A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) (19 page)

I connected to Wi-Fi when we got on the train – after I got over the marvel that trains have Wi-Fi at all – and now when I navigate to my home screen, I see all of my emails and notifications have come through. Twenty-two emails and three WhatsApp messages.

I scan my messages first. Harry from the bar in Windermere has sent a picture of a jar of Marmite with the caption “must try,” which makes me smile. After I replied to his request for a date with a “thanks, but no thanks” he started sending me suggestions of things I should be sure to experience while I’m in the UK. Most of his suggestions are food related and we’ve established an unexpected easy banter all via text. Granted, it’s centered around food, but there’s something nice about that, too.

I scan the next message from my mother, reminding me the weekend I fly home she’s out of town for a spa weekend, and I say a silent amen. I’d rather drag my luggage onto public transit than have my mom pick me up, if only to delay her barrage of questions until I’m rested and fully caffeinated.

The final message makes me straighten on my stool.
Hey, Bea. I’m in London this week. Not sure if you’re here, too, but coffee or a beer would be great. – Theo
.

Damn. Theo. Between being caught up in Jasper and my drama with Scarlett today, I’ve forgotten about Theo being in London. And my suggestion we meet, which he’s obviously not forgotten. Whether he’s remembered out of politeness or something else is impossible to know, but I do know I’m going to meet him. I need to put him to rest once and for all.

I’m free tomorrow afternoon. How about a beer at 2:00? Staying by London Bridge, so will scope out a place. – Bea

I press send and turn off my phone.

L
ondon is insane
. The traffic. The busses. The people.

From the minute we get off the train at Euston Station, we’re surrounded by more people than I’ve seen all summer, and it only gets worse. By the time we leave the Tower of London at 5:30 and start across Tower Bridge, I’ve been jostled and jabbed so many times, I’m ready to scream when Scarlett’s purse catches my funny bone. Decidedly unfunny.

I yank my arm away and grimace. “Okay. I need a drink or I’m going to kill somebody.”

Specifically, Scarlett. Between her steady stream of sly snide remarks and the crowds, I’m not sure which is more maddening.

“There’s a pub on the other side of the bridge that has outdoor seating. Then we’re close to our hotel, too, to go and change,” Claire says. She’s been keeping the peace all afternoon because, as she told me while we climbed the stairs to the White Tower, “Scarlett’s being a bitch, but she’s family, and family’s allowed to have a bad day now and then.”

Which instantly made me vow to try harder.

The fact that I haven’t started screaming is me trying. Very, very, very hard.

“I say we definitely go back to the club we went to last time,” Scarlett says. “Plus, we have to go up to Oxo Tower for a cocktail so Bea can see the view.”

“Or we can go up the Shard.” Claire points to a tall building we’re walking towards. “Tallest building in London with a bar at the top.”

I shrug. “I don’t care where we go. It all sounds amazing. I’d just love a drink and a shower, in that order.”

“Oh, right. I guess you didn’t have time to shower this morning after last night’s rendezvous, did you?” Scarlett wrinkles her nose.

I stop in the middle of the bridge and grab Scarlett’s arm. A guy walking behind us mutters a curse as he steps around us, but it’s nothing compared to the fury I’ve got building. “Okay. Stop. You’re the one who said you didn’t want to talk about this, but it’s okay for you to get a dig in whenever you get a chance? You’ve been doing it all day and I’m done. Whatever you have to say to me, say it and get it over with.”

Scarlett’s withering expression slays me. But not nearly as much as her tone, which borders on haughty with a dose of bored. “Oh, Bea. That’s the thing. I’ve been trying to find the words all day and it turns out the sad fact is – I have nothing to say to you at all.”

“Besides your snide remarks and crappy comments?” I snap.

Scarlett shrugs, the strap of her sundress falling off her slim shoulder. “A happy coincidence.”

My eyes fill and I turn away. In the next minute, I’m running across the bridge, my purse thumping against my hip as I dodge pedestrians. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t care. All I know is I won’t let Scarlett see me cry.

And I’ll ruin our friendship forever if I stay.

That, more than anything, propels me forward. Despite the voice in my head saying, “Scarlett doesn’t seem to care.”

She’s angry and lashing out.

And jealous.

Claire was right, and I’m not so blinded by friendship I don’t see it. I see it like she spray painted it on the side of the fucking Shard. Which looms large to my right as I reach the end of the bridge.

I follow the mass of people down the stairs and end up on the Thames riverbank. We came this way as we left our hotel, but it’s a lot more crowded now. The concrete stairs are full of people eating ice cream and at least four different couples pose against the wall to snap a photo with Tower Bridge in the background. The glass bubble building in front is familiar. The Lord Mayor’s office, I think?

Ugh.

Recalling the tourist sites isn’t what I need to be focusing on right now. As I’m about to mentally slap myself, I stop. Maybe that’s exactly what I need to be focusing on right now. I’m in a city where I’ve never been and may never come again. Alone, for all intents and purposes. Because even though Claire and I have become friends, she’s Scarlett’s friend first – and it’s not like I’m going to make her choose. I can’t. I won’t.

I need a London Plan B. I dig my phone out of my bag and for a full minute debate texting Theo or calling Jasper. I even go so far as to turn on my data roaming and open WhatsApp, but then stop. What would I say?
I ditched Scarlett and Claire because Scarlett was being petty and mean, and now I’m all by myself
? I’m pretty sure Theo would offer to meet me and/or Jasper would offer to come to London, but neither option gives me any sense of relief.

Instead, I take a deep breath and type one message, to both Scarlett and Claire:
Sorry for running off. I’m going to hang out on my own this trip. See you back at the train on Thursday. Have fun.

I stare at the screen for a minute after I press send, half hoping for a return text telling me not to be stupid and they’re on their way to meet me right now. When it doesn’t come, I turn data roaming back off, slip my phone into my bag, and set off towards the Shard. If I stop and think too long, I’ll probably cry at how this has all gone so horribly wrong, so instead I do what I do best. I break down the components into chunks.

First order of business, find the hotel. It’s near London Bridge station and is, conveniently, called London Bridge Hotel. The only problem is I have no idea where London Bridge even is. Thankfully, there are signs and plenty of people to ask, including one middle-age woman who’s nice enough to escort me through winding corridors of the station and put me directly across the street from the hotel entrance. I could hug her, but I settle for an overly enthusiastic handshake instead.

When I enter the lobby, I’m tempted by the signs leading to the hotel bar, but I remind myself of the text I sent to Scarlett and Claire. I said I was changing rooms and not doing it now will do more harm than if I actually follow through. Scarlett will add overly dramatic to her litany of complaints and I’ll have one more thing to try to disprove to her.

I push down the little voice in my head questioning what kind of friendship comes with things to prove and approach the bald man behind the front desk, who looks at me through glasses perched on the end of his nose and sounds oh-so-posh as he speaks. “How may I help you today?”

“I’m…” Shocked to hear my voice crack. I clear my throat and start again. “I’m currently staying in room 312, but I’m going to require a separate room. Do you have anything else available?”

Baldy raises an eyebrow. “Is something unsatisfactory with your room?”

“No. The room is fine. I need a separate room is all.” I force myself to stop talking before I spill out the whole story to this guy.

“Ah, of course. Will that just be for yourself, ma’am?”

After I confirm a single room, Baldy’s fingers fly over the keys and he announces, yes, indeed, they have a room available for 247 pounds per night, including VAT. Considering the original cost was free when I was sharing with Scarlett and Claire, an almost-five hundred-pound increase is hard to swallow, but I slide my credit card across the counter.

As I take my new room key – 238 – I ask Baldy, “If anyone asks for me, can you please tell them I’ve left the hotel?”

Baldy tilts his head at me in a way that makes me think for a minute he’s going to get all weird and start asking me why, exactly, this is necessary and might I be overreacting a tiny bit. Then he straightens and says, “Would you prefer I register you as an anonymous guest, meaning our staff will have access to your personal information in case of emergency, but there is a block on it otherwise?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be perfect.” Except for the realization that hits me later as I unpack my suitcase in my new room – no one on the planet knows where I am right now. That probably hasn’t happened since I was in high school and maybe not even then.

For a second, I think about texting my mother, but when I think again I realize she’d respond and I’d be caught in an endless loop of trying to say nothing of substance while sustaining my half of a chat. And God forbid she decides to FaceTime and asks to say hello to Scarlett.

Jasper’s the next likely choice, but after how we left things this morning, I’m not sure he cares where I am or with whom. Plus, how can I text him without acknowledging the shit storm that’s developed between Scarlett and me? He’s right to be angry, regardless of any truth to Scarlett’s accusations. I erase my message six times before I finally type:
I’m sorry. Very, very sorry. I’ll see you Thursday and be even more sorry in person
.

He doesn’t text me back. I peek at my phone at least thirty times while I shower and change, but the screen stays black. Finally, I shove it deep in the bottom of my bag as I grab a sweater and my room key.

It’s time to go see London.

W
hen I wander
out Tuesday night, I pretty much stick to Southbank, the walkway beside the Thames, eating dinner at a pop-up Mexican place and then walking along the river until the crowds thin. I end up drinking a glass of white wine at a random pub on the way back to the hotel, but I’m too self-conscious to stay long on my own. It isn’t the night I would have had with Claire and Scarlett, but I’m proud of myself for making the most of it.

I’m also proud of myself for not responding to either Scarlett or Jasper’s texts.

Jasper’s – at 8:30 Tuesday night:
I miss you. I’m an idiot. Not necessarily in that order.

Scarlett’s – at 1:00 Wednesday morning:
I’m sorry. Have fun. Will talk on Thursday
.

Jasper’s makes me smile. Scarlett’s? Not so much.

I glance at it again as I head out and the familiar agitation rises in my chest before I swallow it down. I can be irritated with Scarlett all I want, but the truth of the matter is, I left her and Claire on Tower Bridge. Not the other way around. One of my mother’s favorite sayings,
Sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places
, echoes in my head. Along with:
You made your bed, now lie in it
. And even though Mom wouldn’t actually say it, lying in this bed I made is exactly what I have to do.

Or ignore it while I play tourist. Unlike last night, setting out on my own doesn’t feel so daunting. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and it’s actually warm enough to wear my cute sundress without a cardigan. My first stop is an open-top bus tour Scarlett disparaged. I don’t care if it is cheesy, it’s a good way to see a lot of the city in a short amount of time, and the tour guide is hysterical. I laugh so much I don’t even mind the pang in my stomach when we pass by Buckingham Palace, reminding me I’m supposed to be there with Claire today. She’s texted me twice – once to apologize for letting me go off on my own and once to say since she hadn’t heard from me, she was going to make other plans. Of all the messages I got, hers is the one I’m most tempted to respond to, but I imagine Scarlett reading over her shoulder and I can’t do it.

Besides, now that I’ve decided to see London solo, I want to see it through. It feels more than a little bit like a test, although I don’t let myself think too much about what I’m hoping to prove. As a teacher, I’m one hundred percent against testing for the sake of it without measurable outcomes. As a person, I’m starting to think it’s not so bad. When I hop off the bus at Kensington Palace I’m even looking forward to having time to window shop and browse on my way up through Knightsbridge.

Not that I can afford to buy anything except a couple of post cards and a Union Jack T-shirt. Still, it’s fun to wander and I even try on a gorgeous silk halter dress in Harvey Nichols, price tag £1545, because I can. As I turn to see the back of the dress in the three-way mirror, it occurs to me this is exactly the kind of thing Scarlett would do. Has done. And if I were with her, I’d sit on one of the upholstered chairs, oohing and ahhing, but refusing to try anything on myself. She’d insist, I’d dig my heels in, and we’d go on until I acquiesced and found the same dress in my size, only to hate our side-by-side reflections in the mirror.

Now, without a body three sizes smaller to compare myself to, I feel glamorous as I twirl and watch the navy blue silk fan out around my knees. The saleswoman watches and smiles. “That style suits you. It’s very Marilyn Monroe.”

“Thank you. It’s gorgeous.” I grin and I’m sure I look sheepish. “I wish I had some place to wear it.”

“Have you tried on the other dress in this collection?” the saleswoman asks. When I shake my head, she holds up a finger. “Stay right there, I’ll get it for you. I think you’ll love it.”

She returns two minutes later holding a navy blue sheath. It has a wide collar that makes me think it’s off the shoulder and a tiny belt around the waist. Either one of those things alone would be enough to make me hesitate, but both together? A definite don’t.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure this is a good style for me.” I point to my chest. “Especially the top.”

“Try it. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised how it plays up your assets.” She holds out two identical dresses until I feel obligated to take them.

I go back to the plush dressing room and slide the halter dress over my head. After I’ve arranged it back on the hanger, I look at the two dresses. Sizes twelve and fourteen. Well, no brainer. Always start with the larger size. I know sizes in the UK are numbered differently than in the US, but putting on a size fourteen still makes me feel fat. Especially when I have to fight to get the zipper up.

But get it up, I do, and a glance in the mirror confirms it’s as horrible as I feared. The dress cuts tight across my stomach and my boobs practically spill out over the top. I look and feel like a stuffed sausage. The saleswoman chooses this minute to trill over the door, “How are you getting on in there?”

“Um, no. It’s not working.” Understatement.

“I’ve brought you the sixteen because this style runs small,” she says.

Sixteen? Seriously? “That’s okay. I don’t think it’s going to work.”

But she’s not to be dissuaded. “I’ve hung it here on the hook outside your door if you want it. I’d love to see it on.”

I wait until I hear her heels tapping on the tile before slipping the door open to grab the dress. I don’t even want to try it on, but her conviction that I’ll fall in love with this dress compels me. You don’t keep a job selling one thousand-pound dresses unless you actually can sell them.

By the time I’ve wrestled with the zipper on the dress I’m wearing and slide the sixteen over my hips, though, I’m done. It’s warm enough that my skin is sticky and my hair is in my eyes, so I don’t see my reflection until I’ve got the dress zipped all the way up and I can toss my head back.

To say the saleswoman was right is like saying margaritas are better with salt. Unlike the smaller size dress, this one fits like it was made for me. The fabric is smooth over my hips and when I turn to the side, my stomach looks almost flat. Unlike the porn-star cleavage I had before, now I have a sexy décolletage. Even the belt works.

I open the dressing room door and the saleswoman is hanging a dress on another door. Her smile is wide. “I knew that dress would be perfect for you.”

“It’s gorgeous.” I glide over to the three-way mirror and turn to see my backside. “I wish I didn’t need a sixteen, though.”

The saleswoman furrows her brow. “It suits you perfectly.”

“No, I know. I just meant I’d like to be a smaller size.”

The saleswoman, who’s built more like Scarlett than like me, stands back and crosses her arms, scrutinizing me. Then she shakes her head. “You’re in perfect proportion. Your chest will always rule out a size ten, even if you lose twenty pounds.”

This is the truth. I know because I’ve tried. To her I say, “True. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

She raises her eyebrows. “It doesn’t mean you don’t either.”

I hate that you don’t know how beautiful you are.

Not Jasper’s exact words, but close enough.

And Lou’s:
Your worth is not your dress size. You know that
.

Do I know that?

On a cognitive level, of course I do. But on an emotional level?

“I’ve been trying, but it’s a hard habit to break,” I say to my reflection in the mirror.

The saleswoman sighs and shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. “The bad ones always are, darling. The bad ones always are.”

I think back to my conversation with Lou about habits and how far I’ve come in the past few weeks. I hardly even count calories anymore unless I’m drinking and the world hasn’t ended. My clothes still fit and aside from an occasional bout of insecurity, I’m actually happier with my body than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe ever.

I turn and glance at my ass in the mirror and murmur, “But it’s worth trying.”

The saleswoman smiles and nods as she leaves the dressing room, leaving me admiring my reflection in the mirror.