by Unknown
‘Ouch. You wound me.’
‘Poppy’s right, Georgie. Maybe if you got yourself some new friends, you’d have something productive to occupy your thoughts.’
‘I would, but I can’t stand the class of people out there these days.’
‘The commoners?’ Jools offers.
‘I’m not interested in anything common.’
‘Except seck-sually,’ Poppy says.
‘You would know, my dear.’
Potential laughs. ‘Don’t scare Hannah off, talking about sex and commoners.’
‘Which do you prefer, Hannah?’
‘What?’
‘Sex or commoners?’
George is determined for me to hate him.
‘Don’t answer that, Hannah.’ Potential actually sounds a little protective. ‘George, I’m going to make you sleep in the gare-odge if you keep this up.’
‘I apologize for Georgie,’ says Jools. ‘He doesn’t often get to meet new people. For obvious reasons.’
‘Sorry, Crispy, don’t mean to scare off your little piece of rough.’
‘George!’
Ruff? Ruffle? I’m in the twilight zone.
Just to reinforce his role as head of the welcoming committee, George steers the conversation to TV they watched as kids. My most useful contribution will be to have a nap here on the table. For two countries with such a ‘special relationship’, culturally we have nothing in common. They might not even know who Bugs Bunny is.
‘Did you have Saturday morning cartoons?’
‘Of course. We are a first-world country, you know,’ George says…You arrogant cultural imperialist bitch, his look emphatically adds.
‘I just wondered what shows you had as kids.’
‘Blue Peter!’
Which sounds vaguely pornographic.
‘ThunderCats! Or Button Moon!’
‘SuperTed!’
Ted is no name for a convincing superhero. ‘What’s SuperTed?’
‘He’s a magic teddy bear,’ Potential explains.
‘Did he fight crime?’
‘He fought Texas Pete.’ At least Potential now looks like he too doubts Pete’s defensive capabilities.
‘Texas –?’
‘Texas Pete, the evil cowboy.’
Of course. ‘Did he have superpowers?’
‘He flew.’
‘Did he foil plots to end the world?’
‘No,’ giggles Poppy, ‘mostly he lazed about in his treehouse with his friend Spotty.’
‘Hannah, ours is a kinder, gentler existence,’ George explains. ‘We don’t think everyone is out to get us.’
Huh, in your case, George, you shouldn’t assume we’re not.
Gregory comes in to tell us that dinner’s ready. Actually, he says, ‘Dinner is served.’ I swear to god.
I’m not proud of self-medicating but getting drunk does take the edge off the evening. It’s not that I dislike them. Well, I dislike George. I don’t have any idea what the others are talking about. Everything is an inside joke and it’s abundantly clear that I’m not on the inside. However, by the time we’ve pushed our plates away, at least I’ve got the hang of their banter. If I make everything a sexual innuendo, they think I’m witty. The more booby comments the better. I now understand the Brits’ reverence for Benny Hill.
My smutty repartee is working its magic on Potential too. He’s even holding my hand now. ‘Come on, Hannah, it’s a gorgeous night. Let’s take a walk.’
‘Sure, okay.’ Why not? Walking may lie somewhere between leg waxing and vacuuming on my list of favourite activities, but I’m so grateful to get out of this Laura Ashley igloo that I’d walk to Wales right now for the chance to reintroduce my limbs to their circulatory system. A chorus of jibes worthy of pre-pubescent boys follows us into the garden.
‘I hope you don’t mind a walk.’
Maybe this was the subject of Chloe’s caution: definitely don’t wear taxi shoes because you’re going to be force-marched outdoors. ‘Of course not. It’s a nice night.’ Fortunately for my toes, which are going numb in shoes that are half a size too small (but so cute), his idea of a walk involves a very civilized path around the yard. Given the size of the yard, this could take half an hour. Still, it’s snuggly with his arm around me.
‘Thanks for coming down. It’s very brave of you, you know.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. I like your friends.’ At least, theoretically, I could grow to tolerate them given enough time.
‘They’re a lot to handle at first. But you’re American, I knew you’d be all right.’
I love that he loves that I’m American.
‘Come, I have something to show you.’ In a little thicket, I can just make out the frame of a house. A miniature house. ‘Come on.’ He’s dancing me towards the door.
I know you know where this is going. So do I, and I have to say that doing it in the great outdoors isn’t one of my fantasies. Not when there are perfectly beautiful four-poster beds in the house, and definitely not when it’s our first time. ‘Ah, actually, I’m not such a big nature fan,’ I say, extricating myself from his embrace. ‘Do you mind if we go back in the house?’ And tear each other’s clothes off, obviously.
‘Uh, sure, okay. Whatever you want.’
I like the sound of that!
‘That was fast.’
‘Georgie, don’t be rude.’
‘I’m just stating a fact.’
Nobody is bothering to talk over the blare of the TV. With Poppy and Jools draped all over the sofa, Potential and I are forced into separate chairs.
‘’Nother glass of wine, Hannah?’
‘Sure, thanks.’ This isn’t even close to the romantic evening I had in mind. For one thing, there are three too many people in the room. For another, I’m more than lunging distance from the object of my desire. It’s an uncomfortable flashback to late nights in a guy’s room during college, ostensibly watching TV, in reality waiting for his room-mate to fall asleep so we could jump each other. This time it’s me who’s falling asleep, thanks to my impressive assault on the wine cellar tonight. They’ve beaten me. Intentionally or not, Potential’s friends are foiling my plans for passion.
Judging from Poppy’s smirk, I may have just snored myself awake. ‘I’m turning in.’ Short of turning the lights off and calling last orders, I don’t know how to more strongly signal my intentions.
‘Okay, Hannah.’ Potential stands, finally getting the hint. He kisses me. ‘Goodnight.’ He sits down again.
That’s it? What kind of man invites a perfectly sexy woman away for a weekend and then doesn’t make a move? I didn’t force him to ask me here. He volunteered the invitation out of the blue. He must have liked me or he wouldn’t have asked. And we haven’t seen each other since Wednesday, so I know I didn’t piss him off between then and now. I was even polite to his odious friend…Unless he did like me, but upon reflection he’s gone off me. Four dates was all it took for him to realize he doesn’t want to get involved. I feel a little sick. How many times have I gone out with a guy a few times and never heard from him again? Lots. This just confirms my suspicions. I’m fundamentally unsuitable for the long haul, and this obviously isn’t working. I’ve been kidding myself, thinking I’d have a fabulous relationship with some stranger I met on the rebound. Really, what are the chances of that working out, when we’re so fundamentally different? I know virtually nothing about him…
Maybe I’m better off sticking with what I know. I do, after all, already have an offer on the table, right? I realize I’ve made it sound like there’s no way I’d take him up on it, and I wouldn’t even consider it if not for a particularly troublesome character flaw making me covet what other people have. Knowing he’s attached gives him a female ‘stamp of approval’ that’s perversely appealing (perverse because he’d be cheating to go out with me; not exactly a desirable trait in a boyfriend). Still, wouldn’t it be so easy, and so tempting, to plug back into the world I know? Who hasn’t done it, w
hether old home, old friend or old boyfriend? I think I understand what long-standing prisoners go through, dreaming of a different life only to be let out and then have to face the fact that maybe they can’t do it after all. I want to reoffend, to be let back inside, where at least it’s safe…Dating a known quantity has its advantages. They say the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t. At least I can anticipate the problems. Besides, maybe he’ll surprise me. I can’t deny we have some weird connection.
What’s that? There’s a little voice that sounds a lot like the new Hannah. Don’t settle, she whispers. And don’t give up on Potential. He wouldn’t have asked you for the weekend, with his friends, if he didn’t like you. Everyone knows boys don’t let their friends within ten feet of a shag-buddy. He must see the potential for a future. He’s just taking things slowly because he wants everything to be perfect. Even the most fervent optimist couldn’t have called this day perfect. Obviously he’s a gentleman, planning to make his move later. Or perhaps…
Perhaps that bit in the playhouse was his move. Is it possible he has just one move, and he thinks I rejected him? Surely he’s not that sensitive. Is he? I need clarification. Obviously I can’t go back downstairs now that I’ve made my exit. And I don’t know where he’s sleeping, so unless I want to risk walking in on Jools, or worse, on George, I can’t very well go sneaking into bedrooms. I could text him. Would that look desperate? Absolutely. Not that my pride is my main concern at times like these–there’s also no signal in the house, so unless I want to go back outside to the tree line…Think, think, think.
How about if, before everyone comes upstairs, I find his room and leave him a playful, sexy note? I’m sure that’s exactly what the Kates would do.
Since he grew up here, there has to be one room filled with boy junk. No mother redecorates her son’s room if she doesn’t have to. I’m guessing it’s at the top of the house, as far away from his parents as possible. The stairs are unnervingly creaky. Potential had no chance of sneaking in late as a teenager. I’m sure my footsteps aren’t actually that loud, it’s just that it’s graveyard-quiet up here. I’d never get used to that. I grew up claustrophobic, constantly tripping over a very vocal family. Everything is too spread out in this house. I’d redecorate and put my bedroom on the first floor. And I’d definitely open up those other rooms so they were livable. What’s the point of having a mansion if you’re going to live in a couple rooms like a poor person?
This must be it. There are band posters all over the walls and at least a dozen upright video games, a sort of nerd’s time capsule from 1993. I hope Potential isn’t some kind of Oasis-obsessed computer freak. I dated one of those in college (a computer freak, I mean; I have nothing against the band). Ultimately there wasn’t room in his life for both Game Boy and me. I’d hate to be beaten again by an electronic device. There’s his desk. It’s stuffed with papers. I’m not snooping. I’m looking for something to write on. Some look like letters. And I’m looking for a pen. Old girlfriends’ letters? Current girlfriend’s letters? This pen doesn’t work. Perhaps there’s another folded inside one of these letters.
Deny it if you like, but it’s a rare girl who wouldn’t read her boyfriend’s letters if she got the chance. The only thing stopping me from reading them is the fear that I’ll get caught. My chances then of becoming Lady Potential would substantially diminish. On the other hand, forewarned is forearmed (they’re addressed to ‘Pickle’). Didn’t I resolve not to get involved with another attached man? What if Potential is hiding a girlfriend? (There are at least half a dozen letters here.) I owe it to myself to find out the truth (they’re dated two years ago). But it’s wrong, I know that. As I scribble my note–inviting him to see more of me without making any promises–I resolve not to pry. What a grown-up I’ve become! Maybe it’s the move, or my new job, or the fact that I didn’t go psycho on Mark. Whatever the reason, this transformation is remarkable. I’ve achieved a new level of personal growth. Good for me.
‘Oh my god!’ I’ve just run into Jeeves in the hall. Literally. When I put my hands out to keep from stumbling, I hit him in the balls.
‘Terribly sorry to have frightened you, miss.’
‘Uh, that’s okay.’ I’ve felt up the butler.
‘Can I help you find something?’
‘I was, ah, looking for the bathroom.’
‘It’s on your floor, miss.’ He knows he’s caught me. ‘Shall I show you?’
I follow him meekly back downstairs to the bathroom, which is next door to my bedroom, by the way. I’m trying not to give off petty-thief vibes, but I’m sure he’ll count the silverware when I leave.
13
You know what they say about best-laid plans. Sometimes nobody gets laid. The sun is gamely trying to penetrate the wine fog in my head. It’s sometime between 9.30 a.m. and 3 p.m. People talk about the rain in England, but nobody mentions that the sun barely comes over the horizon this time of year. A glance at Piaget tells me it’s technically still morning. A glance at the empty side of the bed tells me I’m technically still unsatisfied. As if I need the reminder. Potential must have read the note and laughed. Or worse, he cringed. Either way, I look like a fool. I’ve got to get out of here. I’d fake a gallbladder attack if I had any idea where my gallbladder might be. I could hitchhike back to London, but I don’t get the feeling that the English are comfortable offering strangers rides in their cars, given that they won’t even speak to them on trains, and we’re at least thirty miles outside the reach of my Oyster card. Damn this idyllic countryside. I don’t know what the English see in it. Chloe talks like Nirvana rests just outside the M25. It sounds like she grew up in a very rural place, which explains her vegetarianism. She doesn’t have an innate love of greens, or empathy for God’s small creatures. Her father served her pet lamb to the family for dinner one fine evening. Over dessert, he casually mentioned the provenance of those chops and her aversion to meat was born. Honestly, with her parents, it’s amazing she’s this well adjusted.
George is in the kitchen, waiting to fulfil his ambition to be the world’s most loathsome man. He and Potential look like they’ve slept in their clothes. This is taking the capsule wardrobe a step too far, though Potential is still adorable in his lord-of-the-manor furry cardigan and wide-wale corduroys. If I don’t make eye contact, we can both pretend this never happened and I can thumb my way home after breakfast.
‘Hey, you,’ he says as he rushes, actually rushes, to me.
What’s this? Now I’m even more confused. If he is into me, why didn’t he come to my room last night? And if he isn’t, why is his tongue in my mouth?
‘Shoot, Hannah?’ George says. He’s washing down bites of toast with what looks like a gin and tonic.
‘I beg your pardon?’ It’s the weekend. A girl shouldn’t be penalized for sleeping in.
‘Do–you–shoot?’
Unless he’s referring to pool, I don’t. It’s not something we get much chance to do in Hartford, Connecticut. Shootings, well, that’s another story. I’m not against the concept of hunting, considering how much of its proceeds I eat and wear… I’ve coveted a chinchilla jacket for six months now. I don’t suppose they’re indigenous to the Surrey countryside.
‘What are we shooting?’
‘Duck. Ah, girls, ready?’
Well, I’d look stupid in a duck jacket, but I’m game.
Looking at Jools and Poppy, I realize that this is where Ralph Lauren should look for his inspiration. They have the chicest little ensembles, pretty plaid blazers and the most adorable tweedy pants and tall boots you’ll see outside Chanel’s fall/winter heritage collection. Jools even has a cap.
Potential hasn’t failed to notice my envy. ‘Come on, Hannah, we’ve got some gear here for you.’ They have an entire shed devoted to blood sports. Just imagine how stunning I’ll look in a tweed shooting jacket. Maybe there’s one in pink. ‘There you are. It may be a little big, but it’ll keep you warm.’
I’m holding an armload of combat-green oilcloth.
‘You’ll need those,’ he says, pointing to clunky green rubber boots. ‘The tracks are muddy.’ Plonking a hat (brown and ugly) on my head, he looks pleased with his work.
I look like Elmer Fudd.
‘Cheer up, old girl,’ George pipes up. ‘It’s not about style.’
What nonsense. Of course it is.
The dogs are bounding ahead of us, stopping every few minutes to check that we’re still enjoying their game. (At least dogs are the same here, although I suppose they don’t understand English in other countries. Imagine that. You say, ‘Sit, Pepper!’ and Pepper says, ‘Qué?’) It’s exciting to carry a gun, though I’m a little worried about shooting someone (George would be my first choice). This is one instance when I’m not tempted by the urge to embellish my abilities. Some might say I’ve lied about certain skills in the past. I maintain that from a theoretical point of view, skiing didn’t look that hard. From the top of the mountain, the view was a little different and I’m very grateful for safety nets at the edge of slopes.
Potential doesn’t seem to mind my lack of shooting expertise. It’s sexy letting him teach me how to hold a gun. And either he’s carrying his cartridges in his front pocket or he thinks so too. This makes his no-show last night even more mysterious. I can’t imagine what happened. Except that I didn’t sign the note. Maybe he thought it was from Jools or Poppy. If so, he must be mortified that one of his long-time friends propositioned him. It’s a person’s worst nightmare to have a friend suddenly get a case of the wish-you-were-nakeds. I wonder which girl he thinks it is. It must be Jools, since Poppy and George obviously had a thing. That’s why he’s been so attentive this morning. He feels guilty by proxy. Just how guilty, I wonder? What if he took Jools up on my proposition? What if they spent the entire night having sex and laughing at me? That two-timing bastard!
‘Hallo, hold up!’
‘It’s my brother,’ says Potential.
‘Well, hello.’
‘Alfie, this is Hannah. Hannah, my brother Alfie.’ He’s even better-looking than Potential. And I bet he’s nice and charming and funny and he hasn’t just slept with Jools under my very nose. Just as I’m beginning to wonder how I might successfully transfer my affections to him without seeming fickle, Potential says, ‘Good luck getting into your room, Alfie. Mother’s had all the video games put in there while they redo the games room.’ He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Mother insists on keeping all of our old games for the grandchildren she hopes to have one day.’