Poor Edna.
I finish doing my blusher and stare at my reflection. Black skinny jeans, silver ballet pumps, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket. Normal, 2009-style makeup. Ed probably won’t recognize me. I should stick a feather in my hair just so he knows it’s me.
The thought makes me snort with laughter, and Sadie glances at me suspiciously.
“What’s funny?” She looks me up and down. “Are you going out like that? I’ve never seen such a dull ensemble. Josh will take one look at you and expire of boredom. If you don’t expire of boredom first.”
Oh, ha ha. But maybe she has a point. Maybe I’ve dressed down too much.
I find myself reaching for one of my twenties vintage necklaces and looping it around my neck. The silver and jet beads fall down in rows and click together as I move, and at once I feel a bit more interesting. More glamorous.
I line my lips again in a darker color, giving them a bit more of a twenties shape. Then I pick up a vintage silver leather clutch and survey myself again.
“Much better!” says Sadie. “And what about a darling little cloche?”
“No, thanks.” I roll my eyes.
“If it were me, I’d wear a hat,” she persists.
“Well, I don’t want to look like you.” I throw back my hair and smile at myself. “I want to look like me.”
I suggested to Ed that we start off our tour at the Tower of London, and as I come out of the tube station into the crisp air, I feel immediately cheered. Never mind about Natalie. Never mind about Josh. Never mind about the necklace. Look at all this. It’s fantastic! Ancient stone battlements, towering against the blue sky as they have done for centuries. Beefeaters wandering about in their red and navy costumes, like something out of a fairy tale. This is the kind of place that makes you feel proud to be a born-and-bred Londoner. How could Ed not even have bothered to come here? It’s, like, one of the wonders of the world!
Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually visited the Tower of London myself. I mean, gone in or anything. But that’s different. I live here. I don’t have to.
“Lara! Over here!”
Ed’s already in the queue for tickets. He’s wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. He hasn’t shaved, either, which is interesting. I had him down as someone who’d look smart even at the weekend. As I draw near, he looks me up and down with a little smile.
“So you do sometimes wear clothes from the twenty-first century.”
“Very occasionally.” I grin back.
“I was convinced you were going to turn up in another twenties dress. In fact, I found an accessory for myself. Just to keep you company.” He reaches in his pocket and produces a small rectangular case made of battered silver. He springs it open and I see a deck of playing cards.
“Cool!” I say, impressed. “Where did you get this?”
“Bid for it on eBay.” He shrugs. “I always carry a deck of cards. It’s 1925,” he adds, showing me a tiny hallmark.
I can’t help feeling touched that he went to that effort.
“I love it.” I look up as we arrive at the head of the queue. “Two adults, please. This is on me,” I add firmly as Ed makes to get out his wallet. “I’m the host.”
I buy the tickets and a book called Historic London and lead Ed to a spot in front of the tower.
“So, this building you see before you is the Tower of London,” I begin in a knowledgeable, tour-leader tone. “One of our most important and ancient monuments. One of many, many wonderful sights. It’s criminal to come to London and not find out more about our amazing heritage.” I look at Ed severely. “It’s really narrow-minded, plus you don’t have anything like it in America.”
“You’re right.” He looks suitably chastened as he surveys the tower. “This is spectacular.”
“Isn’t it great?” I say proudly.
There are some times when being English is really the best, and big-historic-castle time is one of them.
“When was it built?” asks Ed.
“Um…” I look around for a handy sign. There isn’t one. Damn. There should be a sign. I can’t exactly look it up in the guidebook. Not with him watching me expectantly.
“It was in the…” I turn casually away and mumble something indistinct. “… teenth century.”
“Which century?”
“It dates from…” I clear my throat. “Tudor. Er… Stuart times.”
“Do you mean Norman?” suggests Ed politely.
“Oh. Yes, that’s what I meant.” I dart him a suspicious look. How did he know that? Has he been boning up?
“So, we go in this way.” I lead Ed confidently toward a likely-looking rampart, but he pulls me back.
“Actually, I think the entrance is this way, by the river.”
For God’s sake. He’s obviously one of these men who have to take control. He probably never asks for directions either.
“Listen, Ed,” I say kindly. “You’re American. You’ve never been here before. Who’s more likely to know the way in, me or you?”
At that moment, a passing Beefeater stops and gives us a friendly beam. I smile back, ready to ask him the best way in, but he addresses Ed cheerily.
“Morning, Mr. Harrison. How are you? Back again already?”
What?
What just happened? Ed knows the Beefeaters? How does Ed know the Beefeaters?
I’m speechless as Ed shakes the hand of the Beefeater and says, “Good to see you, Jacob. Meet Lara.”
“Er… hello,” I manage feebly.
What’s going to happen next? Will the queen arrive and ask us in for tea?
“OK,” I splutter as soon as the Beefeater has continued on his way. “What’s going on?”
Ed takes one look at my face and bursts into laughter.
“Tell me!” I demand, and he lifts his hands apologetically.
“I’ll come clean. I was here Friday. It was a work team-building day out. We were able to talk to some of the Beefeaters. It was fascinating.” He pauses, then adds, his mouth twitching, “That’s how I know the tower was begun in 1078. By William the Conqueror. And the entrance is this way.”
“You could have told me!” I glare at him.
“I’m sorry. You seemed so into the idea, and I thought it would be cool to go around with you. But we can go someplace else. You must have seen this a million times. Let’s rethink.” He takes the Historic London guidebook and starts consulting the index.
I’m flipping the tickets back and forth in my hands, watching a group of schoolkids take pictures of one another, feeling torn. Obviously he’s right. He saw the tower on Friday so why on earth would we go around it again?
On the other hand, we’ve bought the tickets now. And it looks amazing. And I want to see it.
“We could head straight down to St. Paul’s.” Ed is peering at the tube map. “It shouldn’t take too long-”
“I want to see the Crown jewels,” I say in a small voice.
“What?” He raises his head.
“I want to see the Crown jewels. Now we’re here.”
“You mean… you’ve never seen them?” Ed stares incredulously at me. “You’ve never seen the Crown jewels?”
“I live in London!” I say, nettled at his expression. “It’s different! I can see them anytime I want, when the occasion arises. It’s just that… the occasion has never arisen.”
“Isn’t that a bit narrow-minded of you, Lara?” I can tell Ed’s loving this. “Aren’t you interested in the heritage of your great city? Don’t you think it’s criminal to ignore these unique historic monuments-”
“Shut up!” I can feel my cheeks turning red.
Ed relents. “Come on. Let me show you your own country’s fine Crown jewels. They’re great. I know the whole deal. You realize that the oldest pieces date from the Restoration?”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes.” He starts guiding me through the crowd. “The Imperial State Crown contains an enormous diamon
d cut from the famous Cullinan Diamond, the largest diamond ever mined.”
“Wow,” I say politely. Obviously Ed memorized the entire Crown jewels lecture yesterday.
“Uh-huh.” He nods. “At least, that’s what the world thought until 1997. When it was discovered to be a fake.”
“Really?” I stop dead. “It’s fake?”
Ed’s mouth twitches. “Just checking you’re listening.”
We see the jewels and we see the ravens and we see the White Tower and the Bloody Tower. In fact, all the towers. Ed insists on holding the guidebook and reading out facts, all the way around. Some of them are true and some of them are bullshit and some… I’m not sure. He has this totally straight face with just a tiny gleam in his eye, and you honestly can’t tell.
As we finish our Yeoman Warder’s tour, my head is spinning with visions of traitors and torture, and I feel I don’t need to hear anything else about When Executions Go Horribly Wrong, ever again. We wander through the Medieval Palace, past two guys in medieval costume doing medieval writing (I guess), and find ourselves in a room with tiny castle windows and a massive fireplace.
“OK, clever clogs. Tell me about that cupboard.” I point randomly at a small, nondescript door set in the wall. “Did Walter Raleigh grow potatoes in there or something?”
“Let’s see.” Ed consults the guidebook. “Ah, yes. This is where the Seventh Duke of Marmaduke kept his wigs. An interesting historical figure, he beheaded many of his wives. Others he cryogenically froze. He also invented the medieval version of the popcorn maker. Or ye poppecorn, as it was known.”
“Oh, really?” I adopt a serious tone.
“You’ll obviously have learned about the poppecorn craze of 1583.” Ed squints at the guidebook. “Apparently Shakespeare very nearly called Much Ado About Nothing, Much Ado About Ye Poppecorn.”
We’re both gazing intently at the tiny oak door, and after a moment an elderly couple in waterproof jackets joins us.
“It’s a wig cupboard,” says Ed to the woman, whose face lights up with interest. “The wigmaster was compelled to live in the cupboard along with his wigs.”
“Really?” The elderly woman’s face falls. “How terrible!”
“Not really,” says Ed gravely. “Because the wigmaster was very small.” He starts to demonstrate with his hands. “Very, very tiny. The word wig is derived from the phrase small man in a cupboard, you know.”
“Really?” The poor woman looks bewildered, and I nudge Ed hard in the ribs.
“Have a good tour,” he says charmingly, and we move on.
“You have an evil streak!” I say as soon as we’re out of earshot. Ed thinks about this for a moment, then gives me a disarming grin.
“Maybe I do. When I’m hungry. You want some lunch? Or should we see the Royal Fusiliers Museum?”
I hesitate thoughtfully, as though weighing these two options. I mean, no one could be more interested in their heritage than me. But the thing with any sightseeing is, after a while it turns into sight-trudging, and all the heritage turns into a blur of winding stone steps and battlements and stories about severed heads stuffed on pikes.
“We could do lunch,” I say casually. “If you’ve had enough for now.”
Ed’s eyes glint. I have this disconcerting feeling he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I have a very short attention span,” he says, deadpan. “Being American. So maybe we should eat.”
We head to a café serving things like “Georgian onion soup” and “wild boar casserole.” Ed insists on paying since I bought the tickets, and we find a table in the corner by the window.
“So, what else do you want to see in London?” I say enthusiastically. “What else was on your list?”
Ed flinches, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t put it like that. His sightseeing list must be a sore point.
“Sorry,” I say awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to remind you-”
“No! It’s fine.” He considers his forkful for a moment, as though debating whether to eat it. “You know what? You were right, what you said the other day. Shit happens, and you have to get on with life. I like your dad’s thing about the escalator. I’ve thought about that since we talked. Onward and upward.” He puts the fork in his mouth.
“Really?” I can’t help feeling touched. I’ll have to tell Dad.
“Mmm-hmm.” He chews for a moment, then eyes me questioningly. “So… you said you had a breakup too. When was that?”
Yesterday. Less than twenty-four hours ago. Even thinking about it makes me want to close my eyes and moan.
“It was… a while ago.” I shrug. “He was called Josh.”
“And what happened? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“No, of course not. It was… I just realized… we weren’t-” I break off, with a heavy sigh, and look up. “Have you ever felt really, really stupid?”
“Never.” Ed shakes his head. “Although I have on occasion felt really, really, really stupid.”
I can’t help a little smile. Talking to Ed puts everything into perspective a bit. I’m not the only person in the world to feel like a fool. And at least Josh didn’t two-time me. At least I didn’t end up marooned all alone in a strange city.
“Hey, let’s do something that wasn’t on your list,” I say on impulse. “Let’s see some sight that was never in the plan. Is there anything?”
Ed breaks off a piece of bread, mulling.
“Corinne didn’t want to go on the London Eye,” he says at last. “She’s scared of heights and she thought it was kinda dumb.”
I knew I didn’t like this woman. How can anyone think the London Eye is dumb?
“London Eye it is,” I say firmly. “And then maybe Ye Olde Starbucks? It’s a traditional English custom, very quaint.”
I wait for Ed to laugh, but he just gives me an appraising look as he eats his bread.
“Starbucks. Interesting. You don’t go to Lingtons Coffee?”
Oh, right. So he’s worked it out.
“Sometimes. Depends.” I shrug defensively. “So… you know I’m related.”
“I told you, I asked around about you.”
His face is impassive. He hasn’t done what people usually do when they find out about Uncle Bill, which is say, “Oh, wow, that’s amazing, what’s he like in real life?”
Ed’s in big business, it occurs to me. He must have come across Uncle Bill in some way or another.
“What do you think of my uncle?” I say lightly.
“Lingtons Coffee is a successful organization,” he replies. “Very profitable. Very efficient.”
He’s avoiding the question. “What about Bill?” I persist. “Have you ever come across him?”
“Yes. I have.” He swallows his wine. “And I think Two Little Coins is manipulative bullshit. Sorry.”
I’ve never heard anyone be so rude about Uncle Bill, not to my face. It’s kind of refreshing.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say at once. “Say what you think. Tell me.”
“What I think is… your uncle is the one in the million. And I’m sure a lot of different factors went into his success. But that’s not the message he’s selling. He’s selling the message ‘It’s easy! Come be a millionaire like me!’” Ed sounds curt, almost angry. “The only people who go to those seminars will be self-deluding fantasists, and the only person who’ll make any money is your uncle. He’s exploiting a lot of sad, desperate people. Just an opinion.”
The instant he says all this, I know it’s true. I saw the people at the Two Little Coins seminar. Some of them had traveled miles. Some of them did look desperate. And it’s not like the seminar cost nothing.
“I went to one of his day seminars once,” I admit. “Just to see what it was all about.”
“Oh, really. And did you instantly make your fortune?”
“Of course I did! Didn’t you spot my limo earlier?”
“Oh, that was yours. I assumed you’d use your helicopter.”
<
br /> We’re both grinning by now. I can’t believe I called Ed Mr. American Frown. He doesn’t frown that often. And when he does, he’s usually thinking of something funny to say. He pours me some more wine and I lean back, relishing the view of the tower, and the warm glow that the wine is giving me, and the prospect of the rest of the day ahead.
“So, why do you carry cards with you?” I say, deciding it’s my turn to start. “Do you play patience the whole time or something?”
“Poker. If I can find anyone to play with. You’d be great at poker,” he adds.
“I’d be terrible!” I contradict him. “I’m crap at gambling, and-” I stop as Ed shakes his head.
“Poker’s not about gambling. It’s about being able to read people. Your Eastern mind-reading powers would come in handy.”
“Oh, right.” I blush. “Well… my powers seem to have abandoned me.”
Ed raises an eyebrow. “You’re not hustling me here, Miss Lington?”
“No!” I laugh. “They really have! I’m a total novice.”
“OK, then.” He takes out the pack of cards and shuffles it expertly. “All you need to know is, do the other players have good cards or bad? Simple as that. So you look at your opponents’ faces. And you ask yourself, Is something going on? And that’s the game.”
“‘Is something going on?’” I repeat. “And how can you tell?”
Ed deals himself three cards and glances at them. Then he gazes at me. “Good or bad?”
Oh God. I have no idea. His face is dead straight. I survey his smooth forehead, the tiny lines around his eyes, the hint of weekend stubble-searching for clues. There’s a glint in his eye, but that could mean anything.
“Dunno,” I say helplessly. “I’ll go with… good?”
Ed looks amused. “Those Eastern powers really did desert you. They’re terrible.” He shows me three low cards. “Now your turn.” He shuffles the pack again, deals out three cards and watches me pick them up.
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