Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “I was in the hotel because I am a paying guest.”

  “Naturally,” says Basil in his easy good-cop voice. “And what made you choose that particular hotel?”

  “Duh!” Though I try, I can’t keep the sarcasm from staining my tone. “It’s called Rubens at the Palace for a reason. It’s the closest hotel to Buckingham Palace. Proximity is everything in reporting. I thought staying close to the palace would increase my chances of running into a royal. Besides, I am writing a piece about London’s poshest places, and the Rubens is pretty posh.”

  “How do you explain the tripod in the window?”

  “I was hot.”

  Basil frowns.

  “The air conditioner at the Rubens is crap. I used the tripod to prop the window open so I could get a breeze. That’s it.”

  “And your questionable movements?”

  “Questionable movements? What questionable movements? I came back to my room, took off my clothes, jumped in the shower, and—” A horrifying thought suddenly occurs to me. “Hang on! How long were the palace guards watching me? Did they see me naked?”

  Basil’s cheeks flush crimson, and he studies his notebook with a new intensity.

  “Oh, yeah, and I’m the sick one! Does the queen know her palace is crawling with pervos?

  Basil clears his throat. “According to the report, the guards witnessed suspicious movements.”

  “Brilliant!” I clap my hands, humiliation fueling my petulant sarcasm. “They foiled my diabolical plot to dance naked in my room. Did they check to make sure my iPod wasn’t ticking? I would love to see their end of shift report. ‘Watched naked woman dance in her hotel room. That is all. God save the Queen.’”

  “Yes, well…”

  “Naked! I was naked in my hotel room! What kind of threat does a dancing naked woman pose to Prince Harry? Give me a freaking break! I have seen the photos of him partying naked at a Vegas rager, surrounded by naked girls. Where were your guards then, huh?” My boiling anger tempered only by my complete and utter mortification. “I was alone…in my hotel room…NAKED!”

  Basil clears his throat. “We’ve established you were starkers. Now then, if we could-”

  My cheeks grow hot. The word starkers paints a far more vivid picture than the word naked. Stark naked. Totally exposed.

  Basil seizes the initiative. “And I suppose your appearance at the hospital was merely coincidental?”

  “I was following Prince Harry.”

  “Right.” Basil leans forward, his narrow nostrils flaring as if scenting prey. “Now we are getting somewhere.”

  Chapter 2

  Poking a Mangina

  “I think I have it now. First, you lied to your editor about your connection to the royal family because you thought your press credentials would get you close enough to rub elbows with ‘Prince Hottie Harry.’ Then, you followed the prince around London, hoping to get close enough to ask him which ‘über-swank’ club he prefers?” Basil shakes his head. “Brilliant! Crack reporting, Miss Grant.”

  To hear the detective describe my farfetched plan makes me sound like a crap reporter. It doesn’t help that he speaks with a British accent. A British accent makes a person sound more intelligent.

  “You must have been away with the fairies to believe you could approach Prince Harry as if he were P. Diddy,” Basil says. “Did you think you could just slip the Prince’s bodyguard a twenty and suddenly find yourself whisked through the palace gates? You made a right royal cock-up, Miss Grant. Next time, contact the appropriate channels, or you’ll find yourself living at Her Majesty’s pleasure.”

  I don’t need Benedict Cumberbatch to translate the phrases “right royal cock-up” and “away with the fairies.” The detective is implying I am a lousy reporter with a tenuous grasp on reality, but I am having a little difficulty working out the phrase “living at Her Majesty’s pleasure.” The Queen lives in a blooming palace. She probably has Google Fiber, three thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, and a small army of domestics to scrub her golden commodes and serve her raspberry crumpets in bed. If old Basil meant to frighten me, throwing down the phrase “living at Her Majesty’s pleasure” wasn’t the way to go.

  “No, Miss Grant, living at Her Majesty’s pleasure does not mean invited to stay in the palace,” Basil says, correctly reading my confused expression. “Living at Her Majesty’s pleasure means thrown in prison.”

  “Listen Basil—”

  “Mangina.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am Detective Inspector Harold Mangina, not Basil Rathbone.”

  I can’t keep a bubble of laughter from rising up my throat. “Mangina? Are you serious?”

  The detective presses his lips together.

  “Mangina? Harold Mangina?” My laughter ricochets around the questioning room. I should show the detective the respect he deserves, but my pent-up fear and humiliation is spilling out in near-hysterical mirth. “Harry Mangina! Your name isn’t really Harry Mangina, is it?”

  The detective reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and hands it to me. I look at the words printed beside an embossed police badge.

  DI Harold Mangina

  Westminster Metropolitan Police

  Special Branch

  Belgravia Station

  202-206 Buckingham Palace Road

  Belgravia SW1W 9SX

  I am laughing so hard now tears are spilling down my cheeks and my stomach feels like I’ve just completed Jillian Michaels’s ab-shredding Six-Pack Ab Workout. I keep hearing the name in my head—Mangina. Harold Mangina. Harry Mangina. The detective continues to stare at me, the “we are not amused” thought bubble hovering over his head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, dashing a tear from my cheek. “I’ve just never heard the name Mangina. Is that a British name?”

  “Italian.”

  I consider explaining what mangina means in American slang, but change my mind. I’ve already made some serious breaches of British etiquette; telling a staid detective that his surname is slang for a man who tucks his twigs and berries would be a right royal cock-up. Maybe cock-up isn’t the best choice of words, either.

  “Just so you know, Inspector,” I say, omitting his surname, “I tried the usual avenues before following the prince. I contacted the Royal Communications offices at Clarence House and Buckingham Palace, but they didn’t respond to my request for an interview.”

  “One wonders how they could have overlooked a request from a magazine as prestigious and thought-provoking as GoGirl! An egregious error, no doubt.”

  Really? Trash talk from someone named Mangina?

  I am tempted to tell Mister Twigs-and-Berries what I think of him and his Keystone Cops, but I just want to get out of the station, hop on a ferry to France, and put the snooty Rubens with their crap air conditioning behind me. A hot Frenchman is waiting for me in a hotel in Paris…a posh hotel with real working air conditioning.

  “Look, if you would just call my editor—”

  “Louanne Collins-London?”

  “Yes! So you have at least done a rudimentary investigation of my background. Thank God. I was beginning to think MI-6 only existed in James Bond movies.”

  “Tell me, Miss Grant, are you always so exuberantly candid?”

  “Absolutely.” I grin. “It is rawther a prerequisite of my occupation.”

  Accents aren’t really my forte, but I think I rawther nailed the detective’s clipped, snooty patois. From his pinched expression, I’d say he thinks I nailed it too.

  “Now, if you would just call my editor.”

  “I have spoken with Ms. Collins-London already. She corroborated your story and vouched for your mental fitness, though I have my reservations.”

  “Then why am I still sitting here talking to you about my unfortunate penchant for dancing starkers?”

  Now it’s the detective’s turn to wear a smug grin. “Call i
t an occupational prerogative.”

  “In other words, you were pissed off when you saw me reading your notes and decided to have a little fun intimidating the barking mad colonial?”

  “Indubitably.” He reaches for his notebook and slips it into his tweed coat pocket. “I would have been remiss in my duties had I released you without conducting a thorough interrogation.”

  Nothing pisses me off more than a chauvinist abusing his power to subjugate the “lesser” sex. I would love to release a blistering barrage from my verbal arsenal, but I am afraid Detective Inspector Hairy Man Parts would throw me in some dank cell and withhold basic necessities, like my ionizing flat iron and iPhone. One week without my flat iron and I would look like Shaun White, or Carrot Top—I always get those two confused. Either way, my hair is not made for hard time.

  “Are you satisfied?” I smile sweetly. “Maybe not as satisfied as those peeping pervos at Buckingham Palace, but satisfied enough to release me? I still have a job to do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  My heart drops. “What do you mean I don’t?”

  “Ms. Collins-London assured me you would remain a safe distance from the royal family. Your article has been terminated.”

  I exhale. For a frightening second I thought Man Parts was going to say that Louanne Collins-London fired me.

  “Right,” Man Parts says, sliding the manila envelope toward me. “You will find inside this envelope the personal artifacts we confiscated from you upon apprehension—your mobile, watch, passport, wallet...”

  Man Parts is still speaking, but all I hear is Charlie Brown Teacher Speak—Wha wha whaaaa wha wha. I seize the envelope, tear it open, and retrieve my iPhone, stopping short of rubbing the device and murmuring, “My precious.”

  “…after you sign the requisite paperwork, you are free to go.”

  While Man Parts retrieves the paperwork to parole me from the pokey, I snap a few prison selfies for my Twitter Feed and check my texts.

  Text from Jean-Luc:

  See you at the train station, mon cœur.

  My phone rings, and the words Big Boss Woman flash on the screen. I jab the volume button and wait for the call to go to voicemail. I don’t want to have a conversation with my editor with the po-po listening. Besides, I need a little time to do some damage control. Maybe if I think of a scathingly brilliant idea for a new story, Big Boss Lady won’t pull a Henry VIII and axe my ass.

  I slip the phone into the pocket of my trench and wait for Man Parts to spring me from the pokey.

  Chapter 3

  Petting a Bitch

  Text from Camilla Grant:

  It's Mum. News of your arrest is going epidemic. It’s all over the Facebook. Anna Johnson brought over a casserole and a business card of the lawyer who represented Amanda Knox. Is it as bad as all that, Luv?

  Text to Camilla Grant:

  By “‘that bad,” are you asking if I am accused of stabbing my roommate in a pot-and-porn-fueled frenzy? If so, I must plead the fifth on the grounds my answer might incriminate me.

  Text from Camilla Grant:

  Don’t get cheeky with me, Vivia Perpetua Grant! Anna Johnson said she read on the Twitter you were arrested for stalking Prince Harry. My daughter arrested! What will I tell Father Escobar?

  Text to Camilla Grant:

  Tell Father Escobar I am like the apostle Peter, wrongfully imprisoned by a cruel, heartless authority, freed from my shackles through the power of prayer! And there was much rejoicing!

  My mother spends an inordinate amount of time worrying about what the neighbors think, especially that sanctimonious busybody, Anna Johnson. My mum transferred her appearances neurosis to me. I am pretty sure this occurred while I was still in the embryonic stage; however, my lack of shame after the aforementioned Wonder Woman Bathing Suit Incident pokes a hole in the nature over nurture argument.

  Second, American English is not my mum’s first language. She was born and raised in Manchester, so her comprehension and application of American slang and sarcasm is woeful. She thinks a video or picture that becomes popular via Internet sharing is called “going epidemic.” She is indiscriminate in her use of the word the. For instance, my mum calls it “the Facebook” and “the cancer,” but she drops the from sentences containing the word hospital, university, or museum. Anna Johnson has the cancer and has to go to hospital. I read the news on the Facebook.

  Finally, although I take delight in tormenting her, my mum is the sweetest, most supportive mother in the world. She’s a neurotic, kooky mess, and I love her.

  I send my mum a reassuring text, sign the requisite paperwork authorizing my release, bid Man Parts a chipper cheerio, and exit Belgravia Police Station through a brightly painted blue door, squinting against the watery morning light. My eyes tear up, and I stand for a moment with my face turned to the sky. This must be what it’s like for prisoners released from solitary confinement. Doing time has given me an appreciation for the psychological and physiological effects of incarceration.

  My eyes finally adjust to the daylight. I look around, but don’t see any familiar landmarks. I am on a narrow street facing a small park.

  I could whip out my iPhone and use the CityMappers app to navigate my way back to the hotel, but walking would require more energy than I can muster. The stress of the last twenty-four hours has definitely taken its toll. I’m exhausted, humiliated, hungry, and in desperate need of hand sanitizer—the police cruiser that transported me from the Rubens to Belgravia Station reeked of piss and salt and vinegar potato chips, an unforgettably odiferous emanation that has attached itself to my trench coat.

  I just want to take a shower, pack my bags, and retreat to the safety of France so I can lick my wounded professional pride—or a cone of chocolat noir et noix de coco from Berthillon, this fab ice cream shop on the Île Saint-Louis.

  It’s starting to rain as I cross the street. I follow the sidewalk bordering the park until I come to an intersection. The British might have crap air conditioning, but they are bloody brilliant when it comes to signage. Two large signs affixed to the building on the corner announce my arrival at Ebury Square and Semley Place. I haven’t the slightest idea where Ebury Square and Semley Place are in relation to my hotel, but I somehow feel more empowered by the knowledge. I’m not hopelessly lost. I am at Ebury Square and Semley Place!

  The rain is really coming down now, so I flip up the collar of my trench and run across the intersection to seek shelter beneath a green Europcar awning.

  I look down Semley Place and see a larger intersection not too far away, so I make a run for it.

  When I finally reach the busy intersection, I am soaking wet and wheezing like an asthmatic. I have lost the belt to my faux Burberry, and my leather boots are waterlogged. Without even glancing in a shop window, I know my previously straightened hair is now a giant kinky ginger Afro. My friend G said girls in London aim for an artfully disheveled look. Think bed-head style meets vintage store find. So I chose my wardrobe accordingly. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that cool girly-but-with-an-edge image is now merely a figment of my imagination.

  I walk to the curb, notice one of London’s iconic black cabs headed in my direction, and wave my arms in the air. The cab drives on.

  I repeat the process. Several times.

  I am standing on my tippy toes, waving my arms in furious, slightly psychotic circles, shrilly crying out, “Taxi! Taxi!” when a beautiful blonde grabs one of my arms.

  “I simply cawn’t bear to watch this ghastly display,” she says. “Please, do stop before you hurt yourself.”

  As if to mock my Soul Train meets Little House on the Prairie look, Lady Posh is wearing chic black trousers and a Burberry trench. An authentic Burberry trench.

  “I am trying to hail a cab.”

  “Obviously,” she says, pulling me away from the curb and leading me to a spot farther down the sidewalk. “However, you are going about it all wrong. Did
you notice those zig-zaggy lines painted on the road where you were standing? They indicated a pedestrian crosswalk. Drivers won’t pick you up if you are standing at a bus stop or crosswalk.”

  I am about to respond with a self-deprecating joke when Lady Posh resumes her lesson on cab etiquette.

  “Additionally, the cabs you were attempting to hail had their lights turned off. An extinguished light means the cab has already been hired.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble.

  “Not at all,” she says, pronouncing “at all” as if one word. “Finally, one simply does not wave one’s hands frantically in the air.”

  She gracefully raises her hand in the air and a cab materializes, pulling to a stop beside us. My humiliation is complete. Miss Authentic Burberry: 1, Faux Burberry: 0.

  She opens the door and slides into the cab like a starlet maneuvering her way into a limousine.

  “Get in,” she says, smiling and patting the seat beside her. “We can share.”

  I collapse on the seat beside her.

  “Where are you headed?” she asks.

  “Rubens at the Palace.”

  “You do realize the Rubens is less than half a mile from here? Walking would be faster.”

  I think about the tattling hotel staff and the tall tales they told about me to the police, and my shoulders slump. I don’t want to go back to that über-swanky, über-stanky hotel. Miss Authentic Burberry misreads my reaction.

  “You look knackered.”

  “I am knackered.” I glance at my iPhone. “Is it really eleven thirty? I wish I could hit the ‘do over’ button and forget this day ever happened.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Look,” she says, glancing at her Cartier. “I have an appointment in one hour half. Why don’t we have lunch and you can tell me what made this a do-over day.”

  I am not accustomed to friendly Brits. “Why do you care?”

  “You look like you could use a friend.” She smiles. “I am in the hotel business. Hospitality is my currency. I hate to see a tourist looking as knackered and defeated as you do right now.”