Someday My Prince Will Come

by Jerramy Fine

  “George didn’t tell me you were a Yank,” Oliver said, looking me over with suspicion. “It was originally our goal to fill the two upstairs bedrooms with proper Chelsea girls…but I guess as long as you’re pretty it doesn’t matter.”

  I didn’t know if I should have been insulted or flattered by those remarks, but I didn’t care. The boy was gorgeous.

  “Oliver!” George shouted from his bedroom. “Go wake up Sophie so she can meet our prospective flatmate.”

  A few minutes passed and Sophie, a tall, willowy brunette, came stumbling sleepily down the stairs, still wearing her night-shirt. “Sorry,” she grinned sheepishly, “I’m terribly hungover.”

  I had a feeling that the people in this flat might enjoy the kind of nightlife that didn’t involve eating rice cakes and watching PG movies.

  At last everyone was assembled, and we went through the usual rigmarole of interviewing one another. I told them all about me and then they told me all about them. We had a natural rapport and seemed to get along brilliantly.

  “What do you guys do?” I asked.

  “Well,” answered George, who was clearly the unofficial leader of the house, “Sophie works for a dot-com, and Oliver and I work in the exciting world of property.”

  “I thought for sure you were going to say you were fashion models!” I teased. I figured a bit of minor flirting couldn’t hurt.

  George didn’t skip a beat. “Well, it’s funny you say that,” he said casually, “Oliver and I do do a bit of modeling on the side. Nothing big, though. Just small fashion shows, catalogs, that sort of thing.”

  “It’s the only way George can afford to live in this neighborhood!” Oliver chuckled.

  You’ve got to be kidding me. They were actually models?

  Ignoring Oliver and ignoring the awestruck look on my face, George continued, “Jerramy, at the end of the day, we’re looking for a friend, someone to join our social circle, not just a body to pay the rent and fill the room.”

  I can’t tell you how refreshing it was to hear this! It was completely the opposite attitude of every other flat I had been to!

  “That’s exactly what I’m looking for too,” I smiled.

  “Well, Jerramy, I’m delighted to inform you that you have passed the first audition. Round two involves drinks with Duncan—our landlord. If you pass that test, you can move in next weekend. Are you free for drinks on Thursday night?”

  “Yes!” I answered breathlessly.

  Now that I was working full time, it was getting more and more difficult to pop to Oxford for Tuesday night cocktails or for a midweek fancy-dress dinner. With the way that bunch liked to party, how was I ever supposed to make it back to London the next morning, much less into the office on time?

  Adam kept me company when he could, but he was intensely busy building his political career or secretly rendezvousing with his latest gay crush. I didn’t mind spending hours stuffing envelopes for Adam (I wanted him to be prime minister more than anyone), but joining him on his clandestine dinner dates—where I would share a table in the best restaurants74 with him and yet another good-looking, ambitious gay guy and pretend I had no idea that both men were blatantly flirting with each other—grew rather tiresome. I desperately needed some normal London friends. And thus, I was more determined than ever to pass the second audition.

  I’d painstakingly dressed for the occasion: my bright salmon cashmere from Pringle,75 gray pencil skirt, Jackie O coat, and killer heels. I’d even stayed up extra late the night before to give myself a French manicure. When I entered the trendy King’s Road bar at 7 P.M. on the dot, I was a picture of youth, style, and responsibility. There was no way that boring old landlord could fail to be impressed.

  Several large glasses of Pinot Grigio later, I knew I was in trouble.

  Not only was the landlord my age (his father had lent him several properties to “practice with”), he was hot, he was English, and, get this, he played polo. At the very same polo club as Prince Charles!

  “Stand up please, Jerramy,” ordered Duncan when he first arrived at our table. “I have to make sure that none of my tenants are taller than me.”

  I did as I was told and passed the test. (I’m only 5'6" in heels; and although Duncan was extremely handsome, he was only about 5'10".)

  “Right, second order of business, Jerramy, is this: I know that you are American and we will try not to hold that against you, but I have to ask, what are your thoughts on dating? Have English men been to your liking?”

  Seated between Oliver and George, I saw Sophie roll her eyes. She’d clearly seen Duncan’s absurd interrogation techniques before.

  “Oh, yes,” I gushed. “I love English boys! Especially ones that have been to boarding school.” I was obviously drunk.

  “Excellent!” and he raised his glass to me. “Because, let me be clear about this: If I find out that you’re dating any guy who has attended this country’s state school system—you’re evicted. No plebs in my house. Do you understand me?”

  “Not a problem!” I laughed. (Little did I know he was dead serious.)

  “Unless of course,” Duncan continued with an arrogant smirk, “the pleb in question is a girl. Lesbianism is vastly encouraged amongst my female tenants.”

  “Duncan! Enough!” scolded Sophie. “We like her. She’s normal. Let her live with us!” The two beautiful boys at her sides nodded in agreement.

  Duncan possessed the kind of Napoleonic charm that bordered on cruelty, but I was smitten. And that night, I happily and knowingly agreed to move into his flat for all the wrong reasons.

  Male models, polo invitations, and possible royal connections to name just a few.

  I didn’t want to tell Rebecca that I was moving out purely because of her (and risk her setting fire to all of my possessions or something equally deranged). So in order to escape, I ended up concocting a lie about moving back to the U.S. As I left her gorgeous Abbey Road apartment building for the last time, both the doorman and concierge rushed to say good-bye to me.

  “We were wondering how long you’d last,” the doorman said sweetly. “Girls never stay more than a few months in that flat.” (They could have told me that before I moved in.)

  No longer living in fear of Rebecca and her evil ways, I was deliriously happy in my new SW home. It was so wonderful to feel part of a close-knit group, and I bragged constantly to my friends in America about George and Oliver’s supermodel looks. Even Adam couldn’t wait to meet them, thinking surely after their time in the fashion industry they might swing both ways. But I wasn’t sure about Duncan’s views on gay friends and not wanting to risk immediate eviction, I managed to keep Adam at bay.

  It was obvious to anyone with a brain that Duncan was a bastard, but he was a bastard that played polo (and more importantly, a bastard that might invite me to polo), so I was willing to put up with it for the time being. But when it came to George and Oliver, I’m not quite sure when it began to dawn on me that they weren’t nearly as angelic as they looked.

  Every morning George and Oliver did five hundred sit-ups to tighten their perfectly tanned washboard stomachs, and every night after work they insisted on watching one of their two favorite films: American Psycho or Wall Street. Their unhealthy obsession with movies that contained such similar and disturbing themes should have been enough to set off alarm bells in my head—but I was so enamored by their beauty and charm, in my eyes they could do no wrong.

  One lazy Sunday morning, I staggered downstairs a little before noon. As usual, I was hungover—this time from a long, debaucherous dinner with Adam and his latest mystery man at one of the most expensive restaurants in town (our trio’s behavior was so rowdy that we were actually asked to leave the Michelin star restaurant toward the end of the night). And as I groggily carried my giant mug of coffee into the sitting room that morning, I wanted nothing more than to spend the next few hours watching mindless television and getting rid of my headache.

  George was already
sitting in the massive armchair and gazing at the cricket match on TV. As I sat down across from him, I saw that he was wearing a bright green mud mask.

  I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help it. I’d never seen a guy in a mud mask before! Even girls did them in private!

  “Okay,” I giggled, “I know you guys love your tanning beds, but is a mud mask really necessary?”

  George spoke slowly so the dried mud on his face wouldn’t crack. “Just like you, I have to look after my skin,” he shrugged.

  “Our looks are our money,” piped in Oliver, who was also sporting a late-morning mud mask. I watched Oliver as he stopped to admire his biceps in the mirror and then strolled into the room wearing nothing but his boxers. I swear, I don’t think I ever saw that boy with more than one item of clothing on at a time. Not that I was complaining.

  At first I thought the weekend mud mask routine was funny. Until I discovered that the mud mask George and Oliver used so religiously was actually mine. One evening, I had unscrewed the lid of a brand new jar to find it practically empty!

  I showed Sophie and she was appalled. We were the only ones who used the upstairs bathroom so together we removed the contents of our entire bathroom cabinet for further investigation. To our horror, we saw that dozens and dozens of our beauty products showed signs of manhandling: giant, bear-paw-sized scoops were missing from pots of expensive moisturizer and cold cream; my bottles of luxury shampoo and conditioner that I had bought in America had only drops left, and Sophie’s costly bubble bath set was gone completely.

  The whole thing would have been infuriating if it weren’t so funny. And as we sifted through the remnants of our cosmetics, Sophie and I were laughing so hard we could barely speak. We knew the boys were oddly meticulous (they were obsessed with ironing their Thomas Pink shirts and polishing their Church’s shoes), and we also knew they were strangely in touch with their feminine sides (they loved shopping at Harvey Nicks76 and going for brunch afterward), but come on, this was ridiculous.

  “I cannot believe I’m funding George’s entire beauty regime!” exclaimed Sophie, tears of laughter streaming down her face. “How did I end up moving in with such narcissistic ponces77?”

  “Because they’re cute?” I suggested.

  “Oh, yeah.” Sophie conceded with a smile. “That.”

  Of course the boys denied everything. Their beauty always disqualified them from censure and they were so stupidly cute in their denials that we let them get away with it. But in order to monitor any future thieving behavior, Sophie and I smoothed out all of our creams and secretly marked all liquid levels with a pencil.

  Just as suspected, within days, my eye cream, face wash, and hair gel had been tampered with again! And so had Sophie’s Crème de la Mer moisturizer!

  After that, we started hiding everything in our bedrooms. When it comes to her beauty products, a girl can’t take any chances.

  That same month, Oliver invited his Scottish rugby buddies to stay with us for the weekend—meaning for two whole nights there were five burly guys with chests like barrels, legs like tree trunks, ears like cauliflower, and manners like wildebeests camped out in the sitting room. Not ideal, but it was only for a short while. I could cope.

  At Oliver’s insistence, Sophie and I joined them for drinks on Saturday night. The wildebeests were sweet, but their Scottish accents were so thick, and they were so incessantly drunk, we couldn’t understand a word any of them said. Tired of being mindlessly groped and playfully pawed at, we left the bar early and went to bed.

  Sophie’s bedroom was right next to mine, and around 2 A.M. I heard voices in the hallway outside our doors.

  “Which bird do you fancy?” slurred Oliver in a loud whisper. “English or American?”

  Was I hearing things? Was Oliver offering Sophie and me to his drunken friends? I held my breath. Please don’t let those inebriated buffoons come into my bedroom!

  “English,” one of them grunted.

  Thank God for that! (But poor Sophie!)

  Cringing, I listened as three or four beefy Scotsmen tumbled onto Sophie’s bed. Luckily, she was much meaner than I could ever be. I silently cheered her on as she fought them off and angrily shooed them away. In the meantime, I had moved my desk firmly against my bedroom door. I found out later that Sophie had done the same.

  The next day, as the hungover rugby players made themselves breakfast, I noticed a large stain in the middle of our beige carpet.

  “What is this?” I asked them, pointing to the offending spot in the center of the sitting room.

  “Oh, that? That’s just water,” one of the wildebeests replied.

  “It’s definitely not water.” I know I sounded like a mother, but I didn’t care. “Oliver? What is it really? What did you guys spill?”

  “Oh, we didn’t spill anything,” explained Oliver calmly. “It’s just that Alistair had to take a piss and didn’t make it the loo on time. But don’t worry! We ironed it.”

  “What? You ironed the urine into the carpet?” I asked incredulously.

  “Aye!” exclaimed Alistair proudly. “We tried to dry it with a wee hair dryer, but then we thought the iron would be faster.”

  For the love of God.

  I went upstairs and finished my coffee in the comfort and sanity of Sophie’s bedroom. After telling her about the mastermind ironing that had taken place downstairs, I told her how I had heard Oliver whispering the night before about “English or American” and how he had basically tried to prostitute us. She was livid.

  “We could have been gang-raped!” she screamed.

  Hadn’t thought about it that way, but I guess she was right. Both extremely disturbed by the thought, we called Duncan and insisted that he install locks on our bedroom doors.

  “What do you mean we are overreacting?” Sophie shouted into the phone. “Duncan! We shouldn’t have to use our own bedroom furniture as a barricade in order to feel safe!”

  Duncan never did give us those locks. And despite multiple attempts, we never did get that urine out of the carpet. But a few days later, a very embarrassed Oliver sent flowers to my office. If only I could’ve convinced him to buy me a new mud mask.

  As the days wore on in my new anti-intelligentsia neighborhood, I realized that George and Oliver’s wild obsession with looks and appearances was rapidly giving me a complex.

  Every outfit Sophie and I wore was scrutinized and commented upon (“Jerramy, are you sure you want to wear those cheap shoes with that skirt? You really ought to get yourself some Gucci heels.”), as was every guest we dared to bring through the doors of the flat (“Sophie, I say—that mate of yours seemed a bit common. What school did she go to?”). But when the boys started describing to us what they believed to be the ideal female body, I really started to doubt myself.

  To give you an idea of what I went through, I urge you to attempt the following fitness test: Make two fists with your palms facing down, extend your thumbs so the tips are touching and then extend your pinky fingers to form a semi-square. According to George and Oliver, the ultimate female “bum” fits within this space.

  Let’s just say that my size 6 butt (size 12 in the U.K.) failed miserably. I tired to tell them that only a four-year-old’s bottom would fit into such a ridiculously small gap, but they were insistent.

  “Jerramy, I hate to break it to you,” said George earnestly, “but maybe you should join a gym and work off some of that excess puppy fat. You too, Sophie.”

  Puppy fat? Sophie was a beanpole! And my nickname in high school was Skinny Minnie!

  Nevertheless, we both joined a gym the very next day.

  How could guys that cute be wrong?

  One morning before we left for work, Sophie and I were sitting at the dining table, hastily eating our breakfast while George and Oliver did their customary five hundred sit-ups.

  “Jerramy, can you remind me to pay my Amnesty dues tonight?” Sophie asked absently as she flipped though last night’s evening paper.


  “Sure,” I answered.

  George sat down with a plateful of toast. “What dues? Sophie, what the devil are you talking about?”

  Sophie looked up at George and rolled her eyes. “I’m a member of Amnesty International. Ever heard of it?”

  “Of course I have. It’s one of those smart new members’ clubs near Sloane Square. I’m planning on applying for membership myself. Dues aren’t terribly expensive if I recall.”

  “George,” Sophie spoke slowly and sternly, as if talking to a child, “Amnesty is not a members’ club. It’s a human rights charity.”

  “Human rights? Christ!”

  Oliver stopped doing his sit-ups and turned toward Sophie. “You better not let Duncan know that you’re mixing with that kind of crowd.”

  “You two are ridiculous!” Sophie exclaimed. “It’s not like I’m mixing with neo-Nazis or something! And I told you last week that I’ve started dating a human rights lawyer.”

  “Better not let Duncan know that either,” Oliver said.

  “Don’t worry, Soph,” George said kindly. “I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell Duncan that your new beau is a corporate lawyer.” He looked very pleased with himself.

  Sophie shook her head in bewilderment. “Thanks George, you’re ever so kind.”

  It was that moment—the moment that George turned his attention back to his breakfast, that I noticed the first trickle of powdery white stuff dripping out of his nose.

  And in a flash, I saw my new flat for what it was: Not good. But highly addictive.

  Twenty

  “It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.”

  —CONFUCIUS

  I may have been living in the appropriate postcode as per Hugo’s advice, but what good was it doing me? I was hardly meeting “the right kind” of English people on the street.

  Sophie was always with her boyfriend, Duncan was full of empty promises and had yet to invite me anywhere (was I ever going to make it to an English polo match?), and every time I went clubbing with George and Oliver, they seemed to spend most of their time in the bathroom.