Love from London (25 page)

All my emails out of the way, I tube to Knightsbridge to meet Arabella at Harvey Nichols. We fondle ouishies, the new Japanese shawls made of some space age material, then she tries on the newest shade of NARS lipstick and I head to the shoe department to ogle the ballet flats. I can’t shake the image of me in London in spring, recording contract (after the Sublime Record people sign me, of course), hottie boyfriend, perfectly simple skirt and top, hair clean, work done, with these shoes to complete the picture. When I turn the shoes over, however, they make the whole vision even less of a reality; they cost a very reasonable three hundred fifty pounds (nearly double in dollars).

I’m still fondling the flats when Arabella sidles over and picks up a pointy-toed version of the same shoe, considering an icy blue color.

“I know,” she says flatly. No shoe-pun intended.

“Sorry?” I ask.

“God, you sound so English.”

“I’m not trying to,” I say and examine a faun-tipped loafer with a heel — not my scene.

“Well, you do.” She sounds so bitchy I have no idea why. “These shoes are revolting.”

“What’s your problem?” I ask and try to balance the shoe back on its little pedestal only to have it topple off.

“The problem is…I know. I know about you and Asher and before you even think of opening your mouth to defend or deny, just know that he knows I know and now you know that I know.”

“That’s a lot of know-ledge,” I say. Heart speed — beyond cardiovascular conditioning mode. More like shit hitting fan mode. Then I try a different way of averting confrontation. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I was going to — I had it set but then, that day when I got back to the flat was the day you were on the line with Mable and then…” Insert drama voice…“Co-incidentally…Asher was there at the front door, which only confirmed my suspicions. Then I heard a message he left for you.”

“Maybe it was for you?” Pathetic, Love.

Arabella’s cheeks flush, her tone rises and she pushes her hair out of her eyes, launching a cascade of hair onto the other side of her face (note to Vidal: why do we all look SO different with hair parted on the not-usual side? Note to self: do I make such superficial observations in times of turmoil to protect myself from feeling too much — survey says, ding ding ding — yes.). “Love, the one fucking thing I asked of you when you got here — the one person I told you to steer clear of and you just couldn’t do it.”

My eyes study the patterns on the floor. Sunlight and shadow create a hexagonal prism, with bits of rainbow all of which holds me captive until I find the right words. “Okay. I would never go against what you said — you know that.”

“But you —

“Can I finish?” Arabella nods and I go on, “The first day I got to Bracker’s, back before Christmas, when you weren’t there — and no, I’m not blaming you for not being there and that’s why all this happened — but it is part of it. You were off with Tobias and I was in this new place, feeling…”

“Like a slag?”

Major eye-rolling from me and then, “No. I don’t know, I felt bewildered and tired and like I was ready for anything. You have no idea how different it is being here.” I breathe in, watch her face for signs she’s ready to bolt, but she keeps listening. “So I went for a walk…”

“The tea cup thing? Is this what you’re about to describe? Asher told me and for once, I don’t want to sit through one of your start-to-finish stories.”

Ouch. And ouch again. “Hey — don’t turn this into a whole pickfest, because I can do the same to you — I just thought we were well beyond that…my point is — skipping the details —Asher and I connected well before the warning.” News flash — I am not a whore! I am not a bad friend! “Obviously, if I’d known it was such a big deal I would have prevented it.”

“So by prevention you mean it’s inevitable.”

“You’re getting semantic now?” I shake my head. “Fine. Yeah, I guess I do mean that. Because we like each other and I guess it feels unstoppable. Like aging or decreased lung capacity from smoking or…” I stare at her with my mouth twisted in annoyance “dating someone who treats you like crap and finding out that they won’t change. Ever. Even though they’re the life of the party and fun guy.”

“Just don’t…” Arabella raises her palm in a traffic warden attempt to avert further dumpage. “But that’s what I’m saying. If it is SO powerful between you and my brother, then how can you say that if you’d heard from me earlier it would’ve changed everything?”

“Because.” I drop my hands at my sides, giving up. “Because you’re my best friend — and I respect you and don’t want to piss you off.”

“And yet…”

“I know — I know I did the reverse of that…but I still feel that if you’d told me sooner I would have been able to a) at least know who the guy was and b) decide not to get involved — even though staying away from him would have been hard.”

An uneasy five minutes of silence go by. I examine various tops and skirts, sliding the hangers, so I appear at least to be doing something other than waiting for her to speak.

“Right then.”

“What?”

Arabella shrugs and gets her hair into place, securing it with a blue elastic. We bought a pack of multicolored ones from the kid section at Peter Jones, the posh department store near the flat. The bottom of my bag is now littered with red, fuchsia, orange and azure circles for those spur-of-the-moment hair care needs. “There’s not much else to say.”

“ButwhatamIsupposedtodo?” I ask and it comes out all smushed like one word.

“Well, for one thing, you can talk so I can understand you.” She grins but only from the side of her mouth — not really happy, but not on the verge of chucking a heeled boot at me either. “I
think
that I’m a big enough person to get past this, if that’s what you mean.”

I open my mouth to tell her how glad I am when she uses a single finger (not the middle one) to shut me up. Arabella puts on her stage American voice, very OTT nineteen fifties perky, “Before you get all
Oh, let’s go out on a double date and drink milkshakes together…
” I roll my eyes. It’s just as annoying when she does the faux accent as when I do it with Britspeak. “I’m neither here nor there.”

“So basically I’m not supposed to talk about my life with you.”

“It’s not like Asher’s your entire existence.”

“No, but I mean, it’s either okay or it’s not. And if it
is
then I have to be able to at least mention that
part
of my existence.” I flip over the price tag on the tee-shirt I’m considering getting and instantly regret it — somehow, I don’t foresee ever spending a hundred dollars on one white tee — it seems morally vile.

“Firstly, it doesn’t have to be okay or not — it could in fact be in the middle, which is where I stand. And secondly, I just don’t want to be held responsible.”

“Oh, is that what all this is about?” I ask. “Just that you don’t want me to blame you if he acts like a dick or winds up breaking my heart?” I say it casually, at a normal pitch, but then one of those floor polisher machines comes by, making all sorts of noise, and I have to shout to be heard, so the break my heart part comes out echoing — too loud, too focused, too unpleasant for both of us.

“Spot on.” Arabella wipes the corners of her mouth with the points of her thumb and first finger then leaves them on her lower lip.

“I won’t — how could I blame you?” I shake my head and put a consolatory arm around her. “I promise, okay?” Of course, now I’m filled with paranoia about whether this is a pattern that she knows well — maybe Asher is all about hooking up with his sister’s friends and she’s had enough of it after watching him break hearts and buck confidences.

“It doesn’t matter — as long as you know what you’re in for…” she says.

After we leave Harvey Nics, we walk to the tube station. We’re going in the same direction, but different stops. The train door opens and we step up being careful to mind the gap between track and train.

“What do you mean about as long as I know what I’m getting into?” I ask. There are no seats so I find a sweaty pole on which to steady myself. Arabella opts for the hands-free approach, her feet on either side of her shopping bag. When the train lurches forward, so does she and I pull her back.

Over her shoulder, she clarifies, “Asher’s always the same. Tobias might not be the best boyfriend in the world, but he’s a prize compared to Asher. He leads girls on, using and wooing them — gorgeous, even smart girls like you — and then drops them.”

“So that’s what you predict will happen?” My voice is calm but inside I’m worried — I have to either trust her (and she’s known him her whole life) or my instincts (which, though often muted by my brain, tell me this is real — it’s something — something important).

“One successful night in the lake house at Bracker’s and you, too, can phone endlessly in tears wondering where he’s gone — what happened — and cry every time you hear your song.” She looks at me. “You do have a song by now, right?”

I think of Clementine Highstreet’s vocals and nod. “Well, that’s your opinion.”

“I know — but I’m putting it out there. Oh — here’s my stop.” She stands in front of the doors, waiting for them to part. “We can just be normal now, as long as you’re aware of the situation.”

“Fine,” I say even though it’s not fine — or wouldn’t be if what Arabella says is true.

“Fine,” she says back to me even though she’s kind of stuck, too — if she’s right, I’ll get really hurt and if she’s wrong — well, who knows. All I can do is hope that she is.

“Have a good weekend,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

I know she means it, that she’ll be at the flat (albeit with Tobias), and be there for me — no matter what happens. I just hope I don’t have to take her up on her offer.

On the train to Bracker’s I read my journal, flipping through entries when I first got to Hadley Hall, then to unfinished songs, then the one I wrote about Jacob, the one I started when I found out Mable was sick, the cringe-worthy poem I attempted when I met Charlie, liked him, then was left hanging on the Vineyard. I’ve been adding to my list of British slang, so I tack on rare as hen’s teeth (very uncommon, non-existent) and rare as rocking horse shit (same thing, but funnier). Then I jot down
milkers
, Toby’s oh so lovely way of talking about breasts.

I take a taxi from the train station to Bracker’s Common. The house is just the same as it was; huge, heavenly, and homey. The only difference is that on the main lawn, an oriental carpet the size of Massachusetts is spread out, topped with big metal lights, people holding those light-deflector thingies they use in model shoots, and the familiar faces I see belong to the Rock and Roll Hall of Famers who sip tea, crack jokes, talk about their recent travels and kids.

“It’s so totally otherworldy to be here,” I say to Asher, who is in full PA mode, dashing between one camera then the other, setting up shots and then breezing by to give a hand squeeze. He nods but can’t talk to me. I stand off the carpet, near the heat lamps which are warm enough that all the stars are wearing summer clothes; this is for the August cover of the magazine.

Clementine waltzes over to me, bringing with her kisses, accolades, and Martin Gregory Eisenstein, the Indie film guy who produced all those Sundance winners;
If this is Life, Between Hours
,
Grapefruit Moon
, etc.

“You’ve just got to meet him,” Clem says and shoves me forward so I’m shaking hands with Martin.

“Hi,” I say to him.

“Oh, hi! Finally, we meet,” he responds, like I’m someone — someone famous, that is.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Clem asks, hopefully rhetorically. “Oh, bastard — I’ve got to go, that’s my signal — they’re trying to frame us in the best possible light…it’s getting harder and harder!”

“Are you a musician, too?” I ask Martin Eisenstein.

“No, God no. My wife’s the one over there, in red.” I’m about to say Lady in Red, like that infamous slow dance song, but the singer, Chris DeBurgh, is actually here, so it’d be really lame.

“She looks familiar,” I say. I can’t place her though.

“Teeny, nee Christina Fuller. She modeled in the seventies then sang that song…”

“All the Queen’s Wishes — yeah, now I remember,” I say.

“That’s way before your time,” Martin says. Then he puts his hands on his hips and says, “Wait — go back. Say that same thing.” I do, even though I feel ridiculous. “Yes. Now — I know you’ve done voice work. Clem mentioned that”

“Just local stuff, back in Boston.”

“I’m doing a film just now — we’re in post-production at Ealing Studios — but one of the girls couldn’t nail down the American accent. She either sounds southern or like an import from Britain…any chance you’d like to dub?”

In my head: Um, yes, jump up and down, scream and shout! In reality: “That sounds really interesting!”

“It’s not a huge part, but maybe a day or two?”

“Where do I sign?” I joke, but Martin actually responds with, “We’ll get the contracts to your people on Monday — you can come on Tuesday.”

My people. That’s funny. I am my people. Tuesday. Tuesday. Why is that day registering as — registering…SATS. Crap. “Ah, Martin? I just remember that I have the…a prior commitment on Tuesday. Could we postpone it?”

I mean, sure I want to be in this movie — who wouldn’t? But I can’t miss the SATs. That one would be impossible to explain to my dad, would never fly with Dandy-Patinko, let alone the college admissions offices, or with my own sense of academic obligation.

“I suppose. But we’ll have to do it by the following weekend, or we’ll run into scheduling conflicts.”

“Fine. Great.” I jot down my number on a piece of paper and feel totally unprofessional (note to self: should I get business cards or will that only ensure that something like this never happens again?).

Without Arabella around, and with Monti and Angus swamped with old friends and crooners, Asher and I steal away to my room. I’m on my back with his head on my stomach.

“Nefarious,” he says.

“Ugh, that’s on my list of words I despise — meaning; despicable, vile.”

“You have a list of words? Let me guess, in this infamous journal?” I nod. “Any chance a bloke could take a look at that thing?”