Page 16 of An American in London

During one afternoon on Bond Street, Ben has spent more on my wardrobe than I have in my entire life. I bought myself nice things back in New York, but I mixed them with cheaper stuff.

“Are we done now?” I ask as we exit Ralph Lauren, my feet aching and my hair looking like I’ve been wrestling alligators for the last couple of hours.

“Most women wouldn’t complain about shopping for a new wardrobe.”

“First, that’s sexist. Second, I’m not most women.”

“True on both counts. Now back to my office.”

“On a Sunday?” He doesn’t respond. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Don’t do that,” Ben replies. “Don’t ask permission to ask a question. It’s a waste of time. Does anyone ever say no when someone asks them if they can ask a question?”

“Jeez, you’re a stickler.”

“I’m efficient.”

I bend my arms and move them jerkily around like I’m pretending to be a robot. “Yes, sir,” I say in my best robot voice. I drop my arms and switch back into my normal tone. “What happens to the clothes when this weekend is over?” I ask.

When Ben finished choosing all the pieces for my weekend wardrobe, he simply handed over his business card, asked that everything be de-labeled and laundered, then delivered to my hotel.

He hadn’t handed over a credit card or anything.

I didn’t even know stores would do something like that.

I’ve certainly never seen anything like it.

Ben glances down at his phone and then nods as his Range Rover pulls up across the street. “Is this a trick question?”

There is definitely more of a language divide than I expected there to be between me and the rest of London. Maybe it’s cultural? “No, I just wonder whether they’re on loan or I need to pay for them or ...”

“I’ll pay for them. After, they’ll be yours to do with what you wish. If you don’t like them, I suggest you donate them.”

“I love them,” I blurt. “I was just wondering. It all feels a little ... Pretty Woman .”

“Except you’re not a prostitute and this is reality.”

“True on both counts,” I say, echoing him. We reach the car, he holds the door open, and I climb inside. Is this reality, though?

I have to move a pile of papers off my seat so I can sit. Ben closes the door, rounds the trunk, and then slides in next to me. The driver pulls off; presumably, he knows where we’re going.

“Oh, good,” Ben says as he sees the papers in my hands.

“There should be two sets there. One for you and one for me.” He takes the stack from me and flicks through them.

They seem to be divided into separately stapled bundles.

“These are yours.” He hands me three bundles and keeps three for himself.

“The first one is information about me. The second one is information I’d like about you, and the third one is things we need to decide on. ”

“Wow.” I clear my throat. “Efficiency is key,” I say, using my robot voice again.

I pull out the section titled “Tuesday Reynolds,” which looks remarkably similar to a college application.

Name, date of birth, place of birth, parent(s) name, parent(s) age, parent(s) occupation .

I turn the page. He’s a man who clearly likes details.

The questions continue. Pets (breed, name, age, idiosyncrasies if applicable).

I turn the page again. Favorite foods. Favorite books. The questions go on and on and on.

I put down the questionnaire for me and pick up one of the other packets. It seems just the same as the one I’m supposed to fill out, except this form has already been populated with details about Ben. “This seems very thorough.”

“Like I said, everything has to be perfect.”

“Is this a form you ask people to fill out a lot?” He can’t have prepared this form just for me. Thought and preparation went into this.

Perhaps he gives this to his potential girlfriends to see whether he wants to have dinner with them, and that’s why he doesn’t date—no one’s made the grade so far.

I keep skimming through the pages, wondering whether I’ll uncover something interesting.

Is there a section detailing his favorite sexual positions or penis length?

I glance across at his crotch, catch myself, and focus back on the questionnaires.

“You said yourself you like to be efficient. It could make dating easier if you prescreened potential sexual partners with this form.”

I’m kidding. Sort of. It’s nerves. I’m partly impressed with his organization and commitment to our ruse.

It makes sense; we’ve got a lot to cover in a short amount of time.

But it’s also freaking me out. Has he done this kind of thing before?

Does he have a hidden agenda? My instincts say no.

From what I know about Ben, he’s a straight shooter.

But it’s weird he can just produce this questionnaire out of nowhere.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Although I’m not interested in this level of detail regarding the women I sleep with. It would have to be a streamlined version.”

I slide my gaze to his face to see if he’s kidding. He gives me a look that says Of course I’m not being serious; get back to work , and I can’t help but smile. There is a sense of humor lurking deep down in this man. You just have to mine it like gold.

“Stop freaking out,” he says, reading my mind. “I have a resourceful and clever assistant who put this together for me while we were ... shopping.”

That makes sense. “What does she think about you taking a fake fiancée?” I ask.

“I haven’t asked her.”

“She didn’t say anything when you asked her to compile all this?”

“No,” he says simply. “Now let’s go through the information we need to decide between us. First things first: How did we meet? Shall we say we were introduced by mutual friends?”

“But then which friends, and would the duke know them? I think we stick to the truth. We bumped into each other in Green Park, then I ran into you the following day at the coffee shop.”

The silence starts again. Ben sure does like pauses.

What? I want to scream at him.

“I’m not a natural talker,” he says eventually. “I’m not sure it’s believable I’d just strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger.”

“You didn’t. You glared at me as if I’d just set you on fire the first time we met. The second time, I just chatted at you in the coffee shop. The third time, the seat next to you was the only one in a busy bar. You asked me to dinner.”

His frown is back, though I’m starting to realize this isn’t necessarily because he’s disapproving. He’s assimilating and trying to see the advantages and disadvantages of what I’m suggesting.

“Why would I ask you to dinner?” he asks.

“You’re attracted to me. You’re going to have to fake some of it.”

“I am attracted to you. That’s not the problem. It just wouldn’t necessarily mean I’d ask you to dinner.”

My stomach tips and sways. He finds me attractive. Well, the feeling is mutual, I want to say, even though he’s grumpy and bad-tempered and borderline rude seventy-eight percent of the time. “What would make you say yes to dinner?”

More silence.

More thinking.

“Okay, so I say yes to dinner.” He pauses. “Just because I’m attracted to you.” He says it like he’s rehearsing the idea in his brain.

“Okaaay,” I say. “And I’m over here for work, trying to save my job and nurse my broken heart, when I run into the love of my life.”

“Is this the plot of another Daniel De Luca film? You never did tell me what the obsession is.”

“No, it’s not the plot of a movie. We’re staying as close as possible to the truth, remember?”

He flips over the page and without looking up at me says, “Like I said, he was a complete idiot.”

Warmth blooms in my cheeks. Honestly, even if Ben weren’t tall, dark, and handsome, with his own plane and a black Amex, I’d still want to kiss him right now.

“Okay, so that’s how we met,” I say. “What’s next? Let’s do the pets section. Easy for me. I don’t have any. You?”

“I have a goldfish named Strawberry Shortcake,” he says.

I turn to him, intrigued by his strawberry shortcake obsession. “Really?”

“No. Neither of us has pets. Good. Next?”

I laugh and take in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes from his smile. They suit him.

“Brothers and sisters?” he asks. “I have neither.”

“Same. No siblings.”

“What about your parents? What do they do for a living?”

The question brings me back to my past with a jerk. “My mom died when I was seventeen.” I stare out the window, watching the gray London streets whizz by that my mother would have so liked to have seen for herself. “She always wanted to come to London.”

“Her death must have been very difficult,” Ben says simply. There’s no apology, no dressing up death into “passing.” Always the straight shooter.

I nod. “It was. It still is.”

I hear Ben sigh, but it isn’t impatience. Almost like he’s commiserating with me that life can be a real fucker at times.

“My dad ... It was almost worse for him, I think. I got to move away to the city, but he still lives in the house I grew up in. He’s surrounded by memories of her.”

Ben pulls in a breath and shifts in his seat, but not in a way that makes me think he feels awkward. More he’s making himself comfortable. “Maybe he likes it like that.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking about the curled list still pinned to the refrigerator door. “I guess he does.”

“I think my dad would be exactly the same if my mum died. He worships her.”

I give out a small smile. “That’s nice.” I like the idea of Ben growing up with parents who worshipped each other. Every kid deserves to see devotion growing up. “Did you grow up in London?”

“On the outskirts. Hertfordshire. Dad used to commute into town to work.”

The questionnaire falls away and we’re just talking. Two people getting to know each other, simply for the pleasure of it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think the moment was real.