-Charles
* * *
the mediterranean rocks
Posted by: @Marian at 12:24 PM on December 20 on TheGrayBlog
Hey everyone.
It costs a fortune to go on the internet, so I’ll keep this quick. I could only barely skim through all the latest blog posts. Santorini is absolutely stunning. A sun-drenched island paradise. I am completely sunburned. I hope our future offspring can tan like Tom. No - that was not a hint at things to come in nine months. I am actually drinking a martini right now.
Mom - I thanked you about a thousand times for my wedding. Didn’t I? Just in case, THANK YOU. It was the wedding of all weddings. So be kind and give Christmas to us all. Haha-
Okay, back to cruising, tanning and EATING. No more dieting to fit into a size 6 Vera gown. I can eat what I want.
Love and hugs,
Marian
PS: Did Lucy go somewhere?
* * *
don’t notice immediately what’s happened. I open my eyes, and the sun’s glare nearly blinds me. I stand up and stretch in front of the picture window. When I turn to look at the bedside clock, I nearly fall over when I see that it reads 12:58.
I slept in. Scratch that. I think I actually fell into a mild coma. It’s one in the afternoon. How could I not set an alarm? My first full day in London is now completely wasted.
Well…it’s only eight in the morning in Massachusetts. I had a very exhausting day yesterday. And I barely slept a wink the night before, thinking about the trip.
I close the door to my flat twenty minutes later, showered and ready for the day, and jump when I spot a couple across the hall making out against their door.
“Dan. Dan, stop,” the woman says between giggles. She sees me out of the corner of her eye. “Someone’s watching.” Her husband doesn’t seem to care, but she pushes him off of her and straightens her hair.
“So what?” her husband mutters, frustrated. “She’s on her honeymoon, too,” he says, casting a quick, very conspiratorial glance my way. “She gets it.” He goes in once more for the kill, but his wife swats his face away playfully.
“Dan.”
He pulls away reluctantly and looks at me as she walks toward me before I can sneak away from the awkward situation.
“Sorry,” she says, rolling her eyes. She holds her hand out to me and I take it a little cautiously. “I’m Kiki,” the woman says.
“Lucy.” I shake her hand and look past her to her husband who is now leaning on their door. “And I take it you’re Dan.”
He smiles at me, giving me a quick nod, before turning his attention back to his new bride, seeming to want everyone in the world to disappear so he can continue showing his new wife just how much he loves her.
I take the hint and zip up my coat. “Nice to meet you both,” I say, before turning on my heel and heading towards the elevator to officially begin my day.
“Hi,” I say, walking up to the reception desk once I’m downstairs until I’m standing in front of the man who checked me in last night.
“Hello, Mrs. Bolton,” he says, and I come up short for a moment. That’s right. That’s me. Mrs. Bolton. “You can call me Miss Gray, actually. I’m not planning to change my name just yet.”
“Miss Gray,” he says, tapping some keys on the keyboard. “I’ll just make a note of that for the staff.” He smiles at me when he’s done typing his note. “We like to keep things as friendly and personal as possible here. Which is why I do want to apologize about last night.” At my confused look, he adds, “The concierge.”
“I appreciate that.” I smile, though my mind trails back to the strange interaction. “He asks a lot of questions.”
“It’s just…well, his, um, his father owns this place, and he can pretty much do whatever he wants while he’s here.” A nonchalant shrug implies that this is just how it is. He returns his attention to the computer screen and begins typing urgently. Apparently the case is closed for further discussion.
I sigh and put my hair behind my ear. I grab a couple of brochures for what look like city sightseeing opportunities. I was going to make a list on the plane of all the places I want to see, but I kept hearing Mary in my ear, urging me to relax for once, to not plan – to let things happen. I look at the brochures and London travel guides and walk away from the reception desk. It’s time to see which options will get me to the most places.
Kensington High Street is so very British, lined with boutiques, cafes, cell phone stores, music shops, and designer clothing stores. It’s at the same time ultra-modern sophistication and old world charm.
I’m donning my bright turquoise parka over a heavy ivory sweater. The sun is beaming right now but the chill is biting. I check in my purse for my folded yellow umbrella. Practically every guide said to always prepare for rain in London. And honestly, even if I get completely drenched, I cannot wait to experience a London rain myself.
I pop into an Internet café and get into the long line for coffee. I glance down at the brochures I grabbed from the lobby. Tomorrow I will be a good traveler and see all that London has to offer. I spot a theater brochure in the pile. I browse the list of shows and circle Mamma Mia. There is always time for more Abba in my life. To think, I will actually get to see a show in London’s famous West End.
“Two large iced coffees, please,” I say to the barista.
“Sure thing,” the girl says. I am obsessed with the accents of these Londoners!
“Two?”
I turn to see Oliver standing there, disheveled, and a little out of breath.
“We meet again,” I say, flashing my sweetest smile at Oliver in hopes that he’ll leave me alone and haunt another hotel guest. “Hello, Oliver.”
“Why two? Is your husband around?” he asks, looking around the coffee shop suspiciously.
“Just out of curiosity, do you always ask so many questions to the people that visit your dad’s hotel?”
His smile disappears in a nanosecond. “My…what?”
“Geoff, that guy at reception, told me.”
“Did he?” he asks, distractedly. He looks pretty upset. I pay the cashier and take my two iced coffees.
I sit down, and begin downing my first iced coffee, hoping to get out of this cafe before Oliver finishes paying for his own coffee and comes over to play a new round of twenty questions with me. When my first coffee is gone, I begin putting my coat on quickly. My plan: grab the second coffee and book it. It’s a good plan. And I almost make it, too.
“You do know it’s not going to rain today,” Oliver says, walking over to where I’m seated, eyeing my umbrella, which is peeking out of my purse.
“I’m tempting fate.”
“Your husband still not here yet?” he asks, sipping his coffee, not taking his eyes off of me. He doesn’t seem to get the whole socializing thing. He’s not very good at it. And, quite frankly, he makes me a little uncomfortable.
“Not yet. His flight was – “
“ – delayed. I remember. I’d like to meet him. When is he due in?”
“Later today,” I say impatiently. I grab my stuff and stand up. “Well, Oliver, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m missing all that London out there.”
“You don’t seem too concerned. You slept half the day away,” he says.
“Well, that wasn’t…” I trail off, something occurring to me. Is he spying on me?
He smiles. “I worked the morning shift. It’s not that big of a hotel,” he explains.
I regard him skeptically. “Okay. See you later,” I say, and walk quickly out the door.
I instantly wrap my arms around myself as the chill outside makes me shiver. I look over my shoulder, just to be sure Oliver is not following me. He is going to blow my cover. I just know it. His dad owns The Chaizer. From the moment he met me, he knew I was lying. Finding out someone was lying about who they were was probably the most exciting thing going on in his life! He is probably a spoiled, rich brat, just bored enough t
o want to make someone else’s life miserable. Oh, he will definitely find me out. And then it will be revealed that I am not my sister and I’ll probably be thrown in jail for identity fraud! Oh God…orange really is not my best color. Black and white stripes I can do, though. I wonder if I’ll have a choice.
I sigh, seeing my breath in the chilly air. My cheeks and nose begin to turn numb as my eyes water. Maybe iced coffee wasn’t my most inspired idea. I take one more sip as the effects of the caffeine and cold have definitely given me the jolt I needed – and throw the cup in the trash bin on the street. I continue my walk down Kensington High’s cobblestone streets, enjoying the scene of tourists and locals alike doing their holiday shopping and walking around with their families. A guitarist sits on the front steps of a brownstone, snug in about four different scarves, and an old, weathered brown coat, playing Christmas music.
“Silver Bells” fades into the distance as children laugh and people pass (meeting smile after smile), and I finally arrive at Kensington Hostel where Cary is staying. I hold the card that Cary gave me in my hand and debate calling him. Well – without a phone, I guess I’d have to have reception call him. Except I don’t think hostels have a reception area. Do they?
I really should just explore this city on my own. Buying Cary a thank-you coffee is silly. He basically did Mary a favor and I should—
“Lucy?”
I look up and see Cary standing before me, exiting the hostel, looking even more handsome in the daylight than he had last night.
“Hi!” I say, smiling widely. I’m forced to admit that Mary was right. I mean, knowing someone in town really isn’t a bad thing.
“How was your first day in London?” he asks, walking up to me.
“I slept in and wasted it mostly, but have promised myself to start fresh tomorrow.” I hold up the brochures. “I will see it all.”
He smiles at that.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Okay. They ruined my reservation,” he says, nodding towards his hostel, “and I’m being forced to share my room with these three other guys. I have to take my bag with me wherever I go.” He rolls his eyes, his annoyance clear. “Normally, I stay in a loft with two of my friends who live here, but they have family in town for the holidays and, well, this is all that’s really available at a normal price at this time of year.”
I look down and there it is. A bulky black suitcase sits beside him on the sidewalk. “That must be annoying,” I say, lamely.
“Just beyond annoying, actually,” he says. “You know, I realized something last night after I left you.” He tilts his head and narrows his eyes kind of playfully. “Isn’t The Chaizer some kind of deluxe honeymoon spa or something?”
I feel my face instantly flush. “How did you know?”
“It’s world-famous,” he says, laughing. “I knew it sounded familiar but I’ll admit I was a bit distracted last night so I didn’t realize it until I was brushing my teeth before bed.”
Cary was thinking about me as he brushed his teeth? Something stirs in my stomach and I groan. I did not come to London to fall for an old acquaintance, so any feelings of hope or pure admiration for his handsomeness must die. They must die now. I’m here for me. And that’s it!
I shrug, realizing he’s waiting for some kind of an explanation. “I came here kind of spontaneously,” I explain. “My sister and her new husband were going to come here for their honeymoon but decided not to. When I realized what happened, I called the hotel to cancel the reservation, but – “
“ – you decided to come in their place instead.”
I shake my head, embarrassed, half expecting him to call this a fool’s mission like Charles did. “I’m a honeymoon thief.”
His grin changes at that, and he looks like he’s fighting the urge to burst out laughing.
“I just wanted a vacation, honestly. I only realized The Chaizer is exclusively for honeymooners when I got there last night. I actually tried to find a new hotel too, but you’re right. Prices are a bit astronomical. Plus I completely fell in love with my flat, so I’m stuck pretending to be my sister because there is no way I can stay anywhere else now.”
He takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms, looking amused. He gestures for me to continue. “Did you explain all of this to the hotel staff?”
“I started to, but they have this policy about honeymooners and non-transferable reservations, so here I am.” I smile and shrug casually.
“They didn’t question your lack of husband?”
“They did. So, I am going to lay low, be virtually unnoticed.”
He laughs. “That’s probably a good idea.”
“Anyway, I wanted to see if I could buy you a cup of coffee as a thank you for driving me last night.”
He checks his watch. “I actually have to run to class right now. Could we do a raincheck for tomorrow? Same time, same place?”
I smile at him. “I’d like that.”
The thing they should tell you about psychics is that once you read the signs they warn you about, and make irrational decisions because of them, you are pretty much on your own. There are no psychics in your honeymoon suite to tell you what to do or where to go next. It’s all up to you.
An actually adventurous person would have no problem making what could otherwise be a boring night in a foreign city into a memorable occasion. Me?
I went to a bookstore, picked up a book entitled The Cat Who Went to Paris, and took it to a pub. A cold beer, fish and chips, and a relaxing dinner by book in an English pub - it’s a pretty okay way to spend a first night in a new city, especially if you’re still completely exhausted.
Reading seems the perfect way to while away the remainder of what I’ve dubbed my “settling in” day. I keep smudging the same pages with my greasy fish fingers, unable to fully concentrate on the lighthearted story when so much is going on in the local pub.
A young couple in the corner seems oblivious to the fact that anyone else is in the pub. The bartender looks like she’s about sixteen - though I’m sure she’s older - and she jumps every time the bell rings over the door, like she’s waiting for something. Or someone. A young man is asserting that Tony Blair was the greatest Prime Minister ever. His two friends completely disagree (it was John Major). And a woman with silvery blonde hair wears a Christmas sweater and sits in a corner, watching every scene unfold unashamedly, like she does this every day.
I return to the hotel at ten. I see that my lovely neighbors, Dan and Kiki, are making out by the fireplace in the lobby. It is kind of sweet, actually, that they can’t keep their hands off each other. I’ve never really witnessed newlyweds like this, who seem physically unable to stop making out. They must have had a very quick courtship.
I make it successfully to my room when I realize I forgot my key inside. I walk back down to the lobby, making a beeline for the front desk.
“I locked myself out of my room,” I say to the teenaged girl behind the desk. This is clearly her after-school job. Her feet are propped up on the counter as she reads Jane Eyre though she seems to be keeping one eye on the reality dating show on the television in the lobby.
“It wasn’t the smartest thing to do,” she says, without looking at me. It is so unfair that the British can say anything they want and it all sounds like Shakespeare.
“So,” I say after a long moment, looking at the book cover staring me in the face. “Should I wait for the house to burn down?”
She looks up at me, finally. “What?”
“I locked myself out of my room,” I repeat. “I was wondering if you might have another key for me.”
She sighs loudly, drops her feet from the desk and looks up at me. “There will be a fine next time.”
“Won’t be a next time,” I assure her, hoping to convey friendliness since she’s looking at me like she wants to hit me with Jane Eyre. The hard cover version. They must have not gone over the hotel’s mission to be friendly and personable with
her during her training. “Promise.”
“And I will need to see identification.”
I smile and open my purse, grabbing the appropriate ID and handing it over to her.
She types something on the computer. “It says here to call you Miss Gray because you are not planning to take your husband’s name and not to mention that to him if he ever shows up in case it’s a sour point.”
I laugh. “The note really says all that?”
“It does.” She reminds me of Liam but ten years older and a girl. She has an almost sweet looking face but a prickly personality to go with it.
“Prepared for an indoor shower, Miss Gray?”
I roll my eyes, recognizing the voice. Stupid slow receptionist. Stupid Charlotte Brontë.
“Oliver. Hi,” I say, turning.
He smiles. He actually has a nice smile. It’s slightly crooked and kind of boyish. He should spend more time smiling, instead of being so absolutely annoying.
“Hi, Oliver,” the girl behind the counter says, a big smile on her face, clearly pushing away thoughts of Jane Eyre, reality shows and misplaced flat keys.
“That’s flat 708,” I say to her. She just stares at Oliver, perfecting her Shyest Girl in All of London act.
“Hi, Polly,” Oliver says, looking past me.
She types quickly onto the keyboard for a moment and grabs a new key out of a drawer and hands it to me.
“Great. Thanks.” I walk away, optimistic that Oliver will strike up a conversation with Polly and leave me alone.
“Is your husband still delayed?” he asks, falling into step beside me, his inherently polite British accent covering up what I can only assume is a very snarky tone.
“You will be the first to know when he arrives,” I say, picking up my pace a little.
“You know, I am starting to think that – “
“Lucy!”
I stop and turn to the foyer where Cary, in a sleek leather jacket and wind-ruffled hair framing his face, smiles at me, dragging his suitcase with him.
Honeymoon Alone: A Novel Page 6