Love from London (14 page)

The red double-decker bus, a dying breed of bus now, arrives and we climb to the top floor and sit at the front. I feel my body swaying slightly at we move through traffic, but I like the sensation of feeling tall, looking down at the noise and hectic Saturday pacing on the streets. “Do you regret coming out in front of everyone?” I ask.

“No — not at all. It’s a huge relief. But at the same time, it’s like I got put into this position of gay power that I never really wanted to have.” Chris sighs and half-smiles. “It’s not bad, per se, but I feel sometimes that I’m being scrutinized.”

“We all feel that at Hadley. It’s small, incestuous and a breeding ground for gossip.”

“But this is more than that. You could date or hook up with someone and after the initial buzz, no one would pay you much attention, right? But say I actually manage to find a guy who’s ready to…get involved with me — you know it’s going to end up a whole school debate.”

“Yeah, I could see that — like let’s all support Chris in this overkill kind of way to show that we are SO okay with the gay thing.”

“Exactly. Or that a hook up has to mean everything.”

“And what, pray tell, are you hoping for with…what’s his name?”

“Alistair. My man of the moment.” The bus stops and Chris points to a dark red brick building with arched windows. “That was my first home. No memories of it whatsoever, but that’s where I went after being brought home from the hospital. Anyway, Alistair’s American, if you can believe it. I’m like the only person in the world who would travel three thousand miles to meet someone I could potentially go out with.”

“Slow down, guy. You talked to him for all of ten minutes.”

“I know, I know, just let me dream, okay? You’re not mad that I’m deserting you after dinner?”

I shake my head. “I have a bunch of work to do. Plus, I’m just getting into exploring on my own. Arabella’s so busy with Damn Yankees practice and the royal boys that I have more time on my own than I thought I would.”

“Well, let’s go back to your cave and then get ready for a silly trendy meal. I want to take you to Apothecary.”

“It’s not some new age vegan place, is it? I’m too hungry to eat beans.”

“No — it’s THE hot spot right now, built into an old apothecary, so the waiters are dressed like they work in a pharmacy or something and the drinks come in beekers or pill bottles. My dad’s got an account there.”

“An account?” I stand up when the bus pulls over to the side and we hustle down the stairs before we miss our spot.

Chris shrugs like he’s talking about the weather, “Dad’s a dignitary, but aside from that, the restaurant gave a select few patrons the right to have an account, a house charge. So our dinner’s on him. Which is good, because the portion’s are tiny and the bill winds up being huge.” Chris runs his hands through his hair. “Then you can explore or do you homework and I will have nice — albeit brief — shot at love.”

Dinner is basically three courses of pill-shaped weird food. Fish pates and frisee salads served in old-fashioned vials, drinks in test tubes set up on stainless steel racks. It’s the sort of place that will probably be really popular for all of two months and then close, when comfort cooking comes back in style, or people decide to eat at hunting lodge-themed places.

“This is nuts,” I say and drink from one of my iridescent test tubes. “But I like the lights!” The whole room, lined with floor to ceiling card-catalogue style shelves and old metal counters, is illuminated by lights made out of old glass medicine bottles.

“Try this,” Chris says and holds out a forkful of frozen lemonade.

“Tart and tasty,” I say.

“Just like us,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” I say and hand him my room key. “Listen, you take this in case you need it. I’ve got Arabella’s spare set, so I’ll just sleep there and meet you back at LADAM for breakfast before you head back to Heathrow.”

Chris holds the key to his heart like I’ve given him a rose. “Thank you, Love.” The he gets serious. “Not that I’m going to use it for anything other than sleeping, of course. But it’s nice to have just the same.”

Chris goes one way, heading out into the London night for his date with Alistair the American, and I start walking. Pretty soon, my feet get me to an area I think I recognize. To my left is a bustling street, a movie theatre with a bright red neon sign, and to my right is a more residential neighborhood. I dash into the movie theatre with no intention of seeing a movie, just craving popcorn, and go for the sweet kind they sell — regular popcorn with sugar melted on it as a sort of glaze — in a word, delicious. Especially after my medicinal meal before.

I walk along, crunching and munching, eyeing couples out on their Saturday dates, arms around each other, and then I’m back on that street of rainbow mews houses, which look pale and pretty in the lamplight. Of course, I love this place, but it also registers as not entirely coincidental that I’ve wound up right near Asher’s gallery. I could stop by. Or I could not be a big stalker and play it cool. Surely there’s a line in between? I mean, if all had gone as planned, I’d be with him at Bracker’s right now. In light of this, a casual drop-by (are there intense drop-bys?) is indeed in order.

The watch guy is no where to be found, all the stalls are packed up, which gives the street a ghostly feeling. Or romantic — it’s all about perspective — if Asher swooped me up and kissed me, it’d feel romantic and ethereal. Without the kiss, the lack of other people makes it a tiny bit creepy as if a vampire could appear at any moment.

Down the cement steps, onto the small entryway, I stop to smooth my hair and consider glossing my lips. On the one hand, shiny is good. On the other hand, sticky is not. I decide for a quick lick of the lips to give the appearance of shine. Then I mentally slap myself for being so girly and annoying.

I’m about to ring the doorbell, when I notice something; one of the walls is empty. Then I recall the Chanel lady who bought one and think that probably Asher’s using his non-Bracker’s weekend to get it ready to deliver. However, when I put my hands to the glass so I can see all the way in the room, I know he’s also using his weekend in London for other purposes.

I’m a total idiot to believe something too good to be true could in fact be true
.

I shake the ink down on my new pen from Chris and write more in my newly purchased, pocket-sized orange journal as I ride the Tube home — not to my home, my crappy dorm room from which I’ve been self-evicted, but to Arabella’s flat where she doesn’t even know I’m staying.

Obviously, Asher’s not that into me or he wouldn’t have been pawing the brunette in tight jeans and heels. This is not one of those scenarios where I saw him with a girl but didn’t catch him in the act and then I confront him and he’s all oh, that’s my sister (clearly not) or something equally lame. I know this because I did catch him in the act and had the privilege of watching him slink his arm around the waist of Jeans 0n’Heels and plant a full-mouthed kiss on her. I even caught a hair toss with a giggle from her, which was so nauseating I had to leave. And then go back, of course, I’m not going to pass up an opportunity to spy on him. But then nothing else happened. She touched his chest, he pointed to one of the walls, no doubt wooing her with his art, and then I got the hell out of there just before he turned out the lights and they exited.

With bus scum (invisible, but present grime that coats my whole body after a long ride next to the coughing couple) still adhered to my hair, night film already threatening to overtake my teeth, and weary tourist-trodden feet, I stumble up the stone stairs to Arabella’s flat and fumble (even in my haze I’m aware that stumbling and fumbling rhyme and don’t constitute an interesting lyric of any kind) for the keys. The brass ring Arabella gave me is an antique oval, with a barely visible Shalimar engraved on the wider side. Two keys dangle from the thinner side, one a regular key, the other a skeleton key.

Inside, the flat is as expected; cold, empty, and dark. I flip on a couple of switches — mood lighting I suppose — pull the curtains closed, crank up the temperature, and take my clothes off, leaving them on the floor. Then I head to the stereo. It’s from when Monti originally bought the flat, mid-1970s, I think (based on the original shag rug in the master bedroom that has no doubt seen plenty of action. Or Mick-action. Or Rotten-action). Choosing between records, I opt for T. Rex. I’m about to put it on the turn table when I see a bright orange album sticking out from the stack. Sure enough, it’s Clementine’s first album, done is that sixties font of half bubble-writing, half-script, hot pink on an orange background. Bragging words across the top read “Contains the Ever-popular
Like the London Rain
!”

I can’t resist. The needle scratches, drags, and then starts. The first two songs go by pleasantly enough while I get ready for a long bath. Since there are no showers in the dorm, only baths with a shower handle, I’m used to getting clean this way. Plus, Arabella’s bathroom has a double-sized tub, Jo Malone candles and scents all around it, and one of those wide faucets that makes it seem like you’re in a tropical waterfall. I fill the bath and step in just in time to hear Clementine burst out with
like the London rain you make me fall into the sky, here I’m wondering why you tell me baby can’t we try? Time goes slipping by, rain ends all too soon You and I were time away from time You never know what will happen until you fall Like the London rain

But when I find you falling it’s never meant to be. Next time you’ll be falling falling heading back to me But I’ll be heading up. Back to where the rain slips into clouds you just my find me there. You’ll come running I’ll keep walking, flowers in my hair…”

Except for the flowers in my hair part (which definitely calls to mind a girl on a maxi pad box in a flowing dress who just happened to stick a gardenia behind her ear before getting her period and heading off to Woodstock), the song is remarkably cool, with a backbeat that reminds me of Fiona Apple. As if it were made now but produced to sound Mod. The record ends and I finish washing myself off, actually taking the time to leave the conditioner on the ends of my hair (note to self: living in a climate that is damp does work in my favor in terms of skin and hair).

When I’m done I dry off and make my way to Arabella’s room to find some pajamas because of course I managed to forget mine back in my room (AKA pit of despair). Luckily, Arabella has no shortage of comfy clothes from which to choose, loving the vagabond-chic look. She has no shortage of any garments, actually, so I pick a pair of what she calls tracky bums and which any American would call sweatpants and a worn in navy blue Henley top. It’s times like this that the bed literally seems to be calling out for me. It’s times like this when my whole body is so excited to slide between the high thread count sheets it’s not even pathetic. It’s times like this, at eleven o’clock on a Saturday night in someone else’s flat that the doorbell rings as the door opens and my dreams of — well, dreaming — are dashed.

They are replaced, however, by a gaggle of gorgeous boys (gaggle=four) and a bevy of beautiful women, Arabella included, who reek of smoke and wine, but who are all cheerful and bursting with bags of take away food (take away=take out — who knew two continents would be separated by so many adverbs?).

“Darling!” Arabella says, exaggerated but winking so I know she’s not a total prat (prat is like loser, but not, it’s somewhere in the lines of dickhead but in this case a nicer, sweeter way of saying I know she’s kidding).

“What happened to Amsterdam?” I ask as the whole haven of hotties push through the door and begin assembling an impromptu dinner party.

“It was undone,” Tobias says. It’s an expression he apparently uses all the time, which has begun to filter down to Arabella. Undone=lame, not happening.

“What he means,” gorgeous boy number one — very tall, sandy blond waves of hair, bright blue eyes, manwhich build, “Is that we got kicked out of the first hotel at five this morning and there wasn’t any room at any of the other hotels.”

“Any of the proper places,” one girl adds, kicking off her heels and sitting down to smoke. She’s a mini-Hurley, dark hair, high cheek bones, very English.

“It’s the Dutch jazz fest or something,” another woman says and kisses that tall hot guy on the cheek. I’ve found that the flirty kissing aspect of Arabella’s circle of friends makes it sometimes hard to tell who likes who and which couple is on or off.

“We could’ve found a suite anywhere, if we’d wanted to,” Tobias insists, adding an eye-roll to imply that obviously, they have enough collective clout — or he does individually — that finding a fancy hotel room wouldn’t have been hard if they’d pushed.

Arabella pulls me into the kitchen where it’s just us and hot boy number three or two, some prime number — heh. She mutters under her breath, teeth clenched, “Not sure if you realize, but you’re in pajamas — mine, I might add, so if you want to borrow anything…”

Hot Prime Guy spins around, holding a tray of curries and chutneys, and says, “I think she looks lovely as is, frankly.” And then in a cloud of steamy turmeric, is gone.

Arabella raises her eyebrows at me. I grin. “Okay, tell me who he is,” I say. “But I’m not changing. They can like me or leave me.”

“Or bed you,” Arabella laughs. “And don’t think I’m skipping over the fact that you’re here and not at your dorm and technically in violation of the Hadley Hall rulebook since my parents are not aware of your whereabouts.”

“Crap,” I say. “I totally forgot about that
in loco parentis
thing. Do you think they’ll say anything?”

“Hell no,” Arabella says. “You know that if it were up to them, we’d all be emancipated minors at age thirteen.”

“Long story short…” I start.

“From you? Seriously? I never get the short version — I didn’t even know you were aware of the meaning of the word…” Arabella sticks a finger into my ribs and smoothes my hair down at the back. “Your looks good when it’s wet.”

“Thanks,” I say. “So my dad gave me really bad news — oh, before I even get to that — the Bracker’s weekend got cancelled…”