Archive of Our Own

Cameras flash, almost blinding her sight as she walks down the carpet. She’ll never get used to this, the constant attention, flashes of white blurring her vision. After all, she’s not even famous, not really anyway. The museum, and its name is the thing that is famous. She’s just a guest curator, there for a two year stint and then she’ll be off home again. Never mind that it’s the Met, and this is the Costume Institute’s gala. That’s irrelevant. The theme of the exhibition is “the fashion of metals” while the dress code for the carpet is “All that glitters”.

Naturally, to celebrate the momentous occasion Kate is dolled up in Versace tweed, her white dress held together by gold safety pins and pearls. It’s mostly on theme and though this is about metals, the dress feels celestial almost.  And truthfully, if Anna herself has approved it, then who is she to resist her? To try and stay as incognito as possible (not that anyone is going to recognise her outside of those she works with) her hair is in a simple half updo, waves cascade down her back, and a few loose strands frame her face. Her jewellery is simple, she opts for gold and green bangles, and her earrings are black pearls, from a holiday she remembers with more fondness than it deserves.

A few steps away from her is the sharp outline of a tuxedo. Dark brown curls, closely cropped at the neck, and a jawline that from where she’s standing could cut glass. The figure turns, and her heart stops. There, in a crisp white blazer, complete with a soft white shirt and trousers, stands probably the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen. Their outfits are almost matching, the buttons of his shirt are mother of pearl, and there is a tiny sliver of gold around his neck. What mother of pearl has to do with metals, Kate isn’t quite sure, but perhaps the sliver of gold around his neck is somehow significant.

Threads of grey gather at his temples, he runs his hands through the soft curls on top of his head, and it makes her feel weak at the knees. The tuxedo is Armani she thinks, with that kind of expertly tailored look. Normally, Kate is sceptical when it comes to the men who dress in tuxes and suits for the gala, but this time, she supposes the theme lends itself to the trend. Secretly, she hopes that next year will be the one where the men finally make more of an effort.

There must be something in her gaze —perhaps she’s staring too intently, but she should be forgiven, after all he is the most beautiful man she’s seen— that pulls him to her, something that locks their eyes into place, and settles there. For a second, or maybe it’s longer than that, she can’t be sure, she forgets about the cameras, forgets that there are other people there, and it feels like it’s just the two of them.

Lost in her daydream, she doesn’t notice how close they’ve become, so close she can feel his breath, and the heat of his body as she almost falls into his arms. As she stumbles forward, his hands reach out to catch her elbows, steadying her as she rights herself.

“Sorry,” she breathes, trying not to let how nervous and awkward she feels show through.

“Don’t even worry about it,” he grins. The accent takes her right back home, to the streets of London. It’s nice to hear a familiar tone, even if she doesn’t know him.

“I’ll try not to,” she says, holding back a nervous giggle.

“Hey, look at me, deep breath, just pretend like it’s only you and me, don’t think about them,” his voice surrounds her in its warmth and she dares lift her trembling gaze to find his.

“Okay,” it’s all she can manage, clinging onto his arms as if for dear life while the noise of the paparazzi wall surrounds them.

“I’m Anthony by the way, Anthony Bridgerton,”

“Kathani Sharma, but everyone calls me Kate,” she says, feeling a little more stable now that they’re making small talk.

“That’s a beautiful name, Kathani,” a smile lingers at the corners of his lips.

“Thank you,”

“Come on, we don’t want to be lingering on the carpet,” he takes her hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and slowly they walk up the stairs together. Kate for her part barely registers the camera flashes, her mind swirls around, trying to make sense of the last few minutes. Even if she never sees this man ever again after tonight, she is grateful for his hands reaching for her. Once they reach the top of the steps, he assesses her once more, and with a nod disappears through the doors and into the Met.

The rest of the evening passes smoothly enough, if it can be called that. Throngs of people gather in the bathrooms for the iconic bathroom selfies, even though phones are discouraged. She doesn’t see the handsome stranger again, though privately she thinks of him as Anthony. Those three syllables, and his accent that makes her feel a little homesick. After all, she did move thousands of miles away, across the Atlantic to pursue her dreams. Perhaps that’s why she stumbled into his arms, and why she struggles to let go.

That’s what she tells herself at least, as she wanders through the exhibit, stopping to stare at the clothing on display. The museum is full to the brim of people, galleries are crowded as people wander through, stopping occasionally to take pictures of the garments, or to rest themselves on the provided benches.

As a curator, this is perhaps one of her favourite moments, watching the way an audience interacts with the art on display. She likes seeing people take it in, getting to witness as they change in front of the art. Every piece on display is lovingly chosen, put aside with things it will look good with, other pieces that make sense in that room, and then somehow, in a few short months, right before the first Monday in May, it all comes together. And though she loves the chatter, and business of the galleries when they are full, if she is honest with herself, Kate loves it best when the museum is empty. When the art is the only thing in a room, and all she can hear is the sound of her own footsteps.

Slowly, guests trickle into the Great Hall, chatting amongst each other as they find their seats. Tables litter the room, each with meticulously placed name cards, the seating arrangement done by none other than Anna herself. Amongst it all, Kate watches as old friends reunite, arms outstretched and murmurs, or exclamations of “it’s so good to see you” flit around the room as people settle into their seats. Truth be told, the seating arrangement always takes weeks to sort, between the late RSVPs and tweaks in numbers, adding plus ones, taking them off, making sure there is at least one connection for every person on every table. And then there is the Met table, the hodgepodge of people who work behind the scenes, those lucky enough to get an invite to the gala, to be just enough front and centre without actually being right in it. That’s where she thrives, right on the outskirts of the party, near enough the middle to have a good time, but far enough away from it that there won’t be headlines about her tomorrow.

Dinner is excellent as usual, a million tiny courses made up of crunchy micro greens, then a light, brothy and yet somehow still hearty soup, followed by a roast vegetable course that makes her mouth water. The dessert is usually the best course, and this one doesn’t disappoint, the cake is perfectly moist, and decadent without being too cloyingly sweet. Conversation flows well at her table, everyone just mainly glad the whole evening’s gone off without a hitch so far. Everything rides on the success of the gala, and this table know it better than most. Though not all of them are involved with the costume institute directly, they all know enough to know how much is riding on the night.

The real evening’s entertainment begins after dinner, when everyone is settled, they’ve had just enough to drink to be vivacious and yet still coherent. This time, Kate knows the surprise is big. Most people aren’t in the know about the mystery performer, and it’s not on any of the invitations, or schedules sent to PR people and managers.

The lights go down, and a makeshift stage appears as if from nowhere. Anticipation thrums through her body, goosebumps rise along her arms as she watches the feeling ripple through the assembled crowd. The opening notes of an unfamiliar track fill the room, a hush falling over the guests. And even though Kate knows who it is, knows the rhythm of the evening, she still feels the same excitement as everyone else.

In a puff of smoke, or a cloud of perfume, she can’t be sure, out steps Miley Cyrus. The song is a new one, unreleased as of the date of the gala. The singer’s husky, breathy voice ripples through everyone, a resonant chord striking inside the crowd.

After the performance, the assembled crows dissipates, people walk back through the exhibit, going back to their favourite pieces, pointing them out to each other as they walk arm in arm, or hand in hand. Slowly but surely, everyone has left, and Kate and the rest of the Met crew scurry off, a few going back to the War Room, double checking they have everything with them before they leave. The rest usually wander through the museum a little more, taking the time to see everything when there aren’t crowds of people everywhere.

Walking back down the steps of the Met after another successful evening is something Kate will never tire of. The exhilaration of the beginning of the night is great, sure, but she loves this quiet aftermath, when the street is back to its usual hum of chaos, and the wall of photographers is no longer yelling at people as they walk up the steps.

As she reaches the last step, she looks up, and not for the first time that evening, her breath falters a little. There, stood in all his glory, though he looks more dishevelled now, is the handsome man from earlier. It’s as if he senses her, because no sooner than she lays eyes on him than he turns around to face her.

“Stalker,” he teases, a grin blooming across his face. A pleasant flush colours his cheeks, and though his hair is no longer perfectly coiffed, there is something dangerously handsome about him.

“Guilty as charged. Did you enjoy yourself at least?” She can’t help but smile in return.

“One of the best Mets. Anna should be proud,”

“I’ll make sure to tell her, when we have the debrief meeting later this week,” it slips out of her, something she’s noticed about this man.

“You work for Vogue?”

“No, the museum,” she gestures behind her, as if he needs to be reminded of which museum precisely.

“Ah,”

“How did she approve your outfit by the way? I’ve been trying to figure it out all evening,” she teases, her voice lilting.

“I’ll have you know, there are metals on my outfit,” he points to the delicate chain around his neck and the cuff links on his sleeves.

“A gold chain and some cufflinks?”

“Not just any gold chain,” his chin tilts upwards, matching her teasing.

“What’s so special about it then?” She steps closer, daring him to brush his body against hers.

“It’s a secret,” he winks. Well she thinks it’s supposed to be a wink. It is endearing though so she lets it slide.

“A man of mystery I see. Are you off to one of the after parties?” She ventures, trying to place in her mind whether she thinks he’s the type to go to one or not. The after parties are always legendary. There’s the Vogue one of course, then a few of the designers and fashion houses throw their own. There are always rumours circulating of who of the attendees will throw one, and if people will show up for it. This year, she knows that there are at least four or five high profile parties, chief among them the Loewe and Chanel events, both guaranteed to have an excellent mixture of people in attendance.

“I would, but I have an early flight home in the morning,” something like a grimace flits across his face. The same emotion twinges in Kate too. Besides, it is nearly one in the morning, and after all the socialising, and the amount of wine she’s downed, Kate is headed for her bed.

“That’s rough,” she sympathises.

“Tell me about it,” he sighs, blowing air from his lips.

“So, where’s home? With an accent like that I would wager it’s Kent,” she thinks wistfully of the rolling hills, and endless meadows of the English countryside. Every so often twinges of homesickness fill her, even more so when she hears an English accent, even one as posh as this one.

“Guilty as charged, though these days I spend most of my time in London,”

“Oh which part? I used to live right in the city,” she smiles, thinking of her old shoebox sized flat, with the tiny kitchenette, but the most gorgeous windows. Those windows made her fall in love with it. They’re why she lived there for so long.

“Mayfair actually,” oh so he’s rich rich Kate immediately thinks.

“Oh don’t tell me, you live in one of those gorgeous villas I used to run past don’t you?”

“I suppose Bridgerton House could be considered a villa,” a dimple appears between his eyebrows, and Kate has to fight the urge to press her thumb there, and smooth it out.

“And it’s even got a name! My my, I have gone up in the world!” She laughs, because it’s just so ridiculous. And besides, she’ll never see this man again.

“Well, this is me, it’s been lovely to meet you, Miss Sharma,” a black Range Rover pulls up, and Anthony shakes her hand, palm encasing hers before opening the back door and gracefully sliding inside.

“You too,” she flashes him a smile, handbag in hand, as she opens it to dig for her phone. Within minutes, an uber pulls up, and she hops in, running a hand through her curls, trying to detangle them slightly.

Once she gets home, Kate gingerly strips off her dress, managing to only stab herself with the safety pins twice, which must be a record for a dress like this. Carefully, she puts it on the hanger before padding into her bathroom, and readying herself for bed. Showered, and dressed in her most comfortable pyjamas, Kate takes one last look around her apartment to make sure every light and appliance is off before she tumbles into bed, encasing herself in the duvet.

Morning dawns, and because her bedtime the night before was near two o’clock, Kate does not see it. In fact, she lives in that blissful state of deep sleep until half past nine. Traditionally, those who attend the gala get to take the morning of the next day as leave, which Kate in this moment is eternally grateful for. There may only be a few perks that come with her job, but if one of them means that after fashion’s biggest night she can have a lie in on a Tuesday, she’ll take it.

Slowly, she wakes, stretching out her achy limbs. She doesn’t bother checking her phone, knowing that there won’t be any messages apart from a text from her sister, and maybe Mary, if she’s keeping up with the gala this year.

Feeling somewhat limber, she clambers out of bed, sliding on her favourite pair of slippers and makes her way to the kitchen. Breakfast is a short, if efficient affair, one well brewed cup of coffee and two slices of toast slathered in butter and marmalade later, she feels ready to tackle the day. Her company issued laptop lingers menacingly in her peripheral vision, but she chooses to ignore it, opting instead to stare out of the window, the night before playing on a loop in her head.

Even now, hours later she still feels the heat of Anthony’s stare on her as their eyes meet. it’s strange, to think that at once he feels familiar, and yet entirely new. Steeling herself, Kate goes to find her phone, thankfully plugged into the socket by her bed. Tapping the screen, she is almost blinded by the amount of messages and notifications. Assuming the worst, she goes straight to her group text with Mary and Edwina, just to check if they’re both okay. The messages take a while to load, but both her stepmother and sister seem to be doing well, if a little overexcited about something. That’s when she sees it.

Eddie: @Kate respectfully, who the fuck is this????

Mary: language!

Eddie: Mum, these are extenuating circumstances, have you seen this????

Mary: he is quite handsome. Kate dearest, who is he? Is he your boyfriend?

Eddie: maybe she’s just sleeping with him

Mary: EDWINA SHARMA!

Eddie: 🙄 fine, maybe he’s just her special friend

Mary:….

Eddie: I’m just saying!!!

Mary: be nice to your sister

Kate: well good morning to you too dear family

Eddie: Oh good, you’re finally awake. Explain yourself woman

Kate: there’s nothing to explain? He’s just a man I nearly bumped into on the carpet, I’d never met him before. Anyway, why are you even on this tangent?

Eddie: Kate… Have you not seen?

Kate: seen what?

Eddie: babes, your little meet-cute is going viral

Kate: …oh god

Edwina’s message sends Kate into such a tizzy that she forgets how to breathe. Panic overtakes her whole body, and she slumps down onto her bed. Gathering her courage, she scrolls through the other notifications on her phone. There are dozens of messages from her friends, people she works with, people she’s only met once, the list goes on. And then, right there at the bottom of the list it reads “anthony.bridgerton requested to follow you”. For a split second, her heart stops. Before she can really think about it, she clicks on it, and immediately is taken to his profile. There on her screen is the gorgeous man from the night before. Anthony he said his name was. She refrains from googling him, mostly because she’s pretty sure she’ll never see him again, but also because she can’t bear it if he’s some rich prick who lives off daddy’s money.

His page is public, but there are only a few posts, mostly of him with seven other brunettes, ranging in age she thinks from about twelve to somewhere around her own age, or slightly older. The youngest two look like they could be his children, but she’s not sure.

Not letting herself think too much about it, she accepts the request and follows him back. Any pretence of keeping their meeting a secret is gone now anyway, so she might as well shoot her shot. Checking the other notifications, she sees that there’s video evidence of their meeting plastered all over every news site covering the gala. Mostly she is a mystery, though some have linked her to the museum. The large majority of the gossip will fade in a few days, likely when some new celebrity either gets cancelled, or does something funny, yet stupid. The buzz of the met gala only lasts a few days, fashion’s biggest night is quickly overshadowed for something more appetising the public can sink their teeth into.

The pictures from the night are gorgeous, each celebrity is perfectly captured in all their beauty, gracefully walking along the carpet and then up the steps of the Met. And then there is the video of her and Anthony. It starts off well enough she thinks, until the moment she stumbles slightly before his arms catch her, and their eyes meet. Even through the screen of her phone, she can feel the heat of his stare.

There are a few pictures of them too, hand in hand, walking up the Met steps. And if Kate is being honest with herself, they’re beautiful. Something unspoken crackles between them even through the pictures.

Sighing, she puts down her phone and runs her hands through her hair, gathering the courage to get herself ready for work. Taking a good look at herself in the mirror, she can see traces of last night’s mascara, glittering almost in the soft sunlight. Gently, she wipes at her eyes with a cloth, removing the traces of the night before from her face. Her eyes are tired, and she feels like another few hours of sleep would cure her current state, but she knows she needs to get into work soon.

At eleven, she’s finally ready, and she wanders outside, on her way to work. This is the latest she’s ever turned up after the Met, but not the latest anyone has turned up. That record is Lucy’s, she alone can claim that people don’t get fired for turning up after the museum has closed the day after the gala. Though with Lucy, Kate supposes that no one would dare try. After all, she’s the one who keeps the thing running so smoothly.

Once she finally gets to the museum, she makes a point of going around, checking to see who’s turned up, and who hasn’t yet. Relief floods her as she sees that about half of everyone is in, the other half no doubt imminent in their arrival, or perhaps they won’t show. There are always a few of those after all. In her office, a large bouquet of flowers awaits her. Lilies and tulips, her favourites. Not knowing quite what to think, she tries to find evidence of who it might be from her contacts list. No-one seems like they might have sent them, apart from maybe Mary and Edwina, but surely they would send them to her apartment. Ignoring the butterflies in her stomach at who it might be, she eventually finds a vase for them and puts them down on her desk.

She’s barely settled in when in walks Lucy.

“Finally!” Her friend sits down in the chair opposite her desk.

“Good morning Luce, surprised you’re here this early,” she smiles, knowing her friend is up to something.

“Well after last night, how could I not be? I’m dying to know Kate, you have to tell me everything!”

“There’s not much to tell, I mean you were there, you know the gala went well, so Anna will be pleased, and the exhibit is stunning as usual, what else do you want me to tell you?” She tries the coy angle, hoping it will buy her some time.

“Don’t do that to me Kathani Sharma,” Lucy wags a finger in her face.

“Do what?”

“Young lady, you will sit there and tell me who on earth that gorgeous man is, and when you’re getting married to him,” she blinks, slowly, emphasising her point with a slight glare.

“First of all, I literally only know his name, secondly that was the first time I’d even seen him! Nothing happened, I tripped, somehow he grabbed me and saved me from making an absolute fool of myself in front of all the photographers, and then we went our separate ways,” she finishes, deliberately omitting the conversation afterwards, on the steps of the gala.

By the expression on her friend’s face Kate can tell Lucy is not impressed. Whether or not she is unimpressed by the contents of the story or what she has left out, Kate can’t be sure.

“So why didn’t you get his phone number? Or better yet drag him home with you when you left?” Lucy looks at her with despair in her eyes as if Kate has committed the gravest crime.

“Because I’m a normal human being who doesn’t accost random strangers and take them home with me?”

“You have got to live a little. When was your last date anyway?”

“Three months ago,” Kate mutters, hoping Lucy won’t hear it.

“I heard that,” her friend wags a finger in her direction. “Kate my dearest, you have got to have fun! You’re only in New York for another month! Now is the time to get out there and make fun choices!”

“I’m twenty six Luce, I’m too old for that. Besides, I’m happy!” She tries bargaining.

Before Lucy can issue a retort, Kate’s phone rings, it’s a call from one of the Vogue people, though she doesn’t recognise the number at first. Shooing her friend away, Kate picks up the phone.

“Hello this is Kate speaking,”

A familiar voice floods over the line. “Kate, it’s Emily,”

“Oh Em! How are you?” Lucy sidles out of her office, and Kate is left to natter away on the phone to Anna’s assistant, getting the details down for the debrief later in the week. The meeting is scheduled for Thursday, enough time for the team at the costume institute to pull together all their notes on the evening, and while Kate isn’t directly involved, a few other curators usually attend the debrief to give their overall thoughts on the exhibit. It also helps that Kate is leaving soon, and while she will miss this job dearly, there’s some comfort in the knowledge that she’ll soon be home, in the grey sodden landscape of old blighty.

When the phone call comes to an end, Kate turns back to her computer and begins sifting through her emails, flagging some as she goes so she can return back to them. After managing to form some order in her inbox, she sets about replying to them, trying to find some coherence in her scrambled mind. Occasionally, her eyes drift to the flowers on her desk, standing tall in their glory. Impulsively, she takes a picture of them and sends them to her family group chat, thinking they might confess to them.

Kate: if this was either of you, thank you, they’re gorgeous

Eddie: not from us! Is there a note?

Kate: no they didn’t come with one, which is why I assumed they were from one of you

Eddie: they’re probably from mystery man

Kate: doubt it, we spoke for like two seconds

Eddie: maybe he asked around about you! You never know!

Rolling her eyes, Kate puts her phone back down and gets stuck into her caption reviews. They take up the rest of the afternoon, as she flits between documents, editing and trimming down the overly complicated language into something more purposeful, more accessible to a greater audience.

The flowers on her desk keep stealing her attention, from the periphery of her eyesight, they keep teasing her. Deep down Kate does suspect it is the man from the night before, Anthony. But just in case it isn’t she’s not sure she wants to check. Because then, that dangerous thing that flits in her chest, spreading its wings, hope will grow into delusion, and she really doesn’t have time for that.

To tamper her curiosity, and perhaps tempt a reply, Kate decides that the sensible course of action is in fact to post a picture of the flowers on her instagram story, just in case. Not more than twenty minutes after she posts it, a message comes through.

It’s him.

Pulse racing, she opens it before she can think too much about it.

Anthony.bridgerton: they really are quick to deliver in new york!

Kate.Sharma: it was you!!

Anthony.bridgerton: the flowers? Yes those are from me

Kate.Sharma: they’re beautiful, thank you. They’re actually my favourites, how did you know?

Anthony.bridgerton: Lucky guess. I’m glad you like them though, I thought of you when I saw them on the website and hoped I picked right

Kate.Sharma: Thank you, I’m glad your instincts led you there

Anthony.Bridgerton: me too

Smiling, she puts down her phone and gets back into her work, burying herself into the mountain of emails, and edits to the catalogue that are due sooner than she likes to think.

The day slips away, silently in her office, the only sound the click clack of the keyboard as her fingers fly over it. Before she knows it, there is little light coming in from her window, and the sky is at that twilight blue phase, silvery somehow yet inching closer to midnight black.

She gathers her things, absentmindedly looks at the flowers on her desk one last time, and turns off the light as she leaves. The streets are humming with activity, people are everywhere, walking with music blaring in their headphones as they hurry on, to their homes, or a first date, or perhaps to somewhere more sombre.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of handover notes, and emails that pile up before she can even begin to read them. Fingers fly across the keyboard as she furiously types out her notes for the next show. Communication with Anthony as she now thinks of him, is often, they have each other’s phone numbers and once she even gathers the courage to call him after the endless amount of voice notes they exchange.

When she finally touches down at Heathrow, a knot unravels itself in her chest. As much as Kate loves New York, the apartment, the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps, London is home. New York is an elusive, cunning mistress, that lures you in with the promise of glamour. But London is steady, unflinching in its ugliness, winding its soft grey skies around her like a scarf.

The customs experience is blissfully quick, and before she knows it Kate is striding through the terminal with her suitcase in one hand, eyes darting around trying to find her two favourite people.

“KATE!” The shout comes from her left, and immediately by instinct she turns and runs. Towards the voice that colours her memories, the voice that envelops her in its warmth. There, a mere few metres away now, are the two people she thinks about most often. A lump forms in her throat, tears well in her eyes as she crashes into them. The smell of Mary’s perfume, and Edwina’s moisturiser envelops her, and it feels like home, though they are stood in the airport. Something clicks into place, in the arms of the two people she loves best.

Dinner that evening is a jovial affair, reminiscent of the golden days of her childhood. The smell of spices hits her nose as she sits down at the table, in her familiar seat, surrounded by sights that make her heart ache. Eventually, once the dishes are cleaned, and the counter wiped down, Kate settles into her old room, in her old bed, still the same one from all those years ago. It’s weird now, settling into it, ducking under the covers, feeling at once old, but also as if she’s twelve again. Sleep comes to her easily, she takes to it like a duck to water, slipping into dreams.

The next week is a blur. Kate oscillates between being tired out of her mind, and almost high on adrenaline. It’s unstable, and wild, but somehow, in all the chaos her life becomes, she finds a place to live, and her job back.

Walking out of the interview, her phone rings, and before she can take note of who it is, she answers, breathless as she strides down the street.

“Hi,” a silky, smooth velvet timbre hits her ears.

It’s Anthony.

“Hi,” she’s grinning, from how well the interview sits with her, but also hearing his voice. In the week she’s been back, their messages have turned into something that tingles with anticipation, it hums throughout her body every time she sees a notification pop up bearing his name.

“How’d it go?”

“Well! I think. I mean I knew it would go well because I know these people, I’ve worked with them before, but it went somehow better than that?”

“That’s wonderful! Have you just come out now?”

“Yes, I’m walking around, I don’t actually know where I’m going but I’m fizzing,” she laughs, feeling the joy bubble up inside her.

“I knew you’d do well,” she can hear pride in his voice. She knows what that sounds like now, knows what his voice does when he feels proud, or disappointed.

“The best part is, I’ve found a flat too!”

“Already?! Kate that’s brilliant! Where is it?”

“In Notting Hill, right next to a park, oh it has the most gorgeous windows!”

“Send me a picture?”

“Of course, I’ll send you one when I’m all moved in,” a soft smile plays about her lips, as she imagines all the things she might decorate her new place with.

“So, now that you’re finally back, what are you doing this Saturday?” She can hear hesitation creep into his voice, can hear the uncertainty colouring the syllables.

“Well, in the morning I’m going to the markets with Mary and Edwina, and then after that probably being roped into cooking something all afternoon, but I’ve no evening plans yet,” she lets it linger there, the possibility of something.

“So you’d be free around half six then?”

“Depends what for,” she teases.

“Dinner,” his tone is all business, but Kate can hear the smile that lingers behind his words.

“For dinner, I could make time,”

“I’ll text you the location later,”

“I’ll allow it,” she smiles, a soft smile that feels new to her, like something is being unlocked.

Saturday dawns, and the weather is frightful. Rain pours down in sheets, the sky is a stormy dark grey and Kate cannot breathe. Despair blooms in her chest, it feels like the heavens will crack open her roof and swallow her whole. It’s a strange thing, to still after all these years be affected by the storms. A few memories linger of her birth mother, and the storm she died in, but at the time she was four, and at that age didn’t understand what was happening.

These days, the panic sets in when the rain is at its heaviest and thunder rolls through the clouds. Nothing really helps, mostly she resorts to just staying wrapped up in her duvet, and pretending its not happening. Today of all days, she does not want it to happen. She wants the sun to break though the grey London sky, and promise her everything’s going to be okay.

To calm herself, Kate decides to play some music, in an effort to drown out the sound of the rain as she gets dressed. The market won’t attend itself, and besides, if she’s lucky, there might be pastries there. Breakfast is a rather rushed piece of toast all but flung into her mouth, but the thought of a hot coffee in hand, and a pastry makes it worth it.

Sensibly dressed in a pair of trousers, a light jumper and a jacket just in case she walks out of her door, and notices that the rain has calmed immensely and turned into a soft drizzle, almost mist-like in its gentleness. Feeling rather more cheery than five minutes ago, Kate sets out for the market. She’s never been to this one, but Edwina, ever the savvy sleuth has deduced that it has the best pastries, and Kate is determined to try one if they haven’t all sold out by the time she arrives.

The market is busy, and full of life, so as Kate approaches, she takes the time to catalogue every stall, passing through the throng of people, politely excusing herself as she walks past. The smells and sights around her are so immersive, she almost misses the coffee cart entirely. Recovering from her almost blunder, she follows her nose until she can see the stall. A queue forms rather quickly as she approaches, but determined to get a coffee, she joins it.

Once she is near the front, she decides on a drink, and promptly orders it when asked by the very posh looking brunette tapping away on a screen.

“That’ll be five pounds,” the amount appears on the eftpos machine in front of her, and Kate duly taps her card against it, a little aghast at the price, but nonetheless assuming that they must not make money from many other places.

“Perfect, thank you,” she smiles, stepping off to the side to wait her turn.

From the corner of her eye, she can see a dark crop of hair that looks familiar, but in that way where she’s not entirely sure if it is, or if she’s hallucinating. To top it off, she’s not super familiar with the hair, only just, so it takes her a minute or two to determine that she’s pretty sure Anthony Bridgerton is a few feet away from her. And on the day they’re supposed to go to dinner no less. Slyly, she manages to take her phone from her pocket, and snap a picture of the man, right before he turns. Hastily, she turns her head to the side, as if looking for something, when really she’s trying to disguise the flush creeping up her cheeks.

Her coffee order is called, and Kate quickly grabs it before she can be spotted. Something in her wants to wait until she sees him at dinner to actually see him, and if it isn’t him, then she at least wants to save herself some level of embarrassment.

“I didn’t know this was your neck of the woods,” a voice jolts her out of the small daydream she’s in. Startled, she turns around.

“Tom!” She exclaims. “What are you doing here, I thought you were in Brussels?”

“I came back a couple of months ago actually, I missed home too much,” he appears sheepish, which is new for him she thinks. Nonetheless, she is glad to see him and it’s nice to see a familiar face.

“I know the feeling,” she smiles.

“How long are you back for? I thought you were in New York?”

“I’m back for good actually. The contract finished at the Met, and I always knew I wanted to come home afterwards,”

“Ah yes, I saw your outfit at the gala, you looked beautiful,” a small blush rises on his cheeks, and honestly it’s adorable.

“Thank you, it took an army of people let me tell you,” she smiles, unsure how to take his compliment, but generally grateful. Truthfully, Kate has never been one for stealing attention, and the whole ordeal was a bit much. Thankfully, the internet found something else to latch onto swiftly after the encounter on the carpet, so she has been let off the proverbial hook.

“Well, I have to rush off, but we should catch up soon!” He seems quite eager, and it’s been a while since Kate has seen him so she agrees.

“That would be great!”

“What are you doing tonight?” He offers, and though she’s excited at the prospect of reigniting their friendship, she is perhaps a tad more excited about her date.

“Ah, I can’t tonight, I have plans,”

“Another time then,” he looks a little crestfallen, though Kate isn’t sure if she’s just reading into it, or if he actually is a little cut up about it. Either way, she decides, it’s not her problem.

“I’ll be in touch, yeah?”

“Sure, see you around Katie,” the familiar nickname falls from his lips and it takes all of her strength to not screw up her face at it. It’s not that it’s a bad nickname per se, but it does feel a little juvenile. Especially coming from Tom of all people, the man who vehemently refused to be called Tommy, despite his friend’s best attempts. Then again, Thomas Dorset hasn’t exactly been known to stick to any opinion for very long, let alone expect anyone else to.

“Bye Tom,” she waves as he walks off and promptly gets out her shopping list. The market is still busy, but navigable. The tote bag on her shoulder is just big enough to fit everything in it, and by the time she’s done, it aches a little, but she feels a sense of accomplishment.

In her bedroom, everything is a mess so she spends time rearranging it, and getting her things into the boxes Mary has collected for her.

In the late afternoon, Kate becomes a whirlwind of activity, darting to and fro from her bed to the wardrobe, to the boxes in her room. She’s so engrossed in her frenzy that she barely notices when Edwina pokes her head through the door, a quizzical look on her face.

“Did a potato fly around your room? I know you’re moving soon, but this is new, even for you,” her younger sister crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe.

“A what?” She reaches into a box, thinking she might finally have found something worth wearing.

“Don’t worry about it,” Edwina waves dismissively, “what are you running around for?”

“I have a date,” she manages, tugging at the dress buried at the very bottom of the box.

“Someone alert the presses, Kate Sharma has a date!” Her sister squealed with glee, immediately stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind her. The reason for the shut door is unclear, because as they both know, Edwina upon hearing any news that she deems gossip worthy will immediately report it to her mother, who will in turn, report to her circle of friends, and so news circulates faster than Kate can keep up with.

Truly it’s impressive how quickly word gets around. And to the credit of the group of gossips, most of it is true. Privately, Kate thinks they have a fact checker, someone who reins them in when the news is too good to be true, or otherwise. They would certainly give the tabloids a run for their money at the rate they spread word.

“And by someone, I assume you mean you,” she finishes tugging the dress from the box, and upon inspection, it fits the bill exactly. It was a white, mid thigh length dress with pearl buttons and black detailing along the collar and down the front. It’s perfectly dressy, and casual, depending on the shoe she would wear with it. That turns out to be another problem. The shoes. Because try as she might, it’s rather impossible to figure out which box has her shoes in it.

“You know me too well,” Edwina sighed from her perch atop the edge of Kate’s bed.

“What size shoe do you wear?”

“Why?” Edwina’s eyes narrowed, suspicion lingering across her features.

“You know how you’re the best sister ever and you love me and would do anything for me?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,”

“What if it comes with a ticket to the Chelsea flower show?”

“It’s not fair that you know my weaknesses,” Edwina grumbles, dramatically flopping backwards onto the bed with a thud.

“All I want is those black pumps of yours, besides you never wear them anyway!”

“Fine. But this is only because your shoes are all in boxes and I think mum might have a fit if she walks past your room and sees an even bigger disaster because you tried to find some shoes,” she waggles a finger, and for a moment looks so much like their father that it makes Kate’s heart ache.

Before her sister can change her mind, Kate darts out of the room, a thank you thrown over her shoulder as she closes the door behind her.

At six fifteen, after taking one last look in the mirror, Kate walks out the door, confident in her navigation skills. She hasn’t got a car yet, so opts to take an uber because why bother trying to finagle getting permission from Mary for the keys to the car when what she’s really gunning for is a ride home. Perhaps in more ways than she’s willing to admit to more than just herself at the moment.

The car pulls up outside the bar just in time, and she thanks the driver before steeling herself and walking in. At first, the bar appears dim, but as her eyes adjust slightly, she can see it is rather cosy. A few lamps hang from the ceiling, and the tables are spaced apart just enough that each shouldn’t be able to hear the ones next to them.

Just as she’s getting up the nerve to go and let a waiter know she’s there and to ask for the booking, she sees him. Sitting at a table near a window, there he is. He’s scruffy today, a shadow covers his jaw, and his hair is tousled, making Kate want to run her hands through it even more than she already fantasises about.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” She says as she approaches the table, a teasing lilt colouring her voice.

“Hi,” the grin on his face is immediate at hearing her voice, and even just hearing one word from his lips in person again after such a long time does something to her that feels inexplicable.

He stands, and they hug, and it feels too short but also too long at the same time. She’s not entirely sure, but she thinks he takes a rather big sniff of her. Oddly, she finds it erotic, the notion that the smell of her is something he wants to drink in. In turn, she takes a more subtle sniff, the smell of amber and neroli enveloping her, something musky and yet fresh, cut with something floral perhaps. It goes without saying really, Anthony Bridgerton smells divine.

“How was the market?”

“Great! Surprisingly I haven’t forgotten how to pick the perfect veggies! And I bumped into an old friend of mine from my uni days,” she’s careful to use the word friend, but she’s not sure why.

“Oh that’s lovely,  anyone I know?” a smile crosses his face before he takes a sip of water.

“You might know him actually, it was Tom Dorset,” at that, a flicker of surprise crosses his face, as if he’s holding something back. What he might be holding back, Kate can’t quite tell. 

“Name vaguely rings a bell, where’d he go to uni?” One of his brows quirks upwards, a question.

“Oxford from what I hear, studied to be a doctor,” she replies, carefully taking in his reaction, though she’s truly not sure why her brain insists on picking apart the minutiae of his emotions.

“Ah, yes, I remember him. I think Daphne had a crush on him for a while, which was at least better than her marrying my best friend,”a wearied look crosses his face.

“That really is a tragedy, my heart bleeds for you, truly. You know, I think I can hear the world’s smallest violin playing just now, must be for you,” she teases, reaching for his hand across the table. The move is uncharacteristically bold for her, but they have been talking to each other for months, so she feels somewhat justified in her advances.

At the sight of a waiter passing by, Kate refocuses her attention on the menu. It’s mostly Mediterranean, with some interesting influences, but the food all looks really good. Her attention is mostly drawn to the cacio e Pepe she spots, but truly she could take all of the starters and go from there. From the edge of her consciousness, she can feel her hand in Anthony’s, his warm fingers enveloping hers as they peruse the menu. Having decided, she shuts her menu, and begins to unabashedly stare at the man in front of her.

“You picked yet?” She asks, gently caressing his hand with her thumb.

“Yeah, I think I’ll get the Devon duck, it sounds delicious,” he smiles and shuts his menu, not breaking the eye contact with her.

Soon enough, the waiter comes by and takes their orders. For some reason Kate opts not to have a glass of wine, though she usually would. There’s something about this dinner, this date that she wants to sear into her memory forever. It feels different for some reason.

The conversation flows from there, they seem to discuss everything under the sun, from the family drama Anthony is constantly embroiled in, to the Kate’s sheer luck in finding a place so quickly. The dinner is lovely, her cacio e pepe is perfectly cooked, just peppery enough that it cuts through the richness of the cheese, and Anthony’s duck is equally delightful. Naturally, he feeds her some from his fork and it takes all of her mental strength to not fling herself at him. Once their stomachs are full, they head out, opting to pick somewhere close by for dessert. Kate thinks she knows where the best ice cream in London can be had, and she’s pretty sure it’s on the same street as this place.

“I’m telling you, pistachio and lemon is an elite combo,” he grouses, his hand in hers, the way it’s been all evening as they walk along the pavement, guided only by Kate’s intuition. It’s a game she likes to play, trying to make herself less dependent on google maps, and more knowledgeable about the very place she lives in.

“And I’m not saying it doesn’t have its place, but let me assure you, this place does the best chocolate ice cream there has ever been,” she stops, making sure to catch his eye to emphasise her point.

“How can you say that when Ben and Jerry’s exists?”

“Ben and Jerry’s is good, I will grant you, but what you’re about to experience will blow that out of the water I promise,” she squeezes his hand for emphasis, enjoying the way they bicker about ice cream.

They round a corner, and there it is. Danbury’s ice-cream parlour, exactly where she remembers it being. The neon sign is still the same, and the poster in the window is slightly faded, but it looks almost like home. She remembers the hours spent looking at each flavour, daring to ask for a sample for one from the lady behind the counter. Now she knows of course, that Agatha won’t bite, and that she enjoys the chatter with young people who come in. Privately, she wonders if Agatha will still be there, standing behind the counter, ice cream scoop at the ready.

“This is going to change your life,” she almost drags him in behind her, pushing the door open.

She doesn’t see it, but he grins.

“Hello!” A cheery voice calls out from behind the counter. It’s not Agatha. Kate stuffs her disappointment down where it belongs, and smiles back, already trying to pick a flavour.

In the end she caves, and goes right for the chocolate brownie she knows will be good.

“Can I have a scoop of the chocolate brownie, and scoop of the coffee caramel in a cup please?” She smiles at the girl behind the counter.

“Sure,” the girl replies, readying the scoop and the cup.

For his part, Anthony decides on mint chip and chocolate.

“I told you it was going to be life changing,” their hands are no longer touching, but watching Anthony succumb to the best ice cream ever is so satisfying, that Kate will allow it, just this once.

“I hate to say it but you’re right,” he almost moans, licking the ice cream from the wooden spoon.

“Can I get that in writing?” She teases, catching the glint in his eye as he in turn watches her lick the spoon.

Eventually, they finish the ice creams, throw the spoons and cups away and end up dawdling along the street. Privately, Kate doesn’t want the date to end, she’s having too much fun, and something in her wants to stay in the warm glow of Anthony’s brown eyes for a little while longer.

“Should we get out of here?” He stops, turning to face her, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, his gaze searching her eyes.

For the first time in a while, she’s nervous, but excited at the prospect of whatever this is. s, being brave, she nods, and if that means her lips brush his, well you can’t blame a girl for trying.

She’s not sure who moves first, it might be her, but a spark of courage lights up inside her and Kate leans into his lips. Against hers, his mouth is soft and supple, a hint of stubble on his upper lip grazes her as she melds her lips to his. The kiss is magical, if a little out in the open for her taste, but right now she doesn’t care. As if by some instinct, his arms wrap aro0und her and she is surrounded by his smell. Her arms naturally gravitate to the back of his neck, finding the locks of hair she can twist through her fingers. Against her pelvis, she can feel something hard, and it sends sparks flying through her core.

Hot against her mouth, his tongue darts to the seam of her lips and her moan of pleasure is what gains him entry into her mouth. As they part, she knows her eyes are glittering with desire for him. Her hands fist in his shirt, pulling him close to her as if he’s going to run.

“I never expected that thing about fireworks while kissing someone to actually be true,” he breathes, eyes darting to her lips.

“Told you your life would be changed,”

“You said the ice cream would change it,”

“Indirectly, I suppose it has,” she shrugs, not missing how his arms wrap tightly around her.

“Right, shall we?” he pulls out his phone and types something into it before stuffing it back into a trouser pocket. 

“Let’s,” she puts her hand in his, and right there, on a street corner, waiting for a taxi back to his, it feels like the rest of her life is about to begin.