Falling in Love With English Boys (28 page)

Now you tell me; what was I supposed to say to that? Huh? “No prob,” sez I. Then exactly what I
shouldn’t
have said, for my peace of mind, anyway, came tripping merrily out of my mouth. “She’s really pretty.”

“Yeah. She is.”

Oh,
stop
me, someone! “You’ve been together a long time.”

“Three years.”

Three years.
Three years
. Like he was ever going to jeopardize three years of
bella
Bella for a couple of weeks with me. No wonder he likes that Helen of Troy poem. He’s got his very own personal Helen. Because she is, ya know, much as I hate to admit it. Beautiful, careless, confident enough to ask for what she wants and to expect to get it.

Me? I think Adam the Scum once wrote me into one of his god-awful rap songs. In the first line, he described me as “my itch.” The next one rhymed. He thought it was flattering.

I made another deliberate, deliberately weak grab for the gift bag.

“Uh-uh.” Will shook his head. His hair still smells like ginger ale. “Come on, then. See the rest.”

The rest, I gotta say, was a little like upstairs at Tiffany. Silver, silver, china, and more china. But with the silver and china is some stuff you don’t see over breakfast.

“The sword Wellington carried at Waterloo,” Will informed me. Unnecessarily. I can read the display cards. I figured it would be too snarky of me to mention that. “And Napoleon’s.” Shore ’nuff.

I thought of Charles Percival and wondered if he’d been at Waterloo. He’d certainly been in Belgium at the time. Katherine’s diary was about the spring of 1815. The Battle of Waterloo, the display card told me, was June 18, 1815.

I haven’t gotten back to the diary. After Mary’s über-depressing (not to mention rhyming)
Abandoned Bride
, I needed something less incredibly heavy. The new Sarah Dessen, this seems a good time to mention, is really good.

As we wandered, I read some of the info on Waterloo. One card made me stop and reread. “Is this right?”

Will leaned in. “I’m sure it is.”

“No way. Twenty-two
thousand
soldiers died? In one
day
?”

“Or were wounded. And it’s closer to fifty if you count both sides.”

I looked at the lists of the regiments. Foot Guard, 70% of the company lost that day. Dragoons, 45% percent lost that day. 61% lost. 93 . . .

As it turns out, it all happened in about twelve hours. A crazy, furious twelve-hour battle that ended a long, ugly war. Go read about it.
www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/empire_seapower
. I don’t feel like writing down details. They’re too sad. Or gross. Or both.

I really didn’t feel like looking at more plates. “Let’s go,” I begged after about half an hour. I even tugged at Will’s arm. I needed out.

“It’s really not that big a deal.” He thought I was going for the bag again. I let him.

We wandered into the Park. I didn’t care that the last time I was there was the fateful Bella fiasco. It’s a big place. It’s an amazing place. I was sad and hungry and tired of everything. I flumped down on the first bench that was free of tourists, nannies, or pigeons. Will sat next to me and stretched out his long long legs. He was either wearing the same jeans as the day we went to Notting Hill, or he has more than one pair with those soft creases at the tops of his thighs.

His mobile rang. He ignored it.

“Here.” He handed me the bag. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a little plastic model of a satellite (see pic below; isn’t it wonderful?). “You told me, at the caff that day, that you wanted your own satellite. So . . .”

You can’t really see it in the picture, but there’s a little blue button under the wing-y, mirror-y thing. When you press it, a voice says “Aim for the Stars!”

I started crying. Yeah, again.

Over the silly, wonderful present.

Over the fact that he
remembered
the satellite thang.

Over the lost chance that he might be Mr. Maybe.

Over Charles and Nicholas and all the young guys who died in that stupid war.

Over any war.

After a minute, Will got up and walked away.
Great
, I thought as I tried to snorfle my way to calm.
Typical. Is there one guy out there who doesn’t go all skittery at the sight of tears?

And then he was back.

He sat down and handed me a bunch of paper napkins. My English Kleenex. “Thanks,” I hiccuped, and blew my nose.

“Not at all. You carry on with what you’re doing.”

Actually, it didn’t take long. He waited until I was down to a hiccup-snuffle every ten seconds or so. Then he bumped me with his elbow. “I can take the satellite back, you know.”

That got him a watery giggle. “It’s not the satellite. I love the satellite. It’s brilliant. It’s . . .”

What? The fact that, my luck with men (and I am including Prince William, Orlando Bloom, Philly tossers with silver shoes, and even ones to whom I am related) is something less than stellar? That at this rate, the only guys I’ll be able to actually
comprehend
are the ones behind the counter at the video store? The ones with Doritos crumbs in their wispy little beards. Eww. But hey, we’ll be able to talk
Lost
,
Lord of the Rings
(me: movie, them: books, but I assume that’s like Portuguese-Portuguese versus Brazilian—enough commonalities for comprehension) and the current incarnation of Doctor Who. And it will almost make sense.

I contemplated an idiot-smack to my forehead, but didn’t wanna look any more insane to Will than I already did.

“It’s this war thing. All these guys our age dying. It gets to me,” I finished. Lame-o but true.

“Sure. I—” His mobile went again. He ignored it again. “Try to look at it this way. Napoleon was trying to swallow Europe whole. Without Waterloo, we couldn’t possibly be friends. I would speak French with a bloody snooty accent, would wear ridiculous hats, and wouldn’t even
consider
eating one of these.
Que Dieu m’en préserve!”

I hadn’t noticed the carry box at his side. The napkins made sense. I accepted a hot dog. There were even fries. My dream picnic it was not, but I’m not complaining. I did have a momentary silent grumble over the absence of ketchup. Vinegar just ain’t the same. Still, you can’t have everything. I just wish he didn’t sound so
très très bon
speaking French.

“I know how you feel, about the war thing.” He tossed a french fry to a hopeful-looking pigeon. Almost immediately, there were ten more. Of course, being English Hyde Park pigeons (think of them as the dirty doves they are), they were almost polite, refraining from clawing and flapping over our feet. Had they been Philly pigeons, they would have been on our heads by then. “No matter how it ends, it ends badly for most everyone involved.”

One pigeon edged forward. It was noisily chastised by the others and crept back, clearly ashamed of itself.

Will polished off his hot dog and eyed mine. I bared my teeth. He laughed. This time, when his phone trilled, he pulled it out of his pocket. “Sorry. It’s Bella.” Like I wouldn’t have guessed. At least he didn’t answer it. He even turned it off. What a guy. “So, what’s next on the agenda,
mademoiselle
?”

“Bond Street?” I said hopefully. Dirty doves got nuthin’ on me. My shopping jones is edging back. Hallelujah.

“Not a chance. I thought we could catch a play at the Royal, but then it occurred to me: What’s a place Katherine visited when compared to the place she lived? I promised Mum I would drive you and yours down for the weekend.” I turned all my attention to the delicious, fascinating, rapidly congealing hot dog. Will leaned over to look into my (no doubt blotchy) face. “You are coming, aren’t you? To Percy’s Vale?”

Nope. No way. Not if the London sewers burst their pipes and carry off bella Bella in a flood of disfiguring muck.
“Sure,” I heard slip out of my mouth. “I’m coming.”

“Good.” He reached out a hand toward my face. It hovered near my cheek. “Um, Cat?”

“Yes?”
Yes. Absolutely. Go right ahead.

“You have mustard. There.”

“Oh. Right. Absolutely. Go ahead.”

He wiped it off, then flopped back against the bench and tossed another fry to his adoring flock. It was gone in a momentary flurry of beaks and feathers.

I had a thought, O my friends, while I sat there next to him. A thought about boys. A good one is kinda like a hot dog dropped in Rittenhouse Square. We are the pigeons.

We have received a letter from Charles, at last! How quickly it arrived, just five days after its dispatch.

Brussels, June 11

My Dearest Family,

How odd it might seem for me to be here, waiting for battle, and having nothing to write of save pleasures. I cannot even speculate as to when I might be called to action, or called home. Everything we hear is rumour; we know not what is fact until after it occurs. There is rumour that the enemy is as near as Cambrai. Perhaps they are not so close, yet perhaps they are closer. Each day we wait for news that we are to move. I am restless. There will certainly be a battle, either here in Belgium, or nearby in France. The wait is interminable.

You will be happy to hear, Kitty, that we are not lacking for marvelous entertainment. There is much more talk of social balls than cannonballs among our ranks. Why, not three nights past, I attended a most lavish ball given by Sir Charles Stuart. It was all very lively and very English. Even the Belgian ladies in attendance sported much British decoration. Sir Charles is a single fellow, disposed to be sociable and much inclined to do things on a grand scale. I daresay he is a career Diplomat in the making, destined to a life of politics and luxury in foreign climes. If he were but a few years younger, and I did not so despise the idea of you living abroad, Kitty, he might do for you. As it is, he filled his house with the best and brightest of the city. There was a splendid feast upstairs, dancing down. Wellington himself was there, kitted out with gold embroidery and all the trappings of a general.

Yesterday, a group of us rode into the countryside, where we availed ourselves of the hospitality of a Monsieur Legrand and his family. He is a wealthy merchant who has made himself a fortune in carpets and lace. I shall try to send some back for you. His wife and daughters treated us as if we were royalty. I must say, women here are as charming and cultured as any I have met, and quite lovely, but I shall always prefer a good English rose. We had far too much roast and beer and rolled and groaned our way back to our billet. I confess I have developed a notable fondness for Belgian beer and chocolates.

As soon as I have reliable news as to the Regiment’s movements, I shall write again. Until such time, be assured that I am merry and well fed and entertained.

Yours ever,
Charles

He seems cheerful enough. I do not care for his certainty that there will be a battle, and soon. I shall have to hope for the best, that the French shall be stopped before they get any closer. It has happened before; Napoleon has been defeated. I can think of no reason it will not be the same now. Perhaps he is already so, the enemy all surrendered. I shall eagerly await the newspaper this afternoon and tomorrow morning. Perhaps I shall even encourage Mama to invite Nicholas for supper. He receives word from sources we do not possess and might know what even the newspapers do not.

Yes, I believe I shall go and suggest it now.

August 5

Falling Slowly

Tweets.

catTcat:
Will drives like maniac. Land Rovers wobble on curves. English country roads not good 4 girl w/inner-ear issues. Darkness does not help.

catTcat
: Between (s)mother and ride (didja know that means hottie-object-of-desire over here?), didn’t get going till after dinner.

catTcat:
Listened to Beatles whole way down, 2+ hours in wobbly car. Only thing Will, (s)mother, & I could agree on. Used 2 luv John.

catTcat:
Will sings. Not well but with enthusiasm. Shoot me, plz—(s)mother sang with him. Used 2 luv “8 Days a Week.”

catTcat:
Will brakes for anything in road. Am composing my obit in my head. “Bloved friend. Gr8 taste in shoes&shades; fatal at luv.”

catTcat:
Question for peanut gallery: Where does nausea become noble suffering become martyrdom?

I’m practicing Twittering for the future: no London, no love, no need for long blog entries, right? It’s kinda like the haikus Mr. Djanikian had us writing, only it doesn’t have to be poetic. Just 140 characters or less.