It’s time to go see London.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When I wander out Tuesday night, I pretty much stick to Southbank, the walkway beside the Thames, eating dinner at a pop-up Mexican place and then walking along the river until the crowds thin. I end up drinking a glass of white wine at a random pub on the way back to the hotel, but I’m too self-conscious to stay long on my own. It isn’t the night I would have had with Claire and Scarlett, but I’m proud of myself for making the most of it.
I’m also proud of myself for not responding to either Scarlett or Jasper’s texts.
Jasper’s – at 8:30 Tuesday night: I miss you. I’m an idiot. Not necessarily in that order.
Scarlett’s – at 1:00 Wednesday morning: I’m sorry. Have fun. Will talk on Thursday.
Jasper’s makes me smile. Scarlett’s? Not so much.
I glance at it again as I head out and the familiar agitation rises in my chest before I swallow it down. I can be irritated with Scarlett all I want, but the truth of the matter is, I left her and Claire on Tower Bridge. Not the other way around. One of my mother’s favorite sayings, Sometimes the wrong choices bring us to the right places, echoes in my head. Along with: You made your bed, now lie in it. And even though Mom wouldn’t actually say it, lying in this bed I made is exactly what I have to do.
Or ignore it while I play tourist. Unlike last night, setting out on my own doesn’t feel so daunting. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and it’s actually warm enough to wear my cute sundress without a cardigan. My first stop is an open-top bus tour Scarlett disparaged. I don’t care if it is cheesy, it’s a good way to see a lot of the city in a short amount of time, and the tour guide is hysterical. I laugh so much I don’t even mind the pang in my stomach when we pass by Buckingham Palace, reminding me I’m supposed to be there with Claire today. She’s texted me twice – once to apologize for letting me go off on my own and once to say since she hadn’t heard from me, she was going to make other plans. Of all the messages I got, hers is the one I’m most tempted to respond to, but I imagine Scarlett reading over her shoulder and I can’t do it.
Besides, now that I’ve decided to see London solo, I want to see it through. It feels more than a little bit like a test, although I don’t let myself think too much about what I’m hoping to prove. As a teacher, I’m one hundred percent against testing for the sake of it without measurable outcomes. As a person, I’m starting to think it’s not so bad. When I hop off the bus at Kensington Palace I’m even looking forward to having time to window shop and browse on my way up through Knightsbridge.
Not that I can afford to buy anything except a couple of post cards and a Union Jack T-shirt. Still, it’s fun to wander and I even try on a gorgeous silk halter dress in Harvey Nichols, price tag £1545, because I can. As I turn to see the back of the dress in the three-way mirror, it occurs to me this is exactly the kind of thing Scarlett would do. Has done. And if I were with her, I’d sit on one of the upholstered chairs, oohing and ahhing, but refusing to try anything on myself. She’d insist, I’d dig my heels in, and we’d go on until I acquiesced and found the same dress in my size, only to hate our side-by-side reflections in the mirror.
Now, without a body three sizes smaller to compare myself to, I feel glamorous as I twirl and watch the navy blue silk fan out around my knees. The saleswoman watches and smiles. “That style suits you. It’s very Marilyn Monroe.”
“Thank you. It’s gorgeous.” I grin and I’m sure I look sheepish. “I wish I had some place to wear it.”
“Have you tried on the other dress in this collection?” the saleswoman asks. When I shake my head, she holds up a finger. “Stay right there, I’ll get it for you. I think you’ll love it.”
She returns two minutes later holding a navy blue sheath. It has a wide collar that makes me think it’s off the shoulder and a tiny belt around the waist. Either one of those things alone would be enough to make me hesitate, but both together? A definite don’t.
I shake my head. “I’m not sure this is a good style for me.” I point to my chest. “Especially the top.”
“Try it. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised how it plays up your assets.” She holds out two identical dresses until I feel obligated to take them.
I go back to the plush dressing room and slide the halter dress over my head. After I’ve arranged it back on the hanger, I look at the two dresses. Sizes twelve and fourteen. Well, no brainer. Always start with the larger size. I know sizes in the UK are numbered differently than in the US, but putting on a size fourteen still makes me feel fat. Especially when I have to fight to get the zipper up.
But get it up, I do, and a glance in the mirror confirms it’s as horrible as I feared. The dress cuts tight across my stomach and my boobs practically spill out over the top. I look and feel like a stuffed sausage. The saleswoman chooses this minute to trill over the door, “How are you getting on in there?”
“Um, no. It’s not working.” Understatement.
“I’ve brought you the sixteen because this style runs small,” she says.
Sixteen? Seriously? “That’s okay. I don’t think it’s going to work.”
But she’s not to be dissuaded. “I’ve hung it here on the hook outside your door if you want it. I’d love to see it on.”
I wait until I hear her heels tapping on the tile before slipping the door open to grab the dress. I don’t even want to try it on, but her conviction that I’ll fall in love with this dress compels me. You don’t keep a job selling one thousand-pound dresses unless you actually can sell them.
By the time I’ve wrestled with the zipper on the dress I’m wearing and slide the sixteen over my hips, though, I’m done. It’s warm enough that my skin is sticky and my hair is in my eyes, so I don’t see my reflection until I’ve got the dress zipped all the way up and I can toss my head back.
To say the saleswoman was right is like saying margaritas are better with salt. Unlike the smaller size dress, this one fits like it was made for me. The fabric is smooth over my hips and when I turn to the side, my stomach looks almost flat. Unlike the porn-star cleavage I had before, now I have a sexy décolletage. Even the belt works.
I open the dressing room door and the saleswoman is hanging a dress on another door. Her smile is wide. “I knew that dress would be perfect for you.”
“It’s gorgeous.” I glide over to the three-way mirror and turn to see my backside. “I wish I didn’t need a sixteen, though.”
The saleswoman furrows her brow. “It suits you perfectly.”
“No, I know. I just meant I’d like to be a smaller size.”
The saleswoman, who’s built more like Scarlett than like me, stands back and crosses her arms, scrutinizing me. Then she shakes her head. “You’re in perfect proportion. Your chest will always rule out a size ten, even if you lose twenty pounds.”
This is the truth. I know because I’ve tried. To her I say, “True. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
She raises her eyebrows. “It doesn’t mean you don’t either.”
I hate that you don’t know how beautiful you are.
Not Jasper’s exact words, but close enough.
And Lou’s: Your worth is not your dress size. You know that.
Do I know that?
On a cognitive level, of course I do. But on an emotional level?
“I’ve been trying, but it’s a hard habit to break,” I say to my reflection in the mirror.
The saleswoman sighs and shakes her head, a small smile on her lips. “The bad ones always are, darling. The bad ones always are.”
I think back to my conversation with Lou about habits and how far I’ve come in the past few weeks. I hardly even count calories anymore unless I’m drinking and the world hasn’t ended. My clothes still fit and aside from an occasional bout of insecurity, I’m actually happier with my body than I’ve been in a long time. Maybe ever.
I turn and glance at my ass in the mirror and murmur, “Bu
t it’s worth trying.”
The saleswoman smiles and nods as she leaves the dressing room, leaving me admiring my reflection in the mirror.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After Harvey Nichols, I treat myself to a Ninety-Nine from an ice cream van outside Harrods. The vanilla ice cream is creamy and cold, but it’s the chocolate Flake bar stuck in it that makes me close my eyes and sigh. Why don’t we have these in the U.S. again? Normally, I’d save my calories for the beer I’ll have with Theo this afternoon, but I’m feeling bold after my whole dress extravaganza. And maybe just a little bit smug. Maybe.
I skip Harrods and continue walking, past Hyde Park and through Green Park, both of which are filled with people picnicking, jogging, sunbathing. I stop and ogle Buckingham Palace, getting a Japanese lady to take my photo in front of the gates. It’s impressive and apparently the flag flying means the Queen is home, according to a tour I lurk on the edges of until they move on, and I continue towards London Bridge and my meet-up with Theo.
Like the parks, the mall – the road leading up to Buckingham Palace alongside St James Park – is packed with people. I could almost forget it’s Wednesday and this is a major city where people work, if not for the guys in dark suits who brush past impatiently as I make my way towards Westminster. By the time I reach Westminster Bridge, I’m back with the tourists. I get an Italian couple to take my picture with Big Ben and snap a few shots of the Houses of Parliament.
As I cross the bridge, I feel a thrill seeing the London Eye, and not only because it’s impressive, but because I know where I am. I’ve got forty-five minutes until I meet Theo at the bar at Oxo Tower, but I set off in that direction now. I’m tired, hungry, and I want to sit down. I have a feeling once I do, I won’t want to get up for a while.
When I get to Oxo Tower, I’m glad I’ve come early. Like everywhere else, the place is heaving with people and I have to put my name on a waiting list for a table for two. The harried hostess assures me it won’t be long, however the table I get is likely to be inside because it’s such a beautiful day. She doesn’t wait for me to respond before she’s taking down another person’s name for her never ending list.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m seated at a table by the window. It’s inside, but the view over the Thames is still gorgeous with St Paul’s Cathedral in the background. If I remember correctly, someone in the Royal Family was married there, but I can’t remember who. I’m searching for free Wi-Fi when a shadow falls across my phone and I hear a throat clearing. “Hey, Bea.”
I look up at Theo standing above me and shove my chair back to stand. We share an awkward hug and then I say, “Hey. It’s great to see you. Have a seat.”
Theo pulls out his chair and I let myself inspect him. He’s wearing his University of North Carolina T-shirt and a pair of board shorts. It’s a typical Theo uniform, but combined with his super short blond hair and the triathlon watch on his thick wrist, it strikes me immediately how American he looks. It’s a weird thought, especially since it’s not something I would have ever thought before.
I’m still feeling a little confused by this when Theo says, “You look great. England must agree with you.”
“It’s been interesting, that’s for sure.” I smile and give my head a quick shake like it will help get me back on track. “So, what are you doing here anyway? Your Instagram post said you were with a youth group or something?”
Theo shifts in his chair. I know him well enough to recognize when he’s uncomfortable, but I don’t know why. “Yeah, um, I’m a chaperone with the Peachtree Players. They come every summer to do the whole Shakespeare at the Globe thing.”
I laugh. “Shakespeare? You? Okay, what’s her name?”
Theo opens his mouth to answer as the waitress comes over to give us drink menus. We glance at the menus and order two lagers, and I add on mushrooms on toast before turning my attention back to Theo.
He spends a good minute looking around the restaurant before his eyes meet mine. He says, “Ava. Her name is Ava.”
I half expect to feel a punch to the gut, but I don’t. I do feel something, though. A trickle of relief. “Wow. How did you meet her?”
“She goes to my gym. I started spotting her one day while she was doing free weights and we kind of hit it off. We had a couple mango tangos in the juice bar and then moved on to dinner.” Theo shrugs and smiles a little. “She’s cool. We have a lot in common.”
“That’s great. I’m really happy for you.” The trickle of relief morphs into a waterfall as I speak.
Theo closes his eyes and leans his head back. When he looks at me again, his whole posture changes. He leans forward, elbows on the table, the corner of his mouth tilted up. “Thank God. I was worried when you said you wanted to meet you wanted to get back together or something. I saw your mom in Kroger one day and she kind of made it sound like you --”
“Stop. Please don’t finish that sentence or I’ll die of embarrassment.” I close my eyes. “Plus, it’s my mother we’re talking about. You know how much she adores you.”
“I like your mom.” Theo grins. “She doesn’t mean any harm.”
“You’ve never had one of her breakfast smoothies.” I shake my head. “So, tell me more about this Ava person.”
Over half a beer and two bites of my mushrooms on toast, Theo talks about Ava. She’s a drama teacher at a community college, super involved in the youth group, and a total gym rat. She likes baking and Italian cooking, and apparently her chocolate cannoli is award winning.
“Chocolate cannoli doesn’t sound like you,” I say, swallowing a bite of creamy mushrooms. “Has she brought you over to the dark side?”
“She said I could take my food rules and shove them up my ass.” I’m pretty sure Theo actually blushes when he says this.
“And you like her enough to actually do it?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, then gestures to my plate. “Plus, maybe I’m too severe, you know? I mean, whatever you’re having wouldn’t be something I would eat, but it obviously hasn’t done you any harm.”
“Harm as in…?” I’m pretty sure I’m fishing for a compliment now, but I’ve earned it for being the amicable ex.
Theo waves his hand in my direction. “Look at you. You look great. For real.”
“I’ve been eating a lot this summer.” I hear my half apologetic tone as I speak and work to make it more sure as I continue. “I’ve been working in the kitchen, learning to cook. Lou, the woman in charge, has been really encouraging and I’ve started to actually like it.”
“That’s great. Maybe you’ve got a second career option on your hands?”
“I still have a lot to learn, so probably not. But it’s been good, you know?” I take another bite of mushrooms with bread and wait for Theo to fill the gap.
He doesn’t and as I watch him fiddle with the coaster on the table I realize it’s because he has nothing to say. But I’m no better. My mind is blank. We could talk about school, but that would feel like an obvious filler. I don’t want to tell him about Scarlett since their disdain was mutual, and I’m sure as hell not going to tell him about Jasper. It’s a weird feeling having nothing to say to Theo, but I also realize I’m not surprised.
When I speak, my voice is low. “What did we talk about? Before?”
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “Maybe that’s why we broke up.”
“I think we broke up because we needed different things.” I quickly add, “At least I did.”
“I did, too.” Theo’s smart enough not to list out what he thinks those things are. “When you ended it, I knew it was the right thing, even though it made me feel like shit.”
“Kind of like kale. Just because you know something’s good for you, doesn’t mean you have to like it.” I grin.
Theo’s laugh is loud. “Don’t you be dissing my kale. You know how I feel about that.”
Do I ever. I roll my eyes and laugh. “Yeah, yeah. I hope Ava likes kale.”
“
She does, in fact.” Theo drains his beer and puts his hands on his knees. A telltale got-to-go sign. “Speaking of…”
“You have some Shakespeare to get to and I want to get my culture fix before I get out of here. I’m going to hit some free museums.” I put my napkin on the table. “Let me get your beer. You can owe me one sometime”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I know, but I want to.” Theo stands up and so do I. I reach out and put my hand on his arm. “Thank you for meeting me. I needed that. I know it sounds weird, but it’s true.”
“It was great. I’m glad we did this.” Theo puts an arm around my shoulders and draws me in for a hug. I let myself lean against his chest for a second before pulling gently away and reaching up to kiss his cheek.
“Enjoy the rest of your time in London,” I say.
“You too. See you in a couple weeks.” Theo squeezes my arm one more time and turns to leave.
My eyes follow him on his route to the door, but stop midway. There at a table on the patio, in full view, is Scarlett. A dark-haired man in a charcoal gray suit sits across from her and he’s gesturing to a sheath of papers on the table, but he could be setting them on fire for how oblivious she is.
Her eyes are trained solely on me. And if looks could kill, I’d be dead.
Chapter Thirty-Four
By the time I meet Scarlett and Claire at Euston station on Thursday morning, I’ve walked seventeen miles according to the health app on my phone. My feet hurt, my legs are heavy, and my heart is in my throat as I scan the station. I don’t know what to expect when I see Scarlett, but I’m not anticipating anything good.
I check the giant timetable and see our train listed. It’s on time. Now I have to find Scarlett with my ticket. After shelling out for a hotel room, I don’t want to pay for another train ticket too.
I stand on my tiptoes and I swear I see the top of Scarlett’s head over by the Costa Coffee. Sure enough, when I drag my suitcase over there, it’s her laughing with Claire. Her smile fades as she catches sight of me.
A Brit on the Side (Castle Calder Book 1) Page 22