Love from London (28 page)

“I’ll be just a second,” the girl using the computer says. “Just one more min, okay?” I give the okay, if you must sigh and keep writing. Sometimes it’s better to look agitated to hurry people up, but Galen French isn’t expecting me until half four (that’s four thirty, yeesh, I’m going to sound affected when I get back), and the curtain for Damn Yankees doesn’t rise until eight. Which should give me plenty of time to email, meet Asher for dinner and, um, dessert at the flat. Then we’ll go meet Monti and Angus for opening night.

List of Questions/Comments

-To sex or not to sex?

-Long distance vs. home court — get the sense A. would NOT be into commuting relationship

-Explore poss. of coming here for another term? University? No. Dumb to plan around a boy. But I like it here for my own sake.

-What will my transcript say from here? Oh — note to self: ask PMT for college rec. Can’t hurt to have one of greatest living British authors talk me up.

-When Dad said he’s “serious” about Louisa did he mean like moving in w/her serious? Hey maybe Louisa can move in with me AND Lindsay Parrish. Now that’s good times right there.

-note to self: talk to Lila Lawrence ASAP about Tobias/Arabella conundrum, before it gets weirder than it is — esp. w/Arabella coming to Vineyard this summer. Need to find friends there (possibilities include: Henry, Charlie, that girl Chris met — what is her name? Cold? Chilly…)

- How much can I reasonably expect to make this summer? Enough to buy a ticket back in August for a vacation? Look at STA’s deals.

-Ask Mable about job at Slave to the Grind II — and about renaming it. Contest for this?? Also, what are my hrs.?

-deal with college essays/make appt. for summer meeting w/Dandy-P. to go over TCOMC (don’t even know what my choice place is, though).

-to sex or not to sex — yes, it’s on my brain

- beg Mable for big batch of music from her collection — am bored w/mine (note to self: copy — or take — Clementine’s record?)

-what is Mable thinking these days?

“All yours,” the girl pushes the chair out and leaves, with me sinking into that weird warmth created by someone else’s ass on the seat.

The answer to my last question is waiting for me in my in box.

Love! It’s me, Mable! Taking your advice, I got one of those hand held PDAs and am writing to you while waiting for my check-up with Dr. Cutler (yes, I know, Cut-ler sounds like Cut her, which she did and for the better — Gosh, can you tell we share some of the same genes?? Who else would dissect names like that?!). BIG NEWS!! Now that Miles re-proposed and I said yes, we’ve been hunting for a place. We’ve settled on Labor Day at the Whaling Church in Edgartown. And you can wear whatever you want; we’re beyond the wedding-attire BS. It’s not the outfits or food that matters this time around, just the emotion. I know it’s fast, but he’s been a star during the past few months. I guess sometimes it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been together — you just know! Did I ever tell you that story about your dad? Remind me — I will (just say ‘the one with the sushi’ and I’ll know what you mean). Vineyard plans are all set. I’m sure you’ve thought about this, but would you like Arabella to come for the summer? We could use another barista. Your preppy friend Henry said his dad can arrange a work-stay visa (I guess that’s what being the Island’s answer to Trump can do — though he does have an interest in the café, so…). Oh — they just called my name to the Dr.’s office. Let’s hope for another good appt.! Love you more than air, M.

I print out the email to add to the other Mable-paraphernalia. Since her diagnosis, I’ve been slightly OCD about keeping any and everything — a napkin from our dinner on Martha’s Vineyard, notes she’d left for me around Slave to the Grind, even phone messages I can’t bare to erase form my cell phone back home — I just keep saving and resaving them. Just in case. It’s dumb and superstitious, but I help it.

Then I look at the rest of the junk in my account — some non-filtered spam, a couple of library overdue notices from St. Paul’s, and a name I haven’t seen for ages.

Hi Love — It’s been a while. Wanted to check in and see how London’s treating you. Have you been singing? Hadley’s pretty much the same, with the odd variant. I’m performing at the May Festival — a highlight in an otherwise college-centric early spring. I’d like to hear from you, if you want. — Jacob

Points for pleasantry. Simple, not too revealing, but not bland (what exactly are the “variants” of which he writes?). No mention of Lindsay (not that he would) and no mention of which colleges or what he’s performing at the May Festival. Part of me wants to write back, but most of me just wouldn’t know what to say right now. Nothing here has anything to do with life there, it seems, and Jacob is a reminder of a long time ago — days that feel far away, younger. Before Mable’s diagnosis, before my internship in NYC, before TCP even started, way before London.

Locale: Charlton Theatre. Time: Ten forty pm. Mood: effervescent.

“Bravo!” Angus bellows in his brogue. His voice stands out in the packed audience. Damn Yankees rocked — Arabella was incredible, not so much stealing the show, because everyone was good, but bringing it up to another level. She’s no amateur.

“I fully expect to see your name in lights,” I say to her when she’s emerged from backstage, still in her stage make-up and costume.

“Fabulous!” Monti glows with pride, hugging her daughter. I instantly miss my dad. It’s the longest I’ve ever been away from him and I suddenly feel this intense need to hug him, to hear his voice — just to show him my world here.

“Well done, Bels,” Asher says and gives Arabella a quick kiss on the cheek. It’s the first time he’s bothered to come see her in anything, so it’s a big deal. She, in turn, went to his gallery today, which she’d blown off since he bought it and put his work on display. So maybe their sibling rivalry or disinterest is fading, if not perfect.

“Let’s have a drink to celebrate!” Monti says and leads the way to Brasserie Fontaine where platters of oysters, caviar, escargot, and calamari await (if there’s one thing the wealthy have, it’s an affinity for slimy seafood). I bypass all but the caviar and gladly toast to Arabella — and Angus, who has completed his new play.

“It’s called Beast Within the Burden,” he says. “Title subject to change, of course.”

“It’s very Rolling Stones,” I say.

“Shit,” Angus exclaims. “I knew it sounded familiar. Ah, well, we’ll see.”

“Thanks for coming everyone,” Arabella says and tosses back her flute of bubbly. She hasn’t wiped off the make-up completely, so she her face is a deep tan, her eyes rimmed with dark liner; she looks older. She looks happy. To me she adds, “You guys okay now?”

“Yeah. Better than okay.” I squeeze Asher’s hand under the table and tell Arabella again how awesome she is on stage.

After an hour of boozing and bragging about Bel’s talents, we all call it a night. As Monti leans in to double-kiss my cheeks she says, “And Love, before I forget. We made a pledge for the Avon Breast Cancer Walk.”

“Oh, great!” I say. “Did you get forced into it by Chris? He’s a friend of mine who tends to be quite pushy at times…”

“Not to worry,” she says. “It was actually your dad who rang up — not about that — but he mentioned it and…”

“Well, thanks a lot — for everything, really,” I say. Monti has her hands on my shoulders and looks right into my eyes, so deeply, so kindly, so probing, that I’m left wondering what, exactly, the rest of her conversation with my dad was about. But if there’s more to it, she doesn’t let on, or doesn’t say more than, “Goodnight. Sleep well, Love.”

And I do. I sleep soundly, cuddled up next to Asher, whose chest rises and sags into my back as he holds me.

“I wish I could photograph you like this,” he says, his voice hushed and sleepy.

“In bed?” I ask.

“Hmm,” he says. “Not sleezy, just comfy. Natural.” Then he pulls me closer and says, “That’s what you get for having a boyfriend who thinks with a lens.”

“Actually, you’re not the first,” I say, and then try to clarify that I don’t mean first as in first sex first, but photo-boy first. “It’s weird, actually. My first boyfriend at Hadley was into photography. But not like you — more like a hobby.”

“Funny co-incidence. Were you together long?” Asher doesn’t change his calm breathing, his tight hold on me.

“No — not at all. He was pretty much a giant liar, a disappointment, and a cheat. The trifecta of crap.”

“Poor you,” he says then raises himself up on his hands so he’s looking down at me. “Rather — poor him — he completely missed out.” He kisses me then resumes spoon-position.

Outside, a soft rain hits the rooftops, pinging onto the window boxes Arabella and I filled with flowers from Wild at Heart. It’s the first time I’ve spent the entire night next to him — next to any boyfriend — and it’s a solid A, a perfect score.

The Easter holiday weekend is late this year, and by the time Arabella and I have decided which train to catch for the long weekend out at Bracker’s, the city is in full bloom. Trees have unfurled their leaves creating an umbrella of green as I walk back home after my final meeting with PMT before the holiday. Praise be to the college gods that she agreed to write a recommendation letter for me. She also decided to give us all a break from the usual twenty page handwritten tomes she assigns. I am free of work for the vacation. We have twelve days, and Dad and Mable will arrive on Monday; only six more days! We spoke yesterday and went over our loosely planned itinerary (Tate Modern, Thames riverboat trip — not on
the
houseboat, though — curry at Malabar in Notting Hill, tour of LADAM and St. Paul’s, and so on, but first a couple of nights chez Piece).

When I get back, Arabella and Asher (together!) are waiting for me.

“It’s time to celebrate,” Asher says. “And not in the Kool and the Gang way.” He knew exactly where my mind would go upon hearing the word
celebrate
.

“What’re you guys doing?” I ask. They have a bag between them and I can see a baguette sticking up from it, a bottle of wine, a blanket. “Care to inform me where you’re off to?”

“Our plan, Bukowski,” Arabella says and stands up. “Is to have the lovely Lundgren Shrum drive us for an outing.”

“An outing…”

“We’re going punting,” Asher says. “In Oxford. You know, the English gondola.”

“I have always wanted to do that,” I say. I saw Oxford Blues on late night USA viewage and totally fell for the whole scene — picnic on a boat, hot guy pushing the boat along through the scenic town. “Do I have time to change and drop my things? I have to get my camera.”

“Ah, I believe I have that covered,” Asher says. He holds up a digital, a long lens, displaying his wares. “You just need to bring yourself. Oh, and maybe a jumper in case it gets chilly.”

I head inside and immediately scour my room for clothing. The whole space is a tip. The Choir finale concert is right after break and we are all supposed to look the same, with white trousers, white shorts, hair back. I’m the only red-hued person, and I think I stick out, but what can you do? I think we’ll end up looking like a row of waiters, but it’s not my call. In light of the required uniform, I went digging through my clothes and unearthed a couple of passable tops, but no white pants (pants here=underwear and Asher will often say it rather than swear — example: Oh, Pants! I’ve forgotten my keys — again!). So I fling clothes around, searching for a clean pair of jeans underneath the various white articles.

As I’m half-dressed (the bottom half), the phone rings so I go to the livingroom to pick up.

“Love, so glad to have caught you.” The voice belongs to my frequent-phoner Martin Eisenstein. “Can you hear me? I’m in the car on the 101.”

“The 101?” I ask.

“In LA,” Martin says as if everyone in the world should know the California roadways.

“But that means…” I start but don’t get to finish before he interrupts.

“Sadly, yes. So look, darling, just please don’t take this personally, but we’ve had to recast the part you were set to dub…”

Not that I thought it would come to fruition, but I’m immediately bummed anyway. “Oh…that’s too bad.”

“But we’d like to use you for something — just not quite sure what.” He beeps at someone and then comes back. “Any chance you’ll be in LA anytime soon?”

I’m about to say no, which would be the honest response, but then I think about Chris and what he told Alistair the American. “It’s possible,” I say and sound aloof when really it’s just that I have no idea. Or, I do have an idea (that’d be a
no
), but I want to see what he offers.

“That’s my other line I have to take it — but I asked Clementine Highstreet to pass along my details stateside — seems I’ll be here for bit dealing with this complete cock-up, so do phone when you get here.”

As if I’m due to take up residence as the Chateaux Marmont next week I say, “Sounds good — will do.”

Then I take my half-clad self back to the bedroom to get ready for punting. I can totally see it; Arabella happy (even though Tobias has left many a groveling message for her — and one threatening one when she didn’t respond. He threatened to go to the paparazzi with an old photo of them together just to force the issue of their relationship. Rock-steady Bels didn’t budge), Asher in love (with me! I haven’t said it to him, but I will. I think. I know. I’m getting close to positive about doing more than just sleeping NEXT to him…maybe tonight? Ah, freaking out now that I’ve thought that), me feeling totally and completely —

Can’t complete that thought as the phone rings again and Arabella, probably impatient as hell to get going, comes inside to answer it. Asher wanders in, too, ogling me from the doorway as I pull on a cream-colored snug-fitting Henley top.

Asher comes over and is about to kiss me, and I’m about to tell him what I
think
is going to happen tonight when Arabella bursts in.

“You’ve got to go,” she says, her brow crinkled, her face worried.