Camelot & Vine

by Petrea Burchard

  I hadn’t planned on flying anywhere. I hadn’t planned on a mid-life crisis, either, but I was gripped by the urge to run. I was supposed to be in London anyway, shooting my fabricated film. England had romance and castles, where a runaway didn’t have to learn another language to hide out and brood. In England, no one but American tourists would recognize me as a has-been, and they wouldn’t know that right away.

  England also had King Arthur. When I was small enough to fit in my dad’s lap, he and I would sit together in his recliner while he read to me from a picture book about King Arthur and his brave Knights of the Round Table. By the time I graduated kindergarten I was in love with the king of chivalry. It probably soured me on real men. No one had ever come close.

  Nothing tied me to Los Angeles. Nobody cared where I went. I could suffer atop the ramparts of a medieval castle as well as anywhere else. I’d tour every castle England had to offer. I’d speak to no one but the staff at my hotel, who’d wonder about the sad but glamorous American woman who tipped so well. I’d meet a rich and titled Brit who’d fall desperately in love with me. I’d marry him and live with him at his country estate and never have to work again.

  I stepped out of line. Fantasy would get me nowhere. I’d stay in L.A., face my problems and swear off handsome men who lied to get what they wanted.

  Not that I hadn’t done the same. Not that anyone wanted me anymore.

  I stepped back into line.

  -----

  As soon as the plane took off I knew I’d made a mistake. I dug out my wallet: two ones and a ten. I carried more credit cards than pieces of legal tender. Fighting panic, I began to count the change in the depths of my gargantuan purse.

  The pilot chattered away over the intercom. It would take something like nine hours to get to London. Nine hours of panic in economy class was just plain impractical. I took a breath and tried to relax. The credit cards would serve. When we landed I’d turn around and immediately fly home to LA. I’d call my agent, drum up a few auditions, get some TV work. It would take time but I knew how to fend for myself. I’d been doing it most of my life. It was either that or fresh ground pepper.

  I asked the flight attendant for magazines and a scotch—with water—it was going to be a long flight. On the bright side, I had a few hours to relax, and the seat beside me was empty. I put on the headphones, leaned back and closed my eyes.

  People lost jobs every day, and boyfriends, even sanity. I was still in possession of one of those things, I reminded myself, and I refused to lose it. I knew how to take charge of my life and protect myself. I’d been doing it for a long time.

  “Your drink, ma’am.” I opened my eyes. I wasn’t supposed to be “ma’am” until my birthday. Still, the English accent took the edge off it. The flight attendant dropped a couple of magazines on the empty seat next to me and leaned across with my scotch poised in her purple-tipped fingers.

  I took the cup and raised it to her. “Cheers. Might as well bring another.”

  Below her perfect, brown bangs the attendant’s eyebrows went up just a little when she smiled. “Surely.” She disappeared.

  I took a soothing sip, recalling the smell of straight scotch on my father’s breath. Our Camelot storybook lay hidden in the drawer of the sleek, white nightstand chosen by the interior decorator for my Toluca Lake condo. I hadn’t read much else about the Knights of the Round Table, but I had loved my little book about the Arthur/Guinevere/Lancelot love triangle so voraciously that its cloth-bound corners were worn like a well-cuddled teddy bear.

  As a historian my dad sought facts, but I preferred the drama of the legends. There may never have been a real Arthur, but the legendary one had achieved eternal greatness. The British had admired him down through the ages. Yet in one way it didn’t matter how great he was. He never got the love he deserved from his wife. If a great man loved me like that, I’d cherish him.

  Mike wasn’t a great man. He wasn’t even a good one. His wife was probably sweet. He’d cheat on her again. She’d be true to him regardless. Her heart would break, her child would suffer and people would admire her principles or her fortitude or something. Such admiration would be no comfort to her whatsoever.

  I swallowed the rest of the scotch. My nose tingled, a signal of tears on the way.

  “Here’s your drink.”

  “Thanks.” I pulled down the tray table.

  The flight attendant's purple-tipped fingers placed the plastic cup and airline logo napkin in the indented spot. “Would you perhaps like something to eat?” Her prim smile indicated corporate kindness. Still, it was a good idea.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’ve you got?”

  “There’s vegetable pasta, beef curry, or lemon chick—”

  “Pasta. And can you bring me another drink?”

  She looked away. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I snapped.

  She sniffed and disappeared again.

  Mike was a bastard. I should have known that going in. From now on I would choose differently. Never again would I date an unavailable man. Never again would I accept second best. Never again would I be second best. And no more lies. Not from a man, not from anyone. Especially not from myself.

  “Excuse me.” A businessman leaned across the aisle. “Are you reading those magazines?”

  “Yes.” I grabbed them, slapped them down on my tray table and opened the top one to a random page. It turned out to be a print ad for Gone! with an air-brushed picture of me gazing lovingly at the product bottle. I flipped the page so fast I tore it. My eyes clouded. The scotch wasn’t working fast enough.

  The attendant reappeared and cleared my empty cup to make way for the third scotch. She placed a miniscule bag of airline-logo peanuts on the tray table. “Just in case, while the meals are being heated.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And...let me know if there’s anything I can do.” This time the shy smile was her own, not the one the airlines paid her for.

  Guilty and grateful, I gave a weak nod, embarrassed that my distress was visible. When she was gone I tossed the peanuts onto the seat next to mine, locked my tray table and curled up with my magazines and my drink. The plane cruised above the flat, green center of America, the part I’d grown up in. My father was buried there. My mother still lived there, preying on younger men and fantasizing about a life that would never exist for her.

  Maybe I wouldn’t go back to Hollywood right away. Maybe I wouldn’t go back at all. Maybe I’d spend a week or two or more in England. It would be fun to shop in London, and I could visit the Arthurian sites my father and I had once talked of exploring together. I’d find a quiet place to stay. I’d relax, maybe even read a book. Hell, I could walk the moors like a character out of Brontë. Wear a wide-brimmed hat. Carry a basket. Pick some heather, whatever the hell that was.

  But that was acting. I didn’t want to pretend anymore.

  The tears came. The cocktail napkin was insufficient. My T-shirt had long sleeves.

  I was staring out the window when the meal service cart rolled down the aisle. I closed my eyes and faked sleep. The attendant hesitated. I heard her open the tray table next to mine and place something on it before moving on. I waited until she’d passed before glancing over. She’d thought to leave a packet of tissues beside the tray. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me.

  THREE

  The hangover that followed me through customs and into Heathrow’s Terminal Five came with nausea and a pounding headache. I squinted at the overhead signs. A huge clock read 11:30. It felt like night, but sunlight filtered through the windows and blared the morning news. I followed the crowd to the exit and stepped outside to gulp the relatively fresh air. Overcast but warm, with a touch of exhaust.

  Now what? I should make a call, let someone know where I was. Not Mike. Not Mother.

  I dug in the purse for my mobile phone and soon discovered I didn’t have service in England. I remembered a bank of pay phones in the
terminal and stepped back inside, only to find my American coins were useless in them. My brain was barely functional, but I finally figured out how to dial my agent using a credit card. I had no idea what time it was in Los Angeles and I was relieved to get her voice mail as opposed to her actual voice.

  “Hi Liz, it’s Casey. I had to fly to London...for a family emergency. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. A few weeks maybe. I’ll call as soon as I get back.” I hung up. I couldn’t bring myself to mention I’d lost the Gone! gig. She probably already knew.

  It didn’t matter. Liz didn’t need me. Nobody needed me. Not Liz, not Mike, not Mother, not Hollywood. Exhausted and unable to think, I slumped against the phone booth, my brain the mental equivalent of four empty plastic scotch tumblers and an untouched tray of airline pasta.

  I had no one else to call. Nobody needed me. I had constructed my life to make certain of it. I’d remained aloof in acting class, been too cool to give my phone number to people I met on the set. I hadn’t wanted the complications of being nice. I had made acquaintances, not friends.

  No one cared where I was. In England I had no phone number or address. I could die and no one would know. The possibilities were endless.

  -----

  Adjacent to the phone bank stood a tourist information booth. A pimpled girl in a drab uniform slouched behind the counter. I thumbed through a dumbfounding array of brochures, without the slightest inkling of which charming spot to choose for my quiet stay in Olde England.

  A handsome man with wavy blond hair reached for a brochure, bumping into me without excusing himself. He reminded me of Mike. When I moved out of his way I saw a travel brochure tucked in a slot at the side of the booth. It showed a photo of an ancient stone ruin overlooking a sunny, windswept sea. “Tour King Arthur’s Britain,” said the medieval lettering.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the counter girl. “Where can I get a King Arthur tour?”

  She shrugged. “Anywhere.”

  “How about a place where tourists don’t go?”

  That made her giggle.

  “Really,” I said.

  “You mean like...Slough?”

  That got a laugh from the rude man, who found his train schedule and breezed away.

  “I don’t know. I mean a pretty village. With cottages. A bed and breakfast. Someplace with not a lot going on.”

  “Sounds like where my auntie lives.”

  “All right.”

  The girl frowned. “They don’t have a cinema. They don’t even have a Starbucks.”

  “Perfect.”

  She cocked her chin, like someone who’s about to say “I told you so” while they tell you so. “You’ll have to alight at Salisbury and take a taxi because the bus doesn’t go to Small Common.” She gathered brochures for me and put them in a paper bag. “It’s the only village within miles of Stonehenge that doesn’t cater to tourists.”

  That sounded like a slogan to me. I thanked her profusely, stuffed the brochures into my purse and shuffled off to the restroom.

  The sight in the mirror sobered me, though it did nothing to improve my headache. My hair was stiff with hairspray from the previous day’s shoot, and it had formed itself into a square where I’d slept on it. My jeans felt slimy and my T-shirt hung on me as though I’d fought with it during the flight, which I probably had. I’d never bothered to wipe off yesterday’s makeup. Tears and mascara had painted gaudy streaks across my face. I’d been in public. People had seen me.

  I shoved the purse onto the floor between my feet. Ignoring the glances of more put-together travelers, I washed my face and hair in the sink with dispenser soap. Still dripping, I dragged myself into a stall, locked the door, hung my purse on the hook and cried while I peed.

  -----

  Blue-black clouds rumbled over Salisbury, like dust kicked up by galloping, skyborne horses. I loped off the train and followed the tourist traffic along a main road that led into a warren of narrow, cobbled streets. Salisbury had everything: stationers, bakeries, souvenir shops and name brand stores, the latter being at least expedient if not quaint. At a chain store I bought a gray, hooded sweater—acrylic, because wool itches. The loose knit resembled chain mail, which I thought charmingly appropriate. I bought the matching cargo pants, too. It was the secret, interior Velcro front pocket that sold me. With pockets in front, back, and even on the legs I might never have to lug that lime green horror again.

  A belted pack would relieve me of the purse entirely. It wasn’t exactly a fashion accessory, but that no longer mattered. Nobody knew me and I was rabid to be free of things that weighed on me. When I asked for a fanny pack the store clerk appeared to be either confused or insulted. She pursed her lips as though she smelled something offensive and said, “Bum bag,” instructing me in the proper terminology in the same way she might correct an irritating four-year-old.

  Loaded with shopping bags, I retraced my steps along the cobbled streets to the queue of taxis at the train station. Trotting to beat the rain, I cursed myself for not buying an umbrella. But the day was ending, I was hungry, and I needed to get a room.

  Two cabbies chatted at the head of the line. Their eyebrows arched to their hairlines when I asked for a ride to Small Common.

  “Alex’ll go,” said the bald one.

  “Got relatives there?” asked Alex. He stroked his clean-shaven double chin with his thumb.

  “No, just looking for a quiet place.”

  “Small Common’s quiet all right,” he said, sizing me up with beady eyes.

  “My money’s on North Tidworth for quiet.” The bald man scratched his pate. “It’s positively tedious.”

  “Winterbourne Dauntsey’s a bit dull as well,” said Alex.

  They both nodded, considering the dullness of Winterbourne Dauntsey.

  At last the bald man folded his arms across his chest, and with a definitive lift of his chin, proclaimed, “Middle Wallop.”

  “Ah!” said Alex, shaking his fists. “You win.”

  -----

  In Alex’s rickety cab I dozed to the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers, snapping awake when the car slowed. "Are we here?"

  "Amesbury. Only just a corner of it, then I'll have us on the highway again."

  I sat back and watched the impossible green. After years of southern California's dry climate it was a shock to see all that water flying around, as if it didn't know where to go. The cab picked up speed for a few minutes, slowing again when we caught up to traffic.

  "There it is," said Alex, jabbing his thumb at the driver's side window.

  I scooted across the seat to wipe the fog from the window behind him. I couldn't make out what he meant so I let the window down, allowing in a few raindrops. Then I drew in a breath that I didn't let out.

  I hadn’t expected to see Stonehenge squatting alongside the highway like a roadside zoo. My image had been of proud stones standing aloof on the wide, open plain. But like captive animals on display, the stones did not stand so much as hulk. With umbrellas open against the rain, well-behaved tourists filed past them on roped-off walkways. I closed my window. The windshield wipers beat fast and steady.

  “Going to be a full moon tonight if it clears up,” said Alex. “The loonies are out. Want to stop while it’s light?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You have to see Stonehenge while you’re here.”

  “I’ll wait for a day when it’s not so busy.”

  “No such day,” he said.

  Alex soon turned north, delivering us from the main highway to the quiet countryside via a twisted, two-lane road lined with farmland. The entire drive from Salisbury to Small Common, even through the Stonehenge traffic, took a little over half an hour. By the time we arrived in the village the rain had stopped, and late-day sun broke through the clouds. Golden drops glistened on every drooping rose petal and thatched roof. A mist hovered above the lane like steam on a swimming pool when the water’s warmer than the air. In my heart I thanked the b
rochure girl and her auntie.

  Alex rolled the taxi to a stop on the gravel driveway in front of a two-story brick house that looked like it might be haunted. “Suggestion for jet lag, if I may,” he said.

  Apparently it was obvious. “Sure.”

  “Stay awake until a normal hour tonight, say, ten o’clock. Then don’t sleep more than eight hours. You’ll be on local time quick.”

  “I’ll try.” I didn’t question why Alex should be an expert on jet lag. I only doubted I could stay awake much longer, and I had no idea what time it was. Although my headache persisted, the nausea was gone. My stomach’s growl had progressed to a roar.

  Alex retrieved my bags from the trunk. I paid him the exorbitant sum he requested and tipped him ten percent.

  “Coo,” he said under his breath. Or something like that. “Full moon.” He tucked himself behind the wheel and drove off in the direction from which we’d come.

  I gazed up at the house, which leaned a tad sideways and managed to loom even in the sun. A sign propped against the front steps said “Langhorne Bed and Breakfast.” I dragged myself up the stone steps and knocked. When no answer came I opened the creaking door and stepped into a dark, low-ceilinged hallway. The faint smell of curry arrived at my nose, making my mouth water. A Persian runner ran the length of a hardwood hallway so dark it was almost black. Lugging my shopping bags, I followed the banter of television news to a doorway at the end of the hall.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh!” came the response, then a little crash of dishes. “Ah, well.” A thin, fortyish man with dark eyes and delicate features peeked out the door, dabbing a linen napkin at a spot on his crisp, white shirt. “Hello. Do you need a room?”