In Love with a Gentleman (16 page)

Then I go to Facebook and find the usual variety of posts and messages. My German roommates uploaded some party photos. I recognize our common living room. Marc is curled up on the couch with an unfamiliar beauty, waving a bottle of beer. A few people are dancing in the background, and I recognize Lisa among them. They seem to be having a ton of fun. I browse through more pictures of laughing, dancing people. All this is making me a little bit homesick; I seem to be missing out on a lot. It’s not exactly party central here in this English village’s small library. Maybe I should ask Catherine whether she wants to go dancing with me in London. But I’m reminded that Ethan’s into neither dancing nor demonstrations of wild exuberance. I need to put more effort into acting grown-up and sedate.

“Go ahead and dance, girl,” I whisper to Lisa’s photo. “Your pimple-faced dance partner can’t hold a candle to my Ethan.”

All at once I hear the familiar
ping
that someone wants to chat. An instant message appears at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen:
Hi, Lea! Nice to see you on here. You okay?

I freeze. Oh no! The message is from Jens. My fingers hover over the keys. Should I answer or quickly close the page? My mood softens on this gray, lonely day. I type,
Yeah, really good. And you?

He types,
:-( Guess why?

Now would be the time to break off communication, but before I know it, my fingers type,
No idea.

He types,
Ha-ha
, followed by a link. I click on it. It’s a picture of a couple on a punt on the River Cam. The boat and the weeping willows along the bank are reflected in the water, and the couple is kissing.

I write,
As if! Ha-ha! Keep dreaming.

Several links follow at lightning speed. Where is he getting all this? One leads to the Hohensyburg Casino home page. Another is a photo of a stretch limo at night; you can see the reflection of neon lights on its highly polished paint job. Another link goes to the Italian restaurant where we had our meal. Another shows a picture of bare feet. I smile. One leads to a
Wikipedia
article on St. Peter’s Church in Cambridge. He sends the message,
I will, too. And nobody can stop me.
Then he logs out of Facebook.

I sit and stare at the screen for a while. Although I didn’t really want to chat with him, I’m sorry he’s gone. For one moment I hadn’t felt so lonely on this long, gray day. It’s sweet that Jens collected so many links about us, and a shame we’re just not a match.

I shut the laptop and look at my watch. I’ve been here for several hours. Time to go home and change clothes. I’m visiting Alice this evening, and she’s expecting me in half an hour. On the way to Walnut Cottage, my growling stomach reminds me that I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch. When I unlock the door, Abby rushes in from the kitchen.

“Where were you for so long, love?” she asks me excitedly. “We were worried sick. Glen wanted to call the police.”

Glen, who is asleep in his armchair, lifts an eyelid now and smiles at me sleepily. Then he goes back to sleep. I really don’t believe Abby’s last statement, but nevertheless, she’s really stressed out. She’s literally wringing her hands. “Imagine if something terrible were to happen to you—what would your parents say?”

Oh man! This is getting to be a little too much for me. When I was in Lancaster, I partied till the wee hours of the morning. And one night during my semester in Turkey, a drunken local grabbed me on my way home from the disco near the river. I hit him so hard he fell flat on the back of his head, much to the amusement of his drinking buddies. Meanwhile here in this sleepy town, my landlady worries about me because I’m not home by seven o’clock in the evening.

“Abby,” I say patiently, “you forget that I’m old enough to look after myself. If you had actually called the police, they would have burst out laughing.”

But Abby looks at me worriedly. “I like to know when to expect you home, then I wouldn’t have to panic.”

I don’t reply and go up to my room. I put on a nice skirt and blouse and comb my hair. When I go back downstairs, Abby comes out of the living room. “Are you going out again? Glen, she’s going out again. It’s already quite dark,” she frets.

Glen mumbles, “Bye, dear. Have a nice evening.”

I quickly close the front door. Through the single-pane windows, I hear Abby scolding her husband. What would she say if she knew I was going out to inspect my new accommodations?

The streets of Gatingstone are completely deserted. Everyone’s at home, probably watching TV. You can see the bluish light flickering through the curtains. The church bell rings in the middle of the dreamy silence, and a car occasionally passes by. The smell of cabbage and roasts hangs in the air, which makes my stomach growl again. I know the way to Weaver’s Mews quite well. I used to pass the entrance to the little residential street when I walked from the Seafields’ house to school. It is lined on both sides with cute little houses that are new but tastefully emulate the village’s older style. I quickly find Alice’s house—it’s the second one on the right. Climbing roses twine themselves around a small arbor, and I read a porcelain sign with the words “Rose Cottage” in an ornate font in the inviting light of the door lamp. I press a shiny brass button and hear a melodious bell and high heels clicking on the floor to the front door.

Alice opens the door. She is wearing a flowing dress with a pink floral pattern that deftly conceals her curves. It’s a bit like my Laura Ashley dress from Cambridge.

“Good evening, Lea,” she welcomes me. “How nice of you to come! Come in quickly, and hang your coat on the coatrack.” She smells of very expensive perfume—
probably from her shop in London
, I think.

Alice leads me from the entrance hall to the living room. It’s not big, but it’s very tastefully decorated. It’s the living room of a single woman with discriminating taste. The wall-to-wall carpet is a soft green, which complements a casual pink and green floral sofa and two armchairs. The fabric matches the carpet perfectly. Silver picture frames and candlesticks sit on two low end tables made of some sort of precious wood. Beautiful engravings hang on the wall—landscape scenes, probably of Essex County. In a corner of the room is a round table with a spotless white tablecloth. It’s already set with dishes and cutlery.

“I’ve prepared us a little something for dinner. I hope you haven’t eaten yet,” Alice says graciously, and returns from the kitchen with a fragrant quiche. My mouth waters as she serves us each a piece and pours Bordeaux into tall wineglasses. I take in the scene, wide-eyed with amazement. What a contrast this is to the Lanes’ tiny, swelteringly hot living room with its booming television. Everything here is quiet and peaceful, tasteful, and comfortable. The scene is reflected in the large lattice windows, which most likely look out on the garden. Baroque music from a CD plays lightly in the background. It sounds like Vivaldi.

Without thinking, I say, “You have no TV at all.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Alice says. “I just keep it upstairs in my small office. A television’s pretty ugly, don’t you think? It would totally spoil the nice atmosphere in here.”

I know how that goes.

“Unfortunately, Maura isn’t here this evening,” she says. “It would have been nice if you two could have met.”

“Oh, she moved out already?”

“Pretty much. She has a boyfriend who’s moving back to Ireland with her. Oh, what can I say?” Alice sighs. “He’s a terrible guy. Maura has completely changed since she hooked up with him. She used to be such a nice girl, neat, polite, and friendly. Since she’s been with Ron, she’s like a different person. She’s sullen and moody, and she leaves a mess when she makes jam sandwiches. The other day the whole stairway banister was sticky with jam. I asked her to clean it up, but after three days she still hadn’t done it, so I wiped it up myself. Honestly, I’m glad that she’s moving out now. I would have given her notice, anyway.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say courteously. In my heart of hearts, though, I know this development is to my advantage. If the upstairs is as nice as this, I’m moving in as soon as possible.

For dessert, Alice serves a big portion of vanilla ice cream with raspberry coulis, whipped cream, and meringue cookies crumbled on top. “This is naughty but devilishly tasty,” she says, and winks at me. I think,
So much for eating like a bird. A bird’s stomach would explode after this!

After dinner, I follow Alice upstairs. She shows me the room where Maura lives—for a little while longer, anyway. Everything is predominantly blue-gray: carpet, furniture, curtains. It’s lovely. The bathroom is also blue-gray. Unfortunately, there’s no shower, but I’m gradually becoming more accustomed to English bathrooms.

“This would be your bathroom,” Alice says. “Mine is here across the hall, next to my bedroom.” She shows me her bedroom, decorated in dusty pink and pale green, and her spacious private bathroom with its sunny-yellow tiles. “So, what do you think?” she asks.

I exhale joyfully. “It’s beautiful! I can easily imagine living here.”

Alice opens the door to her office, which has a low leather couch, a TV, and a desk. “Good,” she says. “Come sit down, and I’ll get us a little champagne. We’ll toast to your becoming my new tenant. I’m thrilled!”

When Alice comes back with two glasses and a bottle, she says, “So, what’s your story?”

I furrow my brow. “I don’t understand.”

“I mean, do you have a boyfriend, maybe back home in Germany?”

I blush. “Not really, but there is someone . . .”

“Here in England?”

Damn it, she’s interrogating me like the Lanes. It’s a bit irritating, but I don’t want to destroy the good mood. “There’s someone I’m potentially seeing. It could become more serious.”

“How nice,” Alice says. “I didn’t want to pry. After all, it’s none of my business.”
Exactly
,
I think,
thank you
. She continues, “I just want to clarify something in advance. You need to know that I won’t tolerate any gentlemen callers. I’m a single woman and have to watch out for my reputation. On our street, people are usually discreet, but I don’t want to provide any fodder for the village gossip mill.”

I nod, although I’m secretly disappointed. Now that my romance with Ethan is heating up, a pretty blue-gray bedroom would be perfect.

Alice looks at me sternly. “And that holds for when I’m in London and you are here alone. On account of my business, you’ll be alone here quite a lot. Generally, the house is at your disposal, but if you want to invite a girlfriend for lunch, you have to prepare for it yourself.”

“Sounds good. I look forward to the peace and quiet. I’ll definitely be able to study better here than at the Lanes’. Do you have Wi-Fi?”

“Yes, of course,” Alice says. “I’ll write the password down for you. It’s Rosealice.”

I lean back into the soft, tufted sofa and take a sip of the champagne.
What a lucky girl I am
, I think. I take this as a sign that better times are ahead. After about an hour—and another glass of champagne, which makes me a little dizzy—I take to the dark streets of Gatingstone, thinking about the best way to convey the news to the Lanes. It won’t be easy.

The next morning, I decide not to waste any time. Better to make it short and sweet and take the old folks by surprise rather than turn it into a long, drawn-out affair.

I wait till we sit down for a lunch of cold chicken and salad at the camping table. Glen has put in his false teeth for the meal and looks a bit more dignified and not so sunken and defenseless. It feels fitting, given the gravity of the moment. After we finish the meal, I dab my mouth with a napkin and take a sip of water. I clear my throat before I say, “Once again, an incredibly delicious meal, Abby. Thank you!”

“I’m so pleased you liked it, love,” she says.

“It’s just unfortunate that soon I won’t be able to enjoy your wonderful cooking,” I say.

“Oh, that’s not for a while yet,” she says. “I’ll get to whip up many good meals for you before your safe return to your parents next summer.”

“I’m afraid not,” I say, my heart pounding. I feel terrible. “I’m moving out in two weeks.”

Abby freezes on the spot, completely stunned. She drops her cutlery onto her plate with a loud clatter. “Did you hear what she said, Glen?” she finally blurts out.

Glen leans forward, holding a hand behind his right ear, and says, “Eh?”

“She’s moving out,” Abby says.

“Eh?” he says again.

“She’s moving out!”

Glen gazes at me, obviously confused. “Why do you want to move out, dear?”

“I found new accommodations here in the village. They’re less expensive,” I say.

Abby gazes at me in desperation. “But . . . but . . . You can’t just move out. What are we going to do, then?”

“You can search for a new tenant,” I suggest.

Suddenly, something unexpected happens. Abby becomes furious. “Search for a new tenant? How can you say that? It isn’t that easy! It’s impossible to find someone that quickly. It can take months and months! And what should we live on in the meantime?”

Glen reaches out to her, trying to calm her down, but she pushes his hand away irritably. “So this is the thanks we get for all the trouble that you’ve put us through. Do we really deserve to be treated like this?”

I’m beginning to get fed up with this. Ethan was absolutely right when he said that the old couple interfered too much in my life. Our relationship should have been a strictly professional one between renter and landlord, but they obviously have come to consider me a kind of substitute daughter.

“You’ve taken advantage of us,” Abby cries. “Yes, indeed! You’ve practically eaten us out of house and home. There wasn’t anything about feeding you lunch in the rental agreement. Your behavior is typically German. A nice English girl would never have the audacity!”

Abby’s unexpected anger upsets me. I stand up, stare them down, and say coolly, “I always paid my rent on time and in full. For this reason alone, I would have expected to be treated with respect. Even under the current circumstances, I don’t see why it should be any different. I see that I’m no longer wanted here, so I’ll move out immediately and relieve you of my presence.”