis asks as he arrives, standing a little too closely to Mel for everyone’s tastes. Mel stutters, no answer coming to her, absolutely transfixed by the look of utter confusion on Frank’s face.
He’s so bewildered it makes her heart ache. His brows are furrowed, his mouth is turned down in a frown, and his nose is doing that scrunchy thing it does when he’s not quite understanding something.
“That’s probably the waiter,” Jack offers from several feet away. “I ordered a drink.”
Mel watches as Frank looks down at his empty hands weakly, unsure of what to say.
“It was probably that complicated drink, right?” Mel says, trying to save someone’s dignity, she’s not sure whose. “The one they don’t carry the liquor for?”
Frank nods his head in agreement, still confused, but trying.
“Well maybe we can go out for drinks,” Dennis suggests, putting an arm around Mel’s waist. “Gotta treat my girlfriend to something fun while we’re on vacation!”
She can see the moment it hits Frank—girlfriend. He flinches, visibly, like the word physically hit him in the face. Mel flinches too, her head twitching at the sound, her whole body eager to get out of Dennis’s arms and into Frank’s, where she can smooth everything out, explain. But instead, Dennis pulls her in tighter, placing a kiss on the side of her head, and she sees the very moment it breaks Frank.
The tension in his body snaps, like his marionette strings have been suddenly cut, and instead of confused and maybe angry, he looks resigned. Disappointed. Defeated.
Silence falls between the four of them, and it does not feel comfortable. Where silence with Frank has felt comfortable and steady, silence in this moment feels unbearably awkward. Instead of feeling like she’s sitting in the comfiest chair in her library, home and safe, Mel suddenly feels like she’s sitting across from a journalist, a producer, even Jamie, wondering “what the hell goes here, in this space where people expect everything of me?”
“Drinks sound great,” Jack adds after several fraught, heartbreakingly empty seconds.
Frank’s eyes don’t leave where Dennis’s hand rests on her hip, but he says, “Sorry to bother,” and takes a small step backwards.
Mel steps forward, out of her fake boyfriend’s embrace, and although all she wants to do is curl into Frank’s chest and apologize, beg him to hear her out, she is a professional. And keeping up appearances is essential in her line of work.
So she turns to Dennis and says, “Do you think you could grab my coat from the other room?” and watches as he eagerly follows her instructions and zips out of the room at full speed. Jack gives her a small nod and follows down the hallway in Dennis’s wake.
“I’m so sorry,” Mel apologizes quickly, turning back to Frank. She wants to step into him, to hug him, to kiss him again, but he looks so fragile, like any touch might shatter him into pieces. “I didn’t know he would be here.”
“But you—” Frank’s voice cracks, and Mel has to cross her arms over her chest to stop from reaching out to him. “But you knew he existed,” he finishes, looking at her with sad eyes and a crestfallen expression.
“Yeah,” Mel breathes. While there is an explanation, this is a fairly glaring lie of omission, one that she assumes would not be so easily forgiven. “I did know he existed, yes.”
Frank nods, defeated.
This was definitely a bad idea anyways, this is for the best, right? She and Frank had an expiration date, no matter how safe he made her feel, no matter how human he made her feel. Ending a few days early won’t kill her.
Right?
“Well,” Frank says, a pained smile pulling at his lips, his head tilting sadly at her. “It was nice to know you, if even for a bit.”
Mel’s eyes well up with tears. “Frank—”
“No, no,” Frank says, taking a step backwards towards the door. “This was a privilege, truly, Mel.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mel sniffles, a tear escaping and running down her cheek.
Through watery eyes, Mel sees the moment he sees the tear fall—his breath catches in his chest, she can hear it, and suddenly he’s taking several steps towards her and kissing her lightly on the forehead.
“Bye, Mel,” he whispers into her hair, and then he’s gone.