Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  “Nonsense.”

  She moves her hand as if brushing crumbs from the table. Stiff-upper lip, no hugs Poppy has returned.

  The herb-roasted chicken is a thing of beauty, and if I weren’t starving, I would whip out my iPhone and snap some food porn for my Instagram feed. The chicken rests on a mound of smashed red potatoes surrounded by a moat of creamy gravy. A bowl of mushy peas accompanies the chicken.

  Between bites of chicken and sips of iced lemon water, Poppy tells me about her brief romance with the only man who could rock tights and pointy ears. When I ask her if Tristan was a good kisser, she dabs her lips with her napkin and changes the subject. If our friendship weren’t still in its infancy, I would ask her if the Wood Elf ever showed her his wood or if he ever used his arrow to make her quiver. Ha! The raunchy double-entendres could roll of my tongue for hours.

  We’re nibbling blackberry tartlets when Poppy says, “I found the article exonerating you on the newspaper’s website. What if we send a link to Jean-Luc?”

  I shrug. “I don’t think it will matter.”

  “We could try.”

  “He probably wouldn’t even open my e-mail.”

  “What if I send it? Would that help?”

  “I don’t think so.” I push my dessert plate away in an effort to stop the muffin-top spread. “Fanny says French men are slow to commit and even slower to forgive when they believe they have been betrayed.”

  “Where is the plucky, eternally optimistic, glass-half-full, Vivia? The audacious Prince Harry-stalking Vivia who cycles from Provence to Tuscany, parties with Jett Jericho, goes to Kyoto to learn how to be a geisha?

  “Vivia Perpetua Grant of San Francisco, California died this morning after being stabbed in the heart with gossip columnist Steven Schpiel’s poison pen.” I speak in a low, soft voice and press my hands together in prayer. “In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Victims of Media Bias and the North American Spinster Society.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Poppy rolls her eyes. “Schpiel hasn’t killed you, only momentarily wounded you. You’re down and stunned, but you will come back stronger because you are fierce. Fierce Vivia.”

  “I don’t feel fierce.”

  “Shake it off.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shake it off,” Poppy sings, giving me jazz hands and performing a strange little seated twerk. “Ah ah ah.”

  I snort with laughter. “What was that?”

  “My Taylor Swift impersonation.”

  “Hold up! Back that little twerk train up, Miley. Did you just say Taylor ‘Bubblegum and Ponytails’ Swift?”

  “What’s wrong with Taylor Swift? I love Tay Tay!”

  “Oh my God!” I slap a hand over my eyes and groan. “Did you just call her Tay Tay?”

  “It’s an affectionate nickname coined by the Swifties.”

  “The Swifties?” I drop my hand and stare at my new friend as if she just confessed to being a foot fetishist. “Who are the Swifties?”

  “Taylor Swift fans.”

  I let out a whistle and widen my eyes.

  “Ooookay then.”

  “All right Judgmental Judy”—Poppy puts her hands on her hips—“what’s wrong with Taylor Swift?”

  “What’s wrong?” I laugh hysterically. “Her music is little whiny bubblegum country-pop about her myriad of bad love relationships.”

  “Have you ever actually listened to her songs?”

  “Pfft,” I roll my eyes in a spot-on Fanny imitation. “Have I listened to her songs?”

  “Have you?”

  “How could I not listen to her songs? We are never, ever, ever, ever, like ever, ever, ever getting back together, like ever, ever must have played on the radio six trillion times the first month the song was released.”

  Poppy holds up a finger. “That’s one song. Name another of her songs.”

  “What is this Tay Tay Trivia?”

  “One. Name just one song.”

  I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Think. Think. I think so hard my brain aches, but I can’t remember a single Taylor Swift song.

  “Ha!” I open my eyes and snap my fingers. “She sang that song about Jesus being the co-pilot.”

  “Jesus Take the Wheel?”

  “Yeah, that’s it!”

  “Wrong. That was Carrie Underwood.”

  “They’re both blond country singers. Gimme a break.”

  “You’ve never actually listened to her music, have you?”

  “Not by choice,” I admit. “And you can add that to my obit.”

  “When I am melancholy, I make a pot of tea and listen to Taylor Swift songs. What do you do, Vivia?”

  “I eat gourmet junk food like Mr. Foo’s Noodles and Torchy’s Tacos and crank Black Veil Brides, Falling in Reverse, Tempting Fate, or Countless Good-byes.”

  “Countless Good-byes? That sounds so sad.”

  “They’re an awesome Finnish Metalcore band with a crazy hot drummer.”

  “Awesome?” Poppy laughs. “You are so American.”

  “Yes, yes I am!”

  “Well nothing is more American than Taylor Swift.” Poppy grabs her iPhone. “Just listen to four songs. If it doesn’t change your feelings about her, I will never mention her name again. Deal?”

  “Four?”

  “Three.”

  “Deal.” I hold my hand out and Poppy shakes it. “Three songs. Cue ’em up.”

  Poppy starts with “Back to December,” a mournful, haunting song about a girl begging forgiveness for taking her ex-boyfriend for granted. It’s a swift, sharp jab to the heart. “Love Story” comes next, a sweet musical tale about ill-fated teen romance. It’s a roundhouse to the head. The breezy, in-your-face-fun “Shake it Off” rounds out the mini Tay Tay Playlist. It’s an empowering shot of adrenaline that lifts me up off the mats before the final bell rings.

  We are up, jumping around my room, shaking our hands, and laughing until the very last jazzy trumpet note. We flop onto the couch, giggling like a couple of giddy, girly Beliebers.

  “Are you ready to admit Tay Tay is the voice of a generation of pretty, popular, empowered nerd girls?” Poppy drops her iPhone in her bag. “She is an adorkable woman coming into her own and yearning for a storybook love.”

  “I don’t know if I am ready to bestow her with the title of Warbler of Wisdom, but I dig that she is a good girl in love with bad boys. I get that.”

  “So you can tolerate my membership in the Swifties?”

  I laugh again. “I will permit it, as long as you don’t tell me you have a Demi Lovato ringtone.”

  “As if,” Poppy snorts. “Iggy Azalea’s Fancy.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Jessica Simpson!” I make the sign of the cross. “You might need to atone for your musical taste transgressions. Bubblegum Pop-py!”

  “I like that name!”

  “Very well.” I dip my fingers in my glass of ice water and flick it onto Poppy’s forehead. “I christen you Bubblegum Pop-py. Henceforth, you shall be referred by your Vivia-given moniker.”

  We laugh.

  “You’re a cool chick, Poppy Worthington.”

  “Thanks.”

  Iggy Azalea suddenly blasts from Poppy’s iPhone. She grabs the phone and frowns when she looks at the screen. She jabs the button to mute Iggy. Thank God.

  “Everything okay?”

  “What?” Poppy looks up. “Oh, yes. It’s just my mum. She must have realized she failed to meet her daily Poppy texts and is making up for it with a call.”

  “You have one of those, too?”

  “Do I?” Poppy slides the phone back into her purse and affects a clipped, nasally British upper-crust tone. “’What is this one heaaars about you spending the night drinking in a dodgy pub? A Worthington does not behave in such a common way. Poorly done, Poppy Whitney.’”

  I whistle. “I feel ya, sister. I got my own text-happy mum
.”

  Poppy inhales and clasps her hands neatly in her lap. Bubblegum Pop-py has left the building, ladies and gentlemen. Perfectly Pressed Poppy has returned.

  “Have you heard from your editor yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “No problems there, I hope.”

  “All good.” I lean back and prop my feet on the table. “Except she’s sending me to some sheep farm in Scotland.”

  “Really?”

  I tell Poppy about the new rage in all girl getaways: working chick trips. I expect her eyes to glaze over and her lips press together to stifle a yawn, but she leans forward, listening with rapt attention.

  “Big Boss Lady—” I have never publicly referred to Louanne by her nickname. I am not sure if Poppy will appreciate my chest-thumping, one-of-the-people joke since she is technically “The Man.” “My boss wanted me to invite a few of my friends, but it is a big imposition to ask someone to cash in their vacation days to shovel sheep ca-ca.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “You will?”

  I play it off all cool, but I’d hoped Poppy would toss her hat into the ring. Stiff-Upper Lip Poppy is a bit off-putting, but beneath the pricey pants suits, she’s a chair twerking, wise-cracking bubblegum girl just waiting to bust out.

  “Sh-yeah!”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “You would really come to Scotland with me? We are going to be living on a farm…shoveling sheep shit.”

  “I love sheep!”

  “Shut up.”

  “I do.”

  Poppy tells me about her childhood summers spent at the Worthington’s country estate—how she shadowed their gruff old Scottish groundskeeper, traipsing through the spongy fields and forests as he performed his duties.

  “I would follow him to his cottage and help him tend the sheep.” Poppy stares into space, lost in happy memories. “My happiest childhood memories include spending time with Liam. I even wanted to be a sheep farmer.”

  I try to conjure an image of Miss Boutique Hotels traipsing over mucky hills in search of a lost sheep, her Wellies smeared with sheep shit.

  “Shut up.”

  “Serious.” Poppy tips her head, looking at me shyly from behind her bangs. “So can I come with you?”

  “Are you kidding? I would love you to be the Thelma to my Louise, the Samantha to my Carrie.”

  “I would prefer to be your Charlotte.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So, you’re in?”

  “I’m abso-bloody-lutely in!”

  “Sweet sauce!”

  “What’s the schedule?” She pronounces it the British way, with a beginning sh not sk sound. “I would like to send it to my assistant just in case she needs to contact me.”

  “We leave for Edinburgh day after tomorrow.”

  “Plane or automobile?”

  “I am not sure yet, but I was thinking it might be fun to take the train, roll through the English countryside like Harry Potter on the Hogwarts Express.”

  “Ooooooor”—she draws the small word out far longer than I thought possible—“we could drive, like Thelma and Louise!”

  “Maybe snag ourselves a Brad Pitt?”

  “Pre-parenthood and unsightly facial hair.”

  “Legends of the Fall Brad Pitt.”

  “Now you’re talking, my Colonial Friend.”

  “Colonial? We haven’t been a colony for over two hundred and thirty-five years.”

  “Pishaw,” Poppy says, waving her hand. “You’ll always be our dear Colonials.”

  I laugh. I love that Poppy feels comfortable enough already to flip me some shit.

  “Okay, let’s do this thing.”

  “Road trip?”

  “Road trip!” I squeal.

  “We can take the backroads…”

  “Maybe stop off in Chawton and retrace Jane Austen’s footsteps…”

  “Wrong direction.”

  “Then we can meander over the mist-shrouded moors of North Yorkshire in search of our own ill-fated, violent love.”

  Poppy stares at me with wide eyes and slack mouth, clearly perplexed by my literary reference.

  “Emily Brontë.”

  Poppy doesn’t blink.

  “Heathcliff and Catherine, the ill-fated lovers in Brontë’s Wuthering Heights?”

  Poppy finally blinks. “I am British, Vivia. Wuthering Heights is included in our first school primer. I am trying to understand why you would want a lover as barking mad and downright bloody cruel as Heathcliff.”

  “Easy girlfriend.” I pop a hand on my hip and wag my finger at her. “Don’t diss my boy, H-Cliff.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “As serious as Churchill on D-Day, as Victoria Beckham on a cleanse, as Queen Elizabeth at the opening ceremonies of the…”

  “Okay, okay.” Poppy holds her hands up and laughs. “I get it. Your affections for Heathcliff are quite serious. You really must learn to curb your proclivity for over-statements.”

  “Does that mean you’re with me? We’re going to meander around the moors in search of our very own Heathcliffs?”

  “As appealing as that sounds, I am afraid a trip to the moors would be quite a detour. Our route takes us through the Lakes District, though. Perhaps the epic grandeur of Wordsworth’s former stomping grounds will move you to poetry.”

  The Lakes District’s verdant valleys and tumbling fells inspired Lord Tennyson, John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley—the world’s most famous poets. Maybe a visit would inspire me to pen a sonnet stirring enough to recapture Luc’s heart.

  “That sounds epic, Poppy. As long as we are in Edinburgh by Thursday.”

  “What happens Thursday?”

  “Fanny arrives.”

  “Fanny? Your best friend?”

  “Yes!” I grin. “She is flying over to join us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Are you daft?” Poppy beams. “I am excited to meet the infamous Fanny.”

  “This is gonna be fab!” I stop myself from giving Poppy another hug and settle for a hand squeeze instead. “I know you’re going to be great friends.”

  Chapter 15

  Ménage à Trois

  Fanny and Poppy aren’t ever going to be great friends. In the words of the immortal Taylor Swift, “Like ever.” I must have reached into my old bag, pulled out my rose-colored glasses, and slipped them on my face when I envisioned the three of us bonding like some cheesy remake of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. We are three wildly different women, and it will take more than a pair of magic skinny jeans to fuse us together at the hips.

  Three days ago, Poppy picked me up in her zippy little BMW coupe and we followed the M1 from London to the M6 and the Lakes District, eventually making our way to Edinburgh. We spent the first night skulking down Old Town Edinburgh’s narrow closes—or alleyways—listening to a tatted-up guide tell us titillating tales from the city’s history. As cheesy as it sounds, we had a great time listening to stories of murder, adultery, deception, and debauchery. The guide, Aeden, was wicked cool and invited us to join him for drinks in this slightly seedy cellar bar called The Vault. Aeden is the lead singer for System Shattered, a Scottish rock band, which totally explains his muscular, tatted, cocky swagger. Insert swoon sound effect here, please. When Aeden told us his band was one of the opening acts for Palaye Royale, an up-and-coming fashion-art rock band out of Las Vegas, and asked if we wanted to “come oot and get ratarsed” I thought Poppy would beg off. Poppy might be cool, but I taxed my vivid imagination trying to envision Miss President of the Swifties getting ratarsed—drunk—at an indie rock concert. Poppy not only went to the concert, but flirted with the guitarist of the appropriately named London-based band, Dirty Thrills.

  Dirty Thrills has a crazy cool blues-rock sound with wailing guitar riffs and melt-your-panties vocals. The guitarist looks like Colin Farrell, with sad,
love-me-till-it-hurts brown eyes, pouty lips, and a mustache that could tickle a girl in all the right places. Poppy disappears after their set and reappears later, her lipstick slightly smeared, her shirt untucked and rumpled, a broad grin stretched across her pretty face. I’m not saying she hooked up with the guitarist, but she definitely looks like she got a few dirty thrills.

  To use an Americanism, Palaye Royale was awesome. The indie rock band has a psychedelic sound and 80’s theatrical look—like they’re the love children of Culture Club and the Doors.

  Aeden’s band, System Shattered, was like the perfect bridge between Dirty Thrills’s solid, wailing sound and Palaye Royale’s liquid smooth harmonizing. It was an orgasmic musical trifecta.

  Not to overstate, if God said He would create Vivia’s Perfect Night, it would probably look something like that night—only with more chocolate.

  Still glowing with the after-effects of our night of music and alleged moustache-love, we met Fanny at the Edinburgh Airport. Maybe I am naïve, but I fully anticipated Fanny would join in and we would have a happy little marriage à trois. Ha! What a rude awakening. Like a morning after let-down, when you roll over and realize the hot dude you brought home from the club the night before is really a finger-sniffing dud, I took one look at Fanny’s tight expression and thought, “This is so not happening.”

  Following Big Boss Lady’s dictate to write about offbeat places in Edinburgh—I found Arkangel and Felon, an eclectic clothing boutique, the Voodoo Rooms, a chic fringe bar with a burlesque show, and Angels with Bagpipes, a bijou wine bar on the Royal Mile. Next, we hit a spa where brawny kilt-wearing male therapists rubbed lavender scented lanolin into our sore muscles, a thirties combo Laundromat/swing dance class called Zoot Suits, the Museum of Pathology with jars of pickled human remains, and a neo-pagan fire festival where we sat around a huge bonfire and watched interpretive dancers and acrobats pay tribute to the May Queen.

  Through it all, Fanny and Poppy verbally circled around each other like a pair of eighteenth century swordsmen preparing for a duel, assessing and testing reflexes with a stunning battery of thrusts, parries, and ripostes.

  I keep waiting for the coup de grâce, the clean, brutal death blow that will bring one of my friends to her designer-clad knees, but they are determined to prolong their battle—death by a thousand small, thinly-veiled cuts.