Bella Summer Takes a Chance (37 page)

            ‘No.’

            ‘Only . . . you’ve sworn off men?’

            ‘Uh-uh.’

            . . . ‘You fear
I
like men? Hannah, those are the only acceptable reasons not to see me again.’

            ‘What if I don’t like you?’ This is technically possible. Not true, but technically possible.

            ‘Ah, but you do like me.’

            ‘How do you know that?’

            ‘You’re holding my hand.’

            ‘Oh, right.’ That is rather watertight evidence.

            ‘So . . . ?’ He looks expectant.

            So, the only phone where I can be reached is in the hotel hallway beside what might be a needle-exchange bin, and I barely remember how to get back there, let alone what it’s called. ‘This is embarrassing, but I don’t know the name of my hotel.’

            ‘Do you remember where it is?’

            ‘Uh-huh.’ Sort of. These streets all look the same – buses, taxis, people and shops selling something called doner kebabs.

            ‘Then I’ll walk you there.’

            Hand in hand we walk, and walk. After the second time around the block, I can faithfully report that my hotel isn’t there. Luckily it
is
on the next street. I may seem to be better-looking in the UK but there’s only so much patience a guy I just met can be expected to have.

            A sudden terrible thought strikes as we arrive at the hotel’s steps. What if he’s a bad kisser? This amazing streak of beginner’s luck may end in tears. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers, but a man this good-looking who can’t kiss would be tragic, like ordering the double-chocolate fudge brownie only to find out that it’s not moist and delicious at all.

            At least the awkwardness of a first kiss is universal. After a brief staring contest, the moment of truth arrives. Mmm. He’s off to a good start, hand stroking my hair. Deep eye contact tempered with cheeky smile, so not creepy. The lean-in. Ahh. He’s a good ‒ no, he’s a great kisser. Rule Britannia!

            ‘Should we go somewhere more private?’ he says. ‘I fear we’re making a spectacle here.’

            Oh how I’d like to invite him upstairs. Would that be slutty? Yes, probably. Be strong, walk away. ‘It’s late. Maybe we should say good night.’ Wouldn’t mom be proud of me.

            ‘You’re killing me!’ he laughs, kissing me again. And again. I could do this till sunrise. ‘But you’re right, what a sensible girl. I have to get up for work tomorrow, while you laze under the duvet. Oh how I’d love to see that.’

            I grin. ‘I’ll think of you while I have my coffee. So, good night then.’ It takes all my willpower to stop talking, for the next thing to come out of my mouth will surely kill this perfect evening.

            ‘Good night Hannah,’ he smiles as he kisses me again. ‘And welcome to London.’

2

As much as I’d love to be sightseeing rather than walking into yet another employment agency’s lobby, without a job I’ll have to go home in a month, a failure living five time zones from the one man who’s offered to see me naked in the better part of a year. I’ve got a good feeling about this place. Unlike most of the others I’ve tried in the last few days, its office isn’t in a storefront beside the kebab shop. It must be successful at placing candidates in order to afford offices with a bird’s-eye view over the city. I’m perched on a real Barcelona chair and I think the paintings are originals. Surely they’ve got something on their books for me. A city the size of London must need a lot of PR bods. Granted, the little stamp in my passport says I’m not supposed to work, but given that I’m college educated, I have experience, I speak the language . . .

            ‘I’m sorry?’ I say when the receptionist makes her request.

            ‘Your CV,’ she repeats. ‘May I have your CV, please?’

            ‘My CD? I don’t have a CD.’ Does she think I’m a rapper or something?

            ‘Then please detail your work experience on the form.’

            ‘Why don’t I just give you my résumé?’

            She looks it over. She looks me over. She’s not impressed with either of us. ‘You haven’t fully listed your education.’

            ‘Yes, I have. I didn’t go to grad school.’ I won’t be bullied by the receptionist, not while wearing my most confidence-building suit (black Ralph Lauren boiled-wool skirt suit with fishtail pleat and patent skinny belt. It’s perfect with my moss-green knock-off Jimmy Choo kitten heels with tiny studs – which are comfortable as long as I scrunch up my toes when I walk).

            ‘Where did you do your sixth form?’ she asks. My bewilderment must be obvious. ‘College?’ she tries.

            ‘University of Connecticut.’

            ‘Isn’t that university?’ she asks. I nod, making her sigh again. ‘You haven’t listed your GCSEs. We need to know your grades before university.’

            ‘That’s right here,’ I say, pointing to my mediocre high school performance.

            ‘Are those your A-levels?’

            ‘Well, they weren’t all As,’ I say truthfully. They weren’t even mostly As.

            Her look says she loves this kind of variety in her job. ‘We need the grades from the papers you sat at sixteen.’

            I’m getting as frustrated with the language barrier as she is. ‘Do you mean my middle-school grades?’

            ‘Perhaps. Employers will want to see all your grades before university.’

            Fine. In kindergarten I excelled at naps and snack-time, rose to top of the class for coloring inside the lines and always remembered to raise my hand for the bathroom before I wet my pants.

            ‘And please fill this out as well.’ She hands me another form. Am I applying for work or donating a kidney?

            Name, okay. Address, I’ve now memorized. Previous position, PR Junior Account Executive (glamorous-sounding, I know). Age and marital status . . . What are they running, a dating agency? There’s no box for none of your business.

            ‘Now, if you’ll just stand against that wall.’ The camera’s flash temporarily blinds me. This can’t be a coincidence; the guy at the first agency did the same thing. I told him to fuck off in plain English (that translates perfectly, by the way) and stormed out.

            ‘Why’d you do that?’

            ‘It’s so we can put a face with the name. We have a lot of candidates and find this is a good way to be sure we give them personalized attention.’

            I’m such a fool. I’ve happily provided bodily fluids at home to prove that I don’t have any illegal habits, and yet I freak out about having my picture taken. I fear my sense of employee rights is out of whack. Maybe I should send a snapshot to the first agency to make amends.

            I know I have no choice if I want to find a job, but I absolutely hate having to go through this process. I’m not great at selling myself. Even my college’s recruitment drive failed to unearth a willing employer, and we all know complete losers who’ve managed to get hired that way. Naturally I’d prefer to blame someone else, but I know that my own laziness plays a part. Evidence: my one and only job came through a friend introducing me to her boss in a bar. And don’t get me started on my dating record. Being an opportunist at heart, I’ve always settled for the good-enough that comes my way. It’s worked pretty well so far. I think that the Taoists are on to something (I once dated a t’ai chi instructor, so I know a little about it). They believe that the universe works harmoniously and when man exerts his will against the world, that harmony is disrupted. Which can’t be a good thing. So maybe I’m not lazy, I’m simply the unwitting disciple of an ancient Chinese philosophy.

            I’m not suggesting that I’ve never been motivated to exert my will against the world. There are women still nursing wounds from past sample sales. But fashion aside, little has the power to overcome my natural inertia. Until now. There’s no settling for second best here. Either I find a job or I go home with nothing but a stamp in my passport that cost me 5,000 dollars. That’s not much of a choice.

            Eventually a smiling young woman emerges from a long hallway. ‘Hi, I’m Chloe,’ she says, sticking her hand out to me. ‘Come through, please.’ She’s really pretty. And even without the ability to label spot here, I can tell that she’s very stylish. She’s got long, straight honey-blond hair, blue eyes and pale skin. London seems to harbor more than its fair share of dewy-skinned blonds. It’s not quite Sweden, but I’m finding it demoralizing. A petty girl might say that most of this golden hue is chemically induced, ergo, the carpet won’t match the curtains. But that’s no comfort when you realize that men don’t know a broadloom from a valance. What’s more, they don’t care.

            ‘So you come from Connecticut,’ she says, glancing at my résumé.

            ‘Uh-huh. Have you been there?’ I know this is a stretch. Nine out of ten people outside the US can’t point to Connecticut on a map. Five out of ten Americans have a hard time finding it.

            ‘No, I’ve only been to New York City.’

            ‘I like New York. I used to get down there a lot. There’s so much going on.’

            ‘I have to admit,’ she confides, ‘I really go for the shopping.’

            ‘Me too!’ Here is a kindred spirit, not afraid to admit that Missoni is more interesting than the Met.

            ‘There’s that shop down by the World Trade Center memorial –’

            ‘Century 21!’ What are the chances that this woman, from a different country, knows my favorite store on the planet?

            ‘That’s the one! The designer section is incredible.’

            ‘I love the jeans. So cheap!’

            ‘Especially in pounds. And the cashmere ‒’

            ‘What about shoes?’

            ‘IT’S AMAZING!’ we chorus.

            We observe a moment of silence to give this cathedral to discount shopping the respect it deserves. Without wanting to get ahead of myself (which I’ve been known to do), Chloe could be my new best friend in London. As she talks through my scant work experience, the loneliness lifts just a bit.

            Within about two minutes it’s obvious that I’m unfit for most of the positions she’s trying to fill, so I can’t really hold it against her when she starts making small talk. Interview over, let the friendship commence.

            ‘How long have you been in London?’ She’s more relaxed now that we’ve established she isn’t going to find me a job.

            ‘Just over a week. It’s harder than I thought.’

            ‘I lived in France for a year, so I know what it’s like.’

            ‘Did you . . . did you feel like everything was very foreign?’ Yes, I realize how stupid I sound.

            ‘Huh, I did. I spoke a bit of French, but living there was a completely different story.’

            ‘No kidding. I thought I spoke the language here but . . . I guess I didn’t expect you all to be so different.’

            ‘Really? Different how?’

            Uh-uh, I’m not falling for that. No doubt it’s intriguing to see how others perceive your culture, but surely I’m not qualified to pass judgment on the English. I’ve been here about five minutes . . . On the other hand, a fresh view is often illuminating. After all, we don’t realize we’re loud until some soft-spoken European, cringing and clutching his bleeding ears, points it out to us. But on the other, other hand, telling Chloe that I think her people are scantily dressed alcoholics probably isn’t the best way to cement our friendship.

            ‘It’s all pretty different,’ I say lamely.

            ‘I guess so. Have you got friends here?’

            ‘Nope. But I talk to Stacy, that’s my best friend, every day.’ Every couple of hours, every day.

            ‘That must get expensive.’

            ‘Nah, I’ve got one of those prepaid calling cards. It’s probably cheaper than calling across town. It’s a good thing too . . . it’s kind of lonely here.’

            ‘I remember what that was like too. It gets better though . . . If you ever want to meet for a drink . . .’

            ‘That’d be great!’ I say. ‘In fact I’m free tonight.’ I think I have a little crush on Chloe. You know how you get excited when you meet a potential friend, one that you really click with? You trade phone numbers and make plans to see each other again. You plan what you’ll wear and spend your time searching out common points of interest. Except for the kissing, it’s no different than a date. In fact, it’s just as much fun, often with more promising long-term prospects.

            ‘Er, okay.’

            She sounds anything but okay. I’ve just cornered the poor girl into a social engagement with a complete stranger. I must sound desperate.

            ‘I’m done around six,’ she continues gamely. ‘We could meet somewhere near here.’

            Desperation be damned, I get to go for drinks tonight!

            I know by the unladylike belly rumbles punctuating our goodbyes that this was a fateful meeting. It could be the start of something great. You see, unlike those whippet-thin girls whose high spirits kill their hunger pangs, my happy-appetite is legendary. Food only loses its magic when I’m low. And while it’s been nice these past few months shedding pounds on a diet of forgotten dreams, my belly is obviously about to make up for lost calories. There certainly is a lot of choice in this city, but then, it does have to feed ten million people. I’ll have to get the hang of it eventually. After all, ordering lunch is a simple process. Order. Pay. Leave. No need for a panic attack.

            The deli looks like it’s been here since sandwiches were invented. So does the rotund, thickly mustachioed man peeking over the deli case. ‘Next, please,’ he says.

            ‘Turkey and cheese, please,’ I tell him, trying not to look too closely at the stains on his white shirt.