Girls Who Travel (13 page)

26

A
STON
AND
I
collapsed into what can only be described as schoolyard giggles. Our outpouring of laughter—balled and extra juicy from being jailed up—was louder and lengthier than it should have been.

“Aston,” I laughed, folded over, hands on my thighs. “Aston.” I tried again to contain myself. “Wh-what are you doing here? Wh-what
was
that?”

I stood upright and wiped the mascara from under my eyes.

“What was that?” Aston sniffed back a laugh and got serious again. He plopped down on a leather ottoman lining the corridor that led to the bathrooms. “I should rather ask you,
poodle
.”

His voice had an underlying good-natured quality to it that I'd never noticed before.

“Oh my God,” I gushed like a teenager. “I almost
lost
it
when you called me that. Did you see her face?” I flopped again into peals of laughter, but Aston was now much more reserved.

His voice got low and careful. “What was she going on about? Was she threatening you, Kika?”

“She's clinically insane.” I sniffed and flattened my dress. “Well, actually not that insane.” I dropped down next to him on the bench, closer than I'd meant to, but I couldn't just slide over now, could I?

“If I tell you, do you promise not to tell anyone?”

Aston rolled his eyes but held out a disgruntled pinky finger.

I smirked and coupled my pinky to his in a binding swear. For the second time tonight, I was overaware of our touching. I pulled my pinky away and combed my fingers through my hair.

“Bae Yoon and I worked in the same industry together in New York. The Darlings sort of got me the job through their friend Ronald Richmond, you know, the guy who owns the Richmond Group.” I gestured in the direction of the party.

Aston shook his head, but he let me keep talking.

“I lost my job because . . . because of my own fault, really.” I swallowed hard. Saying those words was still unpleasant—especially saying them to someone like Aston. “But the Darlings don't know I got fired, and I'm trying to keep it that way—just because I don't want them to think that I'm not taking this job seriously.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, I was really unprofessional in New York. But I'm trying to change: I've kept Elsbeth's schedule for the girls; I've never been late picking them up or dropping them off.
I've done everything asked of me. I'm even wearing the dress Elsbeth picked out for me tonight.”

He looked me up and down. “I can see that, but I mean was that all about Bae Yoon? She appears to have it out for you.”

“Yeah, she does, because I didn't realize the value of the New York job, and she did. She took it as a personal insult that I was so blasé, which I understand. But she doesn't have to act so condescending all the time, you know?” I didn't wait for him to answer me. “She humiliated me by making me run this bullshit personal errand—I had to buy sex toys for her. And I don't want that to have any effect on this job. I can swear all I want, but Elsbeth would definitely fire me at the first mention of ‘sex toy.'”

My cheeks flushed at my oversharing. The word “sex” hung in the air between us, and I had the urge to flap my hands to make it go away as you would a foul odor.

Aston moved his mouth to the side. “I believe I understand,” he said in his usual curt and growly way. (Finally, back to the Aston I recognized.)

“Well, I should go.” I stood and felt the warmth between us dissipate. I regretted it instantly.

I looked down at him. “But what about you?” I asked. “Why are you here? Who does Bae think you are?”

Aston tossed his head in quick dismissal.

“She knew my father, who was someone. And by her level of fawning over me, you'd think I was his second coming and whatnot. His company is why I'm here tonight. But I've no real part in it, I'm afraid.”

I nodded. Typical Bae sniffing out the wealthy. My cell phone buzzed with a text from Mina asking where I was. Gwen must be getting restless.

“I have to go.” I frowned. “I am being summoned by a thirteen-year-old.”

Aston gave me a half smile. In the shadowy mood lighting of the bathroom corridor, it nearly could pass as warm. “Good night, Kika.”

I smiled back and started to walk down the corridor toward the show and pageantry of the party, but then something in me made me turn around.

“Aston?” I called.

He stood at the sound of his name, hands in his pockets. His hair was a little messed up, which made him look boyish and . . . cute.

I spoke on impulse: “Thank you. You know, for saving me. And keeping my secret.”

He didn't move for a moment, but then he gave me a courteous head tilt before turning in the opposite direction toward the bathrooms. But I couldn't bear him looking all stony again.

“I misjudged you,” I called out louder than I meant to. But it made him turn back and face me again.
Just don't stop looking at me like that
, I found myself wishing.

“It's quite all right, Kika,” he said. “I shall let you get on. Those mad girls need you.”

I stared at him for a moment longer and then turned to walk back to the party, a smile itching the edges of my lips.

I was just in time to see Bae at the doors, about to leave. She whooshed her coat over her shoulders. I caught a glimpse of the label. It appeared that the devil actually
did
wear Prada.

She saw me watching her and gave me a brave wave good-bye. She actually looked a bit frightened of me. Because I was
an absolute child, I narrowed my eyes at her, just to give her an extra bolt of panic. But then I granted her a courteous wave back. I was the clear winner; there was no need to rub it in her face—no matter how much I wanted to. Plus, I couldn't forget that when you boiled it down, she had been right about me.

Bae Yoon noticeably exhaled as she exited. It was the first time I had ever seen her leave a party alone.

•   •   •

O
N
THE
WAY
back home, Mina sat in the front of the car, strumming her fingers to the car radio. Gwen slept on my lap, as peaceful and innocent as a cherub in a Renaissance oil painting. As we passed under the streetlamps of the silent Kensington streets, her baby face was momentarily splashed in peach light. Elsbeth and Mr. Darling, those party animals, would stay out later, but it was time for me to get the girls to bed.

My mind reran the conversation I had with Aston. Something bothered me. He said “was.” He said his dad “was” someone. Past tense.

I underscored the conclusion from earlier in the night: I didn't know Aston at all.

27

“Y
OU
HAVE
NO
work today, yes?”

Whack. Whack. Whack.

Before Celestynka gave me a chance to answer, she swatted the rug three more times in quick succession. I grimaced at each impact, trying my best to hold steady.

Instead of spending the sluggish Sunday in bed, I was helping Celestynka beat rugs outside. Earlier in the day, I had helped Mina and Gwen organize their closets, and then we went down to the charity shops to make donations. The confrontation with Bae yesterday was a good motivator for me: I was so grateful for this job. I wouldn't make the same mistake of taking it for granted.

Celestynka raised the broom for another assault.

“Damn, how can someone so skinny hit that hard?”

She bared her teeth but didn't stop the dusty battering.
“Polish. Girls. Very. Strong,” she said, separating the words to coordinate with the vehement wallops.

“I promised Gwen I'd be her backup dancer later, but after that I'm free for the rest of the day.” I coughed into the grime.

“Good. You come to my flat tonight. You will see my babies.”

I wasn't sure if it was her English or something she did intentionally, but Celestynka rarely made requests—she made demands.

•   •   •

T
HAT
EVEN
ING
, I
went over to see her.

When she opened the door to her Ladbroke Grove flat, the roasting air flooded into the stairwell.

“Quick, quick! Come in before all the heat runs away.”

I rushed inside and we closed the door behind us quickly, as if we were being chased.

Celestynka's work clothes were conservative compared to what she wore on her free time. Tonight she rocked what could only be described as Barbie-pink booty shorts and a baby tee that said “Bad Girl” on it.

“What are you wearing?” I asked her outright. “I mean, don't get me wrong, if I just popped out two babies and looked like that, I'd be showing it off, too.”

“This is no thing,” she said, separating the words. “In Poland, all the girls show off their skin.
If
they have nice body. Sometimes even if body is not so nice, they show. In London, everyone wears plain clothes. Nothing so fun. Nothing with—” She motioned to the “Bad Girl” stenciled on her shirt.

“Sparkles?”

“Yes! Diamonds! Showstopper! Fancy, fancy! Get the Polish look! Baby, I was born this way,” she said, copying beauty commercials and candy pop songs. She shimmied her shoulders and ran through foxy, catalog-style poses.

“I bet Aleksander likes it.”

“Oh yes,” she agreed. “And how is your Lochlon?”

I had called Lochlon that morning after helping Celestynka. As I recalled our conversation, uneasy emotions fizzed up inside me and made me feel like a shaken-up can of soda.

“He comes to see you soon. You call him today, yes?”

“Yeah, I did. He's good, I think.” I bent my fingernail backward agitatedly. “He had a long night at the pub. He said he was out with his friends all night, so he was very quiet on the phone because he was tired.”

I clung to these caveats, but the truth was he had barely said two words to me. I told him the whole story of the Wolseley party, but he didn't seem to be listening. In fact, I was pretty sure he was still drunk.

“Yes? This is all?” Celestynka asked.

I didn't know why I wasn't confiding in Celestynka. I guess it hurt my feelings that he didn't seem to care that I had finally gotten rid of Bae Yoon. I was disappointed, I supposed. But that would just make it true, saying it all aloud to Celestynka like that.

“Yup, it's all good,” I chirped. I shoved the discontent down and began mentally paving over it with logic:
I'm overreacting. I know it's nothing, and my experience proves it.

Once, after we both drank too much in Prague, we spent the next day walking along the John Lennon Wall—a wall bedecked in hopeful, inspiriting graffiti. We didn't speak the
whole day, not because we were mad or tired of each other, but just because we both were comfortable enough to be quiet in each other's company.

We held hands and walked beside the wall for hours, then we sat on a bench in front of it and closed our eyes for some time.

The wall was a sacred site. During communism, there was no creative freedom, so it meant something now to be able to express yourself with art.

Before we left the wall behind, Lochlon took out a green marker and wrote our initials. Afterward, he spoke for the first time all day: “Let's come back and visit this one day, yeah?” he said in a haunted and drowsy voice.

Our blocky, childlike initials would forever stand there, leaning against each other for eternity. And other lovestruck kids would come from around the world and see them there, forever scarred and sacred as a first tattoo.

That day at the wall became one of my favorite memories of our time together. I purposely replayed this scene to myself as if to prove that he was
always
reserved after what he would call a “long night on the sauce.”
There is no point in reading into it
, I instructed myself again.

But Celestynka offered no relief from my batty thoughts. “You are worried?” She sat down at the kitchen table.

“A little,” I confessed. “I mean, he's definitely a little depressed. But wouldn't you be if your dad was ill and you were forced to come home?”

“Yes, of course. But I am meaning with you. Things are okay for you, Kika?”

I tapped my fingers on the kitchen table to some inaudible song. “Sure, I just have to see him again, you know? He's
coming for two days mid-March—just before I leave to go on vacation with the Darlings.”

Celestynka frowned but changed the subject. “Come see my babies.”

She ushered me up and into the living room where her two roly-poly babies were squirming on the floor like two happy glowworms. Celestynka's eyes twinkled.

“Oh my God, they're so cute. All cheeks and giggles,” I said.

“The name of this one is Kasia, and this is Janek.” She swooped them up, each one astride a hip.

Celestynka heaved them at me one after the other as if they were sandbags in an assembly line. I didn't know which one was which. (I learned that with babies—especially babies with Polish names—it was best not to make assumptions about gender.)

“Look how adorable you guys are,” I cooed and bounced them up and down as Celestynka grinned like a maniac.

“Where is Aleksander this evening?”

“He is at work today. On Sunday as well he works. Come. I make tea.”

We paraded the babies into the kitchen, and Celestynka gathered the sheets of paper off the kitchen counter and then came to sit beside me.

“Finances for the house,” she mumbled, stacking the papers into a neat pile on the kitchen table.

The sheets looked professional and intimidating, especially to someone like me who was afraid of basic arithmetic.

“Aleksander does them on Excel or QuickBooks or something? Impressive.”

Celestynka laughed. “Aleksander does not know how to work computer. Not even for porn!”

We both laughed at this.

“I do these,” she said, smoothing the paper as if it were creased.

I must have looked surprised, because Celestynka defended herself.

“Yes. Is me. I take courses in accounting and business in Warsaw before I leave. I am always very fast with numbers. But here, because my English is no good, I cannot get job accounting.”

“What? That's amazing that you know all of this.” I pried the papers from under her arm to look over them, but they may as well have been written in Sanskrit.

“Numbers are the same in any language, this is why I like. But I cannot do good interviews, so I clean houses.” She shrugged like it was not a big deal.

“But that's ridiculous—I'll help you with your English, Celestynka. We can practice while you clean. You speak English well. You just need interview practice. We'll have you ready in no time.”

She looked rapturous for a moment. “You will teach? Because there is no time for me to take school, and with no one to practice. Alek only speak Polish, because many builders are Polish. He no needs,” she explained adamantly.

“I'll practice with you. Don't worry,” I told her, grabbing her hands to stop her from taking out one of the babies' eyes with her long fingernails.

Celestynka twisted her hands away, the happiness draining from her face. “But I cannot give money.”

“Celestynka, you don't have to pay me.”

She shook her head. “But I must do for you something.”

“You must
do something for me
,” I said, correcting her
syntax, her first lesson. But she just bowed her head in agreement, thinking I was asking for some sort of payment.

I sucked my mouth in for a moment. I looked at the sheets. “I've got it! I'm trying to start a company, but I'm crap at math and money—maybe you can help me organize a budget and business plan for it.”

I knew in the upcoming months, as I started making more money, the enticement to just spend it on a trip would also grow. I thought of the marshmallow experiment; the one where a child is offered an option to eat one marshmallow right away, or get two marshmallows fifteen minutes later.

Throughout my life I had always been the “marshmallow now” sort of girl. I had always chosen to stuff that fluffy, sweet, gooey marshmallow into my mouth whole. Why wait? There were no guarantees that there would even be a later! And so I gobbled up life before it could grow stale: I took that time off, I spent every cent, kissed the boy, took that trip. I didn't like my gratification delayed. I liked it now. At a moment's notice.

But ever since I put away the money from my first paycheck, I felt a slight and almost imperceptible shift in my mood: I had resisted my natural impulse and the temptation, which may have been the very first mature, certified adult conduct I'd ever participated in. And I wanted to continue this behavior; to keep depositing everything I could into that savings account, which I had started calling my “more marshmallow money.”

“You need money help?” Celestynka shook her head. I spoke too fast, and she didn't quite understand.

“This!” I snatched the papers back from her again and laid them out on the table. “I need you to make one of these for me, for my website.”

I figured that if I had a plan in place for Gypsies & Boxcars, it would be easier to save; I could see where the money would eventually be going, instead of just watching it pile up in some black hole bank account. Celestynka could help me figure out how much money I'd need to get Gypsies & Boxcars started again. She could help me with a budget, a business plan, and deadlines and dates. She was the missing piece.

“Do finances? For you? I can do this.”

“I know you can!” We were both roused now by the simple accomplishment of comprehending each other, and even the babies seemed excited by proxy. Kasia (or Janek) belly guffawed in that gurgling, bouncy baby way.

“Okay, teacher, I have first question about English,” Celestynka started shyly. “Is silly, but I no understand. Tell me, Professor Kika, what is difference between ‘Fuck you,' ‘Fuck me,' and ‘Fuck off'?”

I tried not to laugh. “Okay, pay attention,” I told her. “This is of
crucial
importance.”