Girls Who Travel (8 page)

14

“E
LSBETH
!” I
SQUEALED
too loudly. Behind me, a tree full of garden birds darted off in a dewy puff of clucks and feathers.

“Kika!”

I shucked off my bag, dropped it down in the foyer with a dead-body thump, and entered Elsbeth's perfumed embrace.

“Oh my God, Elsbeth, you look emaciated.” I wrapped my arms around her with concern. It was like hugging a bird with an eating disorder.

“Oh, Kika,” she pooh-poohed, “you're so flattering!”

I blinked my eyes rapidly and managed to keep a straight face.

“Don't tell your mother, but I've been supplementing the yoga with barre classes. You must come. Not that you need to, with your mother's genes. You, lamb, look like a Danish supermodel. You're just naturally magnificent.”

“Mmm, Danish . . .” I licked my lips in Pavlovian response.

Elsbeth was a German drill sergeant when it came to exercise, and as far as she was concerned, fatty food was the enemy. I, on the other hand, just couldn't get on board with fake ice cream products with skinny cows on the box (cows were
supposed
to be plump!).

“You poor thing, you must be starving. There's breakfast in the conservatory. And you'll be able to see the girls before they leave for school. Go on.”

“In the conservatory?” I suddenly felt like I walked into a game of Clue. “It was Miss Scarlet in the conservatory with the candlestick!” I announced in a pompous accent, erecting my pointer finger in the air.

“I know, I know. Having a conservatory is so over the top.”

“Oh, stop. You love it.”

“Clearly,” Elsbeth said with a demure smile. “This way.”

She led me through the light-filled house, her clapping heels echoing off the high ceilings. The house was tastefully decorated in what Elsbeth would describe as “clean lines and neutrals”: slates, milk whites, and Elsbeth's favorite color, beige.

She was supremely groomed as well—fragranced, hair upswept, and polished with understated makeup despite the early hour.

Her naturally curly hair had been pressed into submission by a flatiron. I'd actually never seen her hair curly, but allegedly she had corkscrew ringlets. When I last babysat for the Darlings, Elsbeth would have a girl come once a day to straighten her hair and do her makeup—an indulgence she still appeared to partake in.

“Straighter,” she'd command. “Make me look
Asian
,” she'd
insist to the girl, who actually was Asian, but hearing it still made me cringe.

When we reached the back of the house, I saw the girls before they saw me. They sat at a breakfast table in a sunny glass room filled with palms and tropical greenery. The table was laid with ballerina-pink rosebuds in stout vases; orange juice in beading carafes; and well-steamed and creamed coffee in cups with matching saucers—this was how the Darlings rolled.

“Holy shit. Look at my little hobgoblins,” I squealed, unable to hold it in a moment longer. My silly nickname for the Darling girls had stuck a long time ago, and using it again was my way of hoping that Elsbeth would keep making concessions for my big mouth.

“Kika!” they chimed in unison. The girls were outfitted in prissy school uniforms with blazers, ties, and kneesocks.

Gwendy, now seven, leapt up first. “Kika Shores!” she shrieked. “Kika! Kika! It's me: Gwendolyn Prudence Darling III.”

I seized Gwen under her armpits and whirled her in the air, completely confident that I would have no problem keeping her talking.

“Gwendy,” I exclaimed, “I know it's you. How could I possibly forget anyone so freakin' adorable?” I gave her a suffocating hug and set her back down. “You are the prettiest hobgoblin ever.”

“Actually, Kika”—Elsbeth tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to lean in as she whispered—“we're trying this new thing where we don't compliment the girls on their looks. We're attempting to instill the notion that one gets praised for merit, for things like academics, over superficial
things like appearances. You understand, don't you?” she murmured apologetically.

I nodded my head, impressed. “Nice. I can still call them hobgoblins, right?”

Elsbeth smiled. “Oh, Kika. You always make such a lively splash.”

I went over to Mina, now thirteen. She had matured since I last saw her. “Mina, how absolutely
intelligent
you look.”

Mina stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth. Elsbeth tried to butt in, but Mina snapped, “She's kidding, Mother.”

I stroked her dark curls, which mercifully hadn't been flat-ironed. “What's up with these getups?” I motioned at their uniforms. “You guys didn't tell me you were going to Hogwarts.”

“I know, right? I just want to die,” moaned Mina.

“I want to die, too!” mimicked Gwen excitedly, bouncing up and down in her storybook pinafore. She still obviously hadn't grown out of the older-sister-worship phase.

“I missed you guys so much. How is everything?”

But Elsbeth cut me off. “Later. You will be able to catch up later. You girls have to get to school. And I need to get to the gym. Go on now, Clive is waiting out front with the car.” The girls protested but still filed out with military-perfect posture.

Gwen waved good-bye energetically. “Bye, Kika, bye!”

“See you later, alligator.” I winked.

“Bye, Mom, bye!” Gwen called next, just as enthusiastically. “Have fun at your twirling class.”

“
Spinning
class, lamb. Yes, thank you, I will,” said Elsbeth Darling as she shooed the girls out.

15

“W
ELL
, I
W
AS
going to paint it—cream colored, perhaps, or eggshell—” Elsbeth signaled to the soaring walls of my room. “But then I said to myself, ‘This color
is
Kika. I should keep it.'”

The rest of the Darlings' South Kensington house was a bit cold and clattery and taupe (Elsbeth's fancy way of saying “beige”), but my room had been spared. It was delightfully twee with celestial blue-green walls, a small balcony, and even a doll-sized fireplace.

“I love it.” I rapped my knuckles against a rosewood writing desk. “I feel like I'm living in Downton Abbey.”

“Oh, and here are your keys. The skeleton key is for the private garden out front, in the middle of the square of houses. Only residents of Stanhope Gardens get access to that park, which is why it's locked.”

Elsbeth then promptly excused herself—she was going to
the gym. “But call my mobile if you need anything, anything at all.”

Since it was Friday, she gave me the day off. She told me most weekends I'd have to myself, and if I needed to watch the girls, we'd make up those days during the week. She left me with an advance on this month's salary. When I converted it into dollars, it roughly equated to what I would call “a damn near shit-ton of cash”—more than twice what I made at VoyageCorp.

I mentally started planning my first weekend trip:
I wonder if Malta is warm this time of year?

I wrote a quick email to my mom and followed up with a slightly longer one to Lochlon: “You wouldn't believe the Darlings' town house,” I started, but as I typed, I was surprised to see a message pop up from the very man I was emailing. I rushed to open it.

“Glad for you about the new job. That's class, isn't it? How'd you get on with the trip?”

I couldn't read fast enough:

I have news myself: Looks like the craic is over for me for now. Da's ill so I'm to go back home to the farm for a short while. My mother's insisting, so I know it mustn't be good. Suppose the upside is that we're to be on the same continent again—for a wee bit, anyway. Maybe everything happens for a reason.

My pulse deepened and thumped like a bass beat in my ears. My eyes and my heart moved at different speeds. I read the email again and again.
Is Lochlon's father dying?

Lochlon wasn't close to his father (we'd bonded over having absent dads), but my heart throbbed for him at this news: His dad had liver problems, and it had to be serious if his mom asked him to come home from Asia.

Poor Lochlon and his poor family.
He was the eldest of five; his youngest sister was only eleven. They were still so young.

But then, an uncensored blip of pleasure bubbled up inside me:
Lochlon is going to be nearby in Ireland.
Immediately, I was ashamed of the insensitive thought.

I tried to regain focus:
This isn't about you. His father is dying
, I reminded myself.

Still, I knew he was quoting me when he said, “Everything happens for a reason.” It was far too American a phrase for him to use, so I knew that the same thought had occurred to him: We were going to be very close to each other. Lochlon's family lived outside of Belfast. That was just a hop, skip, or a jump (my geography needed some polishing) from London.

“So sorry to hear that,” I wrote back immediately, hoping he'd get my message while still at the Internet café and that my words would provide the slightest bit of comfort. “Please remember I am here for you. If there's anything I can do, let me know.”

I signed off with my new number, since Elsbeth already had gotten me a phone.

The knot of conflicting emotions tightened in my stomach. To busy myself, I emptied my backpack into the freestanding wardrobe. There was not one “blouse” or “sensible-sized heel” in sight.

I surveyed my ripped jeans (ripped from overwear, not factory fashion holes); my shabby boots; and my dirty blond hair.
I looked like myself again, not a corporate imposter leeched of all color. Technically, I was far from home, but I already felt closer to who I really was.

I tried to keep my persistent happiness from bleeding over into thoughts of Lochlon back in Ireland, caring for his dying father, but it wasn't easy.

Even though this was the first time that I had legit reason to think that we might actually meet up again, I had already imagined our reunion with embarrassing frequency and in bodice-ripping fashion. It helped that he had actually ripped my clothes off me on more than one occasion in his sudden and passionate way. I could still recall the tingling, lusty head rush of being naked in front of him. A year's worth of fantasizing left me desperate to feel that way again.