Honeymoon Alone: A Novel

by Nicole Macaulay

“Oh,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “I was thinking that it would be about how I cheated on you the day before our wedding.”

  “Then I guess I’m acting too, because the real me would never stay with you if that was the story.”

  It has to be said that no one else in history has ever had a honeymoon quite like this.

  ecember twenty-third is generally a very busy day, but when you are in the center of one of the most famous cities in the whole world, it’s downright ridiculous. Everyone’s running around (and sometimes literally into each other) frantically doing their last minute shopping. I can barely bend my arms without my elbows hitting someone.

  It probably doesn’t help that I’m standing in the entranceway to Harrods attempting to take a selfie with my new camera. This thing is amazing! It’s a pale pink digital mini camera – a Christmas splurge gift to myself. I scan through some of the images of my day – the tube, the London skyline, the London Eye – amazed at the beauty in the shots. I admit I feel a little lost without my phone –literally (I never realized how much I relied on my many map apps) and figuratively (I keep reaching for it to text Mary, Jake, Charles, my mom or to take pictures with it). But it’s kind of nice seeing photos that are incredible on their own, without an Instagram filter applied. I’ll get used to being disconnected. I hope.

  After being bumped into by two bustling shoppers, I realize that taking a selfie without a smart phone is simply not working in the Harrods doorway, so I finally walk in to the massive store. Ever since I was twelve, my mother has dreamed of owning something from Harrods. Anything. She hasn’t outright admitted to this fact, though. But I know it. That was the year my Aunt Velma returned from a trip to London and showed off her Harrods everything: designer jeans, earrings, a rose-gold key ring, platinum teapot with Harrods engraved in its top, and Harrods tea to serve with it. You name it, she bought it.

  My mom would say things like “that’s nice…if you like that sort of thing,” and casually shrug, brushing off Aunt Velma’s showy behavior. But I saw the way she looked at the pieces. She ran her fingers over the details of the teapot and stared at the key ring like it was a piece of buried treasure in the palm of her hand. She and my dad plan to explore Great Britain and Europe when he retires, but we all kind of secretly think he will work forever. He loves his job too much to stop.

  I now hold a bona fide Harrods souvenir wrapped safely in tissue paper: a tiny wooden Christmas ornament of Harrods’ famous storefront, the year emblazoned in brilliant gold. I know it’s not a glamorous platinum teapot or a finely engraved watch – but it made me think of my mother. I love decorating the tree with her every year, while Bing Crosby or Andy Williams provide our Ye Olde Christmas soundtrack. The first of December is one of my favorite days of the year for that reason. Ever since I can remember.

  Clutching my souvenir, I walk into a nearby Starbucks for a hot caramel macchiato. It’s official. Boston Lucy is on vacation and London Lucy takes her java hot.

  “Miss Gray.”

  I jump at the sound of my name and turn to see Oliver stride up and get into line behind me. Where did he come from? “What a surprise,” he says casually, sticking his hands into his pockets and just staring down at me with that annoyingly penetrating glare.

  “Hi, Oliver.” I smile and look up at him. “I won’t lie. I’m not that surprised.”

  He smiles, unraveling his black knit scarf. His brown eyes are bright from the cold. With a little five o’clock shadow, and his dark wavy hair windswept, he kind of looks like he just rolled out of bed. And…he actually looks kind of handsome. “You know, you’re in England, not America,” he points out.

  “And here I thought everyone had forgotten the basic rules of traffic, all at once,” I joke, wondering where he’s going with this train of thought. “Hot caramel macchiato,” I say to the barista.

  “What I mean is why not go to a local coffee house instead of an American chain?”

  “This was closer.”

  Once I pay and get my drink, I head to my table and sit down, pulling out my camera and snapping a picture of my drink next.

  “So, where’s your husband?” he asks, sitting down at the table after buying his own drink. Walking away without a word was meant to discourage him. Maybe I’m being too subtle.

  “Please leave me alone, Oliver,” I say, turning the dial on the top of the camera to Portrait.

  “What’s that?”

  I groan. “Honestly, there’s got to be something else you could do with your day.”

  He looks at me expectantly.

  “It’s my camera,” I say, exasperated. “Haven’t you seen a camera before?”

  “Yes. It’s just most people take pictures on their cell phones these days.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  He laughs quickly. “I’ll agree with you there.”

  I put my camera away and look at him. “I hope you’ve come here to tell me that you took the next week off for the holidays and this is ‘goodbye.’”

  “You don’t enjoy these talks?”

  I smile and just shake my head as I stand up and fix my scarf. Without a backward glance, I’m off.

  TO: Gray, Lucy

  FROM: Gray, Julie

  RECEIVED: Friday, December 23

  SUBJECT: Your trip

  Hey Lucy. I just wanted to say that I think it’s great what you’re doing. I thought about it. I mean, you are seeking inner harmony and you are out looking for yourself. It’s inspiring. We’ll miss you on Christmas. But I get this. I get what you’re doing. Okay, I’m going home to do some more prenatal yoga with mom. It’s really fun actually.

  xoxoxoxox

  -Jules

  I smile at Julie’s email, suddenly feeling fantastic about being away from home, on my adventure of self-discovery. I am looking for inner harmony out here in London. I am an independent woman and many people will look at my journey the way Julie does…in awe. Though I’m sure some might look at it the way my mom does…with concern for my sanity.

  Tingling all over with feelings of total independence, I click open an email from Charles. I don’t have much time left on my internet pass, and I can’t afford to buy another today. I sincerely hope Charles isn’t writing to impart his overprotective ‘wisdom’ upon me. Again. I see immediately that it’s not from Charles at all, though.

  TO: Gray, Lucy

  FROM: Gray, Charles and Samantha

  RECEIVED: December 23

  SUBJECT: Come home.

  Auntie Lucy. Its Cora and Tristan. Y did you go 2 London? Dad can’t stop talking about it. He wants 2 come out there 2 get you. Was this because I said u couldn’t ice skate? Because u were fine. For a beginner. You can come home if thats all it was. WE LOVE YOU. Oh Tristan wants me 2 tell you he made a clay thing for you at school for Xmas and will give it 2 u when u get back. It looks really weird, but he can’t read so he doesn’t know what I just wrote lol.

  LOVE,

  CORA & TRISTAN

  I shoot the kids a quick email back to let them know that I did not hop on a plane and skip countries because my eleven-year-old niece suggested I’m not the best ice-skater. With my remaining two minutes, I open an email from Mary. Hopefully she sent a picture of Ricky.

  TO: Gray, Lucy

  FROM: Trino, Mary

  RECEIVED: December 23

  SUBJECT: Your brother…

  …Jake came by. He’s trying to fix your sink, but he ended up making it worse. He’s about as handy as your dad. So anyway, he’ll have it fixed he said by the time you get back. You know, he’s really very nice. Is it me, or has he kept that part of himself hidden since we were kids??

  -Mary

  PS: Pooper scoopering is like sifting through the city dump. Just FYI.

  PPS: Are you having fun?

  PPPS: I’m heading out to have lunch with Evan soon – wish me luck!

  I send along some good luck for her lunch date with Evan and assure Mary that I am definitely having some fun
and ask her to send me a photo of Ricky in her next email.

  As I arrive at Westminster Abbey, the next place on my day’s agenda, I gape at its pure magnitude. The gothic church stretches skyward, towering over me, almost like it’s greeting me on arrival. I step inside, immediately hearing the heel of my brown suede boots echo softly on the hard wood floors inside. It’s not exactly warm in here, but it’s not the outdoors either. Sitting in a pew, I take off my gloves and look around at everything. The stained glass windows, the religious statues, the gorgeous architecture. This place is amazing. It’s somehow more than I expected even after seeing it in movies and reading about it in books. Red candles run along the wall on the side, ready for Christmas Eve mass tomorrow.

  Before she died, Grandma Lucille always came to midnight mass with me. My family used to come, too, but when Cora was born, they all wanted to go to a mass she could go to as well. Grandma Lucille knew how much I loved the magic of midnight mass, so we went together, just us. Last Christmas was the first time I went to the early service with the rest of my family. It was nice, but some of the magic was definitely missing. I miss her a lot. And I know she’d be cheering me on right now.

  After checking out the grave of the “Unknown Soldier” by one of the doors, wondering at the mystery of this man, I eventually put my gloves back on and head outside to make my way to the Tower of London aboard another red bus.

  There’s no line at the Tower. I enter directly behind an American tourist group. I nonchalantly hang back a couple of feet from the guide, hoping to hear some of the history she is sharing with her group.

  What I do hear is kind of shocking. There were all these deaths that took place here. A bunch of people were just beheaded right here, in the exact spot I am standing now, looking around innocently, not a guillotine in sight. They did not cut you slack if you were a woman or a queen. In the sixteenth century, Queen Anne Boleyn (one of Henry VIII’s six wives) was beheaded for treason.

  “That’s not the worst part,” the tour guide continues. I nearly balk out loud at that, but suppress the sound. I am still trying to pretend that I am not tour crashing, so I gaze at something away from where the group is looking, while my mind wonders what on earth could be worse than being married to a king who allowed your head to literally get cut off.

  “They say that she haunts this place still, carrying her head under her arm.”

  Okay, that’s just creepy.

  One of The Tower’s many towers is actually called The Bloody Tower because of the insane amount of murdering that went on here. Apparently, there’s also this guy who Shakespeare once said drowned in wine here. Wine. They should call this place the Tower of Horribly Unfortunate Deaths.

  I trail the group to an area where there used to be a moat and learn that when they drained it in the nineteenth century, human bones were found at the bottom. So basically, people were losing their heads, drowning in wine and moats, and there was a Bloody Tower so as to not forget all of this was going on. The Tower of London is a disturbing place…though unbelievably fascinating.

  Staring at the empty moat area, I imagine all of the unlucky people who thought they were going on a fun and harmless boat ride but were actually getting a boat ride to their deaths. The group begins to walk into another part of the fortress. As I move to follow, I catch a disapproving look from a middle-aged man in the group. He totally knows I’m listening to his guide for free. The group moves away and I smile at him, embarrassed. I stop in my tracks. I get it. He paid for the tour. I didn’t. When the group is long gone, I grab my camera and immediately begin documenting the former moat.

  “Lucy?”

  I jump at the sound of my name. I’ve been alone for most of the day, so it just sounds strange, penetrating my quiet bubble like that. I see a familiar looking woman heading towards me.

  “It is Lucy, right?”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to place her.

  “Kiki.” She points to herself as she stops in front of me. “From The Chaizer.”

  Ah, one of the impatient newlyweds from across the hall. I didn’t recognize her all decked in her winter gear and without the husband ravaging her. “Sure,” I say, “Kiki, nice to see you again.” I put my camera back in its case.

  “This has to be your first time in London,” she says. Her cheeks look red. So do her dark eyes and her nose in fact. Long dark brown waves spill from her cream-colored knit cap that matches her totally cute cream and black checkered coat. She looks like she’s about twenty-one years old. In the hotel with her husband, she somehow seemed older. More mature. Now that I see her clearly, she reminds me of a young Mary Tyler Moore. Graceful, classic, and naïve.

  I smile. “Is it that obvious?”

  “You just have this look on your face, like—”

  “—a kid at Disney?” I offer. She nods, rolling her eyes at the cliché. “I can’t help it,” I say, wrapping my arms around myself, as the wind picks up slightly, chilling me. “You’re right. It’s my first time here. And I can just imagine what my face looks like. Have you heard the history of this place? It’s like a bad episode of Days of Our Lives. But in a good way, because it actually happened.”

  Kiki grabs a tissue from her pocket to wipe her nose. “I know. Everyone killed everyone. And they married, like, a thousand people before they died,” she says in agreement. “I love the architecture here. Dan and I, we’ve been all around Europe the past couple months, but I like everything here the most. I mean, that fortress was built so long ago. Like, before machines.”

  I look out at the fortress she’s gazing so adoringly at. “It is pretty amazing,” I concede.

  She shrugs and turns to face me. “I majored in architecture.” She continues looking toward the fortress, though her eyes now seem about a million miles away.

  I look around. “Is your husband here, too?”

  She nods with a smile. “He was, but he went back to rest. He had a headache. He always gets them when he travels.” She turns to me and forces a smile. “Looks like us little wives are on our own today.”

  Did she seriously just say us little wives? I…I can’t even formulate a response to that.

  “Have you seen the Crown Jewels yet?” she asks, clearly not noticing my perplexed expression.

  “I haven’t.”

  “Maybe we could check them out together.”

  Her eyes are so wide and eager, and she seems kind of lonely. I decide to take her up on her offer. Besides I need something to do for the next hour before I head to Cary’s class. And I can’t leave the Tower of London without seeing the Crown Jewels. I think a first-time tourist could get beheaded for that.

  An hour later, a taxi takes me about six miles from the Tower of London to Anne Benedict’s studio. Six miles is apparently the distance it takes to go from skyscrapers and walk ups to avenues of cottages and farmhouses. I pull up to an old, converted farmhouse. It looks like something out of a Jane Austen novel. As I make my way inside, I realize why Cary comes here year after year.

  The white ceramic tiles lining the walls look like they were painted on by my third grade class yet that’s the charm of it – like a silent homage to the most simple joys of art. It invites you right in. The hardwood floor gives way to a shag area rug that looks like it, too, was decorated by my class. Artificial lighting is hardly needed as schoolroom-styled windows open outward, casting sunlight into the bright space.

  The most noticeable feature of the room is the furniture. Or rather, the lack of it. Without a couch or seat – or desk – in sight, everyone sits cross-legged or lies on their stomachs. This room seems like the most peaceful place in the world.

  “You made it,” Cary says, jogging over to me.

  As he approaches me, I notice that he’s sweaty. Like, really sweaty. “Do I want to know what you were doing before I arrived?” I ask.

  “Pilates, to loosen us up for class,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder and turns to look at his classmates. His eyes land on his teacher,
and he stops scanning the room.

  She catches his eye and smiles in acknowledgment before noticing me and waving. Inside her studio, Anne looks almost radiant. When I met her outside, she seemed almost elfish – tiny, pale, long hair in braids. In here, she looks more relaxed and natural. Her complexion is healthy and glowing, her hair tied in a messy bun that actually looks incredibly stylish. She’s at least ten years older than Cary. And among all of her students in here, she seems worldly. Almost regal.

  “What’s her deal?” I whisper, leaning into Cary.

  He follows my gaze. “Anne?” He looks down at me, surprised at the question. “She’s great. She used to rule the London theatre circuit. Years ago.” He shrugs and looks at Anne again. She’s chatting with a student. “She never liked the limelight, though. I’d give anything to have even a glimmer of the success she’s had. Or just to know what she knows, to exude that confidence.”

  He takes my jacket off my shoulders and leads me into the studio, and we take a seat on the floor. Class begins with “simple meditations,” as Anne explains. It is actually relaxing. I breathe deeply. In and out. In and out. I’ve been so worked up for the past couple of days, living a lie and missing my family and all, it feels nice to just close my eyes and listen to my own deep breaths. As Anne announces the topic of the day, however – my marriage to Cary Stewart – I feel myself tense, the meditative state I was in leaving my body almost instantly.

  In the end, Cary did all of the talking with Anne cutting in periodically to tell me not to look so surprised every time Cary revealed a new piece of our history. But…it was all so horribly unromantic.

  “We met in the frozen food section of the grocery store?” I ask Cary, as we walk out of the studio. I really couldn’t hide my mortification upon learning the “truth” of our grand first meeting.

  “I should’ve thought of something more original,” he says, placing an arm around me as we head outside. He hails a cab and directs it back to the Kensington High district. “It’s improv, though,” he explains, once we are seated and off. “Whatever comes to you is what you go with. Whatever drove you to say it had some other motivation driving it. When I looked at you, I thought, ‘grocery store, aisle six, frozen dinners.’”