The Art of Kissing Frogs

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  I laughed. “I can pretty much promise that.”

  Mr. Ancient Aliens

  “I’M NOT SAYING IT WAS aliens,” my date said, swirling his fork through the puddle of toffee sauce I was eyeing greedily. “But I believe the evidence is pretty clear.”

  “It is?” I took a gulp of Riesling, ignoring the burn as I downed it a little too fast.

  “Of course. All you have to do is look around.”

  I wasn’t sure where in the pub he expected me to find evidence of aliens, but I looked just in case. The building, now home to the Author’s Coffee House, had been built sometime in the 1700s. Long ago writers and poets, scientists and political radicals, had met there to rant over cups of java and plates of cakes. The wide-planked wood floors were smoothed not with varnish but with a thousand feet passing over them. The walls were dark wood and the ceilings timbered. It was dim and cozy, redolent with the scent of brewing coffee and baked goods. Voices were hushed as if in a library. Not exactly what I’d call a hotbed of alien activity.

  My date, who’d introduced himself as Neville, was forty-one, into dance, music, Buddhism...all in all a fairly interesting person. He also liked to talk. And talk. And talk. Dear God, did the man love to talk.

  Fortunately, he talked about interesting stuff. At least until he got to the aliens.

  He seemed to fancy himself something of a psychic. He was convinced I believed in UFOs. Whether I actually did or did not believe in UFOs was completely beside the point. He had decided I believed in UFOs, so therefore, I did. When I made a crack about "little green men,” he insisted they were called "grays" and looked like ET, and probably we humans were descended from them. I wasn’t sure if he was being serious or if this were some big joke at my expense.

  I try to be an open-minded person. I believe there are more things in this universe than we know about, and there quite possibly is life of some kind or other out there somewhere. But that's not the point. The point is that while I am open-minded about things, I'm also not about to wrap my head in tinfoil, so spending the first date discussing alien visitations was just a bit...odd.

  Then came the conspiracy theories. Apparently, according to Neville, Michael Fassbender was the illegitimate love child of Sarah Ferguson (can we still call her a duchess?) and Bill Clinton, and the White House had helped MI5 cover it up. I wasn’t clear on exactly how he thought this all came about, why it was worthy of coverup, or what the aliens had to do with it.

  I must have given him a funny look, because he proceeded to bang his fists on the table, causing the silverware to jump, while very nearly shouting, “It’s true. It’s true, I tell you.” The coffee cups rattled ominously, and half the patrons turned to stare while the other half studiously avoided looking in our direction.

  “Okay. Let’s say it is true. Why the coverup?”

  “Because it would have started World War III.”

  Excuse me? Say what? Call me naïve, but puh-lease. Even if it were true, which it wasn’t, how on earth could Michael Fassbender being the son of the former American president and a British peer be anything beyond tabloid worthy? I had to ask.

  “Because Bill Clinton is an alien, of course,” Neville said in a tone that spoke of flashing his trump card.

  Well, that explained the alien connection. “That makes perfect sense.”

  It was a highly entertaining date, to say the least. So much so that three hours flew by surprisingly quickly. There would not, however, be a second date. Unless I was kidnapped by aliens and forced into it.

  Chapter 2

  WITH A SIGH OF RELIEF, I got off the Tube at Notting Hill Gate Station and headed up the escalators to the surface. Despite the late hour, the station was still hopping with suited and booted city workers making their way home after an evening at the pub, winding down from the weekly stress. I nodded at one of the station attendants. I didn’t know his name, but I saw him several times a week, and he always had a smile on his cherubic face. He gave me a wink as I made my way outside.

  A gentle wind teased the hem of my dress as I strolled down Notting Hill Gate and turned onto one of the side streets. With its never-ending line of matching Georgian row houses marching up and down either side of the narrow street, it was exactly the sort of place I had always dreamed of living.

  Ever since I’d seen that movie with Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts, I had wanted to live in Notting Hill. It had been one of those stupid, crazy, impossible dreams people have that don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of actually happening.

  And then I’d married an asshat and ended up living in London. Well, barely London. Uxbridge was so far out on the edges of the Greater London area, it hardly counted anymore. It took a good forty-five minutes to get in to Piccadilly Circus. Not exactly what I envisioned when Gavin had first spun tales of living with him in his homeland.

  Still, the town center had been super cute with one of those impossibly old stone churches and enough little shops and cafes to keep me happy. There was even a library and a Starbucks. I had kept the library, but threw over Starbucks for the Italian deliciousness of Costa Coffee. Sacrilege for a girl from the Pacific Northwest, but when in Rome. Or London, as the case may be. Plus, I’d been in love with the man of my dreams. Totally wrapped up in my happy little world until he ditched me and ran off with his Brazilian mistress.

  Suddenly alone in a strange country, I decided to do exactly what I’d always wanted: live in Notting Hill. So, that was just what I’d done. It had been perhaps the first time in my entire life I’d done exactly as I pleased without worrying what anyone else thought. It had been both marvelous and scary as hell.

  At the end of the street, I cut across the square to Pembridge. It was more a mishmash of red brick Victorians with the usual white or stone Georgians. Although I preferred the clean lines of the Georgians, I enjoyed the mix. Halfway up the street, I stopped in front of one of the cream-colored buildings. I smiled at the bright, cobalt blue door with the brass doorknob right in the center. I’d loved that door from the first time I’d seen it. To me it had been a beacon of hope, a sign I was embracing my future instead of wallowing in the past.

  I climbed the short set of stairs to the blue door and pulled my key out of my purse. Before I could put it in the lock, I heard a feminine voice behind me.

  “Pardon me?”

  I turned to find a young woman, hardly more than twenty. Her brown, pixie-cut hair and short denim skirt made her seem even younger. “Yes?”

  The girl cleared her throat and stared at her phone for a moment as if reading something. “I think I am lost.” The girl pronounced each word carefully in a thick, Eastern European accent. “This is 10b Pembridge?”

  My interest was definitely piqued. The boys had told me all about 10b when I moved in. “No, this is number 10.” I tapped the brass number above the knocker. “See those steps?” I pointed to a flight of wrought iron stairs at the side of the building leading down. “The door at the bottom is 10b. Are you sure that’s the address you want?”

  “Oh, yes.” The girl bobbed her head, dark hair swinging gently against her jaw, and gave me a relieved smile. “Thank you. You are most kind.” She scurried toward the stairs and disappeared, her pink backpack bouncing against her spine.

  I heard her knock, followed by the creak of the door opening and a murmur of voices. Try as I might, I couldn’t tell what was being said. The door to 10b shut again, but the girl didn’t come back up. Interesting.

  Letting myself inside, I checked the mailbox. Empty. One of the guys had probably grabbed the post. Kev was usually the first one home, although sometimes I beat him. I hiked up two flights of stairs to the second floor flat. In the US it would be considered the third floor, but in the UK they always counted the first floor as the ground floor, the second as the first, and went from there. It had been confusing as hell the first few weeks after I’d moved to London. I can’t tell you how many times I ended up on the wrong floor of buildings, completely baffled.<
br />
  Using a second key, I pushed my way into the flat. It wasn’t easy. The boys had littered the tiny entrance hall with bicycles, messenger bags, and abandoned shoes, none of which they ever seemed to use. One of these days I was seriously going to throw everything out.

  That was the downside of living in London. Even on my halfway decent salary, I couldn’t begin to afford my own place, and somehow, despite being the person in the wrong, Gavin had managed to walk away with everything while I had two suitcases and a black plastic garbage bag to my name. So I was stuck with flatmates. And while they were pretty awesome most of the time, especially Kev, they could also drive me bonkers.

  “Kate? Is that you?” A ginger head popped around the corner. “Thank goodness. Thought I was going to have to send out the Queen’s Guard. If they had any strength after I got through with them.” He gave me a wink.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, Kev. You’ll never believe it. I just saw another girl go into 10b.”

  “No way.” His blue eyes grew wide as he stepped out into the hall. Today he was wearng a canary yellow shirt with an electric blue tie. The man did love bright colors. “Let me guess. Young and Eastern European.”

  “Spot on.” I walked into the small kitchen, Kev hot on my heels. “Short skirt, pixie cut, cute. What do you suppose is going on down there? Can’t be a drug ring,” I said, knocking Kev’s favorite conspiracy out the window. “Unless they’re using young girls as mules.”

  “Anything is possible. I put the kettle on. Tea, luv?” He swung open a cupboard door and rummaged around while I dumped my bag on the table and sank down into one of the chairs.

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Here’s what I think,” he said, pulling a couple of mugs out of the cupboard. “10b is a white slaver.”

  I snorted. “Seriously? You think girls would show up voluntarily if he was a white slaver? I’m thinking more along the lines of pimp.”

  “Oh, juicy! I love your wicked mind.” He tossed tea bags into the mugs and splashed in water from the electric kettle.

  Ever since I had moved in, Kev and I had become good friends. Our other roommates, Raj and James, were okay, but they were busy doing “couple” things with their own set of friends. Kev had decided to adopt me or something, and I’d been dragged to practically every gay bar in Soho while I’d introduced him to American crime shows, which he mostly loved for what he referred to as “hunky American beefcake.” We’d also kept an eye on the comings and goings of our mysterious downstairs neighbor, taking turns guessing what he could be up to.

  Kev waggled a bag of tea in the air, and I made a face. PG Tips, while possibly the most popular tea in the country, always tasted a little bitter to me. “The Yorkshire, please.” It was smoother, richer, and a lot more expensive.

  “Snob.”

  “Hey, I like what I like.”

  He snorted. “Now, forget 10b,” Kev said, setting a mug of hot tea in front of me and taking a seat. “Spill. I want to hear all about your date.”

  I groaned. That night’s date made Mr. Toe Sucker look downright normal. “Nothing to tell. He’s a crazy person.” I took a sip of my tea. I was more of a coffee girl, but I’d come to appreciate tea.

  “Really?” He perked up. “Do tell.”

  “Let’s just say Neville is a little too up on his alien conspiracy theories.”

  “Aliens can be sexy. Have you seen the new Spock?”

  “You hate sci-fi.”

  “I love Zachary Quinto.”

  “Point taken. The fact is my date didn’t think he was an alien, just that everyone else is.”

  “Shame,” Kev said, taking a sip of tea. “I had hopes for this one.”

  “Yeah, me too, but what the heck, you know? Live and learn.”

  Kev shook his head sorrowfully. “We have got to work on your dating skills.”

  I snorted. “You think?” I stood up and grabbed my still-steaming mug. “I’ve got a Skype call with my cousin, Emma, then I gotta hit the hay. Meeting Chloe tomorrow.”

  “Sleep well, girl.” Kev waggled his eyebrows. “Dream naughty. I plan to.”

  I laughed all the way back to the World’s Smallest Bedroom. The room was barely wide enough to fit a twin bed and a wardrobe, both of which were pretty much smashed up against the single window opposite the door. To the right-hand side was a green and white striped curtain leading into the World’s Smallest Bathroom. Though I wasn’t complaining. Having your own bathroom in London was a luxury. Granted it was just a powder room: sink and toilet, both salmon pink. Showers required a trek down the hall, followed by a brawl with whichever guy was showering out of turn. We had a schedule for a reason, dammit.

  Against the wall opposite the powder room was a tiny desk with a rather wobbly task chair. I had gotten more bruises from banging my knees and shins on that desk, but at least I had one. Granted, I hadn’t done any writing in ages. Years, in fact. First I’d been too busy trying to make a living at a soul-sucking job back home in Portland, Oregon. Then I’d married Gavin and moved to London. Having a husband didn’t leave much time for creativity, especially when said husband had a tendency to make fun of a person’s dreams. And then there had been the heartbreak, followed by trying to put my life back together. One day. One day I’d write again.

  I sank down at my desk and set my tea to the side. I stared at my ancient laptop feeling, I don’t know, depressed? Irritated? I was getting tired of my own company and the same old same old of hanging with Kev or Chloe. Six months into singlehood, and the only big change I’d made was moving into my new flat. Well, and the dates, not that those counted for much. I was weary of the boring routine and the never ending bad-date frustration. I lived in London, for crying out loud. I needed to get involved in something. Anything.

  I flipped open my laptop, fired it up, and logged into Skype and called Emma. Her face popped up almost immediately.

  “Omigosh, hi, Kate!” She waved wildly as if somehow I wouldn’t be able to see her unless she did. Her wide hazel eyes danced with excitement.

  I laughed. “Hiya, Emma. How’s everything?”

  “Well,” she said, leaning back in her chair and twirling a long strand of chestnut brown hair. She was wearing one of her favorite pink cardigans loaded with lace and frills. Not my cup of tea, but she looked adorable. “There’s this totally cute guy in my chem class. He keeps staring at me.”

  “Has he asked you out?”

  “No.”

  “Have you asked him out?”

  She stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Oh, I could never do that.” She sounded aghast, and I supposed she was. Ever since her mother had handed her a copy of Pride and Prejudice, she’d been holding out for Mr. Darcy. No man was good enough. No matter how handsome or how into her he was, there was always something wrong with him.

  I ignored the little voice niggling at me that I was exactly the same. There was a vast difference between wearing the wrong jeans with cowboy boots and wanting to suck someone’s toes.

  We chatted for about half an hour before she had to get ready for work. “I’m so jealous you get to live in England,” Emma said with a sigh.

  “You should come visit me.”

  She grinned. “Maybe I will. If I ever finish my degree.”

  After signing off, I had an idea. I pulled up my search engine. You could find anything on the internet these days. Why not find myself a life?

  I typed “things to do in London” into the search bar. Naturally about half a billion options popped up. I scrolled through them as I sipped my tea. Something called “Groupmeet” caught my eye. Hundreds of groups for every sort of interest imaginable, from winetasting to basket weaving to comic book reinactors. Like-minded people meeting up all over London to explore whatever they were into. What was I into?

  The menu listed several options. I selected dance. I’d always loved to dance. Before I knew it, I was signing up for one of the Groupmeet groups and agreeing to meet on Thursday
evening for a lesson in forró. I had no idea what that was, but it sounded interesting.

  Shutting off my laptop, I turned out the light and slipped into bed. Staring at the ceiling, I let myself fantasize about Mr. Cheekbones for a moment, as I’d done every night since I’d met Adam. Those eyes that sparkled with mischief. The dimple beside that delicious mouth. The way his short hair had the tiniest hint of curl. My fingers itched to play with the silky strands.

  What if we’d had a chance to talk longer? What if I hadn’t been such a chicken? He’d ask for my number. We would text after I got off the Tube. Eventually he’d ask me out and...

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Kate,” I muttered, giving my pillow an angry punch. “What would a man like that want with a woman like you? He’s way out of your league.”

  I rolled over, determined not to think about Adam any more. I couldn’t help it if a pair of gorgeous green eyes

  followed me into sleep.

  THE ICEBOX CHILL OF Milk & Bean was a welcome relief from the afternoon heat as I pushed past the huge queue and made my way toward the back of the cafe. Sophie was behind the counter as usual, her blonde hair up in a ponytail, the cotton-candy pink streak shining under the light from the crystal chandelier above the cash register. The Notting Hill coffee shop was crazy popular with the locals, especially on a Saturday afternoon. It was easy to see why. Not only was Milk & Bean’s coffee some of the best in the city, if not the country, the kitschy charm of the pastel 1940’s décor, coupled with the insanely delicious homemade cakes fresh out of the oven, made for a serious win-win. The upbeat sounds of swing and big band music never ceased to put a smile on my face. I loved big band and could spend all day and half the night listening to it. Milk & Bean was quite possibly my favorite place in all of Notting Hill.

  It was easy enough to spot Chloe even amidst the chaos. Her hot pink beret and orange and blue striped sundress were enough to make a person blind. Like me, Chloe was an American expat, though she had come to London for work, not a man. Smart girl. Still, her dating horror stories almost rivaled mine.