“Well, recently I’ve been writing my own.”
“Oh, how marvelous!” she says, looking quite flushed. “How exciting!”
“It’s great fun,” I say happily. “Writing songs is like writing lots of little plays.”
“Oh, I never thought of it like that,” Mary says. “Howinteresting . Well done!”
The music is starting from the other end of the room. Dad’s voice is booming over the microphone. “Places please, everyone!”
“Now,” Mary says, eyes alight, putting one of her arms around my back and holding my arm out with her other arm, “this next one’s one of my favorites. It’s a strathspey, a nice slow one. Would you care to dance? I’ll be the man.”
“I’d be delighted,” I say, as she leads me across the floor.
Later Mum tells me that Mary lost her leg in a dreadful car crash in which her husband was killed. Terrible things happen to British people as often as they happen to Americans. The main difference, I think, is how people handle them. The British don’t tend to talk about horrid things that happened in their past. And Americans do.
Mary, I later learn, hasn’t spoken about the accident since it happened. She went on to become headmistress of St. Bart’s and, to quote Mum, “led a very successful life.” Mary doesn’t like to talk about her emotions any more than Mum does. Of course it doesn’t mean she doesn’t have them. To me, Mary is living proof that denial, as a way of coping, is wildly underrated.
Mary whisks me around the floor as my father barks instructions over the microphone and a science teacher in a green kilt plays the bagpipes very loudly, walking with absolute precision up and down the hall. To my surprise, I no longer want to run from the wailing music. Instead I really hear it, as if for the first time. Something deep inside me has awakened. For the first time I recognize the beauty in the ancient sound.
Only a year ago I would have done everything I could to have avoided this evening. Tonight, despite the ache in my heart over Jack, I am managing to savor every minute. When Colin Dykes spends half an hour telling me about how astounded he is by the size of American pancakes on a recent trip to Florida, I actually listen to him. American pancakesare huge compared to British pancakes; it’s really quite funny. I enjoy every slightly stale Hula Hoop and every sip of lukewarm orange squash.
When Marjory and Poppy come over to talk to me, I do not run away at the first excuse. Instead I share their indignation about the cost of sausages at Marks and Spencer and try not to giggle as Poppy farts in time to Strip the Willow.
I used to feel threatened by this world. Now I don’t. Now I value everything about it. Because I nearly lost it.
As my strathspey with Mary comes to an end, there is a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” the man says. “May I have the next dance?”
I turn around and, for a second, the room stands still. Because there, standing in front of me, is Jack. My American Jack. Dressed, it seems, in my father’s spare kilt and sporran and a beautifully ironed white shirt.
“Ralph told me what happened with Nick. And where you were. I somehow worked out how to call the UK,” Jack says.
Somehow I manage to speak.
“Oh Jack, I’m so sorry…”
“When I somehow managed to get through, I had a long talk with your mother. And your father. And your sister. And your cousin Neville. Who said, and I quote directly, ‘I’ve never seen her so miserable. For God’s sake get yourself on a bloody plane and get over here.’ Then your mother got back on the phone and said, ‘What he means, Jack, is that we’d be delighted if you’d like to join us at next Saturday’s Scottish dancing party. If you’re not too busy, of course.’”
I look over at Mum, Dad, Charlotte, Rupert, and Neville, who are watching from the side of the room, looking absurdly pleased with themselves.
“I like wearing a kilt,” Jack says, grinning broadly. “I have to get one when I get back to New York. It’ll help me fit right in with all the other gay guys.”
“Oh Jack, I’m so sorry!” And then, hardly daring to believe him I say, “But what about her?”
“Who?” Jack looks genuinely confused.
“The woman you’ve been in love with for a long time.”
I think I know the answer now. I hope I know the answer.
Jack looks as Scottish as my father in his kilt and white shirt, and handsome as hell.
“She’s standing right in front of me,” Jack says, softly.
The bagpipes are playing “Loch Lomond” now, but all I can hear and see is Jack.
“Pippa, it’s you,” he says. “It’s always been you.” Jack’s voice is hoarse. “I was only half alive before I met you.”
“But I’ve behaved so terribly! I’ve been so preoccupied with—well, everything but you. Oh Jack, I’m so sorry!”
Jack’s hand is shaking. I take it in mine and kiss his palm, closing my eyes with relief. When I open them, Jack takes my hands in his and says, “You needed to find out the truth about who you came from, so you could really know yourself. So you could move on, honestly, with the rest of your life. It took everything you had to survive this without going under. But you did. And now look at you.”
We’re standing very close now, in the corner of the room. I can’t speak.
“I love everything about you, Pippa,” Jack says. “I love the way you light up a room whenever you walk into it. I love your wit and voice and your charm and your kindness and your absolute bravery in the midst of total confusion. I love the fact that you have no idea how beautiful you are. I love your energy and your light and…and I love the fact that you are predictable only in your unpredictability. Most of all, Pip, most of all, I love your kindness,” he says, smiling. “And, of course, your legs.”
Jack puts his arm around my back and pulls me closer to him.
“I’ve not been able to think of anyone else but you since the moment I picked up your purse on the streets of New York,” he whispers into my ear.
“You said purse and not wallet,” I whisper back.
“I did.”
The joy is back. It’s back, back, back. It’s swimming back into me and filling me with love for the man standing in front of me. And when we kiss, I know that the journey I’ve been on has somehow freed me up to love him back. Fully. Totally. As he deserves to be loved. Without any kind of fear.
We’ve joined the other dancers now. Jack looks darkly handsome in the evening light. I can hear Poppy whispering to Marjory.
“He looks just like that American actor, doesn’t he?”
“Exactly like him. You mean Al Pacino.”
“No, the other one.”
“Which other one?”
“Tom Conti.”
“He’s not American!”
“Yes, he is.” I can hear Poppy’s fart from across the hall. I swear I can.
Their voices fade into the background. Jack is laughing. His arm feels strong in the small of my back. His face is close to mine. He smells just like Jack—this kind, wise, sexy American in a skirt, who has somehow found his way into this ordinary village hall, in an ordinary part of England, because he loves me.
“Pippa! Jack!” Dad’s voice barks into the microphone a moment later. “This is supposed to be the Gay Gordons, not a Viennese waltz!”
The other dancers are heading toward the stage. Jack and I are dancing toward the door. As we glide past Mum, Dad, Charlotte, Rupert, the piper, and Neville, who is charming Poppy’s very pretty daughter, in my mind’s eye I can see the parents who gave me birth. They’re young, beautiful, hopelessly in love, and dancing across the lobby of the Waldorf Hotel, in a world right next to this one. And then, the ghosts disappear, taking with them the remains of the whirlwind that has blown through me for so long.
Now Jack and I are walking through the front door of the village hall and out into the English air. And as we turn toward each other I feel nothing but profound love for the man standing in front of me. And, of course, the s
oft kiss of the English rain.
Acknowledgments
It is my privilege to thank my agent, Jennifer Joel at ICM, for her unwavering faith and smart, solid advice at all times. My brilliant and sensitive editor Marysue Rucci, for knowing exactly how to get me to make it better. David Rosenthal, Virginia Smith, Loretta Denner, Amy Ryan, Tina Peckham, Katie Sigelman, Victoria Meyer, Rebecca J. Davis, Leah Wasielewski, Catherine Casalino, and the entire team at Simon & Schuster.
For their encouragement, without which the early pages would still be in a box somewhere: Peter Buckman, Lynn Franklin, Marie-Louise Hogan, Melanie Rockcliffe, Katinka Neuhoff, Leslie Farrell, Clare Foster, Karen Hayes, and Jim Keenan.
Thanks also to Jane Byron, Suzanne Folke, Linnea Hasegawa, Anne Luttman-Johnson, Kate McAbe, Judith Schwartz, Liz Stein, Philip Thurston, Barb Valenti, Victoria Whelan, BritishGiftBaskets.com—and the Scottish connection, Alyson and Isobel Dewar, Jean McKirdy, and Rob and Brigid Whyte.
Thank you to the artist Simon Gales for the use of his name and his work.
Thank you to my friends Pam and Rysuke Hasegawa for giving me the keys to their house, so I could write uninterrupted.
I would also like to thank my birth parents for the precious gift of life.
And Mum and Dad, for showing me how to live it happily.
About the Author
Alison Larkin was born in Washington, D.C., and spent her childhood in England and East and West Africa. After graduating from London University and the Webber-Douglas Academy of Dramatic Art, she played classical roles on the British stage, then moved to America and became a stand-up comic. She appeared regularly at The Comic Strip in New York City, The Comedy Store in Los Angeles, and onLate Night with Conan O’Brien andComic Relief . She also appeared on Broadway in the Royal National Theatre’s production ofStanley. Her unusually wide range of voices can be heard in dozens of cartoons and movies, from work by Robert Altman toThe Wonderful World of Oz andThe Wonderpets .
Combining stand-up comedy and theater, the author’s internationally acclaimed one-woman show,The English American , premiered at the Edinburgh Festival’s Assembly Rooms, headlined at the Soho Theatre as highlight of the London Comedy Festival, and has been seen in concert performance around the world.
Alison Larkin lives twenty-five miles outside New York City with her husband and two young children. Visit her website at www.alisonlarkin.com.
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