Love from London (7 page)

“Okay,” I say. “How about showing me some favorite place of yours, then? A first night out in London? A pub?”

Keena and Fizzy look at each other and smile, “I think Arabella has something else in mind.”

Loud, pulsating music courses through my body, smoke stings my eyes, and I can’t hear anything, but I don’t care at all: I am dancing with a prince. A real prince. Yes, that one that’s always in USWeekly and TeenPeople with his collar up on the grounds of a polo club, or on a ski holiday with his dad (um, the would-be king).

Reality check: I am not the only one dancing with said prince. There’s a group of us, including Arabella — looking like a fashion icon in a halter top that shows off her perfect skin and jeans seemingly made for her — swirling around together. Everyone moves pretty well — everyone that is except for me. I try to disguise my lack of dancing skill by smiling and nodding, hoping that enthusiasm will make up for the fact that I basically dance the way I did in seventh grade, feet shuffling side to side, every once in a while lifting my arms up and clapping when warranted.

“You like dancing?” Prince shouts. At least I think that’s what he says, could be
you like prancing
,
Keena’s a man-see
, or
you look fantastic run away with me
— this last one is a bit of stretch. I shake my head but smile and shrug. He mimes a drink to which I nod and give thumbs up.

We’ve (we=the group, not my royal and me) claimed a circular table at the back of Le Temps, the super-trendy club that Tobias (to whom I’ve yet to be formally introduced) apparently co-owns (thanks to turning eighteen and getting access to his enormous trust fund), which is the only reason the doormen let us in. That plus the fact that we showed up with a prince (
the
prince?).

“So, Arabella tells me you’re here for a whole term?” the prince says and I can actually hear him.

“True — I’m studying at St. Paul’s and LADAM,” I say. Chit-chat with the British royalty. I can’t wait to report back to Hadley — Chris will be so jealous — he has a thing for the prince, even though he knows the guy is straight. “What about you?”

“Oh — I’m in my gap year, like Tobias.” I nod but don’t really know what he’s talking about. Sure, it could be his year working at the Gap, but I doubt they make that a requirement for the throne. “It’s like a year out — you know, travel, have fun, help people or whatever.”

“And will you?”

“All of the above,” he says and I swear I catch him looking at my cleavage — for which I have Keena to blame because she insisted I wear one of her mini shirts that have a gaping v-neck. But the peek is fleeting and then he’s back to interview pro. Unlike the typical American conversations, I’ve noticed that the Euros (and they are Euros, even if they’re not the silly mean ones I met through Lila Lawrence at Brown University) have better conversational skills. Note to self: master the art of small talk without making it seem small and boring.

“Hey — there you are, Love!” Flushed and out of breath, Arabella stands next to me. “I have someone I’d like you to meet — Tobias — Toby — this is Love Bukowski.”

And he’s just like his picture. Tall, blond, broad in all the right places and with a wickedly sexy grin. “Love — finally we meet in person. I feel as though I know you already.”

“Good to meet you, Toby,” I say and we shake hands. He slides in next to me. I am the turkey in a royal sandwich. I suddenly lose my inhibitions and drape my arms across the boys. Arabella leans in so her face is pressed in tight near Toby’s. “Look at me! I love this country!”

Then, two potentially disturbing events occur.

The first: while I’m still stuck between princey and Toby, I look down and notice I’m drastically close to spilling out of the top of my top. Rather than sexy cleavage I have a case of the Pam Anderson blues. I try to wiggle free in order to subtly fix my breastage, but before I do, a blast of bright lights temporarily blinds me.

“Oh shit!” Toby holds his hand out not in front of his own face, but in front of the prince’s. “Who let the paparazzi in?”

“Never mind,” the prince says. “It’s bound to happen sooner or later.”

“It’s okay, Toby,” Arabella says soothingly. He shrugs her off.

“I’m going to tell the doormen to be more careful.” Tobias takes a sip of Arabella’s water and then looks at me. “Sorry, darling, I hope you don’t wind up as new meat for the press here.”

Disturbing event #2: just as I’m about to assure him that it’s fine, that I’m sure we’ll sort it out, I feel his hand on my thigh.

Possible explanations for this include but are not limited to: he thought my thigh was Arabella’s, since we were seated on either side, he was flustered by the photo-incident moments ago, he’s a slag plus/minus an idiot and would dare to make a pass at me when he knows Aabella’s my best friend. Or none of the above. I could be misinterpreting all the European, princely customs and need to relax.

“We should go, Love,” Arabella says. “The last thing I want is to have my parents see paparazzi pictures of me…”

“Think they’d mind that we’re out clubbing the night before school term starts?” I ask, trying to figure out if I want to tell all this to my dad or if it’ll make him worry about my time here.

“They don’t care about that — they’d just throw a fit if they saw me in the arms of the — in their minds — rightwing, total establishment.”

On the way out, we double-kiss our group of friends goodbye and talk as we wait for the Tube. “I have Massa-Tonclair’s class tomorrow,” I say to a very distracted Arabella.

“Oh yeah?” she says. “You’ll like her — even though she lives up to her nickname — PMT.” PMT=English version of PMS — this I know after Arabella freaked out and chopped her bangs this fall at Hadley then regretted it instantly, feeling insane and crampy. I nod and Arabella bites the side of her lip. “Did you happen to see the guy who took that photo? Would you know him if you saw him?”

“No,” I say and wish it wasn’t such a big deal. But I know it is for Arabella and I try to help her. “Except — he did have a shape, I think, on his jacket. Or maybe a — yeah, now that I think of it — a star on the back.” I trace a star onto Arabella’s back to show her the size and location.

“Brilliant,” she smiles. “You’re a life saver, Love. That’s the official press jacket from Top Star, a weekly celebrity rag that tries to catch everyone in compromising positions and then runs the photo with a tag line that’s like
beauties and breasts
or
royals revel in raucous rampage
.”

“Oh my God —
you
saw my boobs, too?”

“People in Paris could see your tits, Love.” Arabella cracks a smile. “But if you’ve got it, flaunt, right? Anyway, my darling sweet brother Asher has a contact at Top Star and I’ll just have to beg him for help. Which I hate to do, but…”

“I could talk to him,” I say. My mouth has a powersource all its own. Sometimes I want no responsibility for what my mouth says. “If you want, that is.”

“Would you? Thanks, Love — really. He’ll listen much better to you than to me. I owe you one.”

Arabella is truly grateful and I am truly guilty and yet thrilled at the knowledge that I will have a legitimate reason to call — better yet see — Asher. Then I remember that Asher thinks I’m deeply involved with some boyfriend I don’t have and I try to script a conversation in which I explain that while there is a real Jacob, and we did start to date, that was almost a year ago and I haven’t seen him in months and months and — most importantly — we are not involved now. Now, I’m single.

Dear Dad,

I think this is the first email I’ve sent since my internship in New York! Mark the date. Anyway, the pay phones are on the other side
of the campus and is circa 1940 (they did have pay phones then, right?). I never have time to run over there so I’m sending this and hoping you don’t mind that I’m cc’ing Mable so I don’t have to tell her the same stuff all over again.

Classes started a couple of weeks ago, but they don’t go by the week, they go by how many hours your schedule crams in (for instance if your “individualised programme” — note the Anglo spelling — for some reason doesn’t have enough of a certain class, you are doomed to run around trying to get that professor to work one on one with you until you’ve accrued enough time to qualify for credit). This is what’s happening with me and my Brit Lit class.

Prof. Massa-Tonclair is just like I thought she’d be — very cool, very knowledgeable, but seems to think her class is the only one for which I’m registered. Not to mention the fact that she thinks I’m this brash American. Or maybe that’s just my interpretation. But a lot of people here think that until proven otherwise.

Example:

Me: Here’s the fifteen pages you wanted me to write about the representation of the underprivileged in modern fiction.

PMT: Title?

Me: Penniless, Proud, Pushed Aside or Stigmatized

PMT: Catchy — now, read it aloud to the class tomorrow and be prepared to defend it with specific quotes and journalistic references from reputable news sources.

Me: By tomorrow? Don’t we have to read all of White Teeth by then?

PMT: You’re
a smart girl, surely you can manage both.

See what I mean? It’s fascinating but totally consuming. Plus, I’m friends with her daughter, Keena, who has just as much work as I do and gets it all done, so I can’t complain about it too much to PMT. Hey — maybe that’s what people feel abut you and me at Hadley!

Anyway, Arabella’s busy being the lead in Damn Yankees (not a rude jab at Americans, but the play) and gets to strut her stuff. Maybe you’ll come see the show? I think it goes up in March. My tryouts for The Choir (which, like everything here is not what it seems — it’s not choral — it’s the elite LADAM singing group that gets to perform for the queen or whatever) are soon and I’m nervous. There’s nothing I can do to prepare except gargle and sing in the disgusting bath (the dorms have NO shower — just one of those nozzle thingies you can attach).

Oh my God — I can’t believe I wrote this much without asking about you and Mable. Is she okay? (Mable, if you’re reading this, are you? Please write.) Any news? Please, please, please tell me if something bad happens — I will come home right away. I have to go in a minute b/c my Stage Rage class (not kidding — I get credit for yelling!) is doing a fake public fight (suffice to say teaching techniques are not like Hadley!).

Please write back and tell me what’s up — did you go on your date? Anything interesting happing at HH? Also — can you explain again where I go to register for the SATs? I have visions of spacing out on them and winding up arriving with ten minutes left (I won’t, really, but it’s my current nightmare).

My name to you,

L.

Outside of the LADAM computer center, which is really just three old Apples shoved into a dusty alcove, with hit-or-miss dial-up, the sun is shining for the first time in a week. Even though I now have only a couple minutes to get to my class, I decide to walk. The days are so short here and the weather is — like every clichéd London story — damp and rainy, and I need some fresh air.

The LADAM part of my curriculum is totally intense. Everyone here is convinced they’re the next Jude Law or Cate Blanchett or Kate Winslett or other rhyming English actor, or they’re determined to get discovered playing their angry rock in a slum bar and walk around pissed off and grimy to prove it. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with being driven, but it’s the Drama Kings and continual feeling that all the students are perpetually on stage that drives me nuts. A simple ‘Do you have the time?” can turn into a one-act play where the glamour-girl you’ve asked the easy question tilts her head, considers your missive, and then ponders it — dramatically checking her watch and saying — loudly for the back of the house — “Why I do have the time! Indeed, it’s half-four.”

But then, too, the classes and instruction are original and exciting. Rather than sitting in a standard classroom and discussing the obscure history of dentistry in Singapore (not that this isn’t compelling reading, but it does wear thin after the tenth description — which I had to read last year at Hadley) I have Sex and Gender Portrayals (read: my first assignment was to dress in drag and act out a scene with Fizzy where she played a bi-sexual fairy). Instead of writing papers on great books for Brit Lit with PMT, I’m rewriting them in my Changing Visions class at St. Paul’s — which is on the other side of London and a total hassle to get to from LADAM, but worth it. I am re-scripting
The Scarlet Letter
(which I read at Hadley with Mr. Chaucer — glad to have it somewhat fresh in my mind) so it’s set in the present day in a Wal-Mart type store, seeing how the plot or characters or dialogue change or don’t. It’s the first real creative writing I’ve tried — and I like.

I heft my bag onto my right shoulder but it inevitably slides off. What is the nature of the human body that I can only keep a bag on the left side? My left shoulder is capable of handling tons of weight, but even the lightest bag slides off the right one — like it knows it doesn’t belong. Note to self: this is either interesting or proof I have spent too much time contemplating things rather than getting exercise and need to regroup.

“Miss Bukowski,” says Galen French who is not French but Irish, and my voice coach. “I see you’re enjoying the weather.”

I squint up at the murky but bright sky. “I hope the sun lasts — I’m heading over to Littleton Square.”

“Ah, the infamous winter term faux-fight! Good luck. May you draw many a horrified look from passersby.”

“Thanks,” I say. Galen — many LADAM teachers go by their first names — is a blend of old (as in Ye Olde) world, tweedy jacket and Oxford shoes — mixed with new — he knows every song ever — even obscure American songs like from the cds Mable gave me. “Listen — I feel like I should be doing more to get ready for The Choir tryouts.”

Galen thinks for a minute and then sighs. “I’m not sure about that, Love. You’re right to go ahead and audition, but I wouldn’t have unrealistic expectations about the outcome. You’re competing against final year students and vocal superstars that have had loads more time to stretch their range.”