The Accidental Socialite Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks, products and or brands mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2014 Stephanie Wahlstrom

  The Accidental Socialite by Stephanie Wahlstrom

  Summary: How does a small-town Canadian girl become fodder for London tabloids? One leopard print shoe at a time!

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For comments about this novel, or letters to the author, please send correspondence to Swoon Romance 4208 Six Forks Road Suite 1000 10th Floor Raleigh, North Carolina 27609.

  Edited by Mandy Schoen

  Published by Swoon Romance

  Cover designed by Su Kopil

  Cover art license by Shutterstock.com

  Cover art copyright © Swoon Romance 2014

  For my mom.

  It was 3:00 A.M. and all I wanted was a cheeseburger.

  “Miss, we only sell Big Macs after midnight,” said the McDonald’s employee.

  My stomach grumbled. My diet since I got off the plane had consisted mostly of champagne, vodka, and seared tuna.

  “Yes, I understand that and I will pay for a Big Mac, but I would like a cheeseburger. So can you, like, remove a patty and mid-bun and hold the secret sauce? Please?”

  “Miss, I am sorry but we do not have this item.”

  Liar. He didn’t look sorry. I immediately wanted to get on the next flight home. It rained cheeseburgers in Canada.

  A tall, drunk, and incredibly beautiful blond South African girl appeared at the till next to me.

  “I’ll have a hot dog.” That was my new best friend, Lucinda.

  We walked out of McDonald’s with a small fries to “split,” which really meant Lucinda was going to watch me eat them. As I was elegantly shoving eight fries into my mouth at once, not unlike a four-year-old, a swarm of camera-wielding hyenas approached. One flash triggered the rest and little white dots burned into my retinas. I stumbled, almost dropping my fries.

  What was going on? I looked for the celebrity garnering all this attention. I couldn’t believe my luck; I was about to spot someone famous on my first day in London! But when Lucinda slapped the second fistful of fries out of my hand and pulled me towards a taxi, I realized the so-called celebrity was me.

  ***

  Less than twenty-four hours earlier, my eighteen-hour flight from Edmonton to London connecting in Denver landed at 9:38 A.M. on a grey, drizzly Saturday in late January. I struggled to get my large carry-on bag out of the overhead compartment, not just because it was heavy, but also because I had inadvertently rendered myself immobile. When you move over six thousand kilometers away from home, a place you spent twenty-two years accumulating crap, it’s hard to pack everything into two suitcases that adhere to airline regulations. So, instead of taking up valuable suitcase space, I wore my short red peacoat and black trench on the plane, along with pink Lululemon sweatpants over my skinny jeans.

  As if that wasn’t enough, my makeup was running down my face in beads of sweat because I also had on a green sweater and leopard-print cardigan. Disapproving tuts came from those on the plane not wearing a third of their wardrobe all at once. They had better things to do than watch my plight, but apparently none of those things included helping me.

  I’d read Bridget Jones’s Diary in preparation for the move and owned the last Spice Girls album, so I felt I could hold a conversation. But, when I got to the front of the line, the immigration officer didn’t say anything. She just glanced at my visa that was valid for the next two years, stamped it, and sent me on my way to generally figure out what I was going to do with my new life.

  I guess it kind of hit me when I was waiting for my bags. It’s actually pretty easy to plan to leave home and even get on a plane, but shit gets pretty real when the wheels of that plane hit foreign soil and you realize that technically, at that exact moment, you’re homeless.

  This was my chance to start new, to have a conversation about something other than hockey and dog-poop bylaws. I’d finally graduated from University and what came next was totally up to me. I could see the world, debate politics, meet people from places I didn’t even know existed, and for once in my life be, I don’t know, I guess I wanted to be special, maybe even exotic. In London I could be Paige Crawford, (fill in awesome life here), not Paige Crawford, wannabe current-events journalist, weird Jackie’s little sister, and all-around ordinary girl.

  Jackie and I wouldn’t get along in any universe, but we did have one thing in common, which you’d have to look at under a microscope to find. We both just wanted the chance to create our own labels. Jackie did that by becoming a vegan and piercing anything she could think of. I wanted to do the same thing except, you know, still eat bacon and have fewer holes in my face.

  Since I’d had eighteen hours to reflect on what a massive and rash decision I’d just made, I’d decided to firm up that whole “awesome life” concept I was running after. I pulled out the airsick bag in my pocket that I’d hastily written my initial set of goals on.

  Things to do in London (in no particular order)

  · Get a job, preferably one that is well-paid and satisfying

  · Meet the Queen

  · Make a friend from somewhere I’ve never heard of before

  · Avoid internationally embarrassing my family

  · Have a cup of tea

  · Eat something I can’t pronounce

  · Watch a soccer game

  · Try not to get maimed/killed

  · Eat gelato in Italy

  · Go to something where I have to wear a hat

  · See the Eiffel Tower

  · Date a guy whose first language isn’t English

  They seemed reasonable enough and a good start to filling in my blank. Feeling reassured, I dragged my bags off the conveyer belt and made my way to the exit. I looked up at the “nothing to declare” sign. Fitting.

  I walked through the big double doors and entered the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. A woman ran by me and into the arms of a man holding a bouquet of pink tulips. Just past them, an older couple anxiously awaited the arrival of … well, someone. I stopped for a second and realized nobody was waiting for me. Not that I was expecting anyone. A tear welled up in my right eye, which I quickly blinked away before I continued towards the train. Big girls don’t cry in the arrivals hall.

  The Heathrow Express arrived at Paddington and I took a taxi from there to my new home in Chelsea. I called one of my flatmates, a French girl named Natalie, when I was standing outside the rundown block of flats.

  “Allo?”

  Oh thank god, she’s real.

  “Hi, Natalie? It’s Paige. I’m outside with my stuff. Can you let me in?”

  “Yes of course. I will come now.”

  Click.

  A few moments later a smiling and impeccably chic Natalie appeared in the doorway, hurriedly beckoning me in from the rain. I did my best not to fall and thought I was succeeding until my smaller suitcase went tumbling down the front steps, bursting open when it landed on the sidewalk below. Obviously, it wasn’t the suitcase f
illed with my shoes and shampoo. This one was filled with my not-cute bras, underwear, and tampons amongst other embarrassing things, which were now rolling away out of my control.

  “Oh là là! Are you ok?” Natalie was genuinely concerned, not a hint of laughter as she picked up my pink, full-seat underwear with “Baby Got Back” screened on in silver glitter.

  “Yeah, fine,” I said as I was scooping up my last tan bra, which now had dark marks that resembled nipples caused by the wet cement.

  “Hey, do you need some help?” A deep Southern American drawl came from behind me.

  I turned around and saw one of the more beautiful men I had ever seen in my life, suddenly wishing I had lip gloss on and had showered in the last twenty-four hours. His hair was dark blond, wavy, and a little on the long side.

  “Oh, uh … um ya, I’m fine thanks, just dropped my suitcase,” I mumbled, holding my underwear over the broken Samsonite.

  He smiled at me. “Where are ya off to?”

  “Nowhere,” Natalie answered for me as I was distracted by his green eyes and white smile. “She is from Canada and living here.” She indicated the derelict house we were standing in front of.

  I was slightly alarmed at how much info Natalie had just given to a stranger on the street. A hot stranger, but a stranger nonetheless.

  “Well,” said the friendly hot stranger, “looks like we’ll be neighbors. I live just down the street. Nice to meet you—sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t throw it.” Cringe. “I’m Paige.”

  “I’m Jason. Are you sure you don’t need any help?” He seemed skeptical and glanced at the Baby Got Back underwear Natalie had neatly set on top of my suitcase.

  I shook my head no and quickly stuffed the offending undergarment in my coat pocket.

  “Guess I’ll be seeing you around then.” Jason smiled and moved to walk up the street, but then turned back.

  “Paige, if you’re not too tired, a bunch of friends and I are going to The Box tonight. You’re welcome to join us.”

  “Sure, that sounds great,” I said, hoping it was a club and not an actual box people hung out in. I was in Europe; anything was possible.

  “What’s your last name? I’ll put you on the list.”

  “It’s Crawford.”

  “Cool. Any problems at the door, just say you’re with Jason Frost.” He gave a quick wave and walked away.

  Did I just get asked out by the nicest and hottest guy ever in life while looking and smelling like a homeless person? Maybe London wasn’t so lonely after all.

  My basement room was damp with an exposed lightbulb dangling from the center of the ceiling and dingy eggshell walls accented with grey-blue carpet. There was a bare single bed in the corner and a chest of drawers. This was my new “not quite as glamorous as I had hoped” life.

  I went upstairs to ask if anyone had any extra sheets and was offered the communal blanket draped over the couch, which I politely declined due to my aversion to hepatitis.

  According to Philip, who was the only person in the flat born in this country, the other option was to venture to the high street. I was too embarrassed to ask if I should be looking for an elevated street, or just one by that name. There was also a possibility it was a street he bought drugs on. Either way, I wasn’t willing to take that risk. Backing away slowly, I left Philip as he pulled out a piece of wood vaguely in the shape of a badger and began to slowly whittle. In the living room.

  I went outside to see if there was any place selling sheets nearby but instead found a bright cafe down the street called Balans that was full of well put-together gay couples.

  “Hey hun! How many?” asked the waiter, looking like he’d just walked out of a Gap ad. I held up my solo index finger apologetically. He nodded and pointed to an empty seat next to another lone woman.

  I sat down and smiled at the blond Victoria’s Secret model in recognition of our shared situation, although hers was probably by choice. She smiled back, then looked at her menu.

  My eyes were immediately drawn to the varieties of eggs benedict on the menu. Poached eggs on an English muffin with bacon and hollandaise sauce … I didn’t know exactly what that was, but the fat girl inside of me ordered it before I knew what was going on. The model next to me raised an eyebrow and ordered the egg-white omelet.

  “I wish I could eat that, but I’d be as big as a buckie! Where do you put it, chicken?” she said in a funny accent. Was it Australian? And what’s a buckie?

  “I haven’t technically eaten since yesterday. In Canada. I’m Paige.” I waved awkwardly, even though we were in hand-shaking vicinity.

  “I’m Lucinda. You’re from Canada? I’m South African.” She kissed me on both cheeks. Unprepared for such intimacy, I recoiled slightly then overcompensated, hitting her very high cheekbone hard with my nose.

  “Sorry.” I stared at the table and tried to think of something to say that would ease the tension. “Wow! I’ve never met anyone from Africa before.” That probably wasn’t the best option.

  Her mimosa arrived. So did my orange juice.

  “Don’t make me drink alone, chicken.” She ordered me a mimosa with the flutter of her impossibly long eyelashes. I tried to do the same, but instead of producing alcohol, Gap model/waiter asked me if I had something in my eye.

  “What brought you to London?” asked Lucinda.

  “A plane.”

  Lucinda almost spit out her mimosa. “You make me laugh.”

  I smiled back at her. “I actually came here because I was bored.” It wasn’t a great answer, but I didn’t think she’d have any idea what it was like to be an uninteresting nobody or want to be friends with one.

  “Me too. Cape Town is beautiful, but sometimes you just want to go to Paris for the weekend.”

  I suddenly felt better. She was right. I was completely free, could do anything I wanted. I could go to Paris for the weekend, not that I even knew how to go about making that happen. But I could, if I wanted to.

  The Gap model/waiter brought our bills at the same time. I lingered, taking my time with my coat because I was unsure about how to ask her for her number. I hadn’t made new friends since grade one.

  “So … it was nice meeting you, Lucinda. We should meet up again, if that’s ok with you?” I tried my hardest not to sound like a lesbian.

  “Of course, chicken! Why don’t you come out with me tonight?”

  I already had plans with Jason. How was it possible to be here for seven hours and be double-booked already? I probably needed a friend before I needed to get laid though.

  “I’d love to!”

  Lucinda gave me her number. I was supposed to meet her at a club called Maddox at nine for a free dinner with a Promoter, which I hoped wasn’t the English word for Pimp, and stay for the drinks afterwards.

  “Thanks. Um … Lucinda, I know this is a strange question, but do you know where to get sheets around here and maybe a cell phone?”

  She laughed. “You are right off the plane, aren’t you? Go up this street to High Street Kensington; there are a few places there.”

  So that’s what Philip meant by high street. He could have been more specific. After getting the necessities, I went home and was greeted with shouting.

  “Pronto! Pronto!” Guillermo, the Italian who also lived in the flat, was yelling into the phone. He must have been having problems with it because five seconds later it rang again and he resumed shouting. That’s when it dawned on me that I was sharing a house with four other people that I didn’t know at all. I checked the violent sex-offender registry, just in case. Once the UK government assured me I wasn’t living with any known sex offenders, I immediately passed out.

  ***

  When I walked into Maddox it was like another world. You would never know from the outside that behind that plain black door lay a world full of champagne, seared tuna, and a six-foot tall supermodel/DJ. I saw Lucinda and walked towards her table, slightly slip
ping in my wet heels just before the stairs. I sat down and was immediately offered champagne.

  “Hello, I’m François,” said a Ryan Gosling look-a-like in a very sexy French accent. “What is your name?”

  “I’m Paige.” I smiled. God, people were so nice here. Why didn’t I move to London when I was, like, born?

  “Paige? Like in a book? How unique!” At least I was off to a great start with him. “Well, Paige like in a book, what do you study here in London?”

  “I—”

  Lucinda got my attention.

  “My little chicken, you look fabulous. Let me introduce you to everyone else.” She rolled off several names I would never remember as I realized where I was and who I was with. Not only was there nothing like this at home, it definitely wasn’t free and full of models. Food? Check. Champagne? Check. Guys who look like Ryan Gosling? Check. It might have actually been heaven. Hopefully I hadn’t been hit by one of those big red double-decker buses and died, but then again if I had my afterlife was awesome.

  The waiter arrived, so I quickly had a look at the menu. I had a choice of starter, main, and dessert, and they all sounded good. I listened to everyone else order.

  “All of this is free?” I asked the waiter, rightly skeptical.

  He blushed slightly.

  “She’ll have the same as me.” Lucinda smiled quickly at the waiter and inched my champagne glass closer to my hands. “You’re so cute.”

  Hmmm … cute like a puppy playing in garbage or cute like Selena Gomez?

  I had to take baby bites of my cheesecake in a martini glass dessert because I wolfed down the seared tuna and tender-stem broccoli and was the first one finished. The waiter was being a jerk and wouldn’t let me sit there with an empty plate, so when mine was cleared a good fifteen minutes before everyone else, I got fat girl stares. I was determined to be in the last 10% for the final course. After dessert, which took forever because it was like me and these two stick figures on the end were in the slowest eating contest ever, Lucinda whispered in my ear.