The Last Night in London, Karen White [english novels to improve english .TXT] 📗

I took in her leopard-print jumpsuit and stilettoes with grudging admiration. I loved trendy clothes—as long as someone else was wearing them. My toes ached in sympathy as I estimated the height of her heels. “My laptop and camera are in my backpack, and my clothing is in the suitcase. Don’t worry. All the jeans are clean, and I brought one dress. You said it shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks, but I brought enough underwear for three just in case.”

“Yes, well, Jeanne Dubose modeled for Coco Chanel in Paris. She might be an easier subject if you dressed as if you cared.”

“I do care—about the story and writing it to the best of my ability. Not about what I’m wearing when I’m interviewing a subject. Besides, Jeanne Dubose is ninety-nine years old. I doubt she’ll even notice.”

Arabella opened the trunk of her car, still frowning. “Whatever you do, don’t call her old. It doesn’t suit her. I’ve known her all of my life, and even as a child, I never thought of her as old. But she’s your relation, so you probably already know that.”

“A very distant relation, and I’ve never met her, remember? Her side of the family moved to Tennessee from Georgia right after the American Civil War, so I can’t say our families are close. In fact, I wouldn’t even know we were related if my sister hadn’t done one of those ancestry searches and found them. Miss Dubose is my fourth cousin twice removed or something like that, which means I’m already forgiven for referring to her as old because we’re not just family but Southern. She’ll say, ‘Bless your heart,’ and move on.” I lifted my suitcase and placed it in the tiny trunk, keeping my backpack with me.

“Yes, well, I’ve never heard her say, ‘Bless your heart.’ I have heard her say, ‘Are you sure you want to wear that?’ more times than I’d like to admit.” Arabella shut the trunk. “You must be exhausted. Let’s get you to Miss Dubose’s flat so you can have a quick lie-down. I wanted you to stay with me, but Miss Dubose was insistent. She’s got a large flat, and she rarely leaves her suite. She has full-time nursing care, so there’s nothing you have to do except to interview her about her modeling days and the gorgeous vintage clothes we’ve pulled together from storage. And there’s a lovely desk in the front room you can use to write. The museum exhibition isn’t until July, and I’d like to run the article concurrently with its opening. It’s not exactly crunch time, but I’d rather not wait.” She paused. “Maddie, Miss Dubose isn’t in the best of health, so I thought the sooner the better. I already have a title for the exhibition and the article, but you’re the writer, so you can change it if you don’t like it.” She cleared her throat. “‘Furs, Gowns, and Uniforms: The Changing Role of Fashion in a World at War.’”

“It’s a little clunky, but it has a certain ring to it,” I said, moving to the side of the car. “I won’t know until I interview Miss Dubose and start writing. But it sounds like I’ll have lots of peace and quiet without interruptions while I’m there, so I should be able to get it done in no time. I’ve cleared my calendar and turned in a few other projects early so I won’t feel rushed.”

“Splendid. Although there is one thing . . .” She stopped, smiled.

“One thing?” I prompted.

“Yes, well . . .” She moved to the driver’s side and slid in while I was left staring at the large animal in the passenger seat—either a horse or a dog; I couldn’t tell—whose lolling tongue kept me at a respectful distance.

“Should I sit in the back?” I asked around the dark brown head.

“Oh, gosh, sorry.” She turned toward the beast. “Come on, George.” She reached around and patted the leather of the rear seat.

The dog gave what sounded like a sigh before forcing its girth over the console and between the seat backs to perch itself on the ridiculously small backseat.

“George?” I asked, crawling inside with my backpack and putting on my seat belt.

“After Prince George—they’re the same age apparently. Colin thought that the little prince and the dog had similar expressions.”

“Colin?” I asked, unprepared for the jolt of surprise his name registered. “Your cousin Colin, our schoolmate? Colin who avoided me?”

“Technically, I think he’s my second cousin. His grandfather David—his paternal grandmother, Sophia’s, husband—and my grandmother Violet were siblings.” She avoided looking at me, focusing instead on the gear shift. “And don’t be daft, Maddie. Colin only avoided you because you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with him. You two just . . . Well, you were a bit like chalk and cheese, but I think that was just a matter of two people being separated by the same language.”

“Ha. As if I were the one with the accent.”

Arabella sent me a sidelong glance. “Admittedly, he was a bit miffed that you didn’t say good-bye to him when you left Oxford. He thought you owed him the courtesy of a farewell.”

I sucked in my breath. “I don’t say good-bye to anyone—it had nothing to do with him. I only said good-bye to you because you drove me to the airport. I doubt he remembers that now—or me. It’s been seven years.”

“Yes, well, he’s been in Devon—Salcombe, actually, a nice little resort on the coast—on holiday with friends for the week, and he asked me to watch George. And since . . .” She stopped as if suddenly aware of what she was about to say.

“Since what?”

Arabella made a good show of focused concentration as she pulled out into traffic, nearly sideswiping a taxi. For our survival, I allowed her to wind her way out of the airport traffic, waiting until she was on the A4 before repeating, “And since what?”

She was silent for a beat and then allowed the