Searching for Celia by Elizabeth Ridley

once flavors of the month, it occurs to me, but that was years ago now.
    I excuse myself from Ms. Marchman and make my way up the French marble staircase to the upstairs rooms, where the conference sessions are held. It feels like I’ve stepped back in time to an era of smoking jackets, gentlemen’s clubs, and big-game hunters as I admire the rooms’ rich tapestries, heavily draped curtains, marble fireplaces, and glittering chandeliers.
    I step into the Small Drawing Room, where dozens of conference attendees mingle in small groups as the well-groomed waitstaff circulates with trays of hors d’oeuvres, canapés, and tea sandwiches. Just as I grab a flute of champagne from a tray held aloft by a young man in a tuxedo, a deep voice behind me suddenly calls out, “Dayle?”
    I turn quickly. The voice belongs to Alec Stinson, the commissioning editor at Grenville & Howe Publishing who bought the rights to publish my first novel, Down on Euclid Avenue , while I was still in graduate school. Alec was always a good friend to me and a staunch supporter of my career when I lived in England. Although he knew I preferred women, he never gave up hope of making me one of his inevitable conquests.
    “Alec?” I haven’t seen him since a conference in Paris three years ago, but time has been kind. Always a handsome man, he is now, in his midfifties, more dashing than ever: still trim, with streaks of silver in his smooth black hair, tanned olive skin, and lines of emphasis around his deep green eyes. He is impeccably dressed in a dark Savile Row suit with a red-and-gold striped tie and crisp white shirt beneath.
    He strides closer and opens his arms. “So lovely to see you,” he booms in his rich baritone. “I was thrilled when I heard you’d be speaking tonight.” He stops short of embracing me, noticing the cast on my wrist. “Oh, dear—what happened?”
    “Tripped at the Tube station. Tottenham Court Road.” I feel my face redden as I try to hide my arm. “You know me, always a klutz.”
    “Well, thank goodness it wasn’t worse.” Alec gently slides his palm down my good arm, ending with a lingering squeeze of my fingers. His touch, unexpected but not unwelcome, makes me want to cry. Don’t tell him about Celia. If you do, you’ll break down.
    “You certainly look lovely.” He smiles, pushing the hair back from my cheek. “The darker color really suits you.”
    “Thank you.” The warmth of his hand makes me tingle.
    “Have you been back in London long?” He frowns. “And why didn’t you ring me so we could meet for our customary tea at The Savoy?”
    “I only arrived this morning.” I force myself to smile, even as my knees tremble and the walls seem to close in on me. “Alec, would you mind if we went someplace quieter?”
    “Of course not. Perhaps there?” He gestures toward an unoccupied table draped with a long white cloth, on the noisy room’s perimeter. I nod and he guides me to it with his hand on the small of my back.
    “Better?” he asks hopefully, assuming a place at my side.
    “Yes. Much,” I reply.
    “So, are you working on a new book?” He steps closer and holds me in his steady gaze.
    I nod, relieved to be away from the heat and noise of the crowd. “Yes. Assignment: Tokyo . I’m going to Japan next month for research.”
    He offers a sly smile. “And what does our intrepid heroine get up to this time around?”
    “Uncovers a plot by renegade Japanese scientists to steal nuclear secrets and frame the North Koreans.”
    Alec skeptically raises an eyebrow.
    “Don’t scoff,” I protest. “Redleigh finally shows some character development by reconciling with her long-lost father.”
    “Ah yes, I remember.” Alec lifts his chin and squints into the distance. “Wellington Peregrine Smith III. Wasn’t he an international diamond thief who supposedly plunged to his death off Cap d’Antibes?”
    I’m both shocked and flattered that Alec would recall such a minor detail from