Girls Who Travel

by Nicole Trilivas

  IF THIS WERE a movie, I’d jet off to England in one of those highly stylized, jump-cut montages set to the rhythm of an upbeat sound track.

  At the airport, I’d hug my mom good-bye—good-bye for now. Because it’s always “good-bye for now” with me.

  And we’re clear for takeoff. The camera would do a long-tracking shot framing the plane, all silver and glossy, bisecting woozy heights at impossible velocities. (Or maybe there’d be one of those cartoon planes puttering across a map.) Then the lens would zoom in for a close-up inside the egg-shaped plane window, where I’d rest my head back on the airline seat. And the audience would think: “There she goes, Wendy en route to Neverland.”

  • • •

  OF COURSE IT wasn’t as refined and cool as all that. In real life the trip was fraught with first-world problems including the standard-issue flight delays; a KGB-grade interrogation by UK border control; and the realization that I may or may not have forgotten to pack clean underwear. But still, I had arrived!

  The Darlings arranged for their personal driver, Clive, to pick me up from Heathrow in a “British racing green Audi” (as described by Mr. Darling in the email). I watched England whiz by through the open window, the wind gusting my hair in a cinematic way. Once we were on the motorway, I felt my eyelids getting heavy, as if hypnotized by the BBC radio host’s charming accent.

  “We’re nearly there, love.” Clive startled me awake. The purring car braked in Stanhope Gardens, a leafy, manicured block of residential town houses that were impossibly big and white. The houses, crafted for another, more regal era, were set in a square shape with a large fenced-in garden in the middle.

  Clive opened the car door for me.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it,” I said as I wrestled my backpack out of his grip only to plop it on the footpath. “I just want a second to compose myself before going in,” I explained.

  He gave me a chauffeur-ly head nod, said, “Very good,” and left to park the car.

  I stood in front of the still-sleepy square of houses forming and memorizing my first impressions. The Darlings’ house was alight in that curious, sallow morning light, and a ghostly fog tiptoed over what was officially known as the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. My Southwest London postcode apparently was, like, posh. (I only knew what “posh” meant because of the Spice Girls.)

  What I wanted (what I really, really wanted) was to observe everything before it got too familiar, too normal, and underappreciated. First impressions were only fun to think about after you knew better. I relished that little wave of pulse-quickening fear and excitement that travel splashes on our faces, as if to wake us up and remind us we’re alive.

  I exhaled a swell of hot breath into the winter air, ready for whatever was ahead for me, and I walked toward my mysterious destiny.

  • • •

  BUT MY MYSTERIOUS destiny would have to wait.

  Ruining the picturesque morning scene was a homeless guy slumping on the sunlit doorsteps of the house. His body blocked my access to the front door. Of course.

  I coughed conspicuously, but he didn’t react. I tried again: “Good morning, sunshine.”

  He stirred at my chipper voice but moved leisurely, taking his time untangling his long limbs. Up close, I could see he was actually very nicely dressed in a heavy blazer with an upturned collar and expensive-looking shoes—this guy wasn’t homeless, just disheveled. It was like he was on his way home from a bar and just sort of fell asleep here.

  “Rough night?” I asked.

  He studied me. His expression was that of someone unimpressed.

  “Do you need help getting a taxi home?” I asked, undeterred by his unresponsiveness.

  He seemed about my age, and hey, we’ve all been there. Well, not there, per se—I’ve never passed out on someone else’s stoop—but we’ve all had those nights.

  I nodded eagerly. “Taxi? Home?”

  “Another bolshie American.” He spoke under his breath. He then gave me a scolding sneer like I interrupted his nap, which I supposed I had.

  “Yes,” I said in a loud voice, demonstrating that I heard him perfectly. “I am American. I’ll try asking in British: You, good sir, are sleeping on my front stoop. If I could trouble you to move?” I spoke in the politest Queen’s English that I could manage this early in the morning.

  He made a face but didn’t move from my path. Patting his pockets, he looked around himself, first to one side and then the other.

  “Um, dude, you’re in my way—” I began again, but he interrupted.

  “That is not possible, I’m afraid,” he said haughtily. I smelled alcohol on his breath. His light eyes were rimmed pink from the lack of sleep and the night of drinking. He reminded me of one of those albino-white bunnies with the demon-red eyes.

  “I’m Aston Hyde Bettencourt,” he said and then paused for dramatic effect, like it meant something to me.

  “Ashton? Like Ashton Kutcher? I didn’t know real people had names like that,” I said.

  “How dare you?” He looked genuinely offended. “It’s Aston, as in Aston Martin; as in, as in, Aston Hyde Bettencourt,” he stammered, now rising. He buttoned his blazer and smoothed the lapel.

  I stared at him. “Got it. Asston. Emphasis on the ass.”

  “Yanks,” he eked out through closed teeth. “I live here. So you, madam, are actually on my steps, and I’d kindly request that you sod off and leave me be.”

  “Well, I’m Kika Shores, and according to my new employers, I live here.” I took out the crumpled printout of the email with my new address on it and flapped it in front of his unshaven face.

  He reluctantly took the paper like it was a used tissue. “Kika? Your name is Kika, and you’re taking the piss out of my name? Sounds like the name of a French poodle.”

  Before I could retort, he said, exasperated, “You’re thirty-four.”

  “How dare you!” I patted my hair down. Sure, I just got off a transatlantic flight, but I didn’t look thirty-four. “I’m twenty-three. How old are you?”

  Aston stared at me unblinkingly. I glowered back.

  “No,” he mustered with the barest civility. For a moment I thought he was going to add, “stupid.” No, stupid.

  “The house you’re looking for is number thirty-four—it’s next door.” He tilted his head to the left where the next house sat at an obtuse corner angle. “This is thirty-two. In case you have trouble with the numbers in the future, you’ll remember this door is red and yours is blue.” He spoke like a wicked kindergarten teacher, deliberate and patronizing. “Now off you go.”

  I snatched the paper back. “Oh, I’m dismissed, am I?”

  “I think I bloody well know where I live,” he said more to himself than to me. He began lifting the potted plants to peer underneath. “I did manage to get through Oxford, after all.” He dragged a key from beneath a planter; the metal scraped against the slate.

  I scoffed, hitched my backpack on my shoulder, and hauled it over to the house next door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him scrutinizing me.

  “What a snob!” I said loud enough for him to hear as I rung the bell of number thirty-four, the blue door.

  From inside, I heard the dead bolts twist. As my door creaked open, he disappeared into his house. I uselessly hoped it would be the last I saw of him, though that seemed highly unlikely.

  14

  “ELSBETH!” I SQUEALED too loudly. Behind me, a tree full of garden birds darted off in a dewy puff of clucks and feathers.

  “Kika!”

  I shucked off my bag, dropped it down in the foyer with a dead-body thump, and entered Elsbeth’s perfumed embrace.

  “Oh my God, Elsbeth, you look emaciated.” I wrapped my arms around her with concern. It was like hugging a bird with an eating disorder.

  “Oh, Kika,” she pooh-poohed,
“you’re so flattering!”

  I blinked my eyes rapidly and managed to keep a straight face.

  “Don’t tell your mother, but I’ve been supplementing the yoga with barre classes. You must come. Not that you need to, with your mother’s genes. You, lamb, look like a Danish supermodel. You’re just naturally magnificent.”

  “Mmm, Danish . . .” I licked my lips in Pavlovian response.

  Elsbeth was a German drill sergeant when it came to exercise, and as far as she was concerned, fatty food was the enemy. I, on the other hand, just couldn’t get on board with fake ice cream products with skinny cows on the box (cows were supposed to be plump!).

  “You poor thing, you must be starving. There’s breakfast in the conservatory. And you’ll be able to see the girls before they leave for school. Go on.”

  “In the conservatory?” I suddenly felt like I walked into a game of Clue. “It was Miss Scarlet in the conservatory with the candlestick!” I announced in a pompous accent, erecting my pointer finger in the air.

  “I know, I know. Having a conservatory is so over the top.”

  “Oh, stop. You love it.”

  “Clearly,” Elsbeth said with a demure smile. “This way.”

  She led me through the light-filled house, her clapping heels echoing off the high ceilings. The house was tastefully decorated in what Elsbeth would describe as “clean lines and neutrals”: slates, milk whites, and Elsbeth’s favorite color, beige.

  She was supremely groomed as well—fragranced, hair upswept, and polished with understated makeup despite the early hour.

  Her naturally curly hair had been pressed into submission by a flatiron. I’d actually never seen her hair curly, but allegedly she had corkscrew ringlets. When I last babysat for the Darlings, Elsbeth would have a girl come once a day to straighten her hair and do her makeup—an indulgence she still appeared to partake in.

  “Straighter,” she’d command. “Make me look Asian,” she’d insist to the girl, who actually was Asian, but hearing it still made me cringe.

  When we reached the back of the house, I saw the girls before they saw me. They sat at a breakfast table in a sunny glass room filled with palms and tropical greenery. The table was laid with ballerina-pink rosebuds in stout vases; orange juice in beading carafes; and well-steamed and creamed coffee in cups with matching saucers—this was how the Darlings rolled.

  “Holy shit. Look at my little hobgoblins,” I squealed, unable to hold it in a moment longer. My silly nickname for the Darling girls had stuck a long time ago, and using it again was my way of hoping that Elsbeth would keep making concessions for my big mouth.

  “Kika!” they chimed in unison. The girls were outfitted in prissy school uniforms with blazers, ties, and kneesocks.

  Gwendy, now seven, leapt up first. “Kika Shores!” she shrieked. “Kika! Kika! It’s me: Gwendolyn Prudence Darling III.”

  I seized Gwen under her armpits and whirled her in the air, completely confident that I would have no problem keeping her talking.

  “Gwendy,” I exclaimed, “I know it’s you. How could I possibly forget anyone so freakin’ adorable?” I gave her a suffocating hug and set her back down. “You are the prettiest hobgoblin ever.”

  “Actually, Kika”—Elsbeth tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to lean in as she whispered—“we’re trying this new thing where we don’t compliment the girls on their looks. We’re attempting to instill the notion that one gets praised for merit, for things like academics, over superficial things like appearances. You understand, don’t you?” she murmured apologetically.

  I nodded my head, impressed. “Nice. I can still call them hobgoblins, right?”

  Elsbeth smiled. “Oh, Kika. You always make such a lively splash.”

  I went over to Mina, now thirteen. She had matured since I last saw her. “Mina, how absolutely intelligent you look.”

  Mina stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth. Elsbeth tried to butt in, but Mina snapped, “She’s kidding, Mother.”

  I stroked her dark curls, which mercifully hadn’t been flat-ironed. “What’s up with these getups?” I motioned at their uniforms. “You guys didn’t tell me you were going to Hogwarts.”

  “I know, right? I just want to die,” moaned Mina.

  “I want to die, too!” mimicked Gwen excitedly, bouncing up and down in her storybook pinafore. She still obviously hadn’t grown out of the older-sister-worship phase.

  “I missed you guys so much. How is everything?”

  But Elsbeth cut me off. “Later. You will be able to catch up later. You girls have to get to school. And I need to get to the gym. Go on now, Clive is waiting out front with the car.” The girls protested but still filed out with military-perfect posture.

  Gwen waved good-bye energetically. “Bye, Kika, bye!”

  “See you later, alligator.” I winked.

  “Bye, Mom, bye!” Gwen called next, just as enthusiastically. “Have fun at your twirling class.”

  “Spinning class, lamb. Yes, thank you, I will,” said Elsbeth Darling as she shooed the girls out.

  15

  “WELL, I WAS going to paint it—cream colored, perhaps, or eggshell—” Elsbeth signaled to the soaring walls of my room. “But then I said to myself, ‘This color is Kika. I should keep it.’”

  The rest of the Darlings’ South Kensington house was a bit cold and clattery and taupe (Elsbeth’s fancy way of saying “beige”), but my room had been spared. It was delightfully twee with celestial blue-green walls, a small balcony, and even a doll-sized fireplace.

  “I love it.” I rapped my knuckles against a rosewood writing desk. “I feel like I’m living in Downton Abbey.”

  “Oh, and here are your keys. The skeleton key is for the private garden out front, in the middle of the square of houses. Only residents of Stanhope Gardens get access to that park, which is why it’s locked.”

  Elsbeth then promptly excused herself—she was going to the gym. “But call my mobile if you need anything, anything at all.”

  Since it was Friday, she gave me the day off. She told me most weekends I’d have to myself, and if I needed to watch the girls, we’d make up those days during the week. She left me with an advance on this month’s salary. When I converted it into dollars, it roughly equated to what I would call “a damn near shit-ton of cash”—more than twice what I made at VoyageCorp.

  I mentally started planning my first weekend trip: I wonder if Malta is warm this time of year?

  I wrote a quick email to my mom and followed up with a slightly longer one to Lochlon: “You wouldn’t believe the Darlings’ town house,” I started, but as I typed, I was surprised to see a message pop up from the very man I was emailing. I rushed to open it.

  “Glad for you about the new job. That’s class, isn’t it? How’d you get on with the trip?”

  I couldn’t read fast enough:

  I have news myself: Looks like the craic is over for me for now. Da’s ill so I’m to go back home to the farm for a short while. My mother’s insisting, so I know it mustn’t be good. Suppose the upside is that we’re to be on the same continent again—for a wee bit, anyway. Maybe everything happens for a reason.

  My pulse deepened and thumped like a bass beat in my ears. My eyes and my heart moved at different speeds. I read the email again and again. Is Lochlon’s father dying?

  Lochlon wasn’t close to his father (we’d bonded over having absent dads), but my heart throbbed for him at this news: His dad had liver problems, and it had to be serious if his mom asked him to come home from Asia.

  Poor Lochlon and his poor family. He was the eldest of five; his youngest sister was only eleven. They were still so young.

  But then, an uncensored blip of pleasure bubbled up inside me: Lochlon is going to be nearby in Ireland. Immediately, I was ashamed of the insensitive thought.

>   I tried to regain focus: This isn’t about you. His father is dying, I reminded myself.

  Still, I knew he was quoting me when he said, “Everything happens for a reason.” It was far too American a phrase for him to use, so I knew that the same thought had occurred to him: We were going to be very close to each other. Lochlon’s family lived outside of Belfast. That was just a hop, skip, or a jump (my geography needed some polishing) from London.

  “So sorry to hear that,” I wrote back immediately, hoping he’d get my message while still at the Internet café and that my words would provide the slightest bit of comfort. “Please remember I am here for you. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  I signed off with my new number, since Elsbeth already had gotten me a phone.

  The knot of conflicting emotions tightened in my stomach. To busy myself, I emptied my backpack into the freestanding wardrobe. There was not one “blouse” or “sensible-sized heel” in sight.

  I surveyed my ripped jeans (ripped from overwear, not factory fashion holes); my shabby boots; and my dirty blond hair. I looked like myself again, not a corporate imposter leeched of all color. Technically, I was far from home, but I already felt closer to who I really was.

  I tried to keep my persistent happiness from bleeding over into thoughts of Lochlon back in Ireland, caring for his dying father, but it wasn’t easy.

  Even though this was the first time that I had legit reason to think that we might actually meet up again, I had already imagined our reunion with embarrassing frequency and in bodice-ripping fashion. It helped that he had actually ripped my clothes off me on more than one occasion in his sudden and passionate way. I could still recall the tingling, lusty head rush of being naked in front of him. A year’s worth of fantasizing left me desperate to feel that way again.

  16

  A FEW DAYS later, I accidently ruined the girls’ dinner by taking them to the Kensington Crêperie, where we ordered dessert crêpes roughly the size of Hula-Hoops. The café was cozy and bathed in warm, earthy light, which spilled out of the fogged-up windows like honey. Through the cobblestone plaza outside, people rushed home under winter-bare trees and a misting of frosty rain.