Falling in Love with English Boys

by Melissa Jensen

  I think of Adam and the out-of-the-blue e-mail that, maybe, shouldn’t have been so out of the blue. I think I’m a smart girl in so many ways. I think I should have seen this coming. The phone calls when Will was with me. The “friend” he traveled with. The simple, shoulda-said-it-all fact that I never saw him at night.

  He’s no vampire. He’s taken. I’m an idiot.

  I take a deep breath. It hurts. I go back. I have to go.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” I tell Bella with my best frozen smile. I hate her. But I’m a good actor. Remember? The only freshman to make drama club? “I can’t do the museum with you. My friend needs me. She and her boyfriend . . .” I shrug and manage a face. You know. Let them pick a friend-boyfriend scenario to suit them.

  “Oh, what a shame,” she purrs. I hate her. But I can’t blame her. She didn’t set this up. She didn’t make me fall a little bit in love with Will. He did that. He never mentioned the gorgeous girlfriend in Greece. Can’t blame her for coming home. “Not here a month and already on call. You are good at making . . . friends.”

  “Always thought so,” I shoot back. Hate her. I still can’t look at Will.

  “Anyone we know?” she asks. Again with that plural. Yeah, yeah. Message received, I think dully. I think I need to go. Now. But I can’t resist.

  “You must know Consuelo Spenser,” I say. I figure everyone knows of Consuelo. Now that I know Consuelo, I realize I’ve seen her in the society pages of Tatler. And British Vogue. “Or, I’m sure you know of her. She’s always in Tatler. And British Vogue.”

  Ah, finally, a smidgen of respect. I silently apologize to Consuelo, Bayard, and the panda. They’ll understand.

  “Nice meeting you, Bella,” I say, fumbling with my phone, my bag, my pockets. I am Cool. I am Gracious. I would rather tickle a tarantula than shake her hand. “Gotta go.”

  And I go.

  I manage to get all the way to the bottom of the Park without looking back. Then I need to sit down. I’m shaking a little. I perch on the edge of a bench. At the other end, a Nanny McPhee-alike (the wart and snaggletooth and unibrow Nanny McPhee) is shoving a crying baby back and forth in a space-age pram. Between us, a girl who looks my age but is wearing a suit is thumbing her BlackBerry and eating an apple.

  You know how you felt when you were three or four, the first time you looked up in Macy’s and your mom wasn’t there? That’s me. As lost as is remotely possible, considering I have a pretty damn good idea exactly where I am. Panicking. I will never get back to where I was. I will be lost forever. I think of Mom, of what she told me when she found me that day, probably only about three minutes later, sobbing under a rack of Day-Glo clearance parkas with fake-fur-trimmed hoods.

  “If you get lost, stay where you are, my little Cat, and call for help. I will always find you.”

  I could call Mom. She would understand. She would even come get me in a cab. But what would I say? He has a girlfriend, Mommy. He never said he didn’t, but he never said he did, and I liked him sooooo much . . .

  I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I called Elizabeth.

  She picked up just when I was sure I was going to get her voice mail. “Yah?”

  “He has a girlfriend!” I wailed, earning me a glare from the nanny and a sympathetic half smile from Apple Girl. “I came all the way to bloody Hyde Park to meet him”—another glare—“and he shows up with his girlfriend! And she’s goo-oor-geous.” I was already starting to hiccup. Bad sign.

  There was a long pause. Then, “Cat?”

  Oh, crap. “Imogen?”

  “Yah. Sorry. Elizabeth left her mobile in my car. Where are you?”

  Uh, duh. “Hyde Park.”

  “Yah. Where? It’s a big place, Cat. What’s the nearest gate?”

  Oh, yeah. I felt the first snuffle coming on. I shuffled across the path and looked at the map board. I am here. X . “Albert.”

  “Good. Walk out and stand in front of the Sloane Street side of Harvey Nicks. Can you do that?” She took my next snuffle as an affirmative. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I’ll find you.”

  It was closer to twenty, but who’s counting? She screamed up in a dented little vintage convertible, top down. She was wearing huge shades, a scarf over her hair, and a stripy French shirt. She looked like a black Jackie O. “Get in!” she called over the noisy rumble of the engine.

  For a second, I debated just not doing it. I mean, I’d just been skewered in the back by Cupid, followed by a sad sad twenty minutes snuffling in front of London’s most chichi department store, watching women who looked a lot more like Bella than like me going in and out, bearing bags full of things I would probably have died for, and looking at me like they were wondering if they should give me loose change. One actually tried. Beyond that, Imogen still scared me. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to stand her utterly cool perfection, not to mention her pity.

  I got in. I was too battered not to.

  She thrust a wad of paper napkins into my lap, gave my hand a quick, firm squeeze, then veered back into traffic, narrowly missing being squashed by a red double-decker bus.

  I didn’t know what to say. Turns out I didn’t have to. She tapped a tiny, Swarovski crystal-encrusted earbud into her ear, pressed something on her similarly embellished iPhone, and handled everything.

  “Lizbeth,” she yelled. “I’ve got Cat with me. Meet me at Consuelo’s in a half hour.” There was a pause. “I don’t care, do I? This is important. Saving the rain forest can wait. Trust me, I’ve been. Good. Now listen, bring loads of Häagen-Dazs. Hang on. I’ll ask. Cat? Häagen-Dazs choice?”

  “Vanilla Swiss Almond,” I mumbled into my scrunched napkin.

  She understood. I guess it’s that way with Häagen-Dazs. And Imogen. “Vanilla Swiss Almond. And Dulce de Leche. And that vile Chocolate Peanut Butter that Swell likes. Okay? Yah,” she said, reaching out and squeezing my hand quickly again. “She’ll be fine.”

  I don’t know how she did it, driving a stick shift, poking the right phone buttons, making sure I didn’t literally fall to pieces in the old leather seat. She did it. We zoomed around Buckingham Palace (she waved), up several wide streets and countless small ones. She tapped again. “Swell. Where are you? Mmm-hmm. That was TMI, darling. Now listen. Get your things together and go home. I’ve got Cat in my car and we need your bed. Yah. Lizbeth’s bringing ice cream. Yah, of course I told her to get yours. You’ll stop at the vid? Get Eternal Sunshine, High Fidelity . . . oh, fine, Chasing Amy, and something bloody . . . Terminator 2? Kiss Bay for me. No, not there.”

  Then she made a last call. I don’t know who to. It was brief. “Can’t make it today. Oh, stop. Something very important. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  We careened around one last corner, nearly taking out an old lady and her pug. I recognized Consuelo’s private park first, then her house. Imogen turned down a narrow, cobblestoned lane and bumped to a stop in front of a large garage.

  “Come on, then,” she coaxed as she came around to my side of the car. “Out you go.”

  She looped one arm around my shoulders and guided me through a little gate and into the gardens. The only other time I’d been in them, I’d been pretty awed. I mean, they’re not huge, but, in the middle of London, still pretty impressive. Any other day, I would have wanted to dip my toes in the mermaid-centered fountain. I think Imogen saw mermacidal intent in my eyes, ’cause she hurried me along the gravel path. She didn’t knock; she walked right into the house. Huggins met us in the hall.

  “We’ll be in Consuelo’s room,” Imogen told him.

  He nodded. “Shall I bring up refreshments?”

  “Spoons. Lots of spoons.” Imogen was already leading me toward the stairs. “And tea, please.”

  I wasn’t going to protest. I read Jane Austen and Marian Keyes. Apparently sweet tea cures all ills short of decapitation. I’d give it a shot. I did, however, add a very quiet, “Pringles?”

  Huggins nodded solemnly, as if
I’d just requested boiling water and a scalpel. “Certainly, miss. Pringles it is.”

  Imogen got me into Consuelo’s room (rooms, actually; she has her own little living room along with the palatial bedroom and bathroom), got my shoes off, and sent me into the bathroom to wash the mascara off the better part of my face. “I would have taken you to my house,” she told me as she handed over the thickest, softest towel I’d ever held, “but I thought circumstances called for Swell’s.”

  I washed my face, dried it on my shirt, then climbed with my teddy towel into the huge marble bath. It was big enough for two people, easy. I started to sniffle again.

  Eventually, I heard Elizabeth come in, and soon after, Consuelo. There was a short bout of whispering, then a tap on the door. “Cat?” It was Elizabeth. “Come out or I’m coming in.”

  I came out. They were all there, in a line, three Furies. Not as good as you, my Fab Furies, especially when Adam the Scum sent that e-mail, but pretty damned Fab nonetheless. I wanted to sic them on Will. I wanted to thank them for all of this. I wanted to crawl under Consuelo’s king-size bed with my towel and stay there.

  “Talk now or later?” Imogen asked.

  “Later,” I said.

  We did talk later, and they slagged off Will just exactly the right amount to make me feel just the right amount better. But for most of the day, we all squashed into the bed, eating ice cream and Pringles and watching Sarah Connor kick butt.

  We all shared the chocolate orange. Elizabeth showed me the right way to break it into its little segments. You bang it against a hard surface. Worked for me. It was delicious.

  I was almost human when Imogen dropped me at the flat at nine.

  Turns out she’s not so scary after all.

  8 June

  This arrived for me this morning, amid a bouquet of roses. There was no name attached, but I think there is little doubt who the sender is.

  In Naturalness

  For the eyes of Miss Percival alone.

  So light of step, so bright of eye,

  Draped in gossamer, pearled with dew,

  This woodland creature that I spy;

  Of you I yearn, I beg, I sigh:

  Tread careful, lest you rend me in two

  And leave me on the field to die.

  Heed me, Nymph, and be not cruel

  When bold I come into your bower;

  In Nature’s crown, you are the jewel,

  The gentlest breeze, the sweetest flower,

  The softest earth, the deepest pool,

  The prize at end of darkling hour.

  How blest the man who meets such grace

  Of mannerism, warmth of heart,

  To know the beauty of her face

  Owes more to nature than to art;

  He must tread careful through her place,

  And give to her his eager heart.

  If I had any question of his regard, I do not now.

  I shall carry it upon my person always. I shall show it to Luisa. I know he wishes it to be for my eyes alone, but she is my dearest friend and can be counted upon to keep my secret. Yet how I hope it need not be secret for long. I want to cry to the rafters, to Society, and to Papa that Mr. Thomas Baker is composing such verse to me. To me!

  Oh, what a splendid life I shall have, after all!

  I have just come from Luisa’s house.

  She said the poem was very nicely rhymed, quite perfect in that regard. She agreed it was certainly most gratifying in its declarations, and most romantic in its pastoral tone.

  I could see the corners of her mouth twitching all the while. Finally, I could stand it no longer.

  “What? What is it?” I demanded.

  She began to laugh then, in fact laughed so hard that tears streamed down her cheeks. “Oh, I am sorry, Kitty!” she gasped, most sincere, yet still laughing. “It is a lovely poem, but does it not put you just a bit in mind . . . With all that earth and field and ‘tread careful’ . . . Does it not . . . Does it not just make you think of treading in cowpats?”

  Of course it does not. Luisa really has the lowest of humour sometimes!

  July 23

  Last Words

  Thanks, goils, for the video message. Never was Gloria Gaynor channeled with such style. Yes, I will survive. I’m just gonna wallow for a day or two. Maybe three. See pic, and if you laugh, I will hear you from across the Pond and I will cry. (I would threaten violence, but who has the energy?) Apparently “washes out in one shampoo” is intended for those who wash with Clairol Carbolic. I look like one of Adam the Scum’s anime girls, which would be all well and good if I had eyes like blank CDs and any breasts whatsoever.

  I appreciate the list du jour (and yes, I think it probably is illegal to try to get the bella B. inducted into the Marines). Youse are da bomb.

  Top Ten Things I Wish Weren’t True

  1. Chocolate is not as healthy a food as, say, brussels sprouts.

  2. My grandmother won’t live forever.

  3. There’s no such thing as Santa Claus.

  4. Bees are disappearing all over the world.

  5. You can never take back hurtful words or violent actions.

  6. Catered canapés are higher on my father’s priority list than I am.

  7. There will not be another Harry Potter book or Heath Ledger movie.

  8. The polar ice caps are melting; polar bears are drowning (okay, that’s two, but they go together).

  9. Will loves Bella.

  10. I had to find out the way I did.

  10 June

  I do not know what this evening has meant, but I am feeling most anxious suddenly.

  I have been so confident of Thomas’s feelings for me, most certainly after the arrival of the verse (the Cowpat Poem, Luisa calls it). And when I spied him across the room tonight, I felt as if I were walking on air (oh, bother Luisa; now all I can think of is brisk country air and wet grass and treading in . . . oh, bother!).

  I waited all evening for a quiet interlude with him, like the one we had in the Spensers’ garden. I fully believe Papa will send me back to Percy’s Vale if he hears my name connected with Thomas’s, and I do not know how even Mama could stop him. Yet if Thomas does not declare himself soon, I fear worse from my father than banishment to the country.

  So I kept my distance and hoped desperately for a stolen moment. The opportunity did not arise. We were separated by our friends in the party crush, then separated by a table at dinner. I found myself seated beside Mr. Tallisker, who had already clearly consumed too much drink and wished only to speak of pheasant hunting. Thomas was seated beside Miss Northrop. He caught my eye several times, and smiled. He even once gave me the smallest of winks while Miss Northrop prattled away at his side.

  I cannot imagine how Mr. Tallisker spied that small gesture, yet he did. “Looks like something’s brewing here!” He chuckled, bumping my arm with his. Really, he can be quite a boor when drunk.

  I blushed and lowered my face. It would not do at all to let our attachment be known before we have properly defined it ourselves.

  I confess, I would not object to a bit of impropriety.

  When I looked up again, Thomas had turned back to his conversation. Julia Northrop laughs like a horse.

  Mr.Tallisker leaned in, assaulting my nose with wine fumes. “So, old Baker’s on the path to the altar, eh, Miss Percival?”

  “I really could not say, sir!” I replied as primly as I could manage, yet I silently cheered. If a careless sot such as Tallisker sees it, everyone must!

  After supper, as always, the dancing began. The idea of dancing with anyone but Thomas was not appealing. I wished to be by his side alone, or to be alone. Yet alone is not a popular place to be during a party. So Luisa kindly sat with me in a corner of the room, two wallflowers for an evening. She was not, however, particularly kind about Thomas’s attentions to Miss Northrop.

  “I do not care if this is his method of discretion,” she announced tartly. “It is discreet to the poin
t of disrespect.”

  Across the room, he was partnering Eleanor Quinn in a quadrille. Miss Northrop and Mr. Tallisker were in the same set. “She has not had a poem from him,” was my smug reply.

  “So far as you know.”

  True enough, but I did not think it terribly kind of her to remind me.

  “I do not mean to be unkind,” she went on, reading my mind as usual, “merely pragmatic. You are open with your heart. I do not wish to see it broken. You know I wish you only the greatest of happiness.”

  I am not open with my heart. Now she was being kind. It is she who is affectionate and easy in her manners. I am merely loud, I fear, and not skilled at hiding my emotions.

  “We cannot all be as reserved as you, Miss Luisa,” I said, rather more sourly than she deserved.

  For the last several weeks, she has taken no notice whatsoever of the young men who vie for her attention. Not that she ever did, really, but she has become most disinterested. I know there is someone who has captured her fancy, if not her heart. I have quizzed her on the matter several times, but she denies all.

  “Do not tease me, please, Kitty. I beg you. There is nothing to tell. When I have anything at all to speak of, it shall be to you. I promise.”

  I do not believe her that there is nothing to tell, but she is my good and true friend. I will not press her, no matter how curious I might be. She has done so much for me. I can do this for her.

  So, as I watched Thomas with one eye as he stepped and twirled, I kept the other open for a man who might be enthralling my friend. Mr. McCoy? Charming, but not nearly clever enough for Luisa. Mr. Pertwee? No, she would never accept a gentleman who wears a corset. Mr. Eccleston? Too pert.