London from My Windows (12 page)

She glanced around before settling onto the sofa. This was insane. But kind of fun. Nobody would ever know. She pushed PLAY. The screen filled with two naked women and one man. The male actor indeed lived up to his name. His Member of Parliament was impressive, and it was definitely in working order.
A working stiff. Ha!
Maybe Ava should do stand-up comedy. Ava wondered if they had British accents, but she didn't dare turn the volume up. Soon the women were kissing as Ben played with his impressive erection. Ava couldn't believe she was watching this. Just a few more seconds.

It wasn't long before the women stopped kissing and started servicing Big Ben. It reminded Ava of the job she did on the turkey leg. And then, she imagined Jasper standing in front of her. She imagined unbuckling his belt, unsnapping the button, unzipping his pants. She didn't expect Big Ben, but she had the feeling Jasper would be nicely staffed as well. She laughed. Since when did she become a walking romance novel?
Penis.
There, she could say it. It just sounded a bit odd.
Cock.
That wasn't much better. Lady parts weren't great either. “Vagina” or “pussy.” The British sometimes said “quim,” didn't they? That was a strange one too. Maybe she'd stick with “Member of Parliament” for him—and what? “Victory Gardens” for her? She was insane. She shouldn't have skipped dinner.

Jasper could be dinner. It would be nice to make him feel good. She never fantasized about giving Cliff blow jobs. She did it, of course; they all expected it. But with Cliff, she did her best to make sure it would be over quickly. He wasn't that big, so it wasn't like she was ever gagging on it, although it turned him on if she pretended like she was. God, men were such strange creatures. Luckily, it never took him long to climax. But that was hardly a glowing endorsement. Ava thought she just hated doing it, that all women probably hated doing it. But here she was fantasizing about going down on Jasper. What would it be like to put her mouth on him, make him moan? What was wrong with her? Maybe it was London itself. She was so sexed up on this side of the pond.

Stop it. Do not fantasize about Jasper. He's in love. He told you so himself. Watch Big Ben, instead.
He was a beautiful man, really well developed all over.
Bet he comes right on time too.
No wonder he was such a tourist attraction. When you thought about it, most porn was either boring, or downright funny. This was no exception. The women were both on their hands and knees now, and Big Ben looked like he was trying to decide whom he was going to introduce his member to first. She was surprised the trailer was this long. She hadn't accidentally bought the darn thing, had she? What if she had? Or was British porn free like health care or certain museums?

What if it got charged to the cable bill? What if her new flatmate got the cable bill?

Somewhere a door slammed and suddenly the volume was on full blast. Definitely British accents, sounded more like two male voices and a female—but Ava hadn't touched a single button. Suddenly the voices came to a dead halt. She pushed the MUTE button, still confused. Immediately moaning filled the air as Big Ben mounted the girl on the left—funny, Ava thought for sure he'd start with the one on the right—

And then someone cleared his or her throat. The door slamming, the voices. It hadn't come from the television. Ava froze. She tried to shut off the television. Instead she froze the threesome in place, whirled around, and saw three people standing in her living room.

She recognized Queenie right away. The round body, the bald head, and despite the pudgy face he somehow still had high cheekbones that suggested he could definitely pull off dressing as a woman. The only difference was his facial expression. Always smiling in the pictures, now he stood with his mouth open like a living rendition of
The Scream
. Next to him stood a beautiful woman about Ava's age. She was tall, with long black hair. Her face was pretty, although truth be told she looked a bit pinched. She, too, had her mouth hanging open. And behind them stood Jasper. Ava found the POWER button on the remote and shut the porno off. She stood, heart hammering in her chest, face absolutely hot with shame. This could not be happening. How could she make this not be happening? Nobody spoke. They were waiting for her to speak.

“I—I—”

“We knocked,” Jasper said. “Several hard raps on the door.”

“That's what she said,” Queenie said. Before she even processed his comment, Ava held out her hand for a shake. Queenie just looked at it and smirked. “Sorry, doll. We don't know where that hand has been, or do we?”

“What?” Ava looked at her hand.
Oh, God.
“No. I was just—it was a laugh. Your list. It said ‘See Big Ben' and I was flipping through channels and that one was called
Big Ben
.” She left “Banging” off the title, hoping every little bit of decency would help. From the looks on their faces, she was wrong. “I just turned it on for a laugh.” Thank God she didn't pick
Going Down on Abby,
thank God.

“Quite understandable,” Jasper said. His shaky voice and absolutely crimson face once again said otherwise.

“I was flipping channels and just ran into it. I can show you—” Ava picked up the remote.

“NO,” all three said at the same time. Even worse! Surely they'd all watched a porno at least once in their lives, right? Of course they had. And look at them staring at her as if they were asexual amoebas and she was the freakiest of freaks.

Jasper cleared his throat. “Ava, this is Queenie, your flatmate.” Ava went to shake hands again, and then remembered.
Screw him.
Instead she curtsied as dramatically as she could.

“Is that Beverly's nightgown?” he said. Ava just stared. She'd forgotten she was wearing a nightgown. It was probably see-through. What was the protocol? Stand here as if her bits weren't on display or run to her room and slam the door? Queenie produced a slow smile as Ava debated her options. He folded his hands over his large stomach. “And here I thought you were going to be a bore,” he said. “But I can see Beverly in you, all right.”
He could?
Ava liked the sound of that. “Looks like I won't be needing a strand of your locks for that DNA test after all.” His voice carried the theatrics of a stage actor.

“This is my
friend,
Hillary,” Jasper said. He gave the beautiful woman a slight push and she stumbled forward, then turned and glared at him.
Unbelievable.
He was hanging around with his ex, trying to be her friend. He really didn't get women.

Hillary turned to Ava. “How do you do,” she said. She was as prim and proper as the Duchess of Cambridge herself. Tall and slim with perfectly coiffed brunette hair. She was wearing a gray suit. It was quite possible she'd never watched a porno in her life. And unlike with Queenie, there was no grin. She didn't step forward, or hold her hand out to shake. Jasper was in love with an Ice Queen. Figured. Nice guys liked to be tortured. And they thought Ava was the pervert. She resorted to the only thing the Brits might do if they were in her situation.

“Cup of tea?” she said.

 

They blew on the steam. They slurped. They looked everywhere but at her. She had changed back into jeans and a T-shirt, but still nobody would look at her. They didn't comment on the sheets on the window either, but they glanced at them often. Ava wanted to tell them she'd taken the sheets down and enjoyed the view, but then she'd have to tell them that she only put the sheets back up to watch porn. This was awful. Maybe she could face Heathrow Airport again, because right now all she wanted was to be anywhere but here.

“I never would have come if I had known I was to have a flatmate,” Ava said.

Queenie put his hand on his heart. “Darling, believe me. I don't want to live with a Septic either.” Hillary laughed. It was the first time she'd vocalized anything.

“Queenie,” Jasper said. His tone was a warning:
Be nice
.

“A what?” Ava said.

“Queenie,” Jasper said.

“She said she read some kind of an online slang dictionary. I'm just testing her retention.”

“A Septic,” Ava said. “I didn't come across that one.”

“ ‘Septic tank,' which rhymes with ‘Yank,' ” Queenie said.

“What?”

“It's not personal,” Jasper said. He was talking quickly as if to outrun trouble. “It's what we call all Americans.”

“Septics?” Ava said. “You call us Septics?”

“ ‘Septic tank' rhymes with ‘Yank,' ” Queenie sang out.

“Gee thanks,” Ava said. “Much easier to swallow.”
Shoot.
That made her think of the porno again. Why did this have to be happening? Ava lurched to her feet. She jostled the table. Teacups rattled. “I have to go to bed.”

“I take it you've already claimed the bedroom?” Queenie said. “I thought maybe we'd draw crowns.”

“Draw crowns?” Ava said.

“It's a British tradition. Whoever draws the pointiest crown wins.” He patted down his pockets. “I seem to have misplaced mine. Did you bring yours, Jasper?”

“Enough,” Jasper said. He turned to Ava. “He's having a laugh.”

“At my expense,” Ava said.

“I can't help it; I'm hungry,” Queenie said. He got up. “I've been dreaming of this turkey all day.” It wasn't until Queenie reached the refrigerator that Ava remembered the turkey. What was left of it.

“Wait.” She turned to Queenie, but it was too late. He opened the fridge and gasped as if he'd just seen his own corpse. He reached in, grabbed something, and turned around. He held the turkey carcass up by the thread of a bone.

“My turkey,” he said. “It's been massacred.”

“First I just tore off a little piece, but it was so good—you're an excellent cook—”

“You filthy, filthy girl.”

“Queenie, enough.” Jasper stood.

“I don't care if you watch porn all day and all night, but this! This makes you a filthy, filthy girl.” Queenie shook the turkey carcass. “I basted him for hours. I'm on a protein diet. This was breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a week!”

“I'm sorry. I'll get you another one.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, of course.”

Queenie made a beeline to the kitchen window and ripped off the sheet. Then he pointed out the window. “The market is right across the street. Why don't you just walk over there
right now
and replace my turkey?”

“I have to change my American dollars into pounds.”

“Oh, is that all?” Queenie said. His voice went from high to low. “They take plastic.”

“I can call them. Have it delivered.”

“Not this late you can't.”

“You can order takeaway tonight,” Jasper said to Queenie.

Queenie whirled on Jasper. “I basted for days!”

“You're just upset about your audition,” Jasper said. “Why don't you pour yourself a Scotch?”

Scotch. Shit. What's left of it.
Hot pinpricks of shame invaded the back of Ava's neck.
I wouldn't drink his Scotch. Shit.
Would he notice? A scream rang out. A wail, really. Like that of a mourner throwing himself on a grave. Dramatic? He was a walking telenovella. Queenie stormed toward her with the near-empty bottle.

“I thought it was Aunt Beverly's!” Ava said.

“Sean Connery gave me this bottle of Scotch,” Queenie said.

“Oh my God.” Ava's hands flew to her mouth. Queenie smirked. “Did he really?”

“He could have,” Queenie said. He shook his fist in the air. “He could have!”

“But did he?”

“It's my Scotch. It's almost gone.” Queenie hugged the bottle to his chest, then kissed the top. Jasper approached. Hillary kept her distance, watching them like a snooty hawk, high up on her perch.

Jasper placed his hand on Queenie's arm. “Ava is your guest.”

Queenie shook Jasper off. “Some guest. Lock up the silverware.”

“She's Beverly's niece,” Jasper said.

Queenie stopped talking. He put his hand over his mouth. Then looked mournfully at the bottle. “This Scotch is worth over two hundred pounds.”

“I'm sorry,” Ava said.

“You, my dear, are an alcoholic.”

“Enough, enough,” Jasper said.

“I am not,” Ava said. “I was stressed.”

“Alcoholics are stressed.”

“I am not an alcoholic.”

“What are you then?”

“Perhaps you're a sex addict?” Hillary offered.

“Didn't used to be,” Ava said. She glanced at Jasper. Their eyes locked. Flames roared up the side of her face.
Shit.
She looked away. He continued to stare at her until she could feel her face heat up. “Call me a Septic,” Ava said. “I don't care.” She ran out of the kitchen, into the bedroom, and dived under the bed. She lay on the floor listening to her heartbeat against the boards. She could hear voices in the kitchen, talking. Talking about her. Jasper was probably telling Queenie to be nicer.
You won't have to put up with her long; she'll be out of here in eighty-nine days.
That man was Beverly's best friend? That woman was Jasper's
friend?
British pornos were free? The more Ava got to know the outside world, the less she understood it.

CHAPTER 12

Ava was up early. She crept out into the living room. Queenie was a snoring lump on the sofa. Surely a grown man would prefer his own room and bed. She would keep quiet, not because she wanted him to have his sleep, but because she wanted her peace and quiet. She tiptoed to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and stared at the boxes of tea.
Ugh.
She'd kill for a nice cup of coffee. Did anyone in London drink coffee or was it tea, tea, tea? There probably wasn't a coffeemaker either. She headed for the kitchen table. Every single sheet had been stripped off the windows. They were folded neatly on the kitchen table. Next to them were a hammer and a box of nails.

 

 

It had to be Jasper. Even his handwriting was a turn-on. Sharp, strong lines. Why did he have to be in love with that snobby ice twig? She looked like she'd be no fun at all. High maintenance. Then again, Ava could only imagine what Hillary had said about her. Why did she have to turn on a porno? She never watched them. It was for a laugh. But of course, she'd been caught. It was too late to fix it; first impressions were everything, and in Queenie's and Hillary's minds she was probably a pervert. A sex addict.
You know that girl who never leaves the house? It's because she's addicted to porn
. Thank God she'd already met Jasper. Although her first impression of him was that he was a bearded taxi driver, she'd gotten past that, so maybe she could redeem herself. Not that she was ever going to fit in anyway. She was the Septic. The outsider. How ironic. There was a first time for everything. For someone who never left the flat, Ava sure had managed to cause a lot of trouble. She went back into the living room.

The lump was still snoring. So much for the stereotype that all Americans were fat. She was thin, and the British invader on the sofa was not. Just one crack about America and fat and she would nail him. He slept cocooned up in a blanket. Maybe they did have a few things in common. One minute she was staring at the lump; the next minute his arms shot out and he yelled, “What's my line?” Ava laughed loudly, then slapped her hand over her mouth. Queenie's hands remained extended; then one slowly pulled the sheet from his face. “Where am I?”

Ava took a step forward. “You're in my flat,” she said.

“You,” he said.

“Me,” Ava said.

“Why are you hovering over me? Am I keeping you from a porno?”

“Now that's not funny.”

Queenie stared at her for a moment, very somber. Then he started to laugh. “You're quite wrong about that. It's my favorite story in a long time.” His cheeks jiggled as he laughed. Ava started to laugh with him, until the full meaning of what he said smacked her in the face.

“Story? As in you're going to tell people?” She'd be the laughingstock of London. “Please, don't,” Ava said. “I was watching it for a laugh.” She took another step. “You don't gossip about your flatmates. Only the lowest of the low would gossip about their flatmates.”

Queenie slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was like an overgrown child. “So we're flatmates now, are we? I thought you were kicking me out.” He rubbed his eyes again, then glanced at a clock on the bookshelf behind him. He let out a cry. “Four-thirty? In the morning?”

“I take it you're not a morning person.”

“Luv, the only time I'm up at four-thirty in the morning is if I hadn't gone to bed yet.”

“How often is that?”

“All the time. I don't suppose you like parties, do you?” Ava didn't answer. Aside from when she was a child, she had never really gone to a party, so how was she supposed to know? “Don't any of you people drink coffee?”

“Us people?” Queenie said. “You mean the gays?”

“No. British people.”

“I can't speak for the rest of the Queen's subjects, but I love coffee.”

“There's no coffeemaker here.” Queenie closed his eyes and turned his head toward the sofa cushion.
Oh my God.
He was so easy to read. There was coffee here somewhere. “Where is it?” Ava asked.

“You've already desecrated my turkey and invaded my Scotch. Why should I share my espresso?”

Ava gasped. “Espresso? I'd love, love, love an espresso.”

Queenie groaned. “I don't suppose you'd go back to sleep if I promise to make you one in, say, four hours?”

“Four hours?”

“You're right. Make it six.”

“I'll just turn the flat upside down until I find the espresso and then I'll make it myself.” Ava turned for the kitchen. She heard a loud thump. She turned. Queenie was lying on the floor next to the sofa. His hands shot up again.

“I'll get it, I'll get it. Do not touch my espresso maker.” He hauled himself up. His boxers sagged and his shirt rose above his belly. “Don't stare at my fat,” he said. “It's not polite.”

Ava turned around. “You look fine.”

“Darling, you may be Beverly's flesh and blood, but you're no actress. The doctor said I had to lose weight. I would be thinner by now if you hadn't eaten all my protein.”

“I'll make it up to you.”

“You can look now.” Ava turned around. He was wearing a blue kimono. “You could have made it up to me already,” he said, wagging his finger at her. “All you had to do was give Sainsbury's a bell.”

“A bell?”

“On your mobile.”

“A bell on my mobile.” She had no clue what he was talking about.

“A fucking phone call?”

“Oh. Give them a bell. I get it. Cute.” She paused. “Give who a bell?”

“Sainsbury's! They could have delivered twelve turkeys by now.”

“I need pounds,” Ava said. “I only have American dollars.”

“They take plastic.”

“I don't have plastic.”

Queenie gasped and put his hand over his heart. “No cards?”

“No.”

“No credit?”

“No again.”

“How do you shop?”

“I pay cash.”

He turned his head and stared at her out of one eye as if she were the sun and he was about to go blind. “And you won't go to the bank?”

“It's not a matter of won't; it's a matter of can't.” Why should she explain herself to him? She was always explaining herself. And it never did any good. Unless he could experience it for himself, Queenie would never understand that being outside was pure terror.

He pointed to her stool. “Sit there.” Ava flashed him a smile and obeyed. My God, the things she was willing to do for an espresso.

“Single or double?” he asked her.

“I love you,” she said.

 

He handed her the perfect espresso with a dollop of whipped cream in the daintiest cup. “Thank you.” He pulled up a chair and propped his own espresso in his lap.

“Bev got me this robe,” he said, running his hand along the silk. Ava must have been too obvious about looking at it. She wasn't used to other people being around.

“She had style,” Ava said. It was probably best not to mention that she'd been trying on everything in Beverly's closet.

“Oh, luv, that she did.”

“What was she like?”

“Bev?”

“I always—” Ava stopped. She'd always thought she'd have the chance to get to know her. But she wasn't going to pour her guts out to Queenie. Just because he got up at four-thirty in the morning to make her an espresso didn't mean they were suddenly best friends. Then again, she did want to learn everything she could about Beverly before her ninety days were up.

“You always?” Queenie said.

“I always thought I'd have time,” Ava said. “To get to know her.”

“She thought the same about you,” Queenie said.

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I mean it. You sound surprised.”

“Beverly didn't even come to my father's funeral.” How could she not come to her own brother's funeral? It was unforgivable. Ava took a sip of her espresso. Scalding hot. The back of her throat burned. Her eyes watered. It was bliss. She hoped they served espresso in heaven.

“And how would you know that?” Queenie said.

“Excuse me?”

“That she didn't come to your father's funeral?” He knew. He knew her most shameful secret. Ava hadn't gone to the funeral either. She'd stayed in her room under her bed. It was unimaginable that they were going to put her father in a box and put him under the ground. So she got under her bed. To see if she could figure out what it would be like. And she didn't want him to be afraid. So she told herself it wasn't that bad. And it wasn't. And she didn't come out all day. Ava slammed the espresso down.

“She didn't come, she didn't come.”

Queenie sighed, put his espresso on the windowsill, and got up with a groan. He walked over to the bookshelf and came back with a photo. Beverly had hid it behind a book. It was a picture of Ava's father's headstone with a huge bouquet of red roses lying on top. Ava gasped. She held on to the picture, examining it, trying to find out how it had been done. Had someone else sent Beverly this picture? Who?

“She went,” Queenie said.

“But, but, but.”
She didn't see me
. “My mother said—”

“Your mother wouldn't let her see you. She said you were traumatized. Beverly stayed for six days trying to see you. Six days. She even missed a matinée. And darling, Beverly Lee Wilder never missed a show. Never. That woman could have been shot in the chest at intermission and she would stumble onstage holding a bloody handkerchief over the wound. Only one show in a fifty-year career. Trying to see you.”

Trying to see me. Me.
Was he telling the truth? What did this mean? She never knew. “Why? Why wouldn't my mother let her see me?”

“Darling, it was a long, long time ago. There's no good in getting all mussed up about it now.”

It didn't feel like a long time ago to Ava. It felt like yesterday. A “yesterday” that changed everything. “Do you know why?”

“You'll soon find that I know very little about anything. You should talk to your mother.”

The liar who raised her? “Aunt Beverly didn't approve of my mother,” Ava said. “That's why she and my dad barely spoke. I guess Beverly hated us Septics.”

“Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Come to your own conclusions without any factual evidence to back them up?”

“What are you? A barrister in your part time?”

“Because I use fancy words like ‘evidence'?”

“Beverly and my father didn't speak. I know they used to speak before he married an American woman. Is that enough evidence for you?”

“Are you sure caffeine is a good mix with your disposition?”

“I'm sure, Mary Poppins.” Ava picked up her espresso and downed the rest of it. She had whipped cream on her lip. She left it there, as if daring Queenie to say something. He didn't. She finally wiped it away. “So what did Beverly tell you about my father?”

“Uh, uh, uh. Weren't you just lecturing
moi
about how flatmates don't spread gossip?”

“About each other. We can certainly gossip about other people. Otherwise, what would be the point of having a flatmate?”

“From your end, I'd say, turkey, Scotch, espresso, porn, and all your living expenses taken care of. From my end, that certainly is an excellent question.” He thought she was a weakling. He thought she had nothing to offer. He was confident she would fail and the flat would be his. Ava turned to the window. A few people were out now. A man in a suit smoking a cigarette on the corner. Another young man sweeping the sidewalk in front of the market. Anger coursed through her. She was a grown woman. Not a child, a woman. She should be able to make it across the street to the market.

She would force herself to do it. Maybe even today. “Is it your father's death that did it?” Queenie asked.

Ava whirled on him. “Did what?”

He waved his hands around as if trying to make more words materialize. “Your condition.”

“My condition?” If he was going to be rude, she was going to make him say it.

“Beverly said you weren't like this when he was alive.”

“Like what?”

Queenie sighed. “I'm not the enemy, you know.”

“I'm not either.”

“So let's call a truce.”

“I didn't know we were at war.”

“So let me help you.”

“Help me?”

“Yes. We can go out together. Take a walk around the block. There's a great little pub at the end of the street. I'll buy you a pint.”

“That sounds lovely.”

Queenie's face brightened. “Well, that was easy. We'll go late this afternoon. Before the tourists show up.”

“Not today. I have to wait for my prescription of Xanax to arrive.” Ava had almost a full bottle of Xanax left, but he didn't need to know that. Xanax or no, she wasn't going to be rushed outside. There was no hurry whatsoever.

“Arrive?”

“Not in the mail. My psychiatrist will contact a doctor here that can prescribe it and I'll pick it up.”

“I see.”

“Unless you have any?”

“I'm fresh out.”

“That's it then. I can't go today.”

“You can't go out without it?”

“Trust me. You don't want to see me try.” Ava smiled. Her cheeks hurt. How did people do it, pretend all the time?