Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61922 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 206(@300wpm)
Every visit to LA had been jam-packed. I’d usually take the week off from my job at Cally McNally’s salon as a stylist to play tour guide and still allot time for us to be alone. London was calmer somehow. I could explore the city or hang out with Raine if Alistair had to work. And when he was free, we’d travel the English countryside…by train.
Yeah, that sneaky man of mine admitted he’d fibbed about having high-speed railway nerves on our initial Parisian adventure. In truth, Alistair was the type of travel aficionado who had multiple apps on his cell to track the times and routes for trains running throughout the UK. Geeky, yes…but also kind of freaking adorable.
We took frequent trips to Europe, too. Germany, Italy, Spain, Austria, the Netherlands…and always France.
Year two, I moved to London. It was a no-brainer and honestly, I thought everyone saw it coming. Maybe not Liza, though. But she settled in with us nicely at the new flat we’d bought in Marylebone—Alistair’s old one had been too small to accommodate my shoe collection, let alone me and my cat. It was bright and airy and had a fabulous bay window overlooking The Regent’s Park. Liza approved.
The only issue: my lack of employment. There were plenty of salons in the area and I actually had worked at one for a few months, but I didn’t love it. One day, Alistair had said, “Why don’t you do something you really love? Something with color and design? Something that makes you happy.”
So simple, right? And it had been there all along. In that tiny village we stumbled upon when we’d stayed at Françoise and Jacques’ house. The store with the gorgeous sweaters and quality trinkets from France. I’d figured there had to be interest at some kitschy boutique for some of their goodies, and I’d been right. I became a sort of middleman, buying clothing and accessories for a cute shop in Soho. It was so successful that I’d asked the owner, an adorable feisty old woman with blazing red hair named Martha, if she’d consider taking me on as a partner. To my utter shock and joy, she’d said yes.
Now I had my dream job. I occasionally traveled to LA, France, or anywhere Alistair needed to be for a conference to hunt for artsy, fun accessories and whatnots to sell at La Mode. I didn’t miss cutting hair at all. It was interacting with people that I loved, and I had that in spades now…plus time to be with my husband.
Can I just say…wedding of the freaking year! Gah! We were married on a cliff overlooking the ocean in Malibu on a beautiful Saturday in early May. There were flowers galore, amazing food, a champagne fountain, and a drag queen for entertainment. The grooms wore white, and our guests wore black.
Was it a lot? Yes. But Alistair had insisted. “No regrets, Win. You wanted a big wedding, and we’ll have one.” Friends flew in from all over the world to attend, including Raine and his husband, Graham. It was one of the best days of my life. Right up there with the proposal.
Alistair had asked me to marry him in Paris on the balcony of our hotel overlooking the Eiffel Tower, dazzling and sparkling away. It was romantic for sure and totally fitting. This was where we’d fallen in love.
This magical city with its amazing vistas, charming streets, and rich history would always be special to us. So was the tiny village outside of the city where we’d bought a three-hundred-year-old farmhouse with a stone façade and fields of lavender. The house was located a short bicycle ride from the shop I purchased goods from, and while it was a great-investment-slash-write-off for us, it needed a fuckton of repairs and a serious fung shwee makeover.
Renovations had begun this week, so I’d combined a business trip with contractor meetings. After a night in Paris, the plan was to head to the house so Alistair could weigh in on some of the remodeling choices I’d made so far.
“I know you don’t care, but this is our house and I want you to be happy,” I’d told him.
“As long as you’re there, I’m always happy.”
The feeling was mutual. Alistair had changed my life and opened my world, and he claimed I’d done the same for him.
We’d found a rhythm and a balance that made it possible for us to complement each other. Alistair still worked long hours at the museum and commuted to teach at Oxford one semester per year. He was highly in demand, and he loved his job. I was so proud of him and sometimes, I still couldn’t believe I was the one he’d chosen to share his life and build a future with.
Speaking of which…