Falling in Love With English Boys (14 page)

Three hours, countless Black Smoke Monster encounters, and one huge bowl of popcorn later, we staggered out of her room so I could get home. Elizabeth was all about coming all the way back with me on the Tube. Good friend. But I flashed the twenty-pound note the (s)mother had given me. Cab fare.

In the end, Elizabeth had to tend to Sarah, who was having a makeup disaster and had locked herself in the bathroom. Mr. Sadiq walked me out to the corner and waited with me. It was a busy street, even at nearly eleven: people coming home from late work or play, a handful of kids still not in bed, people my age going in whatever direction while they texted on their mobiles.

I wanted to say something.
Sorry about all the invasion stuff.
How could I possibly?

Suddenly, from a distance, I heard a long, musical call, rising and falling. It was a single male voice, singing words I couldn’t understand, but they made me feel sad somehow. Heads turned; men picked up their pace, intent on reaching some nearby destination. A taxi pulled up in front of me, and Mr. Sadiq ushered me in.

“What is that?” I asked. “It’s amazing.”

“It is the
azan
, the call to prayer. I must heed it.”

I thanked him quickly for dinner.

“You are welcome, Catherine Vernon.” He shut the taxi door and said through the open window. “You are always welcome.”

I could still hear the
azan
as we turned several corners and zipped away from the Sadiqs.

The driver had no chin and was wearing a Manchester United jersey. “Hate that bloody racket,” he informed me.

He had something twangy and clearly American blaring on the radio.

Had I had any idea whatsoever where I was, I would have told him exactly what I thought of Manchester United football club. Instead, I just stiffed him on the tip.

July 12

Stronger,
Part Deux

I woke up way too early (read: 10 a.m.) to e-mail from Kelly. (Thanks for the Adam update; I am certain that tomorrow I will be tickled fuchsia about the french fry debacle.) And one from my dad.

To: Me

From: Him

Subject: London Birthday Visit

(
Crap, I think. I really gotta pick a restaurant. Like today.)

It was a real scorcher here today. 95 on ice. Went to the Phillies game with most important client. Thought I was going to melt. They did, in the seventh. Lost to the Mets 5-2. Client was not impressed. He’s from Milwaukee. I’m giving up the seats after this season.

(That’s what? The twelfth year in a row he’s said that? Like he’s ever going to give up third row, third-base line.)

I bet it’s a heck of a lot cooler where you are.

(Honestly, Dad. The weather??)

Which makes me even sorrier that I won’t be able to come for your birthday.

(
I mean, I know we don’t have the sort of deep, highly intellectual discussions you and the STBS have, like about Chardonnay and Labradoodles and whether glass tile works with oak . . . Wait. What???)

Samantha feels terrible about it, but she completely misread dates and arranged critical meetings with Realtors and caterers. I can’t leave her alone for them, or I’ll find myself living in the boonies—not to mention eating boiled twigs and flaxseed cake at my wedding.

You understand, Kitty Cat. We’ll do something special when you get back, just the three of us.

Samantha sends smoochies.

Love, Dad

I
don’t
understand. Should I? Is that the sort of thing I usually understand? Dad seems to think so.

I must have made a noise. A loud one. Mom came in. She managed to catch my laptop before it slid off the bed and onto the puke green carpeting in Professor Fungus’s second bedroom.

“Oh, Cat. I’m so sorry.” She knew. She already knew. “He e-mailed me, too.”

“I’ll live, Ma.”

“Oh, Cat.” And she climbed onto the bed next to me and kinda (s)mothered me for a while. It was the right thing to do. Then she left and went to buy me a Dairy Milk bar. It was the right thing to do.

I’ll say this for Mom. She never bad-mouths my dad in front of me. Never has. Not on those Fridays when I sat next to the front door with my overnight bag—waiting and waiting until the phone rang and she would silently put my sleeping bag back in the hall closet and make me mac n’ cheese for dinner. Not when he gave me a doll for my thirteenth birthday. Not even when he wouldn’t pay his share of my TPS tuition for a year because he didn’t like the new head of school. I’m not supposed to know about that. GM told me when she’d had a third mochaccino once and he forgot to pick me up from her house. She gets kinda feisty when under the influence of excessive caffeine.

So when Mom called Dad that one word we never expect to hear come out of our mothers’ mouths (especially considering the fact that, when you consider moms, dads, and what he-did-to-she-to-make-we, it’s a perfectly reasonable name to call ’em), it was kind of a shock.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on the phone call either. But Mom is GM’s daughter. She’s pretty fierce (and loud) when someone does me wrong.

The (one-sided) convo went something like:

Yes, Samantha, I know exactly what time it is in Philadelphia. And since we share such impressive grasps of clocks, I assume we also share a knowledge of calendars. However, I don’t really feel like discussing culpability with you. Culpability . . . C . . . U . . . L . . . Put Jon on the phone.

I closed my door. Most of the way. And got back in bed.

. . . this might be the lowest . . . Oh, you think? How about her third-grade Christmas pageant . . . first Wise Man . . . most of the weekends you were supposed to see her... ninth birthday? . . . only freshman to make drama club . . . couldn’t possibly have waited until the following week ? . . . Caterers? Caterers? You selfish bas—

You go, Ma.

I put on my headphones.

(Seex hours latairr)

Ladies, there is a Part Trois. Who’d’a thunk it? Clouds do occasionally have titanium lining.

3:50 p.m. After way too many hours doing absolutely nothing and a mere ten minutes from flipping the finger at the Fates and slumping out for an extra-large bag of Maltesers (I figured they’d give me a pass for the Dairy Milk, as I didn’t buy it):

Ding.

I’ve got mail. From Will.

I got all tingly. You know, that kinda breathless, giddy feeling you got for the very first time when you unstuck the big construction-paper-heart envelope from the side of your desk in third grade and saw that your crush (Aidan Williams) had given you a Valentine? It didn’t matter that it was one of those punch-out ones with a Transformer on it. Or that the girl next to you (Alex) had one, too. He’d signed it. In green crayon.

That’s how I felt when I saw will [email protected]. No delayed gratification here. No hesitation. I clicko pronto.

Subject: History, Dude

I hear your social calendar suddenly has an opening.

(
Do I hate my mother? Don’t think I can. Not today. Not even knowing she talked to Will behind my back. Again.
)

So, I’ve been thinking of you lately, Catherine
(yay! yay! yay me! I squeal inwardly),
and the Katherine of years gone by. I think you need to tread in her footsteps.

(
Oh. Okay. Maybe, thinks moi, he means dancing. Betcha he knows the good clubs. I could try to get Elizabeth to lend me that silver peace shirt. I think she would. And maybe hit Boots for some shimmery eye stuff . . .)

So I’m issuing you a challenge. Find ten places she mentions in the diary, ten places that still exist in London today, and I’ll take you there. Think of it as my birthday gift to you, an excursion into the past. There was a London before Harry Potter and Stella McCartney. -W

Okay. Not dancing after all. But Will. Will who’s willing to take me puh-laces. Ten of ’em. Count ’em. Ten. There’s gotta be one, I figure, where I can wear a killer silver peace tee. Might have to rethink the eye shadow . . .

There is a new girl in Town. Her name is Julia Northrop.
She is not pretty. She resembles a ginger cat who has eaten a lemon. She behaves like a ginger cat who has eaten a lemon. She was positively beastly to Winnie Stuart at the Ecclestons’ tonight, hissing and spitting. Miss Stuart certainly did not mean to spill Miss Northrop’s punch all over her dress, but she does have the unfortunate habit of speaking with her hands.

Yes, the dress was white, and yes, the punch was rather pink, but there still was no call for Miss Northrop to use the words “clumsy cow” or “ham-fisted bluestocking.” Such unhappy accidents are the stuff of lively parties.

Mr. Eccleston, charming and eager, was there in a moment, offering sympathy and the use of a retiring room. In fact, he had been with us just before the Incident, as had Misters Davison, Tallisker, and McCoy, offering various foodstuffs. They, however, had trotted off in search of sweets, leaving us. They would not have heard Miss Northrup’s nasty words. They would only have seen her distress. In the wake of their return, they guided her away, shushing and patting her wrists, and being as foolishly helpless as most young men are.

So off went catty Miss Northrop with her swains. Luisa and I remained with Winnie. As always, Luisa was perfectly kind, insisting it was a sorry mishap (quite true), Miss Northrop is a shameless harpy (true as well), and an epic poem such as
Lord of the Isles
must certainly, by its very nature, encourage dramatic commentary (perhaps not entirely truthful, but kind and convincing and well aimed). Winnie brightened considerably and said to us:

“I should not have minded at all, really—I
am
, after all, bookish and clumsy—had I not heard her speaking a half hour past with Mr. Baker on the very subject of poetry. I had, of course, thought her to be interested, but now I begin to wonder if perhaps she is truly interested in Mr. Baker, and not in poetry at all.”

Winnie is a good sort of girl, but perhaps not the quickest. Although sometimes her insights are sharp as brass tacks.

“I suppose Miss Northrop does not have to be kind,” she finished with a sigh. “She is rich.”

She is. According to the Misses Quinn, Miss Northrop has ten thousand pounds now, and will almost certainly have that again upon the death of her grandmother. She does not have to be kind. She does not have to be pretty. She does not have to be friends with the other girls in her circle. She is rich. She will be courted by some men, no matter how ill she behaves. And Miss Northrop is not stupid. On the contrary, she is very clever.

As Mama says, One may hide cruel. One may even hide a certain amount of madness. One can never hide stupidity.

The men are flocking to her. I suppose they cannot be blamed for thinking she is a far more pleasant creature than she is. She shows them only her agreeable side. And as Luisa says, if women often consider money when weighing the appeal of a gentleman, shouldn’t gentlemen, who are far less influenced by their hearts, be allowed to do the same?

If I were more generous of spirit, perhaps I would agree. As it is, I am merely reminded of Lord Chilham’s odiousness. He does not care a whit for my character; I see it clearly in his eyes. But I am pretty and I am possessed of a decent fortune. And in that lies enough for him.

I am not mistaken. I wish I could be.

I wish, too, that I could be mistaken in Papa’s intent. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am being silly and stupid, seeing things that are not there. Perhaps he does not think it would be a good match (oh, how could
anyone
but Chilham think it a good match!). Yes, certainly silly.

I do not wish to think of Chilham, not when tonight’s party brought such a joyous moment. I have lived and relived it, almost teasing myself into thinking it was not real, that even to write it down would make it not so.

I danced with
Thomas. That, of course, is not
The Moment
, but it was the beginning. He sought me out not ten minutes after my arrival, and claimed the country dance. How lovely to hold his hand and to have him smile each time we were reunited in the set. As we walked onto the dance floor, he whispered into my ear: