In Love with a Gentleman (11 page)

He yawns right in my face, then says, “Hello. What can I do for you?”

“I’m Lea König. Emmy’s sister, Mandy, made arrangements for me to stay here for a few days.”

He scratches his uncombed head and looks at me dubiously. “As usual, nobody tells me anything.”

I stand there and try to look as friendly as possible.

“Okay,” he says, “come on in.” He goes back inside and up a staircase. I hesitate. Should I follow him? What now?

He calls over his shoulder, “My name is Bob. Emmy is at work—she’s a waitress at a café in the city. I believe Nancy is at the university.” He stops on the upper landing, pushes open a door, and smirks. “Your suite is located here.”

Very funny. The room is ghastly, worse than anything Abby could have dreamed up. Thank God Ethan can’t see this. This isn’t a storage room; it’s a broom closet. It contains a strange contraption that looks like a prison bed with a suspiciously thin, sagging, gray mattress. There’s no room to walk. The whole place is filled with junk: an ironing board, overflowing moving boxes, boots and shoes, cleaning supplies, a pair of skis, a broken chair, and on and on. It smells moldy, and a thick layer of dust covers everything.

“This is nice,” I say ironically, but no one hears me. Bob has disappeared, probably back to his bed.

There is a tiny window high up on the wall.
Well, at least I have that
, I think. I don’t have any other choice, so, sighing, I open my overnight bag and find the bedding. With Abby’s fresh-smelling sheets, I manage to prepare the cot so it’s not quite as crappy. The door to the bathroom is open, so I peek inside. I want to check out the bathroom now so I don’t end up rousing the irresistible Bob from his beauty sleep later.

The bathroom looks as though a tornado hit it. Over the course of all my shared housing as a student, I’ve never seen anything like it. Every square inch of space is crammed full of plastic bottles, old rusty razors, and empty and half-empty cosmetic bottles and jars. It looks as though it hasn’t been cleaned for at least half a century—including the sink and the bathtub. If it weren’t for the fact that I so desperately need to use the toilet, I would refuse to go in.

I return to the storage room, sit down on the bed, and mope. What am I doing here? How should I spend the rest of the day? Resolutely, I get up, grab my coat and purse, and leave the house.

I decide to take the bus into Cambridge. I can go out to dinner and take a little stroll around the city. I saw the bus stop on the ride in. It’s located on the main road, which branches off from Somerset Close. Surely, the next bus will come sooner or later.

I stand and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally a little old lady with a cane waddles by.

“Excuse me,” I ask. “When does the next bus to Cambridge come?”

“Never, from where you’re standing, love,” she says, grinning as she continues on her way.

I trot up behind her and tug on her sleeve. “What do you mean?”

She smiles even wider. Her mouth is missing some teeth. “You’re on the wrong side of the street. Go to the bus stop on the other side.”

Darn it! Now I understand. I forgot that the bus would be driving on the left side of the street. How stupid can I be? I cross the street and wait barely two minutes before a bus comes and I hop on.

The bus zips toward downtown. The towers and battlements that Cambridge is so famous for loom larger. The autumn sun falls at an oblique angle and lights up the buildings in red and gold. The contrast between the long shadows and the rays of sunlight beaming down from the clear sky is beautiful. The bus crosses the River Cam, where pedestrians stroll along its bank. I decide to get off at a circular courtyard that I assume connects several old, beautiful buildings.

I end up in the historic center of Cambridge, where the beautiful colleges are located. Regular traffic isn’t allowed in this part of town, but hundreds of bikes whiz around everywhere. I have to remember to pay attention and not look in the wrong direction when I cross the road. An impressive building looms ahead of me. It looks like something out of a movie set. Scrolls and pillars decorate the stone façade where the turrets and parapets meet.

A girl is leafing through a travel brochure, so I ask her, “Which building is this?”

She nods amiably and explains, “This is Trinity College. King’s College is farther down the road. You must visit the chapel there, it’s quite stunning. If you look carefully, most of the colleges have signs telling you which building is what.”

I thank her and look around. There are tons of people here, mostly tourists. I feel thankful for my free accommodations. With these crowds, an overnight stay in Cambridge must be exorbitant. Students in their final semester are wearing black flowing capes and black caps. I didn’t realize they actually wear their graduation gowns on the street. They look so quaint. I take photos like crazy.

I approach Trinity College and walk under an arched gateway into the courtyard. There’s a small, flawlessly green lawn you can only find in England or at a monastery. It looks like a green velvet carpet intersected by wide stone walkways, and old, stately buildings border each side of the square. The windows are made of crown glass. What lies beyond them? I wonder if Ethan’s brother lives in one of these buildings.

My heart beats quickly at the thought of eating dinner in the Gothic dining hall tomorrow. I’m sure the girl who told me about the chapel would die to have the opportunity. It’s outrageously exciting. Then it hits me like a lightning bolt out of the blue. I brought absolutely nothing in my modest travel bag that I could wear to such an event. Heavens! What does a person wear to the Master’s Lodge, anyway? I’m completely stumped. I bet the tourist girl would be at her wit’s end, too. I could just go in my good jeans and pink blouse, but I would surely be underdressed. I wish I had Ethan’s cell phone number so I could ask him.

I turn around and walk away from the colleges. Being here doesn’t help me at all with my urgent wardrobe issue. I cross the road to where dozens of colorful shops are located. Since they all look so expensive, my heart sinks. I doubt I’ll be able to afford anything they have to offer.

A sign for Laura Ashley catches my eye. Laura Ashley dresses are so distinctly British; surely I’ll be able to find something there that befits the occasion—if I can afford it. I push the door open, and a saleswoman promptly greets me. “Can I help you?”

Normally I hate when salespeople impose themselves on me, but today I’m thrilled to have her help. “I’ve been invited to the Master’s Lodge at Trinity College, and I have no idea what I should wear,” I tell her.

“I think you can wear something casual. It hasn’t been a formal venue for a long time. You could even wear jeans,” she suggests.

I look at her dubiously. “Even if you want to impress your companion?”

She smiles. “Well, in that case I would advise that you wear something a little more sophisticated.” She leads me to a rack with a wide variety of dresses. She pulls out one after the other, holding each up for my consideration. I steal a glance at the price tag. Uh-oh. This is definitely not the store for me. I can’t afford this place at all.

I clear my throat and say, “And if a person would like to impress her companion, but unfortunately doesn’t have much money?”

I would have bet that she’d shrug and show me the door, but she laughs heartily and puts her arm around my shoulder. “Come with me,” she says and leads me to the back of the store where folded items are neatly stacked together on a shelf.

“These pieces were returned because they have tiny imperfections. I think some of them might fit you, though. Why don’t you try them on?” She points to the fitting room.

I try on a very dignified-looking dress. It’s slate gray and falls just below the knee, and has slim three-quarter-length sleeves and a large floral print. The hem has a slight defect in it. I step out, and the saleslady clasps her hands together and beams. “It looks perfect! Just between us, it looks a lot better on you than it did on the lady who originally bought it, especially with your strawberry-blonde hair. Wonderful!”

She conjures up a pair of ballerina flats similar to the color of the dress. “Try these on for size!” She guessed my size right off the bat—the shoes are a perfect fit. Though the dress is affordable, the shoes, unfortunately, are not. I remove them, sighing and sadly shaking my head. My fairy godmother mourns with me when I say that I can only afford the dress, but she gives me some advice. “You can definitely buy similar shoes at one of the larger department stores in the newer part of the city.”

I spend at least an hour finding similar shoes as well as matching gray tights. Ravenous, I look for a quick snack and end up at McDonald’s. At least I have enough money for that. Now what? I went shopping instead of exploring the beautiful old town. It will be dark and uncomfortably cold soon. It’s time to head back to my room. Tomorrow I’ll do what I missed out on today.

Then the church bells begin to ring. I love English church bells—they’re not the boring, booming tones like back home. Instead, they play beautiful, rippling musical scales. Even the village church in Gatingstone has an impressive repertoire of sounds. I follow the peal of the bells. They are coming from King’s College. People rush toward the chapel, which is more like a huge church. It’s a spectacular Gothic marvel, with delicate stone fan vaulting and luminous stained-glass windows. At the entrance is a sign with an invitation to the Evensong. How beautiful! I join the people rushing in and enter the church. It is filling up fast. I’m lucky enough to snag a place relatively close to the altar and wait for whatever comes next.

A choir of only men and boys steps up to the choir stalls, which are backlit with large white candles. They are wearing red and white choral robes and have crisp Tudor-style white collars. Though I have an overwhelming desire to do so, I’m not allowed to whip out my camera. The bells fall silent, and the choir begins to sing. The song is unearthly beautiful—so pure and clear. I’ve never heard such a wonderful choir in person. I close my eyes so I can fully appreciate the glorious music.

It’s inevitable that in moments like these, the memory of what happened to me a few years ago comes back. It’s only then that I can freely think about it instead of pushing it back into the far recesses of my mind. I send a silent prayer of thanks to Heaven that the gift of life wasn’t taken from me. I love life. Only people who have experienced something similar can understand how precious life becomes after you’ve almost lost it.

I’m so moved that I get all misty-eyed. My goodness. I had no idea I would get to experience such a moving evening. I’m deeply grateful and happy. Furtively, I dab my tears away with my handkerchief, although I don’t need to be embarrassed. I see other guests pulling out their handkerchiefs, too. The heavenly perfection of the choir’s voices pierces me right in the heart.

After the service ends, the crowd pushes its way outside. It’s nighttime now, and the cold air hits me in the face. There is significantly less traffic on the road. I walk to the same bus stop where I had disembarked earlier in the afternoon. This time, I make sure to wait on the correct side of the road. On the bus schedule, I see that the next bus leaves in an hour. Great. I’m freezing. Impulsively, I firmly grip my shopping bags and hike down the road, passing houses set behind small front yards, their illuminated windows warm and inviting. The autumn wind swirls, and dry leaves rustle.

It takes me forty minutes to arrive at Somerset Close, but I tell myself that the exercise was good for me. Plus I saved the cost of the bus fare and avoided staying in the broom closet as long as possible. What more could I want? I knock on Emmy’s front door, and after a long while, I hear steps approaching. A bearded man with a ponytail peeks out.

“Yes?” he asks, visibly annoyed, as if I’m a door-to-door salesperson or something.

“Hi, I’m Lea. I’m staying here for a few days.”

“Okay, then just come in.” The guy turns around and disappears again. I don’t see him the rest of the evening—or anyone else who lives here, for that matter. An hour later, I’m in bed, which is just as cold, stiff, and uncomfortable as it looks. I curl up with my hot-water bottle and try to ignore the squealing, giggling, and hooting that accompanies the running of the bathwater from the adjoining bathroom. It’s probably Emmy and the bearded guy. Later, I hear bedsprings creaking rhythmically and satisfied groans. I fall asleep exhausted.

Chapter 6

When I wake up in the morning, I realize that I’m all alone in the house. It’s eerie—the building feels haunted. I imagine I see ghostly figures, then in an instant they’re gone. It’s kind of fitting that everything is empty and abandoned at the crack of dawn.

The bathroom is even more chaotic than it was yesterday with puddles still drying on the floor from last night’s pool party. Wet towels lie on the tiles where they were dropped. I take a little birdbath in the sink, then go down to the kitchen. I see a piece of paper among the dirty dishes on the table. On it someone has scrawled:

Hi Lea. Help yourself. Key is under doormat if u r late. Em

Okay, a little welcome at last. I’m glad they at least know I’m here.

Help yourself . . . Does that include food in the kitchen? My stomach growls. There’s a box of Weetabix by the note. I search for a clean cereal bowl—no easy feat—and fill it up. I find a container of instant coffee and some milk. After a meager breakfast, I put on a pair of rubber gloves and attack the dirty dishes. After about half an hour, the kitchen looks halfway decent. If I’m staying here for free, the least I can do is return the favor and help clean up the mess.

I decide to go first to the museum that Ethan told me about yesterday. It sounds like fun, and I want to tell him that I took him up on his advice when I see him tonight. The walk back yesterday wasn’t all that bad, so to save on bus fare, I trek into town. Soon I’m walking along the main street, my coat collar up and my purse under my arm. The cars whiz past me. I envy the drivers. It takes me more than half an hour to go where they can be in five minutes. But it doesn’t matter; the weather is still nice, if a little nippy. I slide my hands deep into my coat pockets and bury my chin into my coat collar.

A car stops right next to me, and I look in the window. It’s probably someone asking for directions. I see a vaguely familiar face beaming cheerfully at me.

“Lea!” he shouts. “Hooray! I’ve found you at last. Come on, get in the car. I’m taking you into town.”

I am completely floored, but I tear open the passenger door and jump in. Jens is sitting behind the wheel of a VW Golf.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shocked.

“I came to England for semester break. I wanted to see what you’ve been up to.” Jens laughs, obviously overjoyed to see me.

And me? I’m rather irritated. I can’t help but think that he’s stalking me.

“How in the world did you know where to find me?” I ask suspiciously.

He sees the tension in my face. “Oh, Lea, please don’t be angry with me. I didn’t want to shock you, but I’ve been reading your posts on Facebook. You didn’t exactly keep your trip to Cambridge a secret.”

“Yes, but Cambridge is pretty big. How did you know where I was?”

“We have a mutual Facebook friend, Anja Winter. She gave me your address.”

Anja is one of my roommates. I gave her my address so she could forward any mail that arrived for me in Münster.

Jens continues, “First, I went to Gatingstone and checked with your hosts—charming people, by the way—and they gave me your address in Cambridge. It was easy.”

Way too easy. I wouldn’t have added him as a friend if I’d known this was going to happen. This is a real problem. Jens is a nice guy, and I appreciate that he saved me from starving and freezing to death in Hohensyburg, but his appearance here doesn’t quite fit my plans.

I say frostily, “Well, fine, now that you’ve found me, would you be so kind as to take me into the city so we can go our separate ways?”

His face drops. He looks so pathetic that my annoyance melts away instantly. It is rather flattering that he traveled so far just to see me.

“Are you really going to be so cruel to me?” he asks sheepishly. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it. I thought you might be a teeny-tiny bit happy to see a familiar face from home.”

I smile weakly. “You’re not all that familiar to me, Jens. I only met you once.”

“Well, that’s why we should spend more time together,” Jens says unflappably, “so we can get to know each other better.”

“Oh great!” I shake my head and stare out the windshield.

Jens shifts into gear.

“So, dear Lea,” he says, “let me play chauffeur for you. Where do you want to go?”

“For me, into town. For you, back to Germany,” I say stubbornly.

Jens’s expression is pensive. Then he says, “Okay, but before I leave you again, allow me to grant a single wish of yours, to make amends for pouncing on you like this.”

“Ha! A wish? What kind of a wish would that be?”

“I don’t know. Think about it, and when we get to town, tell me what it is. A great meal at a restaurant . . . a visit to a nice café . . . no matter what you choose, your wish is my command.”

Jens drives in silence, and I look at him out of the corner of my eye. I can see the disappointment in his face. He was so good-natured in Hohensyburg; now he stares straight ahead at the street, his face tense. I sigh inwardly. He’s such a nice guy. How do I make it perfectly clear that his efforts are in vain? I’d wanted to avoid hurting him when we were in Münster. That’s exactly why I’d been so relieved that I was heading off to England. Damn Facebook!

I wrack my brain. What should I wish for? That he accompany me to the museum? That would be too easy. A nice meal at a restaurant would mean we’d have to sit across from each other, with him gazing deeply into my eyes. That wouldn’t be smart. As we drive over the bridge leading into Cambridge, I come up with a genius, albeit slightly devilish, idea. A little revenge wouldn’t be so horrible.

“Okay, Jens,” I say. “As a matter of fact, something did just occur to me. I would absolutely love to explore Cambridge in a punt. Can you imagine how nice it would be to view the city from the water?”

“What, if you don’t mind my asking, is a punt?” Jens asks.

“A flat-bottomed boat which you propel with a pole to glide along the River Cam. I’ve seen them in lots of photos, and I’ve always wanted to ride in one of those things. I think you can rent one.”

Jens’s face brightens. “That’s a brilliant idea! Sounds like fun. Okay, Lea, let’s do it.”

Instantly, he pulls to the side of the road and asks a pedestrian where the nearest punt rental station is. We park on the outskirts of the city and walk into Cambridge. I chuckle a bit when I see how happy Jens is once again. He whistles cheerfully as he strolls along. I happen to know that this so-called punting is an art in itself. He won’t be whistling for long; that’s for sure.

We find a pier where an entire fleet of punts awaits eager tourists. The owner is just setting up his kiosk and has set out a price list.

“Well, you’re here rather early,” he says. “Most of the time we don’t start until around noon. It’s still pretty cool on the water now.”

Jens looks at me dubiously. “What do you think, Lea? Should we come back later when it’s warmer?”

I can be pretty stubborn. “No, my friend,” I say. “You can’t chicken out now. You’re hoping that you’ll be able to worm your way out of this. We’re riding on the boat now, as promised.”

We select one of the long, flat boats. I get in first and carefully lower myself onto the bench. The owner hands me a cushion to sit on and explains to Jens where he needs to stand in order to navigate the punt. It’s somewhat like maneuvering a Venetian gondola. He hands Jens the long pole, wishes us a good trip, and shoves the boat gently into the river.

I’m very comfortable. The sunlight is warming the back of my dark coat, so it’s really not that cold. Jens looks rather clueless, his legs wobbly. The boat floats directly across the river over to the dense reeds on the opposite bank. I can see it coming already—he’s going to lose his balance and fall into the water. That’ll teach him to follow me all the way to England. As the boat rams into the embankment, Jens does a little dance, and I can’t help myself—I just have to laugh. It says something about Jens that he doesn’t even blink. Instead, deep in concentration, he adroitly begins to push the boat back toward the middle of the river. He has the same look on his face as he did when he was fixing my earrings at the Italian restaurant. He manages to push the boat a bit farther. He’s actually surprisingly adept at this. We almost crash into the reeds a couple more times, but Jens eventually gets the hang of it, and it goes much more smoothly. After a while, I relax. I begin to enjoy the boat trip. Who would have thought? Occasionally Jens catches my eye and winks at me. I try to ignore him, but I can’t. He exudes a kind of contagious joyfulness.

The river is not much wider than a creek. The water is calm, and small waves lap at the boat’s hull. The morning light catches the water, making it sparkle. Occasionally a few quacking ducks swim past us. Some sit on the bank, preening their feathers. We approach the colleges, surrounded by their manicured lawns. They look majestic in the morning mist. Here and there, groups of students wearing their quaint gowns rush to various events. I take some photos, then sit back down and gaze dreamily around me. Weeping willows, their long branches hanging in the water and moving with the gentle current, line the river. Colorful autumn foliage sweeps past us. Occasionally, leaves fall down upon us like confetti.

“So,” Jens says suddenly. “Now it’s your turn, Lea.”

I’m startled out of my daydream. “My turn? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You want me to believe that you have no desire whatsoever to even try it?” he says.

Good point, actually. Why not? It can’t be that hard. If Jens can do it, I suppose I can do it, too. Just push against the riverbed with the pole, guide your hands back up the pole, lift it out of the water, and repeat.

“Okay,” I say. “Relief crew. Sit down, and I’ll take over navigation.”

We carefully step around each other. Jens sinks onto the cushion while I get cracking. Oh dear, I didn’t think that standing on a floating surface could be so tricky. I do a little dance, similar to the one Jens did earlier. But this time he’s the one who’s laughing heartily. I furrow my brow and concentrate. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, especially after Jens so skillfully mastered the task. We are in the college district now, and people are strolling along the riverbank. I definitely don’t want to make a scene.

For a while, everything is coming along quite well. I’ve found my rhythm, and we glide along smoothly. I give Jens a triumphant look, and he nods approvingly. But then it happens. Somehow my pole snags in the soft, silty riverbed while the boat continues to glide forward. What do I do now? I yank at the stubborn thing and lose my balance. There’s no use trying to fight it. I squeal and stumble about in a most undignified way. With lightning speed, Jens jumps to his feet to rescue me. I reel straight into his arms, which he wraps around me firmly. We fall onto the bench at the same time—luckily not into the water.

The whole situation was so precarious I giggle in relief. Jens laughs along, his arms still wrapped tightly around me—a bit too tightly. I’m not so crazy about that.
Going out to eat would have been harmless in comparison
, I think. I delicately remove myself from his embrace and look around. Crap. What I feared has actually happened. We are directly under one of the picturesque bridges spanning the river. Leaning over the railing is a whole row of smiling faces. Apparently, we’ve entertained everyone brilliantly. Someone turns away, and I see dark curls and broad shoulders disappear down the bridge.
Crap! Crap
!
I think again.
Was that Ethan? He apparently saw the whole show. What does he think of me now
? I smooth out my clothes and sit back down on the bench.

“Your turn to operate the pole,” I say sternly. “I think it would be best if we turn around and go straight back to the dock. I’ve had enough of this adventure.”

He seems a bit downcast but does what I tell him to do. “It’s a shame,” he says. “I was just starting to have fun.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” I say grumpily, thinking more about his embrace than about the actual boating.

He smiles guiltily. “I really enjoyed that. Don’t you want to lose your balance again?”

“Absolutely not,” I say curtly and angrily look away.

After a while I look over at him again. I have to be careful that I don’t lose my resolve. Jens looks heartbreakingly sad. Oh my goodness, he really does seem to like me a lot. I sigh. The whole thing strikes me like something out of Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
—unrequited love, which leads to many trials and tribulations and a lot of grief.
On the other hand
, I think,
I’m glad it’s not that way for me
.
After all, I’m on my way to falling for a man who also loves me. All signs point to my relationship with Ethan working out—he so much as said so. With great anticipation, I think about the beautiful meal I’ll have with Ethan this evening at Trinity College, and I’m instantly in a good mood again.

Jens notices and says, “I like you so much better like this, Lea. You’re back to your old self. I love it when you look happy—like in Hohensyburg. It doesn’t seem like you to let a little mishap throw you off course.”

It’s true. I think about how we tumbled around the boat, and the situation suddenly strikes me as really quite amusing. I start to giggle, and soon we are both laughing heartily.

“At least we didn’t fall into the water,” I say. “How embarrassing that would have been!”

Jens nods happily, then says, “Actually, I did another good deed for you and rescued you from an unexpected bath.”

“That’s what you think!” I cry. “I’ll show you.” I lean back and forth, rocking the boat, but Jens has amazing balance. Although he can’t stop laughing, he doesn’t fall into the water.

We cheerfully agree to return the boat to the rental kiosk. I tell Jens, “Thank you. It was really nice of you to take me on a boat ride.” We’re both rather confused as to what we should do next. I feel bad just saying good-bye, although that’s exactly what I had in mind.

“Can you spend the rest of the day with me?” Jens asks. “I promise I’ll leave Cambridge and never bother you again. But it seems kind of stupid for us to sightsee alone, doesn’t it?”