Foreign Exposure

by Lauren Mechling

“I say,” added Robin, “your footfall is lighter than a gazelle’s! Now, can I get you a cuppa? Tea, coffee, what’ll you have?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” I said, too bowled over by the perfection of this family to request my usual orange juice. Even when my parents were together, we’d never had mornings like this; everyone was always too busy or too stressed. But the Foxes, even with their high-powered jobs, were straight out of a Merchant Ivory movie. A sullen Adrian sat looking uncomfortable in a button-down shirt while Imogen applied frosting to a multitiered cake. Pippa stood at the counter closest to the fridge, alternating between separating eggs into a bowl and stirring a pot of green peas. Next to her, Robin was browsing an antiques magazine with a pair of brass scissors in his hand. He compulsively clipped out any article that might prove useful for his art fund, and most tables in the vast Fox house were scattered with the fruits of Robin’s research.

  Everyone was perfectly dressed, too: Robin and Adrian in crisp shirts, Pippa and Imogen in cocktail dresses. Realizing how my own outfit measured up in comparison, I sputtered, “I—I’m so sorry to come downstairs like this!”

  “Oh, tosh,” said Pippa without interrupting either of her tasks. “We’ve seen it. all, darling. The last time Imo’s friends crashed out here, they tore through the house almost starkers, as if they owned only knickers.”

  Imogen looked up from her cake to roll her eyes. “Mum, that’s an outrageous overstatement. Those were extremely expensive camisoles—you paid for them, so you should know.”

  “Mimi, care for a spot of tea?” Robin asked again, as if on autopilot.

  “Do let her get changed first, darling,” Pippa said. Then to me, she added, “We’re having several friends over for Saturday lunch, so do hurry along and join us. And if you could, pop into the study and tell Lily we’re nearly ready for her as well.”

  Robin made a series of clicking noises at Lulu, who had just strolled into the kitchen. God, I thought, even the Foxes’ mangy cat looked elegant this Saturday morning, her missing eye like a monocle.

  On my way to the fourth floor, I stopped by Pippa’s office, where Lily was seated at the computer table, doing e-mail. “You’re requested downstairs at brunch, madam,” I told her.

  “It’s Saturday lunch,” she corrected me. “They don’t do brunch around here.” As she spoke, she logged off her account and turned to face me. That was when I saw that, for the first time since I’d known her, Lily Morton was wearing a skirt.

  “Whoa, hot legs, what’s going on here?” I cried. “Please tell me you’re low on laundry—or was the real Lily abducted by aliens?”

  “Whatever,” Lily said with a shrug. “I’m adapting to my new ecosphere, and so should you. Saturday lunch in the Fox household is an incredibly formal affair, so I suggest you go make yourself decent.”

  In the half-hour that I spent showering and changing into the dress Lily had given me on the day I arrived, the Foxes’ downstairs parlor had filled with people. With Lulu stowed in the laundry room, Pippa opened the French doors to the garden, where guests were admiring Robin’s new wrought-iron outdoor furniture. Imogen sat on one of the black benches beneath the clematis blossoms, laughing with the stubble-haired boy whose picture was papered all over her bedroom. When Pippa saw me standing on the terraced porch, idly surveying the scene, she rushed over with a platter of miniature vegetables. “Mimi, darling, will you be a dear and pass these around?” she asked distractedly, thrusting the platter at me. “It’ll help enormously with the mingling.”

  I accepted the task and stepped out into the garden. Upon seeing me, Lily darted over and hissed, “Mimi, you’ve got to help! This creepy guy is practically stalking me—he won’t leave me alone!”

  “See what happens when you wear skirts?” I said with a smirk.

  “Oh, shut up—I didn’t ask for your fashion commentary. Just stick around in case he strikes again, all right?”

  I was more than happy to oblige, especially since I hadn’t met any of the Foxes’ friends yet. Lily, who knew all of them, suggested we start by offering the miniveggies to the rather desolate-looking Julian Steadcroft. Lily told me that Mr. Steadcroft wrote historical novels set in Elizabethan England, and it struck me as an appropriate vocation, since the stooped author looked about five hundred years old. When he reached for a carrot stick, his wife, Penelope, swatted his hand away. “You’ve just had your dentures mended!” she reminded him. “Nothing crunchy now!”

  Following this unsuccessful venture, we accosted a quivering little man in a bright rainbow ascot. Lily made the introductions: “Mimi Schulman, meet Dicky Faircrust. Mimi’s my good friend from New York,” she said, “and Dicky’s a royal watcher.”

  “Oh, cool!” I said. “My mom’s really into that, too—do you get a big range of bird species in central London?”

  At this, Dicky’s already thin lips drew into a straight line, and he cleared his throat pointedly before saying, “Ahem, no, I’m afraid you misheard. I’m not a bird watcher, I’m a royal watcher.”

  “Yeah,” Lily jumped in, “meaning he studies the royal family for a living.”

  “Wow,” I gasped, “so you actually know the king and queen?”

  “There is no king, I’m afraid,” Dicky drawled. “And members of the royal family never speak to the watchers. They’re engaged in far more important matters.”

  Seconds later, the horrified Dicky rushed off in the direction of Robin’s rosebushes. “What a freak!” I said afterward to Lily.

  “Well, get used to seeing him. He’s on every news show, commenting whenever a member of the royal family goes to the bathroom.”

  We then made our way over to Victoria Ardsdale, a sinewy thirty-something blonde who frowned suspiciously at us before plucking a miniature radish off the tray. Then, without a word of thanks, she glided over to where Robin was discoursing on different varieties of lilies. “You’re welcome,” I said to the space where she’d been standing.

  “Oh, ignore her,” Lily said. “I’ve known her forever, and she’s never once deigned to speak to me. She’s completely rude to—” Suddenly, Lily broke off and let out a little shriek. “Ack, you scared me!”

  A man of indeterminate national identity had shoved between us and placed his palm on Lily’s shoulder—this must be her stalker. He was in his thirties and incredibly fit, but not in the British sense of the word. He had a thin mustache that could’ve been drawn in eyeliner, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone to expose thick black swirls of chest hair. “Mimi,” said Lily in a polite but pained voice, “this is Mario. He, ah, works for Pippa at the BBC.”

  “I’m down the hall, in programming as well,” the man said in a possibly fake foreign accent. “I handle outreach.” He rocked forward to kiss my cheeks, his lips landing repulsively close to the corners of my mouth. “I am very lucky in this job; Mrs. Fox is a wonderful leader.”

  The drool had not yet dried on my cheeks when Pippa rang the bell summoning us to the table. In the procession inside, Lily and I succeeded in ditching smarmy Mario and ended up seated between a Russian couple who collected Fabergé eggs and were considering a sizable investment in the art fund that Robin managed. If they’d spoken any English, I might have inquired if they knew Boris’s family back in the old country, but they didn’t, so I refrained.

  Robin made a big show of welcoming these guests by pouring everyone generous shots of some pricy potato vodka. Throughout the meal, he performed his one task of doling out liquor with gusto, supplying more free refills than a Mexican restaurant in Houston.

  But it was Pippa who ran the party, and for the first time I saw in her the tireless, top-fifty mogul that the Rebecca Bridgewaters of the world held in such high esteem. I also understood why she and anal-retentive Margaret Morton were such close friends. Scatterbrained Pippa revealed herself to be bossy, sharp, and astonishingly efficient. She was an excellent cook, too, and served up five courses of heavy-duty dishes like Iamb cutlets and creamed golden potatoes
. When she wasn’t rushing from the kitchen to the table, she was steering the conversation, addressing each of her guests individually, and touching on subjects that drew on everybody’s expertise. At one point she even brought up Mexican food in an effort to pull me into the conversation. “The restaurants round here are getting it wrong, aren’t they?” she asked. “I mean, really—chocolate fudge on a chicken cutlet? Positively foul, I tell you!”

  I smiled. “That sounds like bad mole sauce. You should be able to taste the chocolate, but it shouldn’t be sweet—or only a little. It should be really intense, almost sinister.”

  “Mmm, sinister.” Mario said, letting the word linger in the air like strong cologne.

  “I quite like the sound of that,” Pippa said. “In London, even at the top Mexican restaurants, like that new place in Soho, Malo—”

  “Kahlo,” Mario gently corrected her. “Interesting night, wasn’t that?” He was staring straight into the eyes of his hostess.

  “In any event, the food was dreadful—all splodgy and greasy and absolutely impossible to stop eating!” Looking away from Mario, Pippa brought a forkful of potatoes to her mouth. “I’d say they must sprinkle it all with cocaine, but cocaine suppresses the appetite. They’re doing something—sinister indeed, I’d say.”

  Everyone laughed, and so the merry meal progressed. The rest of the afternoon was a blur, what with all the Slavic spirits to taste and floral bouquets to smell and bizarro guests to observe. Even before Imogen brought out her three-tiered marzipan cake, I was completely stuffed—and I’m never stuffed. It was almost four when the guests finally began filing out. While Robin carried the stacks of plates into the kitchen, he congratulated his wife on another superb Saturday afternoon.

  “I don’t know how you manage, darling,” he said, putting down a silver ladle to loop his arm around her waist. “It’s equally puzzling, isn’t it, how I’ve managed to capture the most spectacularly talented creature in Christendom for my wife.”

  At this, Pippa crumpled into her husband’s embrace, and he kissed her tenderly on the forehead as she murmured, “All for you, darling, all for you.”

  Watching them, I felt a stab of sadness and envy. Had my parents ever been that smitten with each other, even way back in the beginning, before they had Ariel and me? Pippa and Robin were my parents’ age, and they were still madly in love; it was insane to contemplate. Imogen could bake professionally, Adrian loaded the dishwasher without being asked, Lulu came out and purred like a pussycat from central casting—seriously, you couldn’t invent a family this perfect.

  From: “Vrock2000”

  To: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 3, 8:15 p.m.

  Subject: holy smokes

  Mimi, You RAN AWAY FROM YOUR MOM? Is she going to kill you or are you going to have to kill her first? You are one brave soul. Let me know if you want to talk on the phone. Have Dad’s AT&T card and he wouldn’t notice if I called Jupiter. Which I might just do, btw, if I stay much longer in Oregon. The whole trip is a major letdown. . . . I’m praying the people at my record label internship will be more Interesting than the kids on this tour (99% of them are from Long Island, if that means anything to you). This one girl brought 10 different designer bags—I swear to God. On a hiking trip! Not that it’s all, that rugged. . . . We’re in this huge luxury bus that’s so full of video-game gadgets and TV monitors that nobody ever looks out the window. Hmmm . . . what else? Oh, yeah, the other night, after a rest break at an IHOP, I accidentally boarded the wrong luxury bus. I fell asleep and an hour later woke up surrounded by senior citizens from Holland. It was a major ordeal to get back to the teenmobile, which had gone the opposite direction down the highway. There was one nice couple from Rotterdam who suggested I switch tours. Sort of like what you did. Man, you be crazy! E-mail me soonissima.

  V.

  From: “Unclesam9”

  To: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 4, 6:32 p.m.

  Subject: Happy Fourth

  Hey Mimi, I thought I’d be a big boy and reach out to wish you a happy Independence Day. Rumor has it you’ve busted free of the chains and tethers, but wait—aren’t we celebrating our freedom from the English? Whatever. You’ve always done things your own way. I wish we’d said goodbye at the end of the year, but you know, life gets complicated sometimes. Or at least I do. Consider this my formal apology.

  As you maybe already know, I’m at this summer program at Bennington. The courses are almost as crazy as at Baldwin—no wonder Zora Blanchard recommended it so heavily. I’m taking a class on underground Islamic art (which mostly involves reading comic books about women’s secret lives) and a class on hosting your own radio show. We all get our own slots—mine’s at 4 a.m. Wednesday morning and the one time the studio phone rang it was the wrong number, but I’m still enjoying it. I get to use my crazy deep voice and burn any CD I want from the killer music library. Been getting into ragtime, and they have this new wave Ethiopian jazz record I spent most of last year looking for, so I’m psyched. The other kids are so-so. I’ve made friends with a girl from Tribeca named Rashida and a guy named—get this—Guy. He’s from California and meditates every morning. Also, he’s not into chairs—only sitting cross-legged on the floor. Rashida is a little less ridiculous, except when she talks about her “pansexuality.” I think she’s just trying to sound sophisticated, but I keep picturing her making out with frying pans.

  I’m here till August, then back to NYC. Mom wants me to start studying for the SAT, though I can think of a few ways I’d rather spend the month (watching paint dry, for one). Send me your news, yeah? Is it true you’re a cutthroat gossip columnist? Gotta love that.

  Sam

  At the Altar of the Soul Cathedral

  THOUGH I’D NEVER MET PENNY, the woman on maternity leave whose cubicle I was borrowing, I had strong positive feelings for her. Her desk drawers were crammed with chocolate bar wrappers, card decks from Weight Watchers, and notebooks to chronicle her daily food intake. I could only assume she fell off the wagon often, because a typical entry went something like this:

  Breakfast: 1/4 melon, tea

  Lunch: Mediterranean salad, 1 small yoghurt, fun-size chocolate bar (only half)

  Dinner: Massive brick Stilton, sauteed spinach, Cadbury Crunchee bar & other unmentionables god I loathe myself

  Penny had two distinct sets of photographs decorating her workspace. By the telephone, there was a framed shot of her sharing an oversize Polynesian drink with a man I assumed was her husband, and another of her and the same man grinning from the top level of a double-decker bus. In the second, more interesting set of pictures, Penny was posing with different A-ha! personalities. While with her husband Penny appeared serene and in control, her face in the celebrity snapshots was simultaneously startled and ecstatic, as if a grenade had just gone off in her ear—and she’d loved it.

  Unlike Penny—and the photographers, who made too much money to complain—most A-ha! staffers scorned the celebrities they covered and regarded their jobs here as steppingstones to greater glories. Nicholas wanted to be a crime reporter for the Evening Standard, while Zoe dreamed of writing a cookery column for one of the Sunday papers. As for Anthony, well, he hadn’t gotten around to mulling the future just yet. He saw this job as a placeholder, a transition between university and the great unknown commonly referred to as the rest of his life.

  With the exception of Charlie Lappin and his deputy, Rebecca Bridgewater, by far the most enthusiastic person in the A-ha! office was Sophie, the intern from Leeds. She was short and plump, with apple-red cheeks and improbably long bangs dyed in unfortunate blond and chestnut stripes. From the little interaction we’d had, I could tell she knew more celebrity trivia than anyone else on the magazine. This made sense after Anthony shared the biographical information he had on Sophie: her father, a butcher, had taken off for Ireland when she was still a toddler, and much of her childhood was spent in front of the television while her mother held down two
jobs. Little Sophie thought of television stars as a second family of sorts, and her devotion showed in her enthusiasm for A-ha!

  I had liked her from the first morning, when she looked up from her computer to grin at me. Exactly one week later, on my second Monday at the office, she swung by my desk and invited me to coffee. “That is, if you’re not too busy,” she added quickly. “We can always do it another time.”

  “I’d love to,” I said, trying not to show how flattered I was. “Just give me one sec.”

  “Sure, sure, you just looked so . . .” Sophie blushed.

  “Frantic? I know.” To put her at ease, I babbled unintelligibly while saving the e-mail I was in the middle of composing to Sam.

  On our way to the elevator, Sophie inquired about what I’d been working on.

  “I’m asking celebs what they’re reading this summer,” I told her, “but I haven’t made it very far down the list. Two people named their own autobiographies, and another recommended Mother Goose. Oh, and get this—the singer from Sweetlife said she’s spent a year looking for an interesting book, but hasn’t found a single thing worth reading.”

  “But you don’t mean Davina Rose?” Sophie asked, evidently perplexed. “That’s odd—isn’t she the one who started the literacy program?”

  “Uh, is she?”

  “Mmph, I believe so. There were posters of her reading and eating ice cream in bed all over my local library. And I think I saw one—”

  Sophie broke off as the elevator dinged open and Rebecca Bridgewater stepped out.

  “What luck,” Rebecca said dryly, nodding at me. “Mimi, I was just about to go looking for you. Would you mind accompanying me to my office for a moment? I have a few bits I’d like to discuss.”