Hey, Gordon. I love the idea of writing a column. I’ve started keeping a travel journal, so it wouldn’t be hard to come up with ideas. I’ll try to put together something today or tomorrow.
By the way, thanks for taking care of my paycheck issue. And for keeping things going back on the home front.
Going to see Les Miz tonight with Alex! —P.
I sat there for a long minute before I began to type again. But when I started writing, the words just seemed to flow.
Gordon was right.
The column was a piece of cake.
NOTES FROM ABROAD
London is an exciting, fascinating city and I’m learning a lot over here in Merrie Olde. For instance, that you really can’t judge a book by its cover.
Take the British Library. I’m a bibliophile from way back, so the words British Library alone conjured up this idyllic vision of an ancient stone building, perhaps with columns and portals, maybe a few gargoyles and some flying buttresses. Something classic and beautiful in an aged sort of way to house all the sacred texts and well-loved words from this venerable culture.
Instead, what greeted my dismayed and disappointed eyes was this hideous, contemporary [modern] and orange monstrosity. No columns, no portals, and no lovely, ancient gray stone. I hurried inside before the orange could leave a permanent bad taste in my mouth. But then the inside of the museum made me forget the outside in a London minute.
Talk about beauty. All those books—miles and miles of them. We saw a Gutenberg Bible, Handel’s Messiah, an early folio of some of Shakespeare’s handwritten plays, Virginia Woolf ’s Mrs. Dalloway scribblings, even original Beatles lyrics (which made my traveling companion swoon).
But this California girl is sure glad she didn’t live back in Tudor times! Who knows? I might have lost my head to old Henry VIII. Not that I fancy him or anything. Definitely not my type. But that wouldn’t have mattered. Back then, the king got whatever and whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted them. And what he wanted didn’t seem to last very long. Especially wives.
So I don’t think even those crown jewels in the Tower of London could tempt me to be a Tudor babe. Sure, they’re drop-dead gorgeous, especially that giant Star of India diamond in the royal scepter. But I don’t care how huge they are or how much they sparkle; diamonds are not this girl’s best friend. I’d rather keep my head, thank you very much.
Think I’ll just stick with the silver toe ring I bought for ten bucks at the mall.
Another interesting thing about the Tower. Legend has it that if the ravens were ever to leave, the monarchy would crumble. But not to worry. They keep the black birds’ wings clipped to prevent that from happening. Sounds like they took a lesson from old Henry, huh?
I signed it with a flourish—“Cheerio! Your Overseas Correspondent,” then shot it back to Gordon as an e-mail attachment. Then I sat at the computer for a long time, dreaming of possibilities.
I only left because Obi-Wan needed to use his computer.
My roomie looked up from her Bible when I burst through the door. “What’s got you so excited? As if I didn’t know . . .”
“Hey, this is something different!” Plopping down on the bed, I filled her in on my new column. “So much more fun to write about our Thelma-and-Louise travel adventures rather than emus and goat milking!”
“Way cool, Pheebs.” She grinned. “Looks like our vacation was a God thing in more ways than one.”
“I know!” I lay back and expelled a dreamy sigh. “The kind of writing I’ve been longing to do, and a date with Alex all in the same day? How much better can it get?”
It can only get better. I’ll bet he’s been longing for this too. Time alone together at last. I’ll tell him about my column—he’ll love that. Maybe he’ll even want to publish it in some of the other Spencer papers. And after that we can go somewhere quiet, and . . .
Visions of that long-awaited first kiss carried me away. I hoped it would be all romantic and passionate. Like in Room with a View, when Julian Sand strode up to Helena Bonham Carter in that beautiful Italian field and swept her off her feet. But tonight it could happen on the way to a restaurant. Or on the street, oblivious to the pedestrians striding purposefully around us. Or even in our theater seats, with a glorious musical crescendo as a backdrop. Or outside the cab, just before Alex hands me in to go home.
The cab . . .
“Uh, Mary Jo, I really hate to ask again. But Gordon says my money will be in the bank tomorrow, and tonight . . .”
“I told you it’s no problem,” she said. “How much do you need?”
Riding in the cab to the theater, I sucked in my stomach—which was doing cartwheels on a par with any Olympic gymnast—and thought back to when Alex and I had seen the same musical with Phil and Lindsey in November and what a great time we’d all had.
But this time it would be just the two of us. Even better.
I hummed a little “On My Own,” hoping I wouldn’t be on mine for very much longer.
Perhaps we can summer in London and winter in California. No matter. As long as I’m with Alex, I’ll be fine wherever I am.
Gorgeous George’s blonde hair and lithesome body suddenly intruded on my happily-ever–after reverie.
Hey Georgy Girl, get out of my fantasy. There’s no room for you.
Maybe not in yours, but what about Alex’s? the perfect English catch retorted. After all, I did go to Oxford, speak three languages, and play a mean game of tennis. And besides that, his father adores me. Can you make any of those claims?
Game. Set. Match.
Do not listen to Georgy Girl, my rational self advised. Focus on what you and Alex have.
And just what exactly is that?
Remember; actions speak louder than words. Who’s he taking out tonight?
True.
I leaned back against the seat and surrendered once more to dreams of kisses yet to come.
[chapter thirteen]
A Very Important Date
i was in a West End theater.
In London.
was With Alex. Watching my favorite musical. Could life be any more perfect?
Certainly not the play. “Wow. This Eponine was even more amazing than the one we saw in San Francisco,” I said as we left the theater. “In fact, all the actors were, although I thought the understudy playing Fantine was a bit weak. What about you?”
He gave me a distracted look. “Yes, it was quite good, wasn’t it?”
“Alex, did you even see the play tonight?”
“Sorry. I have a lot on my mind.” He glanced in the window of a pub we were passing. “I’m a bit thirsty. Fancy a drink?”
Inside, Alex took a sip of his mineral water with those gorgeous lips of his, then looked at me and said, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”
At last! He’s finally going to say the L-word! Maybe even the Big M.
Surely not. Well, maybe . . .
Quieting down my preproposal jitters, I tried to look appropriately clueless and innocent and started mentally practicing the surprised but delighted look my face would show once he asked me to become his wife.
“Phoebe.” His face flushed. “I don’t know how to say this . . .”
Aw, look at that sweet man getting all awkward and tongue-tied. How cute is that?
Except . . . he doesn’t look happy. Most men about to declare their love look happy.
That’s when it hit me. There wasn’t going to be any delicious first kiss. Or any kiss at all, except perhaps a brotherly peck on the check. Under cover of the tabletop, I began shredding my napkin into tiny pieces.
“Phoebe,” Alex cleared his throat. “We had a wonderful time in Barley. I loved hanging out with you and your family, and I know there was something beginning between us. We had a connection, a spark, and we made a really great team working together at the paper. And”—he smiled—“in Trivial Pursuit, don’t you think?”
“But?” I kept my voice light
and forced a smile. “I know there’s a but.
” He fiddled with one of the pressed-paper drink coasters. “But things have changed, what with my dad and everything. If we were back in California, that would be a different story. But I don’t know when I’ll be back. Or even if I’ll be back. And, well . . .” Alex touched my arm. “I hope this doesn’t impact our friendship.”
Friendship? I’ve got plenty of friends already, thank you very much.What I want is . . . I flashed to Phil and Lins. The whole satin-and-lace, ’til-death-do-us part thing.
I struggled to maintain a stiff upper lip. “But what about the Bulletin?”
A trace of regret fluttered across Alex’s face. “It was great running the Bulletin, and I enjoyed the opportunity to be writing again. You’ve got to understand, I really love Barley and everyone there . . .”
Everyone there? I don’t want to just be part of “everyone” . . .
“But I need to stay here and help my father. He needs me.” Alex took a deep breath. “That’s why I want to transfer management of the Bulletin back to Gordon.”
“What?” I stared at him dumbfounded.
He blew air out between his teeth. “It will still be a Spencer paper, Phoebe—we’ll handle all the business and financial stuff.” Alex gave a wry smile. “I doubt Gordon will mind taking up the reins again. He’s a great editor.” His eyes bore into mine. “And you’re a great reporter. I know I’ll be leaving the paper in good hands.”
Alex touched my arm again. “As for you and me, I wish we could be on the same continent, in the same town, actually—to see where our relationship goes. But we can’t.” He lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I need to stay here. And . . . well, you know that long-distance relationships never work.”
“Sure they do. Remember in . . .” Frantic, I searched my mind for movies with successful long-distance relationships. “Sleepless in Seattle!” I bit my no-longer-stiff upper lip. “Although, they didn’t actually meet until the end of the movie.” I rushed on. “But you knew when you finally saw Tom and Meg together on top of the Empire State Building that she packed up and moved to Seattle to be with him and his son.”
I saw that Alex was getting that scared commitment-phobe guy look in his eyes. Or maybe he was just scared of my wild-eyed rationalization . . .
Watch it, Pheebs. Remember to keep it light.
I cast around in my Technicolor memories for another long-distance relationship movie. Again, Tom Hanks’s face swam to mind—how he kept the flame of his love burning bright for Helen Hunt even when he was cast away on that island for four years with just Wilson the volleyball for company. Of course, when he finally got rescued and made it back home, she’d married someone else and had a child . . .
This movie connection thing wasn’t going too well.
“See what I mean?” Alex gave me a rueful smile. “It doesn’t take much to see that the problems of two people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”
Don’t you dare quote Casablanca to me now. Besides, the quote is “three people” . . .
He continued on, oblivious. “The good thing is that we didn’t go out for that long and get our emotions all involved. That would make this so much harder.”
Are you clueless? Or just plain stupid?
But I wasn’t about to show him just how involved my emotions had gotten. I flashed him a bright smile, taking care not to look at the lips I’d hoped I would kiss tonight. “You’re right.” I stirred my drink with my straw. “So, how long have you and George been dating?”
“Say what?” His eyebrows lifted.
“Aren’t you two involved?”
“No. Not at all. George is just a good friend and coworker.”
That’s what you think. I tried a new tack. “Are you happy here, Alex?”
He hesitated a fraction of a second before saying yes, then gave me a small smile. “I was happy in Barley too.” He shrugged. “But this is what God has for me now. Sometimes we have to follow Him even when it isn’t our dream. Even when it’s not what feels right at the moment.”
Right. Go ahead and get all spiritual now to appease your guilty conscience. That makes all this okay.
“True.” I flashed him a stiff, plastic smile. “Besides, we’ll always have Barley.”
“That’s my movie girl.” He grinned. “I knew you’d understand.”
And you don’t, you great, obtuse idiot. The whole point is I’m not your girl!
I held it together when Alex hugged me good-night and gave me—yes, a brotherly kiss on the cheek.
I held it together when he put me in a cab and for the ride back to the hotel.
I held it together as I made my way through the lobby past ObiWan and up the stairs to our room.
Once inside the room, I completely lost it.
Mary Jo looked up in alarm at my tear-streaked face. “What happened?”
“Alex dumped me!” I wailed.
“I’m so sorry.” My friend enveloped me in her sturdy arms and awkwardly patted me on the back. “I was afraid of this,” she murmured.
“Wh-what?” I asked, extricating myself from her comforting hug to search for a tissue. I sank to my bed and blew my nose.
“Something just didn’t feel right, ever since that first night at the theater,” she said. “I know I told you not to jump to conclusions about George, but it was clear that things weren’t the same between you and Alex as they were back in Barley.”
“You could have told me!”
“I didn’t know how. I’m sorry.” She sent me a kind look. “Would you have listened, anyway?”
“Maybe.” I sniffled.
“Really?” Mary Jo hesitated, then took her life in her hands. “Pheebs, sometimes you have this tendency to, well, create this whole dream world and then go live there. Maybe it’s because of all the movies you watch.” She gave me a gentle smile. “But could it be at all possible that maybe your relationship with Alex was more romantic fantasy than real?”
She held up her hand as I started to protest. “Yes, I know Alex was interested. That was obvious. Everyone in town could see that he liked you.” She bit her lip. “But you hadn’t really spent all that much time together. Right? Had you even dated a month before he left?”
“Yes.” I bristled. “Christmas would have made it two months exactly.”
“But Alex left before Christmas.” Her voice softened. “You hadn’t even kissed yet, right?”
I shook my head. “Not that I didn’t want to.” My mouth turned down in a pout. “And now I’ll never know what it felt like.” I sighed. “Here I was all excited about tonight, thinking that at last it was going to happen. But he just took me to the show to soften the blow.”
I wailed again.
“Pheebs, you two have been apart longer than you were together.” MJ kept barreling down the logic track. “His relationship with you that was just beginning got shoved to the back burner when his dad got sick. Then when he had to remain in England to run the company—well, the flame just died down.” She sighed. “It’s hard to maintain a long-distance relationship in the best of circumstances—”
A light bulb went off. “But that’s just geography! If I were to stay here, who knows what might happen?”
“You can’t force a relationship—”
“I wouldn’t be forcing anything. What’s wrong with just giving it a chance?”
She played the God card. “Have you considered that maybe God doesn’t want this relationship to go any farther right now? He already knew that Alex would be staying to help his family.” Mary Jo pushed her hair behind her ears. “I’m not saying it’s forever, although I don’t know that it won’t be, either. But clearly, for now, the two of you aren’t meant to be together. Alex has his own issues to deal with—”
“That’s for sure.” I let loose a bitter grunt.
“Was it?” MJ gave me another gentle look. “You’ve been wondering about Alex ever since we saw him that
first night at the theater.”
“True. But that’s when I thought there might be something going on with Gorgeous George. Alex says there’s not.” I sighed again. “Maybe it’s like in Roman Holiday. You could see that Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn fell for each other, but she was a princess and he was a reporter, and they had separate lives to lead.” I managed a wistful smile. “At least they always had Rome. And Alex and I will always have Barley.” I rolled my eyes as I repeated the Casablanca line I’d said to Alex. “Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?
“Oh, Mary Jo,” I wailed as I flopped across my bed. “I’m such a total reject in the romance department. I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.” And I’m never going to get that passionate kiss.
A flying pillow hit me in the head. “Hey, watch it!”
Mary Jo grinned. “You know what we need?”
“What?”
“A change of scenery.” She bounced on her bed, eyes sparkling. “Let’s go to the Cotswolds. And Yorkshire!”
“Yorkshire?”
“Yeah, you know.” She gestured to my copy of Jane Eyre on the nightstand. “Brontë country, the moors and all that. And the hills and dales made famous by my favorite author, James Herriot.” She clapped her hands. “C’mon Pheebs, what do you say?”
I didn’t really feel like saying anything. Or doing anything. “But we still haven’t seen all the items on your London list.”
“All the ones that really mattered.” She grabbed the travel guide and started thumbing through it. “Besides, they’ll still be here when we return. We can come back to London a day or so before we fly home and see anything we might have missed.” Mary Jo grew pensive. “To be honest, all the crowds and noise and stuff—it’s starting to get to me. I’d really love a little fresh country air. What’s that old poem? ‘Away, away from men and towns. To the wild wood and the downs.’”
“Hey, I didn’t know you knew Shelley.”
“I don’t know Shelley.” Her eyebrows furrowed together. “Who’s she?”
“He. Percy Bysshe Shelley. The poet who wrote those words?”
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