She swung her legs over the side of the bed with reluctance. “Okay. But just for this fancy-schmancy tea thing today. When we’re walking around checking out the sights, I’m wearing my comfy jeans.” Her frugal eyes bored into mine. “And I’m not going to spend a lot of money on clothes I’ll probably only wear once, either.”
I’m counting on that.
Before waking MJ up, I’d run out and tried the phone and a nearby ATM, but my cash hadn’t shown up yet. Nor had my suitcase.
“Not a problem, MJ. I know just the place.”
After breakfast—canned grapefruit sections and a cold cereal called Weetabix—I herded Mary Jo to the same charity shop where I’d bought George’s mother’s discarded sweater. Once inside, I headed straight to the familiar rack of coats and jackets. “You can never go wrong with a blazer, MJ.” Flipping through, I was delighted to find a nice navy jacket as well as a black wool one that I hoped would fit my friend’s bulkier frame. I also spotted a nice gray tweed I wanted to try on, especially since it was less than ten pounds.
She kept gravitating toward sweaters and “cute” tops with animals on them, and I kept pulling her away.
“We’re going for classic and understated,” I said, handing her a pair of black trousers. “Not cutesy. Every woman needs at least one pair of black pants. You can wear them anywhere—church, dinner, the theater—”
“A funeral,” grumbled Mary Jo, who preferred bright rainbow hues and whose favorite color was orange.
“That too.”
We left with two blazers—the black wool for MJ and the gray tweed for me. No pants though; the nice-looking ones were too tight.
Our next stop was Marks & Spencer, which I’d learned yesterday was having a sale. Immediately we found Mary Jo a pair of slimming black trousers that fit—and were half-off.
Much to my regret, a similar pair in my size weren’t on sale.
I scratched my shoulder blade, where my uncomfortable, still-damp sweater was itching, hoping to find another charity shop before teatime. “MJ?” I turned around looking for my friend, who had disappeared.
“Here I am, Pheebs. So what’s next?” She shivered. “I’m not used to this cold weather. Why don’t we go look at sweaters—I mean jumpers?”
I stared at my newly compliant friend in surprise and nodded.
She settled on a fuchsia pullover, also on sale, that gave her the color she craved. And as we passed by the shoe department, a pair of hot pink stilettos called to me. “MJ, these would go perfectly with your new outfit!” I held them up against her sweater. “See how they almost match without looking too much like a canned outfit?”
Mary Jo looked at the spiky heel and snorted. “I don’t care how well they almost match. You’ll never catch me in a pair of heels that high. Or that skinny. I’d fall flat on my face. And there I put my foot down.”
Which she did, ten minutes later—right into a pair of soft black leather, low-heeled boots.
Mary Jo walked by the mirror, admiring the fit. “Now, good boots I’m willing to spend money on.”
Her eyes caught mine in the mirror. “Okay. Your turn.”
“Uh, I didn’t see anything that was really me.”
“I did.” She linked her arm through mine. “Come on. My turn to choose for you.” Mary Jo steered me back to the sweaters. “I know how much you like yellow, so how about this yellow-and-purple-checked turtleneck?”
I tried not to shudder. Then I noticed her smirk. “Cute. Very cute. Okay, shall we go now?”
She plucked at my damp, itchy sweater. “You need something besides that to wear. You’re going to get sick.” She grew serious. “Phoebe, you’ve been a wonderful friend, inviting me along on this trip and everything, so I’d like to give you a gift as a thank-you.” She extended a shopping bag my way. I hadn’t even noticed she was carrying it.
“MJ, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. Open it.”
Inside was a black turtleneck and the pair of black trousers I’d tried on earlier; along with a matching pair in a delicious soft gray.
I stared at her.
“I thought those might go with that gray tweed jacket you just got.” Mary Jo shot me an anxious look. “Do they? I’m no fashion maven like you.”
“They’re perfect, MJ, but I can’t let you buy me clo—”
“Just say thank you and shut up.” She grinned.
“Thank you.”
She looked down at my Manolos. “And now we’re going to get you some more comfortable shoes for trudging all around this city.”
And at that I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. I had to ’fess up to my mistake. But Mary Jo had already guessed. And it didn’t matter.
Guess that’s part of being a spiritual giant, huh, God? Not rubbing someone’s nose in it?
“Uh, MJ. Now that you know . . . my little secret, I need to—”
She grinned again and pointed to my feet. “Are you ready to stop walking around on those torture machines?”
I straightened. After three days of walking around in heels, my feet were truly killing me, but I still had my pride. I was not going to tea with Alex’s sister wearing sensible shoes. Or flat broke, for that matter.
“I’ll think about it,” I promised her. “But I need to ask . . . can you spot me for a flower and some tea?”
With still a few hours before we were due to meet Delia for tea, we decided to make our visit to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Both of us had loved Mary Poppins as kids and were eager to go and feed the birds like the Banks children had done in the movie. And I, of course, had my little errand to run for Esther.
We softly sang the song from Mary Poppins (“Feed the birds . . . tuppence a bag”) as we made our way to the cathedral, making sure we had change in our pockets, although neither one of us was exactly sure what a tuppence was.
Only when we got there, there wasn’t a bird woman. No birds either.
Not one. Anywhere we looked.
We wandered around the outside of the magnificent cathedral, whistling and calling, but to no avail. Finally we approached an elderly woman sitting on a nearby bench, who looked a little bit like the bird woman, except that her hair wasn’t in a messy bun and she was reading a paperback with a hot-pink cover.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, “Can you please tell us where all the birds are?”
At the ma’am she looked up from her book. “Americans, right?”
We nodded.
“First time here?”
We nodded again.
“The birds are all gone. They made a frightful mess, quite dirty and smelly, so several years back the city bought out the licenses of all the feed sellers here and at Trafalgar Square and they cleared off.” She took a sip from her water bottle. “Much cleaner now and more hygienic without all the nasty bird droppings.”
“But not as romantic,” I sighed.
The woman rolled her eyes. But when I asked, she did point out a flower vendor across the street.
“You still haven’t told me what the flower is all about,” whispered Mary Jo as we climbed the million steps up to the cathedral door, my Manolo-clad feet complaining all the time.
“In a minute,” I told her, craning my neck as we stepped into the airy vestibule. “This was where Prince Charles and Diana were married,” I whispered to Mary Jo. “I remember watching it on TV when I was a little girl.” I sighed. “It was the perfect fairy-tale wedding.”
It was MJ’s turn to roll her eyes, but she had the grace not to mention the outcome of that perfect wedding. Instead, she was flipping through her guidebook. “It says here you can climb all the way up in the dome. Wanna do it?”
My blistered toes cried out at the very thought. “I think I’ll let you do that on your own.” I took the guidebook from her. “Does this thing say where the World War II memorial is?”
The gigantic nave of St. Paul’s was strangely quiet, considering the tourists milling a
round inside. I clutched my rose all the way down the wide central aisle. A hush descended on my spirit as I entered the bright, open area under the dome, then made my way past the carved choir boxes and around the massive altar to a little chapel. This was the American Memorial Chapel, constructed by the British in gratitude to Americans who died in England during World War II. An American eagle graced the center stained-glass window, and beneath the high altar sat the Roll of Honor on a marble pedestal.
Under glass and inaccessible.
Just like Alex was last night. I don’t understand what’s going on with him, God. He seemed so different. And distant. What happened? Does he not feel the same anymore? Did he ever even care about me? Or was I just a small-town diversion?
Maybe he’s just not that into you. The phrase from a popular self-help book flashed through my head, and I began to weep.
Seeing my tears, a guide approached. “Beg pardon, Miss; but were you looking for a particular name?”
Way to go, selfish one. Focus and remember why you’re here. It’s not all about you, you know. You’re in church, for goodness’ sake—and you’ve got something important to do. Get over yourself already.
“Miss?”
“Um, yes.” I got hold of myself. “For a friend of mine.”
“Follow me, please.” He retrieved another copy of the book, available only by request, for visitors to be shown the names.
And there was Norman’s. Under the Hs. I laid the rose at the altar and thought of Esther, now reunited with her soldier boy.
Heavy sigh. Will I ever be able to say the same about me and Alex?
Stop that right now!
“So have you completed your mission?” Mary Jo’s voice sounded gently behind me.
“Esther wanted to do this when she was in England. And now it’s done.” We both stood there a long time, talking quietly about our friend and what she had made of her life.
When we finally exited the cathedral into the sunshine, we took a last look around for any stray birds. “Look! There’s one. Quick, take a picture!” As MJ snapped, I sang, trying my best to sound like Julie Andrews.
The pigeon flew away.
“Now I know we’re not in Kansas anymore,” MJ whispered as we entered the muted elegance of the wood-paneled, antique-filled drawing room of Brown’s Hotel, where an elegant upright piano tinkled classical music in the background.
“I know,” I whispered back. “Any second now I expect to see Anthony Hopkins walk through the door with Emma Thompson on his heels, carrying a silver tea tray.”
“Okay, don’t tell me,” said Mary Jo, who was getting used to my movie commentaries. “Gosford Park, right?”
I smiled. “Remains of the Day. Remember, the one about the butler and the housekeeper?”
“Sounds like Gosford Park to me.”
“But without the murder mystery. Shh. She’ll hear you.”
It wasn’t Emma, but an Emmaesque waitress clad in black and white who passed us bearing a silver teapot. And right behind her, in a corner, we spotted Delia comfortably ensconced on a plush Victorian settee, impeccably turned out in a crimson wool skirt, cream sweater, and gleaming leather boots. Not Manolos, mind you. But gorgeous.
We made our posh-clad way over to her.
“Ooh, MJ, don’t you look smart?” she said. “Turn round. Let me see. Oh yes, very nice indeed.” She glanced at me. “And you as well. Love the gray tweed.” She motioned to the two tapestry armchairs across the delicate antique table from her. “Sit down and relax.”
“Easier said than done.” Mary Jo lowered herself gingerly into one of the chairs, hiking up her black trousers. “This isn’t my normal cup of tea.” But she let out her breath as she settled into the sturdy chair.
A different statuesque server dressed in crisp black and white appeared bearing a silver teapot and gold-rimmed china cups and saucers, which she set before us. “Milk and sugar?”
“Yes, please.” I took a sip and shot Mary Jo a warning look as she started to crook her pinky.
Moments later, the server returned bearing a three-tiered silver tray filled with dainty sandwiches, scones, and little cakes and pastries—including something chocolate and delicious-looking on the very top.
“Now, this is the life.” I leaned back in utter contentment, munching on a cucumber sandwich. “Forget New York. I think I could easily grow accustomed to this lifestyle. It’s all so very civilized.”
“Yes, quite.” MJ raised her pinky discreetly. I stuck out my tongue at her . . . discreetly.
“Definitely a must-do at least once,” Delia said. Leaning forward, she grinned and whispered over her teacup, “Although it’s grown frightfully dear. It’s all for the tourists now, you see. All of you wanting to have a proper English tea with all the bells and whistles.”
“What?” Mary Jo stared at her over the top of her cup. “You mean you don’t have tea like this every day?”
“Not even. Afternoon tea like this is now just an occasional thing. And then it’s usually just a cuppa and some bikkies or a piece of cake or scone to take the edge off in the afternoon and carry us through to dinner.” Delia gestured at the tea and all the accoutrements. “This whole posh do is just for special occasions—such as when we’re trying to impress Americans.”
“Is that butter or whipped cream?” MJ asked, pointing.
“It’s clotted cream, actually.”
Mary Jo scrunched up her nose.
“For your scone,” Delia said. “Would you like me to show you the proper way to eat a scone?”
We both nodded.
“You cut it in half horizontally, then spread on the strawberry predreaming serves, then top it off with the clotted cream. See? And if butter is also provided, you put that on first before the jam.”
I looked at her hipless figure. “And you can stay that small with all this dairy?”
“Not if I ate like this every day. This is a treat for me too.” She took a bite. “Mmm, lovely.”
A few minutes later, hunger pangs sated, Mary Jo cut right to the chase. “So, Delia, what’s the deal with this George chick? Is she hot for Alex or what?”
I choked on my scone.
Delia laughed. “That’s what I love about you Americans. So direct. And yes, as a matter of fact, George is hot for Alex. Has been for years.”
The delicious scone lost all its flavor. I set it down. “Have they ever, um, dated?”
“Years ago, I think, when they were both at university together.”
She sipped her tea. “But after he graduated, Alex went to America to expand the family business and has stayed there ever since. Until now, of course.”
And now that he’s back, she’s got her little claws in him all over again.
“So, what’s she like?” I kept my voice casual. “George, I mean.”
Delia made a face. “She’s brilliant at business—I know that much. She studied that at Oxford, then went on to get her law degree.”
“Just pound those nails in my coffin. Let’s see: drop-dead gorgeous, tiny, and smart. What else?”
“Well, she’s also very athletic.” Delia grimaced. “Plays tennis, hikes, rides, and shoots—the quintessential English country gentlewoman.” She sighed. “Her family and our family have been friends and neighbors forever, and Dad adores her. Sorry to say this, but I think he’s hoping for an alliance.”
“Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.” I grabbed a truffle.
“Oh, I’m against blood sports, I’m afraid.” She gave a rueful smile. “But I do think there’s reason for concern. My darling brother has always been a bit of a people pleaser. And right now with his concern for Dad, he wants to do everything he can to make him happy.”
“Including spending time with Gorgeous George?” I scarfed down the truffle.
“Afraid so.” Delia frowned. “Although to be honest, I don’t really know how Alex feels about George these days. I mean, they’ve been mates for ages, but my big broth
er doesn’t confide in me about his love life. Never has.”
The corners of her mouth turned up. “Of course, I don’t confide in him about mine either.”
“Oh, do you have a boyfriend?” I leaned in.
“Not at the moment.” She selected another scone. “Which is quite all right with me, mind you, as I’m very busy with my job. I’m still in that proving-myself stage to my father, even though I’ve been working at the company every summer since I was sixteen.” Delia grimaced. “And full-time for the past year and a half.”
“Doing what?” Mary Jo asked.
“All the financial bits and pieces,” she said, growing animated—way too animated, if you ask me, for such a snooze of a subject. “Market analysis, trend forecasting, investment—”
Finally, when she slowed down, I looked at her. “And you’re how old again?”
“Twenty-three. But I’ve been going to Dad’s office since I was four.” She smiled at the memory. “Even then, my favorite thing to play with was his calculator.”
I’m nearly ten years older than she is, and I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.
Delia kept on talking about spreadsheets and profit-and-loss reports, and I tried to feign an interest, but I couldn’t help it. My eyes began to glaze over.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, seeing my face. “I forgot you weren’t the corporate type.”
“Who says?” I squared my shoulders. “I’ll have you know that just before I left, I received a job offer to be the public-relations director for a major Cleveland investment company.”
MJ raised her eyebrows at me over her teacup.
“But let’s get back to the fun stuff,” I added, ignoring Mary Jo and winking at Delia. “Relationships. Wouldn’t you like to meet someone and get married?”
“Of course. But not for a few years yet. Wouldn’t want to get tied down too early, you know, and it’s still ages before I’m thir—” Immediately she raised her hand to her mouth, her horrified eyes darting between Mary Jo and me. “Sorry.”
We exchanged wry glances. “Yeah, I know I’m about ready to be out to pasture,” Mary Jo said. “What about you, Pheebs?”
Dreaming in Technicolor Page 13