Love from London (26 page)

“You’re in it, if that’s what you’re after…but no. It’s nor for public consumption. Ask me another one.”

“Apoplectic.”

“Enraged.”

“Good. Attenuation.”

“Decrease, a reduction in,” I say and play with his hair. He makes little appreciative noises.

“I think you’re good to go — are you secretly a wonk?”

“Not so secretly, actually. I just want to do well. These tests basically determine what you do with the next four years of your life.”

Asher sits up so he’s looking down at me, and spreads my hair in a fan around my face and snaps a pretend photo. “You could come here for uni,” he suggests.

Lurch. Future. Mild palpitations. “Right — me at Oxford…” but as I say it, it doesn’t sound bad. “It’s something to think about, anyway. For the future.” Insert girlish laughter to cover instant thoughts of investigating application procedure for said school. Asher kisses me and then pauses a half inch away from my mouth. It’s a warm, perfect moment. He’s wonderful — I’m lucky — and Arabella is just plain wrong about him.

“And speaking about the future — the near future…I’ve been thinking. Want to meet me later tonight?”

“A midnight rendezvous?” I say in with a bad French accent.

“Oui, Cheri.”

He gives me that look, that guy look, that says it all: it’s time. At least, he thinks it’s time — for
it
. I spend the rest of the day and evening wishing Arabella or Chris was here so I could discuss the pros and cons of sleeping him. The idea of sex is definitely appealing. Asher’s pretty much all I’ve wanted, and I’m leaning toward the
yes
I know he wants to hear. That I for the most part want to say. But the smallest part of me — maybe just a couple of cells — isn’t sure. It’s not any moral thing, it’s just the idea that you can’t go back. You change the how or when, the circumstances are just there forever. And I don’t know if I want to commit to the forever part. But I might.

The lights form the photo shoot are packed up, but down through the topiary gardens, the lanterns are illuminated, each one a different color, swinging in the night air. I follow Asher’s instruction and go to the teacup, where, on top, there’s a torch (a flashlight) switched to on, and a note that reads “keep going”. Trying not to over-interpret his words, I follow the pathway through the high hedges to the lake house. Asher has set up the heat lamps from the photo shoot, so as soon as I’m inside the arched and pillared entrance, it’s warm. Waist high candles, petals scattered on the ground, and Clementine Highstreet’s “Be Still, Be Now” comes from the PAL speaker off to the side.

“Wow,” I say and stare at him. He’s set up a floor bed, with fluffy duvet, king-sized pillows, white sheets, all with a view of the moon on the lake’s surface. It’s all perfect. He comes over and starts to lead me to the bed, kissing me, and then I suddenly get chills, despite the heat lamps. Candles. Kissing. Lake House. It’s too perfect. It’s just like Arabella said. Her prediction is coming true.

I stop in my tracks and drop Asher’s hand. “What?” he says in a Johnny Depp whisper, all drama and dark-haired ambiance, “Is something wrong?”

“Is this a stage?” I ask, calmly, slowly.

“I don’t know what you mean. Come dance with me.” He holds out a glass of champagne and says, “Here’s to a successful night.”

“Successful?” I shake my head, my voice getting louder. “This — this place. The music, the lighting. I can’t believe it.” I fight off tears because I’m angrier more than sad — sad comes later. “Arabella…she knew — she actually prepared me for this, but it didn’t even occur to me she’d be right. Not for one second. I don’t want to be one of your many girls.”

“Love — wait. Let me explain,” Asher says. He’s ardent, but the whole scene, the mood is broken.

“You don’t need to explain,” I say. “I get it. You just added me to your list, figured you’d get me with all your usual charms. I’m not like that. You’re a cliché, Asher. Just a regular, lame-ass guy who’s after one thing. It’s my fault for allowing myself to get wrapped up in the mirage.” I start to walk away. “And I’m not what you’re looking for, trust me.”

I walk in a determined fashion, but slowly enough that he could easily catch up. But he doesn’t. So I do the only thing I can think of when I see Clementine in the hallway, heading to the loo. I ask her for a ride back to London.

“Oh, no, dear,” she shakes her head. “I’m here for the night.” She sees my face, my sad mouth, my eyes. “But go wake Lundgren Shrum the driver. Tell him I sent you. He owes me one.”

The car ride by is silent, and I get to the flat feeling guilty I’ve pulled Lundgren into the mess, woken him, but glad to be back somewhere safe and guy-free. Correction, about-to-be guy-free.

“And fuck off for good this time,” Arabella chucks a shoe at Tobias, who’s half-clad and backing out the front door, with a sheepish expression.

“Come on, Bels — don’t throw a fit,” he says but it’s no use. Arabella pulls me inside, gives a wave to Lundgren who leaves, and closes the door with Tobias still struggling to keep his pants up.

“Don’t ask,” she says.

“I won’t,” I tell her. “I’ve had enough truth and consequences tonight.”

“Bed or tea and talk?” she asks, ever the rock of friendship.

“Bed, thanks,” I say. She already knows what happened, most likely, knows that it would have to be pretty bad for me to come back in the middle of the night, proving her right all along.

It’s the morning after the night before as the English saying goes, and Arabella and I are slightly the worse for wear. She and Toby have apparently split for good, and I am single by choice, so we do the only sensible thing there is to do; meet Keena and Fizzy for a horseback ride through Hyde Park.

Trotting along in a surreal and yet fun turn of events, I yell up to Arabella, who’s a natural rider. “You look regal!”

Arabella smiles back at me and kicks the horse into a faster gait, whatever is after trot but slower than gallop — there is a third speed in there, right? Keena, who has only been riding once before, clings to her giant steed for dear life.

“Don’t run anywhere, Horse,” she commands. Then to me she adds, “Got a second?”

“Well,” I say, holding the reins, glad to control at least one creature, “Does it look like I’m about to bolt?”

“Nice mood, Love. Bad night?” Keena stops her horse and I try to reverse mine so we’re next to each other while Fizzy and Arabella veer off to the left.

“Crappy night. But what did you want to say?”

Keena lowers her voice and I have to lean over in my saddle to hear her. “The shit’s about to hit the fan.”

Right — the conversation I overheard in the faculty lounge. “Are you going to come clean about it?”

“Me?” Keena makes a face. “I didn’t do anything — oh, well, true I did do
that
. But I’m not the one getting kicked out.”

Just as she’s explaining, Fizzy approached with Arabella. It’s obvious we’ve been speaking about something in a hushed way and Fizzy, always straightforward says, “Have you told them I’m being sent away?”

Arabella’s mouth falls open. “What? Why? What’ve you done?”

“I so love that you don’t even ask if I’ve been put in the wrong. But you happen to be correct in this instance. I got caught — no, not with someone in my bed — I…” her strong exterior wavers and she starts to cry. Her horse takes a dump and she laughs while shaking her head. “Shit, guys. I just…I broke the honor code. I used my texts during my history take-home.”

“How’d they even know?” Arabella asks.

“I scored too high — it was too perfect or something. Not really believable that I would either retain that much information or phrase it that way — my essay was structured the same way as the introduction in the textbook. I’m leaving tonight, no later than seven, as per the orders.”

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Well, I’m not welcome at home — my mother’s got her hands full with the kids, and since I’m skint…”

“You could stay with us,” Arabella says and I nod.

“No — thanks just the same.” Fizzy makes her horse turn in circles, then she tries to ride side-saddle, nearly winding up on the ground. “After I got caught I went to HEL — God, that sounds so repentant! But I went there and Clementine, that woman who owns it, said I could work there for a while. Just until I get my head straight.”

“You can still audition,” Keena offers. “The stage companies won’t care if you got…”

“Right, that’s true,” I say.

“But it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve permanently messed up my record. I’m screwed.” Then she pulls a Fizzy and fluffs out her frizz, chuckles and wipes her tears away. “Fuck pity and self-loathing. Let’s ride!”

She takes off and we follow, all of letting the wind, the new spring air, the faintest hint of warm weather, tempt us into forgetting our troubles. I admire Fizzy’s ability to push aside the damage she’s done, the mix of guilt and fear she must have. Somehow, when I picture big things like that happening (not that I picture myself cheating or breaking major Hadley rules), my world falls apart, cracking and splintering until there’s nothing left but shards. Maybe that’s the point; that life does splinter — the guy you thought was perfect isn’t, people get sick, friends disappoint, but there’s the upside of everything, a continual cycle of up, slide down, and the self-correcting that can happen only over the course of time.

“I can’t believe you’re backing out!” Arabella pouts.

“I can’t believe you’re going,” I say. I watch her zip closed then reopen her suitcase every time she remembers another article of clothing or book she wants to bring.

“You said you’d come.”

“That was before all this — do you really want me to miss out on this experience? When will I ever get the chance to dub some ingénue’s part in a Martin Eisenstein film?”

“Big sigh,” Arabella says. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t agree with you — I’m just saying it — as the Americans say — sucks.”

“Why are you still going if things are off with Tobias?”

“Because he’ll see me there in my suit, flirting with Flask or some island boy, regret being a shithead and want me back.” She looks at me. “And before you even hit me with the psycho-babble, no, I’m not planning on taking him back if he asks me. I just want him to want to.”

I’m standing with my SAT prep book in my hand, weighting down my arm, my wrist, my life until tomorrow afternoon when they are officially over. “I’m hardly one to tell you how to live your romantic life when mine’s in shambles,” I say.

Arabella swallows and bites her top lip. “No, sure, I…you should go study, anyway.”

“And you know what? If the dubbing things get rescheduled yet again, I’ll come. Seriously.”

Martin Eisenstein is my new best friend, phoning every couple of hours to tell me my time has been changed. Note to self: do not tell him where the SATs are being held as he will probably come and yell to me through the window — three forty-five on Friday. No, next Monday at 2pm. And so on. As a result of the rescheduling, I have negged the Nevis trip and been reimbursed by Jess Montgomery, a new friend of Arabella’s who was gagging for a chance to hang out and drink daiquiris while writing a freelance article for some magazine. She came round to the flat yesterday to get the ticket, which had to be totally cancelled and reissued for security reasons, and gave me a wad of cash and a smile. She’s one of those Lila Lawrence-like blondes, really pretty in a fresh scrubbed way with very believable highlights (could be real, I’m not an expert) and a sweet demeanor.

Arabella sweetly makes me dinner while I do another practice test and we retire. She’s up before I am, leaves a note saying she’ll see me in ten days and wishes me luck. Since she didn’t have to wait for me to finish, she went early with Fizzy to Nick Cooper’s house where everyone’s gathering before the airport trek on Friday. It does sound fun, and, if Mable’s right with her advice, which she usually is, I will probably regret not going. Mable says that it’s the things you don’t do that you regret the most when you’re older, not the things you did do — even if they don’t turn out right. But it feels like a fair trade, fun n’ sun for a cool experience dubbing a role. After all, Glen Close did the same thing for that model girl in “Greystoke”, and look where she is now.

Song of the moment: Buffalo Stance by Neneh Cherry, even though it has nothing to do with my current environs. But her attitude is strong and so is the beat, carrying me away from The Masonry (read: old cold stone building where the hour upon hour of multiple choice hellaciousness known as the SATs took place) and off to LADAM for Choir practice then home (home! I do think of it that way now) to the flat for a solitary evening of cooking and catch-up Brecht and Churchill (Carol not Winston) reading for British Playwrights. Plus, I could use a moment to decompress, write in my journal and unload the mix of feelings I’m tugging along regarding the lake house incident and all that it encompasses.

On my way back, I pass by Wild at Heart, the flower store in this funky little area of West London. They make bouquets that burst with colors, all the spring ones have either hyacinths or tulips cut very short, adding to the robust feel of each arrangement. I stand surrounded by all the smells and bright blues, hot pinks, soft ivies, until one of the assistants asks if I need anything. I shake my head, no, but I feel otherwise. I want to roll around in the soft petals, have one of those movie ending where the right person at the right time says the right thing and it’s all — yes, say it with me, right. But I stand there in the mildish air and then move on.

Another phone message at the flat leads to the further rescheduling of the voiceover project. By now I’ve begun to doubt it will actually ever happen. Martin Eisenstein has informed me that the ending didn’t “test well” with audiences (who knew they even did that stuff with independent films?) so they’ve gone back for re-shoots, thus changing the part, thus changing the time I’d need to be there and so on. So basically, I could have gone to Nevis. Is it one more thing I’ll regret not doing?

Three days slide by and I am past the mental rescripting of Asher’s “successful night” scene in my head. I’ve made progress; I no longer feel teary about it, no longer feel like kicking myself or Asher where it counts (in the heart), but just feel let down. I call Keena from the flat and ask her to meet me at the cinema, but she’s busy doing whatever illicit things she does with Galen French. I get my coat on and am locking the door when a taxi squeals to a stop and Arabella bounds out. She looks normal (normal=stunning), but staggers.