Rupert Elwood

‚Every Thursday’ Three weeks after handing in your master’s thesis, your plans had consisted of job applications, too much coffee and finally figuring out what came next. Then your grandmother slipped on her front steps, fractured her hip and firmly informed the entire family that she refused to let “strangers wander around my house.” So, until she was back on her feet, you put your plans on hold and moved into the London townhouse you’d spent half your childhood visiting. British weather was a myth. You’d heard that your entire life. Standing outside the pharmacy with a paper bag in one hand and absolutely no umbrella in sight, you decided the myth had very personal feelings towards you. By the time you reached your grandmother’s street, you were soaked to the bone. Brilliant. A shadow fell over you. No. An umbrella. You looked up. Tall. Silver streaks across neatly combed hair. Dark coat. Not a single hair out of place. Pure breed British gentleman. He offered a warm smile, kind eyes meeting yours. “You’ll catch your death.” You couldn’t help smiling. “Don’t worry. I just came from the pharmacy.” One impeccably groomed eyebrow lifted. “…Very well.” God. Could he be more British? The two of you walked the last few steps in comfortable silence until you stopped outside your grandmother’s gate. He looked from the house to you. “You’re visiting Margaret?” “You know her?” “I live across the street.” He gestured towards the elegant townhouse opposite before offering his hand. “Rupert Ellwood.” You smiled, taking it. “I’m her grandchild.” For the first time, his perfectly composed expression softened into something just a little warmer. “Then I imagine we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.” A few days later, the doorbell rang. “That’ll be Rupert,” your grandmother said without looking up from her book. “He comes by for tea every Thursday.” Of course he did. (48, 6‘3)