The Accidental Socialite

by Stephanie Wahlstrom

  I actually wasn’t thinking much, which was kind of weird. But I did know that no butterflies meant no chemistry and I wasn’t quite ready to give up on that in my life just yet. As much as I love women—Spice Girls, filibustering for our right to choose, Bridget Jones—I’m sure there are flaws to muff-diving that I wasn’t aware of yet.

  I left my fleeting lesbian encounter in the bathroom and went back to my seat where Alex and Heinrich were sitting in an awkward silence. Thank god. Heinrich poured me another generous glass of red wine and I was so engrossed with filling the silence that I talked right through pulling the eight million legs off my prawns. Both parties pretended like we didn’t know each other for the rest of the date, save for me drunkenly dropping my fork and Frenchie McKisserson leaning down quickly to pick it up for me, grazing my arm with her perfectly groomed nails on the way back up. I was fairly sure the whole restaurant noticed that. Alex definitely did and I caught him staring at me a few times.

  The four of us happened to finish dinner at the same time and were waiting outside for a taxi.

  Heinrich started to make small talk with Alex’s colleague. “Are you here for the conference as well?”

  This was my chance. I moved closer to Alex. The conversation I wanted to have should contain several clever jibes and possible name-calling but this wasn’t the optimal situation for that.

  “Um, hi.” It was the best I could do for a start.

  “Hi.” He looked really uncomfortable. Good.

  “So, I know this is kind of an awkward situation, but considering the last few times I saw you, you acted like I was carrying the plague I think I deserve some sort of explanation. Or are you just a complete asshole?”

  His cheeks started to flush. “I’m not an asshole—”

  “Really? Because you kind of act like one when you are around me.”

  “I’m not. I ran on Valentine’s Day because I have a career and reputation to protect, and I didn’t know what to do. My father is the Earle of Winchester, my family is not the kind to court the media.”

  “Court? You think that was done on purpose? I’ve been through a lot of shit in the last few months and none of it was by choice. My ex-boyf—you know what? I don’t need to justify anything to you.”

  “You’re right, you don’t.”

  “And what about the polo?”

  “Well, other than your friend shouting profanities in the Royal Enclosure, I also have a girlfriend now, and didn’t want to start an unnecessary rumuor by talking to you.”

  As much as that hurt, I was glad I seemed to have dodged a bullet because Alex was even more concerned with appearances than Jason.

  I glanced over at Heinrich, who was now patiently waiting for me to finish and holding the door of the taxi open.

  “Actually, I’m glad you left. The Alex I made up in my head is much more appealing than the Alex in real life.”

  “Paige, I am sorry it ended up this way.”

  “I’m not. I must have a rabbit’s foot up my ass to have avoided your pretentious inner circle.”

  I got into the car and cuddled up with Heinrich. I probably wouldn’t see him again after this trip because, although he wasn’t embarrassed to be around me, he was just not my lobster.

  “When are you coming home?”

  My mom started every conversation we’d had for the last few weeks with this question. It was intensifying now that it was mid-November and I hadn’t made a decision. When I’d moved to London I was very optimistic and booked the ticket one way, not realizing that it was going to be ridiculously expensive to go back home in late December. Also, I was nervous that somehow she would find out about everything and disown me. After the Twitter debacle, I wanted to disown me.

  “Mom, the flights are really pricey, I’m not sure I can afford it.” I was actually very sure I couldn’t afford it.

  “Your grandmother is sick. This might be her last Christmas, you know.”

  Normally that would upset someone but my grandmother has been sick for the last ten years and every Christmas might be her last.

  “I know, Mom. It’s not like I don’t want to see you guys, you know I do. It’s just that I do not physically have the cash.”

  “Let me talk to Fred.”

  She put me on hold, which meant she smothered the phone with the tea towel in the kitchen and assumed I couldn’t hear anything even though my sister and I repeatedly told her we could.

  “Fred!” yelled my muffled mom to my stepfather. “Freddy! I want my daughter home for Christmas. Can we buy her flight as her present? I’ll have her father split it with us.”

  So guess my secret present was out of the bag.

  “Paige, you might get an early present from Santa,” she said knowingly in the voice she used to talk to me and anyone under the age of seven. “So don’t make any fancy plans around Christmas.”

  I could hear her wink over the phone.

  ***

  It was just before Christmas and I was sitting in my flat, which apparently had a broken boiler, or the gas bill hadn’t been paid. Chances are it was a little of both. The temperature became unbearable and I ran out of dry shampoo so I called Lucinda to ask if I could stay over. Really I just wanted to discuss my dry spell. I hadn’t really gone on a date with anyone since Heinrich in October due to being so shitty at it.

  But it’s not my fault, right? Nobody acts normal, nobody is honest, and everyone has an agenda. How am I supposed to combat these casual sex terrorists, sabotaging my love life in such a way that I am suspicious of everyone and live in a constant state of distrust? If you can’t live your life the way you want, the terrorists win, right?

  Lucinda was in moderately sexy pajamas when I arrived and for a split second my heart dropped because I thought she was hitting on me. But then I remembered that Lucinda was an uber girl and probably didn’t own a ratty charity run t-shirt and pilling sweatpants. Obviously, I thought those were totally appropriate to wear around the house and did often without thinking that someone might actually see them.

  “Chicken! How do you live in that flat? It’s horrible! Stay here as long as you want.”

  Her house was so warm and inviting that I was thinking of a new career plan in finance so I could afford it, but then I remembered I didn’t have any relevant education or experience.

  Grilled chicken salad waited for me at the kitchen table with a bottle of dry white wine. I still don’t get that. How can wine, a liquid, be dry? And how does something taste like it’s dry? Your mouth tasted like an armpit afterwards. Why would you brag about that? It’s like some pretentious jerk decided one day to make up some completely ridiculous way of describing wine and everyone else didn’t want to seem stupid so they went along with it. Joke’s on them, they still seem stupid.

  Conversation turned to my love life when we were on our second bottle of wine.

  “Lucinda, it’s just a fact I’m going to have to accept. I am un-dateable, weird, and am not supposed to be happy.”

  “That is the most pathetic thing I have ever heard you say and if you truly believe it, we cannot be friends. You know perfectly well that you are dateable. And I would say you are quirky, not weird.”

  “Ok, I was being dramatic, but honestly, why can’t I find anyone?”

  “Well, darling, you have found many people, they were just all assholes. And like a crazy person, you continue to pursue something that you know from the first second you met, will not work out. You gave a second chance to Jason who certainly didn’t deserve it, you go on dates with guys you didn’t find interesting the first time you met to see what will happen, although you already know the answer to that because there were no sparks in the first place. And finally, you pine over a guy who left you sitting at a restaurant on Valentine’s Day before the drinks arrived.”

  It’s hard to hear that kind of truth because I had no defense and I’d been lying to myself for the last year. We complain about men not listening to us when most of the time we ar
en’t listening to ourselves. My instinct was there the whole time, telling me I was making bad decisions and I ignored it, then drank a bottle of wine to shut it up for good. That’s the thing about the truth: it’s always right and ignoring it won’t change that.

  Lucinda poured the last of the second bottle of wine into my glass. “A relationship should be a luxury, not a necessity.”

  “What do you mean? I’ll be lucky to find someone?”

  “No, not at all. A relationship is like a Hermes bag. You certainly don’t need it, but it’s special, beautiful, and an amazing thing to have when you can afford to have it. It shouldn’t cause you to struggle and your self worth shouldn’t depend on having one.”

  “That makes sense, but it’s so much harder in real life.”

  Lucinda seemed frustrated. “Paige, women could do with taking some advice from the finance industry. You need to diversify your happiness portfolio.”

  “You’ve already lost me.”

  “Say you had a hundred pounds and were going to invest. There was a fund you could put all of your money in but there was more than a 50% chance you would lose all your money. Would you go all in? Or would you find a few other funds, split your money up, and hedge your bets so that no matter what, you never lost all your money at once?”

  “Well, obviously the second one.”

  “Exactly. So why do people let so much of their happiness rest on whether or not a relationship works out? Chances are you’ll lose. But if you judged being happy by other things, like your career, family, and friends, and the relationship was actually a very small chunk in your total happiness portfolio, you’d be fine no matter what happened, but if the relationship worked out, you’d be cash rich in happiness.”

  So, maybe a career in finance wasn’t for me because I still didn’t totally get what she was talking about. But I did understand that I needed to find fulfillment in an array of things, because she was right. What if I gave up on men? I would probably throw myself into my career. And then what happens if I lose my job? Nothing is ever truly permanent, so I needed to get my ass diversified.

  “Chicken, go back to Canada, regroup, and come back to London ready to show this city who you really are.”

  She was right. I just needed to recharge my batteries, remember where I came from, and drink Tim Hortons with my mom. I still didn’t know who I really was, but was I honestly expected to at twenty-two? My only job right now was to figure out what I wanted and come back to London with a plan.

  ***

  It snowed three centimeters the night before my flight home and you’d think the third horseman of the apocalypse had showed up. The tube stopped working, buses were incapacitated, and absolutely NOBODY went to work. To put it in perspective, the buses continued to run even during the blitz in World War II and they had thousands of tons of bombs dropped on them. The war would have been a different story if the Germans had realized all they had to do was drop a skiff of snow.

  I went to Heathrow anyway, waiting forty-five minutes for the Piccadilly line to Terminal 3 to arrive at Earls Court and then it practically crawled to the airport. I was one of six other people in the car, which was actually quite a few more than I expected.

  Ascending the escalator with my slightly too big for EasyJet but passable for Air Canada carry-on (you know, seasoned traveler and all), I was met with absolute chaos. People in high-vis vests were attempting crowd control clearly without communicating because they were essentially playing Ping Pong with the confused tourists.

  I’d checked in online ahead of time so I tried to make my way straight to security but was spotted and flanked by the high-vis morons.

  “Miss! You can’t get into the airport,” shouted the one on my right with blood-shot eyes and smelling as though he hadn’t showered in the last month.

  I flashed my boarding pass. “I have a ticket and my flight hasn’t been cancelled.” Yet.

  Continuing by him, I was met with an elderly woman who’d had one or two too many crumpets in her life.

  “I’m sorry, dear, only people with a ticket—” I flashed my ticket in her face and walked by. I was getting on this flight and no amount of English bureaucracy was going to stop me.

  I found my way to the passport inspection and was met with little resistance because they assumed that the people outside had done their jobs. Ha ha, suckers.

  Liquids were all packed into one bag, shoes off with cute socks to protect my feet from international cooties, and my laptop was out before the security ogre had a chance to publicly humiliate me. Look at me, all prepared and knowing what to do. Hardly recognized myself.

  Once through, I checked the flight board for my Edmonton flight connecting in Toronto, which still read delayed until eleven and it was just after six thirty. I had plenty of time to do the rest of my Christmas shopping in duty free then make my way home to even more snow. I was starting to get excited. The London snow got me in the mood. I couldn’t wait to see my old room and go shopping in my own closet, recovering the outfits that didn’t make the first cut to London. Part of me even wanted to see Jackie, if nothing else to reassure myself that at the very least I was still better off than she was.

  After buying a bag full of MAC at 20% off, two bottles of Pimms, and finally peeling myself away from the Mulberry store for the third time, I made my way to the flight board and threw up a little in my mouth. While I’d been in a two-hour shopping haze, my flight had been cancelled. My heart sank down to the floor. Now that it was being taken away from me, I’d never wanted to go home so bad in my life.

  I ran to the first Air Canada counter I could find.

  “Oh my god I need to get home. When is the next flight?”

  The woman rolled her eyes and sighed. “When the snow clears.”

  “There is like half an inch of snow on the runway. Give me a shovel and I can have that cleared in, like, an hour. There has to be some kids in this airport. I’ll round them up and before you know it, it will be take-off time.”

  Great, so glad I took care of that problem. I pulled out my phone and started texting my mom that my flight would probably be an hour or so late.

  “Excuse me, Miss? The flight to Edmonton won’t be taking off today. At all.”

  I read her nametag. “Sandra is it? Well I don’t think you understand. I haven’t seen my family in a year and I need to get home.”

  “There’s nothing I can do.” she snapped and went back to pushing buttons and ruining other people’s lives.

  Dejected, but not quite ready to give up, I wiped the stray tear that had escaped and decided all I really needed to do was get out of this godforsaken city. I started to Google trains and flights from other parts of England when my stomach growled at me. In all the excitement I’d forgotten to eat, so I stood in line at Pret to buy what might have actually been the last egg salad sandwich in the terminal and eavesdropped on those in there scavenging with me.

  “Maybe we should get a hotel. I don’t really want to sleep in the airport,” said a moody girlfriend to her tired boyfriend. Quitters.

  “I think there is a flight into New York at eleven forty,” said another man dressed in a suit to his business partner. Hmmm, that could work.

  “Mummy, are we going to see grandma in Canada?” asked a Tiny Tim look-alike to his mother who smiled and responded, “Yes.”

  Come now, what? Bingo!

  I paid for my sandwich, threw it in my Mulberry, and stalked the family as they left Pret. A flight took off outside and my hopes were raised further. Something was leaving which meant I could possibly make it home. I could understand a half-empty flight to Deadmonton might not be their first priority, but something was going to the true north.

  The family settled on a bank of chairs in the center of the food court. It was close to ten and the kids were wavering, lazily resting on their parents’ legs and willing their eyes to stay open. Don’t give up little ones, it’s your sad little faces I’m hoping makes this flight take off.
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  “What’s going on with this flight?” asked the mother to her husband.

  “I’m not sure exactly when it’s taking off, could be tonight or tomorrow morning, but they have our number and they will call, I promise.”

  Who has their number?

  Then Santa came by, the kids were up like it was Christmas morning, and all hell broke loose. He was giving away free candy with a tired-looking elf.

  “Ho ho ho! Hello, kids. Father Christmas heard you were stuck in the airport and wanted to spread some Christmas cheer!”

  Cheer to the kids, misery to those unfortunate enough to be legally obliged to take care of them.

  The husband’s phone rang and he left the screaming children to answer it. I stalked behind him.

  “Hello. Yes, two adults and three children. Thank you so much.” He hung up and walked quickly back to his wife who wasn’t even trying to quiet her children anymore. After some rushed whispers, they gathered their children and made their way towards what I assumed was a gate. Obviously, I followed.

  They stopped at Gate 24 and there were several nervous/shady people loitering at what looked like a closed gate. Many of them appeared to be of my heritage, evidenced by the ubiquitous hockey hats. Mostly Toronto Maple Leafs fans, yuck.

  I approached a girl about my age, hoping she’d enlighten me further; eavesdropping can only get you so far.

  “Hi, so when is this flight supposed to leave?”

  She turned her head as if it was on a rusty spindle.

  “Excuse me?” she asked in a French accent.

  You definitely heard me. “What. Time. Does. This. Flight. Leave?” I said slowly and extremely clearly.

  “I don’t think you’re on it.” She sighed and flicked her hair.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you’re Paige Crawford and last time I checked, you were a hillbilly from Alberta. This flight is going to Toronto.”

  I actually just about ripped her pinhead off her stupid shoulder pads.