Penny in London

by Fisher Amelie

  “Well, at least your ass looks fabulous.”

  I burst out laughing and the tears came with it. “He had a girl with him, his girlfriend, actually.”

  This time Claire looked at me. “I thought you said he didn’t do monogamy.”

  “He doesn’t—didn’t.”

  “Okay, well, how long?”

  “I don’t know.” I sighed. “She’s very pretty and seems nice enough.”

  “That puts a damper on things, doesn’t it?” she stated as I stuck my key into my door and let us both in.

  “Yes.” I sniffed.

  “Are you going to the luncheon?” she asked.

  I set Oliver’s bag on the table and stared at it while I answered. “If I wasn’t representing FACE, I’d be in my bed right now eating Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.”

  “Oh, Penelope, that bad? I’m sorry,” she said, rounding the table to see me.

  “It was pretty humiliating.” I tried to smile but it didn’t work. “I have to find something else to wear and try to book it to the luncheon.”

  “Are you sure you can’t slip out of it?”

  I nodded. “I have to go. I’m sure they would understand, but I don’t shirk my responsibilities. Besides, it’s my livelihood. Just have to suck it up, buttercup.”

  Claire sighed. “Right, then let’s get you changed.”

  I threw on my leather leggings, a pair of clunky heels, and an off-shoulder sweater. Henry had pinned part of my hair up earlier and I removed the pins, letting my hair fall down naturally. I touched up my eye makeup thanks to my little crying session as well as my lipstick.

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  “Not so shabby for last minute,” she told me.

  “You sure?”

  “It’s fine, Pen. You’re going to knock their socks off when you arrive fashionably late.”

  I ran down and was greeted by a cabbie whom Claire had signaled for from the window. I told him I’d give him an extra tenner if he stepped on it. He got me there in lightning-quick time. I stepped out of the cab and into the Preston’s lobby.

  “I’m sorry, this is a private event,” the hostess said.

  “Oh, yes, sorry,” I said, bringing out my invite and handing it over. “I’m a tad late.”

  She took the invite. “You’re fine,” she said. “They’ve only started seating everyone. No one will even notice.”

  I sighed. “Oh, thank God.”

  She smiled and opened the door for me. I slipped in and noticed a few mingling groups of people talking who had yet to sit. Oliver and Jasmine sat at a table near the podium, their bodies turned into one another. Frantic for them not to notice me, I spotted a table at the very, very back with three empty chairs.

  “So sorry,” I told a guy about my age, I guessed, sitting alone, “but are any of these taken?”

  “No,” he said with an American accent. “Here,” he said, standing up and pulling my chair out for me.

  “Thank you,” I told him as I sat.

  “Thank God you’re American. Conversation has been a little lacking for me. My last seat mate was German. After my thousandth ‘excuse me?’ he decided to excuse himself instead.”

  I laughed.

  “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “Los Angeles. You?”

  “I’m from Dallas, but I’ve lived here for over a year.” Could that be true? Have I been here this long?

  “That’s cool. What do you do that warrants such a prestigious invite?” he sarcastically bit out, signaling around us with an exaggerated hand.

  I giggled. “I run a vlog.”

  “Have I heard of you?”

  “Depends,” I kidded. Men usually had no idea who I was.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Penelope Beckett.”

  “I actually know you,” he said.

  “No, you don’t. Shut up!” I laughed.

  “I do,” he insisted. “I really do.”

  “Fine. Prove it.” He brought up an app on his phone that showed one of my videos. “Oh my gosh, you do know who I am.” I looked at the site he pulled up and laughed again. “Does a joke video site count, though?”

  His ears turned red. “It does if they tag the video with ‘viral hot chick.’”

  I rolled my eyes. “And what, pray tell, warrants your presence here?”

  “I am but a lowly photojournalist, so low on the totem pole they stuck me out here to cover the smaller events.”

  “For what publication?” I asked.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because if I can’t answer that question with TIME magazine, then what’s the point?”

  I nodded. “I can respect that.”

  “Can I?” he asked, holding up his camera.

  “Oh my gosh, I guess. It’s pointless because no one knows who I am, though.”

  “If it’s all the same, I’d appreciate it. If I don’t give them something to work with, they’ll get pissed and will fire me.”

  “Well, if it’ll put food in your belly,” I teased.

  I smiled and tilted my head for him. He took the shot and looked down at his camera.

  “What was your name?”

  He stuck out his hand. “Jasper Turner, at your service.”

  I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Jasper.”

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” a woman at the podium announced through a microphone.

  “Will the owner of an eighty-seven Buick LeSabre please approach the podium? You’ve left your lights on,” I mocked under my breath.

  “Eighty-seven was a banner year for the LeSabre,” Jasper pitched in.

  “These people have probably never even seen a LeSabre.” I giggled.

  “Probably not an eighty-seven, but I think they were here twenty years before that.”

  “Get out of town. How do you know that?”

  “I’m a guy.”

  “So what?”

  “What color bra should you were with a black dress?” he asked.

  “Oh, nude for sure,” I answered without hesitation.

  “See?” he asked, shrugging.

  “Yes, actually, I do.” I giggled.

  The woman had gone on and on about the integral importance of modern-day fashion on the world. It was tedious to listen to.

  “I mean, I love fashion,” I said, “but it’s not quite the difference between life or death.”

  “To them, it is.”

  “Priorities. Get ’em.”

  “No kidding,” he said then smiled. “You feel like getting a drink after this?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I mean, I wasn’t dating anyone. I wasn’t tied to anyone. Graham was long over with and Oliver, well, Oli was very much taken. I had no reason not to. He was a cute, funny boy and he was interested. He seemed like zero drama. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  “Listen,” he said, “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything…”

  “No!” I said. “I’d like to. Seriously, it was only unexpected. It’s been a while,” I breathed.

  “Okay, well, then what do you say?”

  “Uh, yeah, of course. I have to go to that industry thing at seven. Are you going?” I asked.

  “No journalists allowed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they check your bags for cameras. Plus, you have to be invited.” He smiled.

  “I can bring a date. Would you like to come with me? Leave the camera at home and let your hair down.”

  He playfully untucked his chin-length hair from behind his ear. “Done.”

  We talked our way through lunch and two more speakers, which was terrible. Both Jasper and I got all the pictures we needed or hoped to get. He got a few of the more serious images during the speeches, which would mean nothing to my viewers so I let those shots go and focused on the candid shots of celebrity. Jasper was easy to talk to, good looking, funny. There’s a
but in there, as you know. I won’t say it, though.

  The club blasted music so loud you could hear it from the sidewalk a block down. I had no idea how I was going to be able to get to know Jasper under noise like that, but I supposed we’d figure it out. We’d exchanged numbers before we left the luncheon, so I texted him letting him know to meet me across the street from the club. He texted back he’d arrive in ten minutes.

  I never carried a purse or clutch on the very rare occasions I frequented clubs because it was more a liability than a help. Instead, I tucked my ID, cash, and a lipstick in the crevices of my bra. It wasn’t the classiest move, I admit, but I didn’t necessarily care.

  I adjusted my bracelets on my arm as I waited. I’d recorded a vlog before I left, part of a segment I called “Get Ready With Me.” Not exactly the cleverest of titles, but it did the trick, and it was pretty popular. I straightened my hair pin straight and it fell at my waist. Whenever I curled it for warm outings, it always fell and looked terrible. I wore black hose, black shorts, and clunky combats. I never wore skirts to clubs, too many creepers. Nor did I wear heels in a crowded place like a club because they were hard enough to navigate without a hundred bodies trampling on your toes. I chose a white bandage-waist crop top where the bandage that wrapped my waist was black as well as the throat collar hem. Only a sliver of my waist showed. Didn’t want to give too much of the goods away. As I’d told my viewers, clubwear has to have an edge of practicality to it. Anything a boy could secretly lift or reach under was off limits. This was the world we lived in, after all. I drowned my arms in silver bracelets with geometric patterns throughout. My makeup was much darker than it had been in the day. I went for a smokey-eye look and bright red lipstick.

  After ten minutes, I was starting to think I’d changed the way I looked so dramatically that Jasper wouldn’t recognize me.

  “Penelope!” I heard behind me.

  I smiled and turned around only to find Oliver. My smile fell and I gulped. Oliver and Jasmine. She didn’t follow any of my club attire rules. Short skirt. Again. Short top. That was new. Ridiculously high heels. I had to peer up into her eyes.

  “Oh, hey!” I said in an attempt to sound cheery and not at all the insecure, intimidated nincompoop I really was.

  “What are you doing out here?” Oliver asked.

  “Just waiting for my date,” I explained, looking around for Jasper. I didn’t see him.

  Jasmine’s shoulders relaxed.

  Oliver looked surprised. “Your date?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, my date.”

  “Who is he?” he asked.

  “A photojournalist I met today at the luncheon. Jasper something,” I said, snapping my fingers over and over, trying to remember his last name. I pointed at the sky. “Turner! Jasper Turner.”

  “My ears are burning!” I heard someone shout with an exaggerated laugh.

  I glanced over my shoulder at one very adorable-looking Jasper Turner. He wasn’t as tall as Oliver, didn’t have that well-kept Gentlemen’s Quarterly thing happening that Oliver had, but he was very sweet looking with his disheveled button-up shirt with rolled-up sleeves, black jeans, and Chuck Taylors. His caramel hair was mussed and tucked behind his ears. His smile was so big it made my heart stutter a little. That’s a good sign.

  “Hey! You made it!”

  “In the flesh.” He extended a fist and I bumped one with his. “It’s good to see you,” he said, his cheeks turning a little pink. He was a charmer, that was for sure, and he didn’t even try.

  I grabbed his arm and brought him in front of Oliver and Jasmine. “Jasper this is Oliver Finn and his girlfriend, Jasmine.”

  “Hello, mate,” Oliver greeted, sticking out his hand to shake Jasper’s.

  Jasper grasped it. “Nice to meet you,” he said, then dropped his hand to extend it toward Jasmine. “Nice to meet you as well,” he said as she took it.

  He tucked both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Are you going to this party?” he asked them, throwing his head in the direction of the club.

  “We are,” Oliver replied, his expression passive and, frankly, confusing.

  “Shall we?” Jasper asked, removing his left hand and holding it out for me.

  I slid my palm into his. It felt nice there, his fingers fit perfectly with mine. He hit the crosswalk button at the corner and led me across the street. Oli and Jasmine followed just behind, the heat of Oliver’s stare was palpable. My free hand went to the back of my neck.

  At the door I yelled my name to the gatekeeper and he checked it off the list then let us inside. I didn’t know if I should wait for Oliver. It was a little weird, our situation, something I hadn’t anticipated, and didn’t know the protocol. Jasper solved my dilemma for me by speaking into my ear.

  “Let’s hit the bar first!”

  I nodded and we tucked in between two people waiting for the bartender’s attention. Jasper didn’t let go of my hand. “What’ll you have?” he asked.

  “A Guinness, please?”

  Jasper looked shocked. “Guinness!”

  I nodded, used to this reaction. “I hate light beers!” I explained.

  “I like a stout drinker.” He winked.

  It was a few minutes of waiting, but eventually he ordered two pints of Guinness, and we escaped the crowd surrounding the bar, laughing when a woman elbowed herself into our old place.

  Jasper took a sip from his beer. “So what made you move to London?” he shouted over the din of the music.

  How to answer this? “I met a guy last year in Dallas, we fell in love quickly, and he convinced me to move home with him. I can work from anywhere, as you know, and thought it would be fun.”

  “But it didn’t work out?”

  I laughed. “Uh, no, it most definitely did not work out.”

  “I’d say I was sorry but I’m not.” He smiled.

  I smiled back, not sure how I felt about his comment. “When do you head back?” I asked.

  “Five days.”

  I bit my bottom lip. “Are you having fun in the LDN?”

  “I am now,” he flirted.

  “You’re good,” I told him.

  He jokingly dusted his shoulder. “I try.”

  “It’s nice to run into an American,” I admitted.

  “Oh yeah?” He laughed. “Why’s that?”

  “Londoners don’t mean anything they say!” Jasper’s shoulders shook with laughter. “It’s hard to get a straight answer out of anyone. American boys will just come out and tell you. ‘I dig you, let’s have a drink.’ London boys hem and haw, lead you on for weeks. It’s very bad for the self-esteem.”

  “That’s hilarious.”

  “They’re still some of my favorite people, though, and they dress better than we do.”

  “That I will agree to,” he said, pulling at the hem of his wrinkled shirt and staring at the others around us.

  I giggled. “You look really cute, Jasper.”

  The tips of his ears turned red and his hand went to the back of his neck. “Thanks,” he said. He looked at me and swallowed. “You look really beautiful, Penelope.”

  “Thanks, Jasper.”

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Twenty-two. I’ll be twenty-three in three days, though.”

  “Get the hell out! We should do something fun.”

  “That sounds cool,” I said, not really sure if I wanted to spend my birthday with someone I barely knew. “How old are you?” I asked him.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “A very good age, I think. It suits you.”

  Jasper shrugged. “It isn’t anything like I thought it would be.”

  “Why?”

  “You remember when you were a kid and you thought the phrase ‘When I grow up’ at least a hundred times a day?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I think being a grown-up sucks.”

  “Not going to argue with you there.”

  “It’s, like, w
e’re old enough to pay our own way, but that pay usually bites. We don’t get to do any of the things we really want to do because we’re always broke. Plus, I still feel like I need to talk to my mom every day. I still need that security.” He blushed. “Is that pathetic?”

  “Uh, no, not at freaking all. I still write my mom every day. I have to or I feel really alone or—or something. It’s hard to explain.”

  “You don’t have to ’cause I get it.”

  “Maybe we’re just sheltered?” I asked.

  Jasper laughed. “That’s very possible. In my case, more than possible.” He cleared his throat. “So, Dallas, do you want to dance with LA?”

  “Can you rumba?”

  He looked stricken. “Not at all.”

  “Good,” I teased, “neither can I.” He bumped his shoulder into mine.

  We set our empty glasses on a nearby table. He grabbed my hand and led me out onto the dance floor. We jumped around, laughing like idiots, not really caring about the people around us, and singing the lyrics of the songs to one another. He was a surprisingly good dancer and we found a rhythm between us that worked well.

  After three or four songs, we left to get some water, then hit the dance floor again. Eventually they played a slow song and Jasper grabbed my hands, placing them behind his neck, then put his fingers on my hips.

  “Very ninth grade,” he teased.

  “Well, Jason Mraz isn’t playing and I don’t have a face full of metal so, nothing like ninth.”

  “There you are!” a voice yelled from behind us. We both turned to spot Oli. “We’ve got a VIP room. You should join us!”

  Jasper looked at me and shrugged. “It’d be nice to sit, right?”

  Oliver stared at me, a knowing smirk on his face. If I said no, Jasper would want to know why. I could lie, but that wasn’t my MO. If I said yes, though, Oliver would be able to watch us. Either way he would win. “Um, yeah, sure.”

  Jasper grasped my hand and we followed Oliver. His body swayed with every long stride. He reminded me of an animal slinking through tall grass, and I couldn’t help imagining myself as his prey. “When I die, I want to come back as him. He’s freakin’ cool!” Jasper said, startling me back to the present. That doesn’t help, I thought.

  Oliver ascended the short staircase, holding back the heavy curtain that hid the raised room that looked over the dance floor. When Oliver let the curtain drop, the obnoxious music dialed down a few notches. Jasper and I looked at one another and sighed with relief then laughed. Oliver’s brows pinched.