Love from London (19 page)

“We’ll see — I’d love to check it out, meet the Pieces — Angus’s plays are an important part of the new cannon…but let’s just allow Mable some time to heal up and figure it out.”

“Tell her I love her again, okay?” I say and it’s only then that I hear someone making noise in the kitchen thanks to my total phone-zone. I finally put the receiver down (it looks retro, but when I mentioned this to Arabella, she tilted her head to the side liked she was confused. I realized it’s the same phenom as the Martha’s Vineyard/boarding school old money world where ratty rugs and outdated kitchens in your Maine coast mansion just show that you have
so
much wealth and class, that you don’t need to reoutfit with stainless steel appliances or Brunchwig Fils fabrics. I’m pondering this again as I stare at the telephone — it’s receiver is l-shaped and beige.

“Are you expecting it to talk to you?” Asher asks me as I commune with the cord. Before I can deny all charges, he offers me tea. “It’s Oolong,” Asher says as if that explains his presence.

Arabella, ever her huffy self around her brother takes the tea from him and scolds, “She doesn’t like Oolong — only Darjeeling. And anyway, I thought you were just coming in for a second.”

“How do you know I don’t like Oolong?” I ask and ignore my fifth grade impulses to make a joke like
I do like it long
, especially since I really wouldn’t know. “I’m so relieved, you guys.”

Arabella pats my back and puts the mug of tea on a stack of old art books that we use as a side table. “Seriously good news, Love. And we’ll have such a great time when they’re here.”

Asher shifts back and forth like he wants to offer his well wishes but fears Arabella’s wrath. “Yeah, it seems like good news all round.”

“Do you want to sit down?” I ask Asher. It’s a normal thing to say to someone who is standing, even though I’m scared of seeming too into him or too not into him, either of which might prove my amorous affections.

“No, I can’t stay,” he says, and then, smoothly, “I was actually just dropping by to give you this.” He holds out a rectangle of thick paper with engraved script on it. “It’s a calling card…not the phone kind. The social kind.” He’s halfway to the door, but still explaining. “Why don’t you drop by there on Thursday and we can get started on the head shots.”

I have no idea if this is a cover of some kind or a real offer, but I go along with it as Arabella watches. “Sure — sounds good. Do I need to wear anything particular?”

“Black — or white — solid color is best. But maybe bring a couple of changes just so we can get it done.”

Get it done — or get
it
done. Or, get it
done
. “I have Body in the morning — how’s two o’clock?”

Asher unlocks the door and waves, “Two’s fine — the models never take a long lunch anyway, so it should be easy peasy.” Only very hot English boys can get away with saying things like
easy peasy
. If I picture even the trophiest Hadley guy even attempting to use expressions like that it’s just sad. But Asher somehow pulls it off.

“Other models?” Maybe we’re meeting at a hotel and Asher is just playing up the headshot thing to distract Arabella from the scent of our growing romance.

“See you then!”

The door closes with a click and a bang and then Arabella stands up, waving at no one. “Ta-ta,” she says sourly. “God — get a life boy.” Then she sheds her long, sage green coat (wool, cut like a Russian guard’s, limed with paisley fabric — it belonged to Debbie Harry or Madonna or someone) and opens her bag. “Look what I’ve got!”

“What?” I come over to inspect. “Tickets? You’re going away again?”

Huge smile, hand clutching. “Nevis.”

“The island?”

“No, the actress —”

“She’s Neve.”

“Whatever — yes, the place. We’re going.”

“We?” I ask and lean on an arm of the sofa. It’s plush, covered in a deep rose and burgundy pattern that might have once been floral but now is faded. “The royal we?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Quite royal. You, me, Tobes, Prince —”

I cut her off. “Me?”

“Please? You’ll love it — we’re all comped at the Sugar Bay — it’s this amazing old refinery. Ten days of pure bliss.”

Outside, everything is shades of gray (rather like my brain just now), and I have to admit that some tropical sunshine would be great. “Well, I guess if I were on The Real World, it’d be just about time for the oh my god getaway to somewhere cool.”

“So you’ll come?” Arabella flicks my chin with her tickets.

“Maybe,” I say. Maybe. Depending on Asher (not that I’d miss out on a travel experience because of a new guy, but still…), depending on money and depending on work. “My priority is getting this project for PMT in order.” Arabella nods but I can tell she just wants a firm answer. “Put me down for a yes, but with the right to change my mind, okay?”

A couple days later, I am in the middle of Choir practice, waiting for the high-alto part. Just saying this in my head sounds weird as it brings to mind images of o-mouthed cherubic German boys in robes singing in Latin. At St. Paul’s, however, our practice room resembles a casting call for the latest WB show. The SPGs (St. Paul’s Girls) are all Bartons. Keena told me about an English expression called
pulling a Burton
, but when Chris was here we coined pulling a Barton, as in Mischa; as in the lanky, loose-limbed tall girls who never seem to exercise but are all limbs and doe-eyed wonder. The Mischas are a nice enough pack, always willing to lend a pen or make room on the couch, but the all speak as though they have marbles in their mouths.

Our practice takes place in Little Room — which is neither little nor a room but rather a semi-circle with a place for an orchestra (the quartet and Jazz groups also use the space) and eight arched windows with leather couches, chairs, and a fireplace large enough to actually be the gates to hell.

“Bee-yoo-kowsky,” Jemma Yorlsman calls me up to the front. I take my place next to her and two other girls I don’t know.

“Breathe in and…” our faculty advisor Madame La Perla (perhaps connected to the fashionable lingerie line, possibly not) uses her fingers to conduct us in scales, ascending and descending, individuals, and then we go over, for the third time, our group part in the Bach piece we’re working on for the next show. With the mix of voices around me, I feel trasported, as though this scene with me in it, could take place in another century (granted, young women weren’t allowed to sing like this hundreds of years ago, but my point is that there’s a timeless quality to the rooms, the sounds, the ruddy cheeks of the Mischas, to the way I feel completely connected through the sound).

When rehearsal ends, Jemma leaves her group for a minute and I feel sure she’s about to further admonish my Americana existence and accent. Instead, she says, “You sounded really good tonight, Love. We’re glad you’re on.”

Nothing huge, not wild excitement, but beyond passable acceptance. I’ll take it.

Underneath the stone archway, I pause for a brief moment of reflection. The night is perfectly clear, cold, with a bluish black color sky that I’ve only seen here, nowhere else. The city lights make it impossible to see stars but I know they’re up there.

“Looking for Pegasus?”

I know before I turn around that it’s Asher. His voice has the effect on my body that makes me aware of every pore, every nerve and follicle goes on high alert, gut lurching, heart pounding. It’s unlike anything else — this instantaneous reaction that puts to shame any trace of Jacob or Robinson, any guy. Even the Vineyard boys — Henry, who when I reread what I’ve written about him in my journal seems more sweet, safer. And Charlie — well, maybe I had a semi-similar reaction to him, but he bailed before I could know for sure.

“I repeat — are you looking for a particular constellation up there or just waiting to be beamed up?”

“Neither,” I say and turn to see Asher directly under the center of the stone archway. Half his face is in shadow, the other half bathed in the dark blue light from the clear sky. “I was just zoning, I guess.”

“Listen,” he says. “I think it’s time for us to have a talk.” The way Asher speaks,
talk
comes out as a long word, one with great bearing.

“Oh,” I say and make an uh-oh face. Mainly I do this so he’ll brush away my niggling (note to self: add this to words that are useful yet annoying) fears that the
talk
is “the talk”.

“What’s wrong?” he asks and puts his hand on my back just for a nanosecond before retracting it and guiding me to a bench to sit down.

“It’s just that usually when people say
we have to talk
, it’s not for anything positive.” But I try not to let the already sinking feeling take hold of me.

“Do you want to sit?”

In truth, I hadn’t noticed I was still standing. I sit with a deliberate space between my legs and Asher’s and he gives the GGP (guy graced period) before stating with, “The thing, Love, um…I don’t think this is quite right.”

Shit. Other expletives come to mind. “Sorry,” I say and deduct myself points for apologizing — too girly, totally unwarranted, again a British habit I’ve picked up on. “I’m not sure exactly what to say or exactly what you mean.”

“I think you do know, even if it’s hard to say. Look…” he turns on the bench so his right leg is still facing out but his left leg is pulled into a ‘v’, and his torso faces me. “I’ve had fun — really. From the topiary to the closet and…”

I nod. “I get it. You don’t have to say anything else.” Arabella was only half-right — Asher and I didn’t even need a “successful night in the lake house” for him to dump me on my American ass — he ended it before it really started. But I feel like the wind has been sucked out of me, and stare at my lap as if the tops of my thighs will have brilliant insight into this matter. “I should go, anyway.”

Asher furrows his brow as I stand up and clasps my hand to stop me from leaving. “Wait — what’s the hurry. I didn’t even finish my carefully prepared speech.”

“You have a speech? You mean there’s more letdown to follow?” I admit to the letdown because I’m in a foreign country and just don’t see the point of showing bravado with my best friend’s brother whom I will have to encounter on many an occaision. “Please, don’t let me interrupt then.”

Asher shakes his head and stands up. We start walking toward the back gates as he continues. “It’s just that while I am — what’s the right word here — damn, I practiced this in my head and everything…while I’m thrilled — is that too much? While I’m happy to have those moments with you…” he looks at me to make sure I’m keeping up.

“The closet, the topiary, the gallery — I gotcha.” The, just so I don’t kick myself later, I spew out a few choice words of my own. “I’m not into the FWB thing either.” Asher looks confused so I explain. “Friend. With. Benefits. Not for me. I’m not against the hook-up per se, but now that you mention it, it’s probably more hassle than it’s worth.”

“Hold up — about those, uh, hook-ups. It’s not…” Major pause. I play fill in the blank SAT style. It’s not a) working for me because I’ve never liked redheads b)enough — where’s the actual sex or c) worth the aggro of Arabella, the sneaking around and so on. “It’s not enough. If I’m going to date you, then I want to do it properly. I don’t want to molest you in a closet. Well, strictly speaking I do, in fact, want to do that — but then I’d also like to take you out to dinner.”

What’s the opposite of having the wind sucked out of you? Being filled with helium? My brain rushes to keep pace with what he’s saying. “So you’re saying you want to date me?”

“No.” Oh my God — confusion!

“Asher — what’re you saying? Just tell me what you mean.”

This is the moment; the break up or make out moment and I wait to see which it is. We pause by the large bear statues that flank the wrought-iron gates. Each bear is mounted on a slab of cement, and I stand on that so as to be more on eye-level with Asher. He stands right in front of me, close enough so that I can feel the edge of his suede jacket touching me. His cuff grazes my wrist.

“We’re not allowed to date.” His eyes lock with mine.

“Then I guess this is goodbye,” I say matter-of-factly.

“Bye, then,” Asher says and at the same moment, leans in and puts his open mouth on mine. My hands pull him closer to me and he pushes back, so I’m pressed up against the cold metal of the statue. Probably not what Lord SoandSo had in mind when he donated the bears to the grounds, but a worthy snapshot all the same.

“I feel a Clash song coming on,” I say.

“Mmmm — should I stay or should I go, I assume.”

“That’s the one.”

“Listen — before we get kicked off the grounds. What I wanted to ask you all along is…” I pull back so I can see his face and he steps back onto the pavement from the cement slab step. “Would you like to go out?”

“I thought you just said we couldn’t go out — even though that directly conflicts what you said in the closet, which is that we should ignore what anyone else thinks.”

“Right. I know. We’re sort of stuck.”

“Which leaves us — yet again — at goodbye.”

I start off just so he can take me by the shoulder and not let me go. “Love Bukowski,” he says, the only Brit to pronounce my surname correctly. “Would you like to go on a non-date with me? Or — many non-dates?” He waits for me to speak as we walk across the street to wait for a night bus.

“Maybe.” How I manage not to bounce up and down like a game show contestant with shouts of yippee and yes is beyond me. I can see the bus approaching. “Are you asking me to be your not girlfriend?”

Asher smiles and puts his arms around me. And in the middle of the wide London night, he nods and pulls me onto the bus. We sit at the back, hand in hand, and I lean my head on my non-boyfriend’s shoulder.

While pretending to find my inner focus, light on my abbreviated energies, and stretching myself into a linear form (all this from the high-pitched instructive voice of BODY TEACHER). Rather than see Body as a big old waste of my time, I’ve tried to implement the time-honored Hadley technique of multi-functional reasoning and practice (MFRP, not to be confused with car ads that use the same letters for something entirely different). Basically, there’s so much work at Hadley and so many other restrictions on you at any given time, that time management skills are one of the most valued skills aqcuired there.