by Unknown
Welcome to Europe.
Once caffeinated, I’m a little more ready to humour my parents. Not exactly enthusiastically, but at least I no longer want to poison them. ‘What would you like to do while you’re here?’ I don’t suppose I can convince them to go to Paris. I’ll happily meet them at Heathrow on Monday to say goodbye. I’m ashamed to be ungrateful for their visit. I know they came to be with me. And that’s very thoughtful. It just doesn’t compensate for the grief I’m about to endure.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter to us, we’ve been here before. Whatever you want to do is fine.’
I want to go back to bed. God, look at them. They’re so awake. ‘What about a museum?’ One of my main justifications for moving, besides having a non-refundable ticket, was the opportunity to immerse myself in London’s cultural riches. I imagined myself as a highbrow junkie, one of those girls who debate the merits of the Korean film industry with trendy glasses perched intelligently on their noses. I had noble intentions, which have slipped with time. Movies now count as culture, especially if they’re subtitled, or British (or star Rupert Everett). And new cuisines obviously count. And new bars, because they serve real ale…
‘Oh. A museum?’ Mom is hitching up her face with the it-pains-me-to-have-to-tell-you-this drawstring she keeps hidden behind her ears. ‘Daddy and I were just in New York last weekend. We went to the Frick.’
Well, Fricken hell. ‘It’s a nice day. We could take a walk in the park, see the Princess Diana memorial.’ Mom loved Princess Di.
‘Well, your father’s arthritis is acting up.’
My father has arthritis? Dad looks equally surprised to hear this. He’d never contradict her, of course. If she says he has arthritis, he has arthritis.
‘Um, a movie?’
‘We must have seen four on the plane. You know I don’t sleep well these days.’
We could sit in my apartment and stare at each other until your taxi comes on Monday. How do you win with people like this? ‘Dad, what would you like to do?’
He’s shocked by the question, not having heard it in over twenty years. It’ll take him a minute to formulate a response.
‘Anyway, Mom, how’s Deb?’
‘Ugh, still not pregnant. You should talk to your sister more often.’
‘That’s not how you get pregnant.’
‘Don’t be smart.’
‘Sorry.’
Dad suddenly sits bolt upright. ‘Maybe we could go to Churchill’s War Rooms?’
‘That doesn’t sound like much fun,’ Mom says.
‘That’s what I want to do,’ he retorts quietly, savouring the chance to exercise his free will, however short-lived it may prove to be.
Mom isn’t giving up easily. ‘How about some shopping?’
‘You go shopping,’ says Dad. ‘I want to go to the War Rooms.’
This is unprecedented. Maybe a drop in cabin pressure has made him giddy. ‘I’ll go with you, Dad.’
‘You two can’t just go off and leave me.’
‘Then come with us.’
‘Oh, all right. But I don’t see why we can’t do something that everyone wants to do…won’t insist…not interested in Churchill or his war…shopping…my vacation too…more fun…don’t have to…’
Dad: 1, Mom: 0. It must be the lack of home field advantage.
‘I have an idea, Mom. After the War Rooms, I’ll take you for tea.’ That’ll appease her. I took her for her birthday to the St Regis in New York and you’d have thought I’d produced that grandbaby she so desperately craves.
‘Can I have a nap instead?’ Flushed with victory, he’s making a land-grab, consolidating his position.
‘Sure, Dad.’
…Of course there are no tables available at Browns when we get there. It’s my fault, for forgetting that everything here, ev-ery-thing, must be pre-booked. The entire system is designed to beat all spontaneity out of the population. I thought Siobhan was joking when she offered to book tickets for the first film we saw together.39 Sure enough, it was sold out when we got there. I was shocked to learn that gyms encourage the same behaviour (though I know this only through hearsay, having no first-hand experience of the places myself). People actually set their alarms to make a reservation two weeks in advance for the aerobics classes in Central London. As if being forced to sweat in Lycra with twenty other hyperventilating women is something to get up early for.
‘Are you sure about this place?’ Mom looks suspicious. I admit it’s a little heavy on the Formica and strip lighting.
‘That’s what the lady outside the Tube station said. You heard her.’ Actually, what she said was: ‘Just over the road, you’ll get a loovely cuppa.’ But she pointed so I knew where over the road was. ‘Besides, it’s either this or we go back to the apartment.’ Increasingly, I feel like Mom and I have changed roles. When did that happen?
‘Yuh?’ Says the girl at my elbow, clearly delighted at the opportunity to take our order.
‘Do you have a tea menu?’
‘Wuh?’
‘A tea menu? I’d like to have tea.’
‘Anyfink else?’
‘Um, maybe a scone with clotted cream?’
‘No scones.’
They must be sold out. ‘A plate of sandwiches?’
‘Wot kind?’
The English tea kind, with their crusts cut off. ‘Just the usual kind.’
‘Wot kind of filling?’
‘Mom, are you okay with just tea?’ We may have to cut our losses here. She nods, silently damning the waitress in the process. ‘Never mind, just the tea, please.’
After popping her gum to thank us for our order, she meanders to the back.
She won’t get my nomination for any customer service award. When Stacy and I had tea at Henri Bendel’s,40 with their gorgeous Art-Deco stripy teapots, the staff were frightfully formal, like Mary Poppins (with a Bronx accent). Those were nice days, whiling away the hours waiting in anticipation for the little cakes and –
‘Anyfink else?’
‘I think there’s been a mistake. I wanted tea.’
‘Yuh. Let me know if you need more wuh-uh.’
Where’s the delicate teacup and saucer? The authentic silver strainer and tiny pitcher of fresh hot milk? The offer to ‘Pour, madam?’ This inelegant, tannin-stained ceramic mug, bowl of sugar packets and steaming metal pitcher can’t be right.
‘This is England’s idea of tea?’ cries my mother, suddenly seized by the spirit of Catherine the Great.
‘Shh, Mom! Let’s just make the best of it and get out of here.’
…I’ve just poured hot water into my mug. That’s because the metal pitcher is full of it.
‘Um, excuse me?’
‘Yuh?’
‘I ordered tea.’
She’s clearly tired of hearing me repeat myself. ‘Yuh. Tea.’ She digs a packet out of the sugar bowl. It’s a Lipton tea bag. The kind with the little paper tab that my grandmother uses to squeeze every last drop of value from her morning brew. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised, given the clientele in here, most of whom are flecked with odd bits of debris.
‘Is that all, yeah?’
‘Thanks’–for that wholly unsatisfying experience. ‘Can we also have two coffees, please? To go?’
‘Filter coffee?’
‘Yes.’
‘Takeaway?’
‘Definitely.’
The café smelled like the inside of a deep-fat fryer. No doubt we’ll waft Happy Meals with every step back to the apartment. I hope my dad, at least, enjoyed his nap.
24
Now that they’re gone, I miss them, despite the fact that breakfast was among the least painful episodes of the weekend. I don’t doubt that their motives were good, and no permanent damage was done, but god, they’re difficult people to have in your family tree. So how can I now miss them? I suspect it may be Stockholm Syndrome.
And though they may have delayed my love life by a week, I forgive them, f
or at least Sam is here now. He must be excited too, or he wouldn’t have been so annoyingly prompt. It’s his own fault that he’s now waiting in the living room, with the Aussies snoring softly on the sofas, while I start the lip-bleaching process all over again. The things we do for beauty.
‘Ready,’ I say, stepping into my sandals.
‘I wouldn’t wear that.’
‘Of course not. You’d look stupid in a dress.’
‘Jeans and sneakers will be better.’
‘Why, where are we going?’ I’m flashing back to the go-cart track.
‘The New Forest. Have you been?’
‘No.’
‘Trust me, jeans and sneakers. And bring a jacket in case it rains.’
After tipping everything I own on to the bed, I finally find an outfit.
‘Have you fallen asleep in there?’ Sam calls.
‘I’ll be right out!’
‘That’s better,’ he smiles when he sees me. ‘You look pretty and functional.’
I’m not sure that’s a compliment but Earnest Sewn, Adidas and Juicy Argyle do combine nicely.
Two hours later, we’re on bicycles. Sam is squinting at a hand-drawn map. ‘Ready? We can take this route and stop for lunch at the pub.’ His helmet makes him look like Bob the Builder. I dread to think what I look like.
‘Sure.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah. It’s been a couple years since I was on a bike.’ Give or take about twenty. It isn’t that I don’t know how to ride it. My dad taught me in our back yard after my fourth birthday. I loved my bike, with its pink banana seat, flowered basket and coloured streamers on the handlebars. I walked it all over my neighbourhood. I just never really got the hang of riding it.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Uh, yeah.’ Nobody says I have to change gears. Come on, Hannah, children who can’t even cut their own meat can do this. ‘Let’s go.’
The bike-rental place is in the parking lot of the train station. It drops straight into a wooded trail that I have to admit is very pretty. The New Forest, Sam told me on the train ride down, isn’t new. It’s a 900-year-old royal hunting ground and there are thousands of wild ponies running around in it (which aren’t meant to be hunted). Maybe it reminds Sam of home. It looks about as big as Wyoming. I’m glad he has a map, though he’s almost out of sight round the bend. Cycling shouldn’t involve this much pedalling but I’m not sure how to change gears. I try flipping one of the little levers on the handlebars. That’s better. I’m speeding up. This is easy. I go round the bend after Sam, where the path dips downhill. Actually, it’s really quite downhill. And sort of rocky. My tyres are bouncing left and right as they hit the sharp stones. My boobs are bouncing left and right as well. A sports bra, had I owned one, would not have gone unappreciated on this adventure. I might be going a little fast. But the path is getting steeper. There’s an underpass at the bottom. It looks kind of low. Brakes. The things on the handlebars. I don’t want to stop completely, so I squeeze just one.
The next sensation I have is of being launched through the air over my handlebars. I land hands first (followed shortly thereafter by knees) on the gravelly bank.
‘Hannah!’ Sam yells as he starts pedalling towards me. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I just hit the brake.’
‘Which brake?’
‘What do you mean, which brake? The brake on the bicycle!’ Don’t cry, don’t cry.
‘Are you bleeding?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I roll up my jeans to check for permanent damage. Of course I’m bleeding. My knees have born the brunt of my clumsiness over the years. When I was in college, I tried rubbing fade cream on them to help with the scarring. That’s not a beauty tip. It didn’t work.
‘Ouch, keep your jeans rolled up. That’ll clot up in a minute. You were cookin’ down that hill! I didn’t think you were going to stop.’
‘As you can see, I did.’
‘Yeah. Nicely done. Next time you want to stop, you know, you don’t have to throw yourself over the handlebars.’
Next time? He can’t possibly think I’m getting back on this murderous contraption. ‘Maybe we could walk. I think there’s something wrong with my bike.’ It did, after all, just toss me to the ground.
‘If we walk, we’ll miss lunch.’
‘I don’t mind.’ Blood loss has taken the edge off my appetite.
He touches my arm. ‘Hannah, you do know how to ride a bike, don’t you?’
‘Of course! I’m just rusty, that’s all.’
He nods. ‘And you’re probably not used to mountain bikes. It takes a while to get the hang of them after a road bike. Here, let me show you. See here, it’s got fifteen speeds. This side changes up one speed at a time and this one jumps up five speeds. Push the other way and you go down speeds. Left-hand brake is for front tyres, and right is for back. So don’t just hit the left one or you’ll launch yourself again. And that’s about it. Okay?’
I love that he’s pretending he doesn’t know I can’t ride a bike. ‘Got it.’
‘You go first. I’ll follow.’
‘Why, are you afraid I’m going to crash again?’
‘No, I want to look at your ass.’
It takes us rather longer than expected to get to the pub. I suppose I could ride faster, but I’ve never been one for exercise. It’s a guiding principle in my life to run only if chased. ‘Cooked food is finished,’ the waitress snaps when we look hopefully towards an empty table. Even at our snail’s pace, I must have burned several thousand calories. She can’t deny us food now. I gaze pleadingly into her spite-hardened face. She walks away.
Despite the surly service, I love the tradition of weekend lunches in pubs. It beats eating your own dried-out roast and overcooked veggies every Sunday. The only thing we can still order is a ploughman’s lunch, which is okay by me since bread and cheese are two of my favourite food groups. But I’m not falling for that ‘pickle’ again. It must be the British equivalent of peanut butter, in the sense that most other cultures can’t understand why we love peanut butter either.
In Sam, I’ve finally found a man who understands the power of the spoken word. I don’t know why more guys don’t realize that the way to our hearts isn’t through our closets or jewellery boxes (though gifts are always appreciated) but through our ears. There’s a reason the funny guy always gets the girl.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ he says over the top of his wine glass.
‘Okay.’ It’s only fair, having quizzed him like the Gestapo.
‘Do you like dogs?’
‘That’s your question?’
‘It’s a perfectly valid one.’
It would be if I were applying to be a vet. Where’s he going with this? ‘Why?’
‘You don’t want to answer the question?’
‘You first. Do you like dogs?’
‘I love them. You?’
‘Yes.’ As long as they don’t slobber, shed or bark, stick their noses in my crotch or pull tampons out of the trash and deposit them on the sofa.
‘On a scale of one to ten?’ he presses.
‘Two.’
‘One being love?’
‘Ten being love.’
‘So you don’t like them.’
‘I like them a very little bit. Why, Sam? Are dogs important?’
‘I’m assessing compatibility.’
‘Then why not ask about something relevant in our lives, like…Thai food or something?’
‘Do you like Thai food?’
‘Yes.’
‘On a –’
‘Eight. What are you doing?’
‘Thinking of the future.’
He’s serious about me.
Sam’s apartment isn’t studenty at all. I don’t know what I expected–perhaps a more intellectual version of Animal House.41 He even has food in his fridge. In fact, it looks like he’s stocked it in case of famine. ‘Do you always have this much food?’
‘How did you know I’d come over?’
‘Man’s intuition.’
‘It must come with the handbag.’
‘You’re not, are you? A vegetarian?’
‘God, no.’
My phone rings. It’s Stacy. Naturally she’s up to speed on all recent developments. ‘’Scuse me just a sec.’
‘TELL ME EVERYTHING! WHERE DID HE TAKE YOU? WAS IT ROMANTIC? DID YOU MAKE OUT? DETAILS, GIRL! DETAILS!’
‘Hello, Stacy. I’m at Sam’s. Can I call you back later?’
‘Ohmygod, you’re at his place? What are you doing? Did I interrupt –’ I press the off button.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Stacy from Connecticut?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘So’–he hands me a glass of red–‘she knows about me already? This must be serious.’
‘Don’t be so cocky. I may have mentioned you in passing.’
His smug look would be extremely annoying if it wasn’t so cute. ‘Face it, Hannah, you like me.’
‘I–so what if I do?’ There. I said it. My heart is thudding. This is uncharted territory for me, but suddenly it seems stupid to play coy games with somebody who already likes me. Maybe that was Barry’s lasting gift to me. Thank you, Barry.
‘So, I’m glad you finally admitted it. Now we’re on an even playing field.’ He takes the glass from my hand, puts his hands on either side of my face and kisses me. And if I was half in love with him before, the kiss seals it for me. He’s the most sensual kisser I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I could spend the next two hours doing this. Or I could if I wasn’t getting so excited. His hands are playing in my hair. I can feel his leg against mine. Then the kitchen timer dings.
‘I hope that doesn’t mean we’re done,’ I murmur into his mouth.
‘I hope not.’ He reaches over and turns off the oven. He’s right, it’s getting hot in here. Oh, yes, good thinking. It’s really too warm to be wearing that sweater. He’s steering me towards the hallway. I doubt he’s trying to give me a tour of the apartment.
‘’Scuse me. I have to, uh…’ I nod towards the loo. I didn’t plan for this. I’ve been riding a bike all day. I’ve sweated. I give my pits an exploratory sniff. I think I’m okay. Just to be sure I mummify my hand in toilet paper, wet it and scrub any place that might need freshening. There. Confidence restored. I pull my jeans back on and return to be ravaged.