Chapter Text
One more.
One more book to shelve and then Kara can open the shop. So maybe she was supposed to open at 10 and it’s already past that. She’s got this. She is a competent businesswoman, in control of her own destiny. And she certainly doesn’t need to use her well-concealed powers to do it.
Just as she slips the Lonely Planet guide to Vietnam into its correct place in the South East Asia section, Kara loses her footing. By now she should know not to grab at the shelves to break her fall, but instinct takes over. She lands in a crumpled heap, pulling scores of books down on her head. At least she won’t bruise.
“Morning,” Hank sighs from somewhere beside the toppled section. He lifts it off Kara with practiced ease. “All limbs intact?”
“Yes,” she grumbles, picking herself up off the floor. She smooths her plaid skirt back into place and checks that her shirt isn’t too rumpled. “Did you open up on your way in?”
“Your public awaits,” Hank answers, bending to pick up two handfuls of books. “And by public I mean-”
“Winn!” Kara greets him with more enthusiasm than she feels. “Back so soon?” In truth he’s back almost daily, the excuses wearing increasingly thin. But he buys something more often than not, and Kara’s accountant might actually murder her if she turns away a paying customer.
“Hey, Kara.” He looks like he’s mustering the courage for a hug, so Kara turns sharply and ducks behind the counter. “Did you think about what I said about going online?”
“I think Amazon pretty much has that covered,” Kara reminds him. “Besides, part of this dream is about being a hidden gem. It’s about coming to the store as much as the books.” She gestures to the comfortable sofas in the corner, the trinkets from her own travels that hang on the walls. Her pride and joy - the postcard wall featuring cards from people who followed her advice or used her books to explore, takes up most of the back wall of the store. “Speaking of, did you ever think about going to Vietnam?”
There’s a pointed thud from where Hank is still clearing up from Kara’s fall.
“Or you know, South America is also interesting.”
“It’s really all, uh… travel?” Winn tries again. “Maybe you could diversify?”
“We have languages,” Kara retorts, pointing to the far corner. The door jingles again, and another customer disappears into the stacks. Kara only catches sight of a black leather jacket. “French, Farsi, some Swahili maybe?”
“How about Ruby or Python?” Winn tries, with what he seems to think is a charming smile.
“Where do they speak those?” Kara tilts her head, waiting for an answer. It doesn’t come from Winn like she expects.
“In their mothers’ basements as a rule,” says a wry voice from somewhere in the Southern Europe section. It has to be leather jacket. Another American too, one of the tourists Hank is always trying to insist they attract. Winn whirls around to see who’s mocking him, having a clearer view than Kara does behind the counter. He stammers out a squeaking noise and fumbles in his messenger bag.
“I don’t… I mean, this is so not cool! But could I, would you mind? Is this weird?”
“It’s fine.” The two words are a protracted sigh, and Kara feels guilty without knowing quite why. She sidles along the counter to get a better view and sees a head of blonde curls temporarily bowed over Winn’s hastily-snatched guide to the Bed & Breakfasts of the Lake District.
“Winn, was it?” the woman asks. “Short for Winnifred?”
“What? No!” Winn starts to splutter. “Oh, thanks, I mean…”
The woman looks up at him, sunglasses pushed up on her head. “Here you go.”
“I should… see ya, Kara!”
Winn takes off, rattling the door on its hinges as he leaves. Kara is left staring at Cat Grant. International movie star Cat Grant. Two Oscar nominations, a high-profile divorce from one of the most famous actors in the world, and she slapped Jennifer Lawrence six months ago at the Golden Globes. That Cat Grant is here in Notting Hill, in Kara’s happy, twee store that sells only travel books and gets about one genuine customer a day.
“Shouldn’t he pay you for that book?” It’s nice to hear another American accent, Kara realizes. This little enclave of London has become home, and she has her fellow wandering friends who ended up here too, but it’s a little piece of home away from home that makes her feel just a little bit less alien.
“Oh he’ll be back.” Kara flaps her hand like it’s no big deal, like she talks to celebrities every day. Is she staring? Let her not be staring, or at least not be too obvious. Blink, she tells herself. Now she’s blinking so much it’s like she’s having a stroke. Did it just get warm for the first time since she landed on this planet? “So what did you write to him?”
Cat (no seriously, the actual Cat Grant - would she mind if Kara called her Cat so casually like that?) turns to pick up a book from the end of the counter. Kara cringes on reflex, she’s picked up the illustrated guide that Kara had published two years ago. It’s never been a particularly big seller, but the advance and the small inheritance from her parents had let her buy this bookstore.
“I wrote - let me quote myself correctly - ‘Dear Winn, She’s not that into you. Best wishes, Cat Grant.’”
“That’s a little… I mean he’s not… Winn is my friend! Or a customer, at least,” Kara sputters.
“One with a crush,” Cat teases. With a slow, movie quality grin and a slightly theatrical wink. “But you’re not interested, right?” Kara shakes her head, and Cat’s face lights up the way it does at award ceremonies, only it’s a hundred times more striking in person. It certainly looks far more genuine.
It’s faintly terrifying to be appraised by Cat, the long, slow drag of her gaze that starts somewhere at Kara’s too-sensible shoes and finishes with a lingering look right into Kara’s eyes. Do actors get trained to hold a stare like that? “I thought I’d do you a favor. How much for this?”
“How much?” Kara can’t help it, she giggles. As Cat blinks at her, incredulous, Kara slaps her hand over her mouth and pulls herself together. Those eyes that aren’t quite hazel and aren’t quite green are so much more stunning in person than even the IMAX screen could convey. “It’s free, honestly. I can’t even give those away.”
“Well I want to buy something,” Cat insists, waving vaguely at the shelves behind her. “I’m working in Budapest next month. Anything decent on that?”
“Oh yes!” Kara is off and running, skimming the shelves she knows almost by heart and pulling the last remaining copy of her favourite guide to Hungary. The photos are some of the finest she’s ever seen, but the imprint went out of business a few years ago. “I used this one when I went. A few things have changed, but all the great stories are in there.”
Cat holds out a hand, imperious. Of course she expects to be handed things, she’s one of the most famous women in the world. Kara places it in her waiting palm, mouth going dry as Cat shoves Kara’s little booklet under her arm to better flip through the Hungary book.
“These are stunning,” Cat muses, and she lays a hand on Kara’s arm for just a moment. Whether in thanks or just acknowledgment Kara can’t be sure, but she could swear her skin burns for a second under the touch. “This photographer had a real eye. There’s something about the light that reminds me of a painting. It’s-”
“Chagall?” Kara jerks her head back towards the cash register. Over it hangs a vibrant print of the Chagall painting she knows Cat is referencing, the reds and yellows a little faded by direct sunlight but taking on a new life as Cat looks at it.
“You have good taste. Will you let me pay for this book at least?” Cat’s lips, those infamous lips that reviewers and photographers have fixated on for years, have just the hint of a pout. There’s something about it that Kara can’t help liking.
“Ten pounds,” Kara answers, which is either an outrageous bargain or a cheeky markup, but she can no sooner remember the actual price than spell her own name when that megawatt smile turns on her again. There’s a sensation of a crisp ten pound note being folded into her hand, and before Kara can think to say something else, Cat has slipped both books into one of the designer shopping bags she’s carrying, and made her way to the shop door.
With a jingle of the bells, she’s gone.
“10:15,” Kara sighs, checking her watch. It’s a present from her aunt, and has seen far better days, but it’s always kept perfect time, unlike Kara herself who rushes and hurries and almost always makes it. “Wow.”
“So you can tell time.” Hank retreats to the counter, dressed in a casual black shirt and slacks. His South London accent is just as disapproving as ever. “What’s got you all giddy? We do have work to focus on.”
“Do you know who that was, Hank?”
“Who?”
Kara hesitates, ready to wax lyrical about chance encounters and what a small world it is, but Hank’s nonplussed expression doesn’t encourage her.
“It doesn’t matter. I definitely need a drink though. You want anything?”
“What happened to no coffee before the first sale?”
Kara waves the crumpled money at him.
“I finally sold that last Hungarian guide, ” she says.
“The one that’s five years out of date?”
“Beautiful cities never go out of date!” Kara calls back, heading for the door and her favorite coffee shop at the far end of the street. The day is cool for late summer, but at least it’s dry. It’s the carnival next weekend, the combination of outdoor activity and a bank holiday almost guaranteeing that it will rain. Kara makes a mental note to find somewhere else to be. Her patience for the event has already worn thin.
She lingers in the cafe, where the owner takes his time over her chocolate milk, hand stirred and presented with another hilarious anecdote about his mother, visiting him from Turkey. Kara has become a fixture of the neighborhood, three years in her shop and another year before that living on the same road.
Distracted by a new pop-up food cart on the other side of the street, Kara collides with someone on her stroll back to the store. Her chocolate milk in its plastic to-go cup is effectively crushed between them, but Kara’s baby blue shirt gets only a few pale brown splashes. No, the bulk of the creamy liquid ends up all over the person she’s collided with.
That person being the very famous, now very irate Cat Grant.
“Watch where you’re… you!” Cat sounds like she’s taking it quite personally. She doesn’t seem playful at all now, no knowing wink, no teasing pout.
“I didn’t mean it!” Kara pleads, tossing her broken cup into the nearest trash can. “Oh gosh, that is a real mess. That’s not your favorite blouse, is it?”
“No, but it’s a one-of-a-kind gift from Gwyneth,” Cat groans. “God, first I give up on going vegan, now this. She’ll never speak to me again.”
“Would you like my shirt?” Kara offers, desperate to atone for her mistake. “It’s clean, I just put it on two hours ago.”
“You’re spattered,” Cat nods towards the marks on Kara’s shirt. “And besides, what are you going to do? Strip to your bra in the middle of the street?”
Kara flushes. “My house is nearby.” She gestures towards it. “You could get cleaned up there! Even change if you like. I just did laundry and… well, you have all those bags. Do any of them have something you could wear?”
“How near?” Cat seems skeptical, but the way her clothes are sticking to her can’t be pleasant. The striped blouse is almost certainly ruined. Maybe Kara should suggest the magical dry cleaner on Kensington High Street who has worked wonders with Kara’s own clumsiness. “And if this is some kind of bizarre kidnap attempt-”
“Three doors down,” Kara interrupts. “I can even wait outside if you like, but you might not be able to find anything without me.”
“Fine, but only because I have a lunch. I’m texting my driver to come and get me, so don’t get any funny ideas. What’s the address?”
Kara rattles it off out of habit, before stepping around the puddle of chocolate milk and leading the way to her front door with hesitant steps. She could have that blouse off, clean and dried in the blink of an eye if it had just been water, but even superpowers are no match for visible stains. Suddenly Kara is picturing Cat without that blouse - her last movie confirmed exactly the kind of shape she’s in beneath it - and starts blushing all over again.
She turns on the front steps to make sure that Cat has followed, and she has. Cat’s grumbling as she juggles her phone and bags, but even with her clothing ruined, she still looks impossibly glamorous. Kara opens the front door and offers a silent thanks to her old gods that she finally got around to doing some chores the previous day.
“So the bathroom is just at the top of the stairs,” Kara says, slipping her glasses down her nose a little and checking for traces of her erstwhile flatmate. Mercifully, he hasn’t crawled home from whichever all-night rave or unfortunate girl caught his attention this time. “I’m guessing you have some options in your bags, but I can get you something else from my room if you need it. The towels are clean, use anything you need. You could shower! I mean, if you wanted.”
“Getting rid of this coffee stain will be fine,” Cat answers, seemingly amused again at Kara’s nervous babble. There’s a glance at Kara’s mouth that lasts a beat too long, leaving Kara wiping nervously at her lips for any errant chocolate milk.
The hallway is narrow, with the kitchen at the end, the stairs to one side and the door into the living room facing those. Kara wishes she’d had the foresight to superspeed that door closed. God knows what condition Mike left it in before staggering out some time after Kara went to bed last night.
“Oh, it’s not coffee,” Kara explains before she can catch herself. “So uh, the stain won’t be too bad.”
“What is it?”
“Chocolate milk?”
Cat turns away, apparently at a loss for sarcastic remarks. Maybe too many have piled up at once. “At least tell me it’s organic?” she calls back over her shoulder as she heads for the stairs.
Kara nods furiously.
The moment Cat’s out of sight, Kara presses her head against the wall, hard enough to make the plaster crack ominously. For a moment she’s tempted to call Alex and whisper-scream down the phone at her, but knowing her luck every word would be overheard.
Instead she darts into the kitchen and raids the fridge for something she can offer, finding only some sparkling water and a sad looking lime. She really needs to do some grocery shopping, but it’s hard to get motivated when most of it ends up eaten by her idiot roommate.
As she hears the click of the bathroom door reopening, Kara also picks up the telltale jangle of house keys at the front door. Oh no, this is not happening. Any hope she has of salvaging this chance second meeting is toast if those two people should meet on the stairs, but Kara can’t think of a way to avoid that.
“Keira?” Cat is going to make it back to the hall first, so Kara is right there waiting.
“I apologize,” she begins. “Not just for before but for what’s about to-”
“Honey, I am hooooooooome!”
“Mike, please don’t-”
“Kara, I know you’re going to be mad at me, but I ate the last of your yoghurt before I went out.” He doesn’t seem to notice another person is standing there with them. “But I did you a solid. That’s how you say it, right? A solid? Because it tasted kind of funny.”
“I… didn’t have any yoghurt,” Kara replies, grabbing him by the elbow and nudging him towards the living room with a little more force than she’d risk on a human. “But I guess that explains where the mayonnaise went.”
“I was just-”
She closes the living room door on him.
“I am so sorry,” Kara begins again. “He’s a moron, and I have been trying to civilize him. Or evict him.”
“Don’t be. It’s nice not to be recognized for once,” Cat answers, her voice smooth and the half-smile from the bookstore back in place. Her blouse has been changed for a tight gray t-shirt that looks amazing with the leather jacket and jeans. Taking in the full effect, Kara is rendered speechless for a moment.
“Sparkle,” she blurts out eventually. “I have some. Water? That sparkles. If you’d like?”
“No thank you,” Cat over-enunciates, eyes widening a little at Kara’s frazzled behavior. “I’ll just be going. Thank you for your… hospitality.”
“Sure.” Kara manages to open the front door and let her out without further incident, offering a dorky little wave as Cat turns at the bottom of the steps. The wave isn’t returned, and Kara figures that just compounds the misery of it. She shouldn’t be allowed out in public.
Closing the door, she leans against it and groans at her own lack of smoothness.
“Can I come out now?” Mike calls out from the living room.
“No!” Kara shouts back at him. It’s like living with an overgrown toddler. She’s just pushing away from the door to change and head back to work, when there’s a powerful knock behind her back. Whipping the door open again, she’s stunned to see one Cat Grant has returned.
“I left one of my bags,” she explains, looking inconvenienced all over again. Kara stands aside while Cat marches back upstairs. As she closes the front door, not all the way, Kara’s left wondering when exactly she became the doorman of her own home. She doesn’t have long to think about it, because moments later the footsteps are returning.
“Got everything?” Kara asks as Cat approaches her for the last time.
“Mmm,” Cat confirms, and suddenly Kara is aware of just how narrow this hallway is; it’s almost claustrophobic. They’re barely inches apart, and as Cat gives her one last searching look, it feels strangely intimate. Her perfume is clouding Kara now, delicate and expensive and something from another world.
“It was so nice to meet you,” Kara whispers. “Weird but super nice.”
“Oh, for God’s-” Cat leans in and kisses her, right on the lips. Her lips are soft and oh dear God those famous lips from like a hundred magazine covers are touching Kara’s and she skipped chapstick this morning and oh oh oh-
All too soon the kiss ends. Cat takes hold of Kara’s chin and wipes traces of her lipstick from Kara’s lip with a deft sweep of her thumb.
“Super nice? Really?” Cat asks, opening the door herself this time.
“Well, the sparkle bit was worse, honestly,” Kara admits, blushing so hot she thinks her face may actually be on fire this time.
“I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell anyone about this.” The flash of fear on Cat’s face is genuine. Even if Kara is no real critic of acting ability, she can almost always tell what people are feeling.
“I don’t think anyone would believe me anyway,” Kara points out, barely suppressing a laugh. “Is it okay if I tell myself sometimes? If I believe it?”
“Knock yourself out,” Cat answers, not unkindly, and just like that she’s gone.
Kara touches her lips to make sure that really just happened, and sure enough they’re still tingling faintly from the excitement. The buzz of her phone means Hank has probably gotten bored covering for her, so with just a little bit of illicit superspeed, Kara is changed and on her way back to work.
Two days pass and the August rain settles in, leaving Kara feeling a little gloomier than she has any right to be. It does drive more people into the shop though, whether sheltering from the weather or dreaming of somewhere that the sun actually shines, it’s good for business. Even Hank is humming a contented tune under his breath at being kept busy for a change.
Kara’s alone in the stockroom when the phone rings, the retro trill of the landline making her smile as she goes to pick it up.
“Hello, Far Off Places,” she greets her caller.
“Oh yes, are you that funny little shop on the Portobello Road?” Oh fun, one of those posh English grannies who like to ring with odd questions, mostly for the stores that occupied the space before Kara’s did.
“Yes, that’s us,” Kara replies, sifting through a pile of Zagat guides that need to be shelved. “How can I help, ma’am?”
“An American,” the woman remarks. “You know that ma’am habit makes a girl feel old.”
“I’m sorry ma’am,” Kara apologizes, because of course she can’t help herself. “Sorry. Were you looking for a particular book?”
“Not a book, no.” Kara rolls her eyes. Here it comes. Someone who left their dry-cleaning here ten years ago, or bought a sewing machine just after the war. “Is there a woman there by the name of Keira?”
“Wait, Keira?” Only one person has ever called her that. “Is this… Miss Grant?!”
There’s an honest-to-God chuckle down the line. “Busted,” Cat groans. “How did you like my accent?”
“I thought the Duchess of Windsor was calling me!” Kara laughs right along with her. “You sounded about 30 years older, too.”
“My dialect coach works wonders. I did actually track down your home number, but that disturbed manchild who lives with you seemed incapable of taking a message. I mentioned my name and he actually meowed at me.”
“I really don’t have an excuse for him,” Kara groans. “Can I apologize again?”
“No need to repeat yourself,” Cat scolds just a little. “You’ll forgive me calling, but I wanted to put your mind at rest. My blouse has been saved by the hotel cleaners, and I haven’t been put on the Goop hitlist. I thought you might like to know that.”
“I would.” Kara nods even though Cat can’t see her. “I mean, I do.”
“Anyway, I have a tedious day ahead so I thought I’d call one of the few people I know here in London, and spread the joyous news. Thank you, Keira.”
“It’s actually Kara?” She hates the way her voice rises on that, like even she isn’t sure of her real name. “And you know, if your day is tedious, I could bring you some… well some books, I suppose. Or a chocolate milk. I really feel like you missed out by letting your shirt get all of the last one.”
Her heart is pounding in her chest like it’s going to try exiting via her ribs at any moment. Kara can’t believe she just kind of sort of imposed herself on the incredibly famous actress on the other end of the line. The one who kissed her, Kara’s last shivering scrap of courage reminds her. So technically maybe she just kind of asked Cat out.
“Well,” Cat muses. “That’s a distinct improvement on ‘sparkle’.” Oh God, she remembers that. It’s not just a fevered repetition in Kara’s mortified dreams. I don’t suppose you’ll be anywhere near the Ritz this afternoon? I should be done by four.”
“Four,” Kara repeats. “At the Ritz. The hotel?”
“No, the pizzeria,” comes the instant reply. “Just tell reception you’re here to see Ms Woolf.”
“As in Virginia?” Kara is baffled. “Do you want me to leave the books with this Ms Woolf?”
“It’s an alias.” Kara doesn’t miss the faint clicking of Cat’s tongue, impatience no doubt. “It stops the press being able to confirm where I’m staying. I suppose I don’t need to stress how much-”
“I can keep a secret, Miss Grant. I promise,” Kara answers, and if only it wouldn’t prove her wrong to give the best possible example of that. “I-”
“They’re calling me in,” Cat groans. “I’ll see you at four.”
She hangs up without saying goodbye, and Kara stares at the phone for a long minute. She casts aside the stock she’s been checking, not even caring when most of it misses the box she’s trying to dump it all in. She has to get it right this time. No spilled drinks, prepared conversation that shows how well-traveled and fun she can be, and no interruptions from idiots who think an entire jar of mayo is a snack.
Kara can do this. She can absolutely hang out with a movie star. And if those are butterflies in her stomach, well who can blame her? Striding out to tell Hank she’s taking the rest of the day off, Kara can’t help feeling like something wonderful is happening. There’s only one way to find out.