In Love with a Gentleman (7 page)

Catherine pushes her hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand. “True. Come on. Let’s finish up so that we can sit with the others.”

We work silently. I don’t toss any more crêpes into the air. The cat watches us longingly but in vain. Anne goes back and forth between the kitchen and living room to pick up and serve crêpes.

“They’re fantastic,” she says. “Our compliments to the chefs.”

After half an hour, we’ve used up all the batter. Catherine and I prepare the last few crêpes for ourselves and go into the living room.

The diners greet us with applause. “They were delicious, tasty, so good,” everyone says.

“Thank you,” Catherine says politely.

“Unfortunately, we’re one short,” a voice pipes up from the sofa. “The cat ate it.”

Irritated, I look in that direction and see Ethan. I begin a witty retort by saying something like, “Wrong! We made it for him, of course,” but I realize that Ethan’s not smiling. He looks almost stern.
Hello
,
I think,
is he serious? What’s up with that
? I consider apologizing, but I bite my tongue. The hell with that! The whole episode was hilarious, and I find myself fighting the urge to giggle—especially when I think of the cat!

I cheerfully plop myself down on the narrow couch next to Catherine. We savor the crêpes while all around us everybody’s laughing and chatting. I concentrate on my food. Anne is right. These really are the best crêpes I’ve ever eaten. The warm, sugary dough practically melts in my mouth. I close my eyes and taste a hint of cognac. The floral note is very subtle and delicate. The cherry jam goes well with the buttery taste of the crêpes. Mmm. I’m almost delirious.

I open my eyes. Everyone is happily chatting, but only one person is silent—Ethan. His eyes rest on my face, questioning and pensive. I quickly lower my gaze and stare at my plate. Crap!
He’s been watching me devour my crêpes. How embarrassing! He probably thinks that I’m some kind of bulimic with a crêpe fetish. My first impulse is to quickly finish up my crêpes. But something inside me rebels. Why should I spoil my own enjoyment for him? What do I care what this guy thinks? So I continue to savor my crêpes. I refuse to look in his direction but focus on my plate instead.

Catherine whispers to me, “Ethan’s been staring at you this whole time, Lea.”

“Probably because he thinks I’m crazy,” I say. “
Mysterium tremendum et fascinans
.”

Catherine thinks the comment is hysterical and laughs. I laugh along with her, but my heart’s not in it. I don’t want to admit it, but I feel myself falling for Ethan. He really is my dream guy, tall and broad shouldered with dark hair and eyes. This dream guy is the reason poor Jens from Hohensyburg didn’t have a chance with me from the outset. Ethan curls his lips in a way that makes him look so serious, and he doesn’t laugh when others do. He’s mysterious, a bit secretive, and irresistible. Just a few days ago I loudly proclaimed how much I liked being single—and now this! Crap, crap, crap!

Let it go, Lea
, a warning voice in my head tells me.
Falling in love will just make your life more complicated and exhausting—that’s not what you want
. But I feel like an invisible vortex is dragging my soul in the direction of the elegant, quiet guy sitting at the end of the sofa. I try not to look at him so I won’t get carried away altogether, but it’s useless. It feels like there are only two people in the entire room: Ethan and me.

The evening marches on. The red wine is not very good, but I still drink more than I should. I’ll definitely end up with a hangover tomorrow. My cheeks redden, and I feel wild and free. I’m naturally outgoing, but when I drink too much, I become even more extroverted and exuberant. I’ve been told I’m the life of the party. I do look at life in a quirky way, and my vivaciousness tends to thaw others out. I can feel that happening now, and it would be an even better party if quiet, elusive Ethan wasn’t there, sitting at the end of the couch. Ethan. He reminds me of the cat waiting for more crêpes to fall down from the ceiling. Although I’m in a good mood, he vexes me.

A little later, I find myself getting tired and leap to my feet. “It’s late. I need to go home,” I say to Catherine. I have no idea whether it’s really late or not. I’ve lost all sense of time.

But Catherine agrees. She looks at her watch and nods. “Oh, yes. You’re right. It’s time to head out.”

“Are you going to take the bus?” Anne asks us. “I don’t like that idea. It’s too late, someone might harass you.”

Ha
, I think,
if you only knew, Anne!
I’m already feeling immensely harassed here in your living room
. Ethan’s presence makes me think incessantly about him and nothing else.

“I’ll drive you home,” Anne says, but Ethan interrupts her in a calm, authoritative voice.

“That’s out of the question, Anne,” he says. “You’ve had too much to drink. I’ve only had water all evening. If someone’s going to take the girls home, it definitely should be me.”

Oh great! He doesn’t even ask us. And he called us “the girls” as if we are still babies.
How old is he, anyway
? I think with irritation. Did someone say twenty-seven? He’s only four years older than I am. And, although he appears to be rather sophisticated, he doesn’t look particularly old. On the contrary, he looks lanky and youthful. This guy is kind of driving me crazy.

Ethan stands up and holds out his hand to Catherine, helping her to her feet. I feel a hot attack of jealousy. I have the urge to sit down again so that Ethan can help me up, too. That, however, would definitely be beneath my dignity. Instead, I hold my head high and say my good-byes. Although I drank a little too much, I don’t think anybody notices.

In the hallway, I find my coat and swing it over my shoulders. It suddenly feels very light—somebody is holding it.

“Allow me,” Ethan says. “It’s too cold out there for you to not put it on properly.”

I hold my arms out like a doll, and Ethan helps me put on my coat. His hands rest on my shoulders for a second, and I feel electric shocks shooting through my body.
Crap
, I think for the hundredth time this evening.
You are in trouble, Lea! You’ve fallen head over heels for this guy
. My knees tremble as I follow Ethan and Catherine to a car parked in front of the townhouse. Anne and the other guests wave from the doorway. “Good night!” they say. “Thank you for the crêpes!”

Catherine and I sit down in the backseat, and Ethan revs up the motor and drives off. After the lively chatter at the party, it seems too quiet in the car.

Catherine asks me softly, “When do you have to be at school Monday morning?”

I whisper back, “Ten o’clock.”

“You’re lucky!” she replies. “You can sleep in.”

“Yes, but I have a longer trip to school than you do,” I say. “I have to leave the house at least half an hour before class starts.”

“But that’ll change soon; your new landlords are coming back from their vacation. They live in the village, which is closer.”

“Yes, I move there next week,” I say.

We fall silent again. I think about my upcoming change in accommodations. I really like staying with the Seafields, and I would prefer to spend the whole year there, but it’s not an option. The house only has one bathroom, and there always seems to be a bottleneck there. And their relatives can’t visit with me in the guest room. Besides, there’s always some petty, or occasionally significant, dispute between mother and daughter. Linda is enormously stubborn, and puberty seems to have made it worse. I find it embarrassing to witness their arguments over makeup, clothes, and boys. I think it makes Melissa uncomfortable, too.

The silence in the car is almost oppressive. Catherine is too shy to make conversation with our charming driver. But it feels rude not to at least try.

I clear my throat and say, “What a nice evening. I think it was so great that Anne invited everybody.”

Ethan says, “Do you?”

“Of course! It’d be a shame to pass by your fellow teachers on a daily basis and never get to know them.”

“Mmm,” Ethan says. “How can anyone really get to know somebody well in just one evening? I think such gatherings are rather pointless.”

Well, that’s pretty revealing. Apparently, he isn’t even a tiny bit curious about us—or me. Catherine gathers her courage and says, “But it’s so nice when people cook and eat something delicious together.”

Ethan doesn’t say anything. I think he’s being pretty darned rude for not at least complimenting us on our delicious crêpes. Evidently, Ethan’s not big on social niceties. We fall into silence once again. I mull over the events of the evening. When I think about the crêpe landing right in front of the cat’s nose and her stunned face, I can’t help it—I start to giggle uncontrollably.

Catherine glances at me and smiles.

I say, “Kitty!”

Then Catherine starts to laugh, too.

Ethan doesn’t laugh with us. His dark eyes are watching us in the rearview mirror. Maybe he’s worried that we’re so tipsy, he’ll have to carry us out of the car. Maybe he thinks we’re going to vomit in the backseat. Who knows?

We reach Catherine’s place first. She thanks him politely and wishes us both good night, then disappears into the house.

Being alone with Ethan makes me nervous. It’s oppressively silent in the car. I’d like to learn more about him. I’d like to ask a thousand questions. Who are you, really? Why are you suddenly so important to me? Why is it that my heart beats so loudly in your presence that I’m sure you must be able to hear it? And—most importantly—do you feel it, too? Do you notice the electricity between us?

Instead, I stay mute and look out the window. He pulls in front of Powlands Farm and waits a moment. I do, too. Who’s going to say something first? Surprisingly, he does.

“It seems to me that you have a very joyful spirit,” Ethan says.

I’m stunned. Of all the things that I expected him to say, that was the least likely of all. My mind is spinning. Why did he say that? What’s he implying—that I’m some sort of ridiculous silly goose? Does he find me repulsive? Is he criticizing me? Do I have to be somebody else to please him? I think,
Yes, I’m a joyful spirit, and I’m not ashamed of it.

“That’s right,” I say.

Ethan frowns. “Unusual.”

Then he gets out, opens the door for me, sits back behind the wheel, and drives off.

“Unusual.” What does he mean by that? Criticism? Admiration? What does this imply? I enter the house and sneak on tiptoes to my room. It’s very late, and everyone is asleep.

I lie in bed and think,
Lea, why are you losing sleep over this? You’re attracted to someone who thinks you’re “unusual.” The comment was perfectly straightforward. Who would be attracted to someone who’s unusual? It was clearly a put-down. Forget about this guy, relax, and go to sleep.

I fall asleep, but I can’t stop thinking about Ethan.

Chapter 4

In the days after the party, my thoughts continue to revolve around Ethan even though I barely see him at all. During breaks, I casually stroll in the direction of the main teachers’ lounge, hoping to run into him. One time before class starts, he runs past me, a stack of books under his arm. He nods at me coolly and hurries by. It makes me introspective. Apparently, Ethan’s not crazy about unusual girls. Next time I see him, I’ll have to be careful not to come off as so unusual. What’s the alternative? Usual? Despite my frustration, I smile.

My stay at the Seafields’ is coming to an end. I’m moving to my new hosts’ house over the weekend. The Lanes live just a stone’s throw away from the school. I’ve checked out my new home a few times after school. It’s a small, old stone house located directly on the main road that runs through Gatingstone. A tiny front yard is overshadowed by a huge walnut tree, and a sign next to the front door proudly announces that the little house is called Walnut Cottage. As I gaze at the simple structure, I wonder what it’s like inside, beyond the windows. It’s just the type of house that I liked to draw as a child: a door in the middle of the façade; three floors, each with a window to the right and left of the door, with two more windows on the top floor. Nothing more, nothing less.

On Sunday morning, I say good-bye to the Seafields, and Melissa drives my suitcases and me to Walnut Cottage. Because I’ll still be in the area, there are no tearful farewells. Melissa assures me that I can drop by anytime, and they would love to have me over for Sunday dinner. It’s comforting to know that this family has become so close to my heart. I think they feel the same way; otherwise Melissa wouldn’t have been so insistent on inviting me back.

I ring the doorbell, and the door opens. An elderly couple greets me warmly and invites me into the living room. Mrs. Lane is tall and stout with dyed dark hair, a deep voice, and large glasses that give her an owl-like appearance. She has big white teeth (also false, I think!), which she flashes amiably at me. Mr. Lane is humpbacked and at least a head shorter than his wife. His hair is thinning, and he has a mustache, which was undoubtedly very dashing back in the day. He is not wearing dentures, and his mouth is small and wrinkled. They introduce themselves as Abby and Glen. Glen hastens to drag my bags upstairs to my room, while Abby settles me down onto the sofa. She scurries away in her plush fur slippers to make me “a nice cup of tea.”

Ah yes, “a nice cup of tea.” To the English, a cup of tea is sacred. When arriving at someone’s home, a visitor is immediately—and I mean immediately—offered a cup of tea. To refuse is unthinkable and the biggest gaffe you can make. It’s as if you declined to shake hands in Germany. I’m no big fan of tea, but I’ve poured so much of it down my throat since my arrival in England that I’ve had to forgo my habit of sweetening it with sugar. Otherwise, I’m sure I’d have put on weight.

Abby seems to have no problem with that. She throws three sugar cubes in her cup while she examines me with friendly curiosity. She asks me about everything: my family, my studies, the journey here, school, my boyfriends and female friends, and so on and so forth. Glen comes back downstairs and, sighing, settles deeply into a plush armchair. He stretches his legs onto an ottoman and picks up his cup of tea. While we talk, my eyes glide across the room. The wallpaper clashes loudly with the carpet—sunflowers on the wall and a paisley pattern on the floor. Ouch. A gas fireplace dominates the room, its blue flames dancing merrily. It’s hot as hell in here.

Glen and Abby talk extensively about their vacation in Holiday Village in Bournemouth, from which they’ve recovered very nicely. They shared a house with a friendly couple, Ada and Oz, and Oz had a terrible cough. They are very happy to be away from Oz’s constant and extremely irritating hacking. Abby demonstrates how his cough sounded. Pretty bad. Oddly enough, Abby tells me, “Oz didn’t cough when his wife left the room, only when she was present.” Isn’t that weird? What was that all about? Speaking of coughing, Glen cheerfully lights a cigarette and begins to smoke like a chimney.
Wait
,
I want to scream,
I’m definitely a nonsmoker. I can’t stand tobacco smoke
! But I don’t say anything. I can hardly forbid people from smoking in their own living room. Abby reaches for the pack and slips out a cigarette, too.

There’s only one thing I can do: escape to my room. I drink my tea quickly and ask Abby where I’ll be sleeping.

“I’ll take you up, love,” Abby says. Love. She’s only known me for half an hour. I have a lot to get used to.

Huffing and puffing, Abby leads me upstairs. “Here’s our bedroom,” she says, pointing to the door on the right. “And here’s the bathroom.”

I look inside. The bathroom has carpet. Carpet in the bathroom—I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. There’s a toilet, a small sink, and a bathtub.

I ask timidly, “You don’t have a shower?”

Abby stares at me as though I’m a Martian. She frowns. “A shower? No. We only bathe once a week.” Then she remembers something. “If you want to take a shower, you can use this.”

She bends over in front of the cabinet underneath the sink and pulls out a hose with a rubber cap, which fits over the bathtub faucet. At the other end is a nozzle that looks like the arm of a watering can.
Oh dear
! I sigh. I can see some interesting, and possibly tough, times are coming my way.

Then Abby tells me the house has no central heating. “In winter, we stay in the living room and the kitchen. Glen turns on the oil here in the morning.” She knocks on a device that’s faintly reminiscent of a radiator. “Then it gets good and hot here in the bathroom.”

With a quivering heart, I follow her into my bedroom. In the middle of the room is a high double bed, covered with a bedspread made of 100 percent polyester. It has ruffled edges with a hideous print of pink roses. There are nightstands on either side of the bed, a chair, and a chest of drawers.

I think back longingly to the Seafields’ spacious and tastefully decorated guest room. But I don’t want to offend the large, good-natured woman. “Nice. I think I’ll be very comfortable here,” I say listlessly.

Abby gives me a big, grateful smile and tells me that supper is at six o’clock. She disappears back downstairs.

I sit on the polyester bedding and look around desperately. How did I end up here? What do I do now? Should I look for a new room tomorrow? Suddenly, for the first time since my arrival in Gatingstone, a profound homesickness assails me.

Although I don’t like my accommodations at all, I keep busy unpacking my suitcases until supper time. I stow my clothes away in the dresser and stack all my reading for the exam on it. On one of the bedside tables, I place my small electronic travel alarm clock. At night it lulls me to sleep with its regular, soft ticking. I really don’t want to hurt the old couple’s feelings, so I’ll have to act as if I want to stay here. I wrap myself up in my warmest sweater because it’s icy cold in the room. I can see my breath when I exhale. By the time Abby calls out that supper’s ready, I’m already deeply engrossed in one of my books.

I set aside my book and hurry down the creaky stairs. I push open the doors to the dining room on the left, but the room is deserted, with only a bare, dark wooden table with four chairs and a small cupboard. The chairs are pushed under the table, and the table is empty. The electric fireplace is cold, as is the entire room. Did I hear her correctly? Did I come down too soon? Was it someone calling from the street?

I tap gently on the living room door.

Abby opens it, beaming at me. “Come on in! And for God’s sake, you better take that warm sweater off. You’re going to burn up in here.”

It’s true. The room is stifling hot. Positioned in front of the TV is a small camping table with three folding chairs. Glen is sitting in one of the chairs, carving a chicken.

Abby says apologetically, “You see, we try to make the living room nice and cozy during the cold season. Come, sit here.” She pulls a folding chair out, inviting me to sit. “I’ll just get the salad from the kitchen.”

I plop down and think for the thousandth time today,
Help! How in the world did I end up here?

Glen adds to his wife’s explanation. “In the summer, we use the dining room. But the electric fireplace in the dining room eats up so much electricity it’s like watching money burn. It’s damned expensive, dear.”

Aha
, I think. So that’s how it is. I’m the guest of a couple of misers. I’ve never seen anything like it. Fortunately, the food isn’t so miserly. I’m amazed at how delicious everything tastes. Apparently, Abby is very passionate about her cooking.

After dinner, I help Abby clean off the table, and in a flash, Glen folds up the camping furniture and pushes it against the wall behind the sofa. Then he sits down happily in his chair, a pack of cigarettes in one hand and the remote control in the other.

While Abby rattles around in the kitchen, Glen turns on the TV full blast and lights up another smoke. I sit down in the other chair, wondering how long I’ll be able to endure the noise and the smoke. Upstairs, my icy, lonely room awaits me.

Abby pokes her head in from the kitchen and yells, “I hope it’s not too loud, love, but Glen’s a bit hard of hearing! Used to be too loud for me, too, but eventually I got used to it!”

It’s earsplitting, but I shake my head.
I can’t move in as a paying guest and completely disrupt their household routines
,
I think.

Abby soon joins us. They are deeply involved in a daily soap opera called
Crossroads
or something like that. Apparently this is the season premiere after the summer break.

Abby is completely entranced. She greets the appearance of each actor as if he’s a long-lost, much-beloved relative.

“Look!” she says to Glen. “That’s Benny. Oh, he’s my absolute favorite. And look, he hasn’t changed a bit. Or do you think he’s gained a little weight? And there’s Mary—cute as ever. What do you think? Will she marry Jake? Hopefully not. He’s really not right for her. They’ll be divorced within a year, just you wait and see!”

Although my eyes are tearing up from the tobacco smoke and my ears are ringing from the loud television volume, I find the elderly couple quite amusing, so I hang out with them until the program ends. Then I stretch and tell them that I need to go to bed.

Abby is appalled. “You can’t just go to sleep,” she says. “You have to have a nice hot drink!” A hot drink before bed is another one of their customs at Walnut Cottage. She springs to her feet. “I’ll make some coffee for all of us.”

“Oh no, please, not for me,” I beg. “If I drink coffee at this hour, I’ll be awake all night.” It seems normal enough, but Abby looks at me as if I’m crazy.

“Did you hear that, Glen? She can’t sleep when she drinks coffee. Isn’t that something? I’ve never heard of that.” She’s completely oblivious. “What are we going to do with you? You absolutely must have your hot drink.”

I surrender, saying, “Maybe some hot cocoa?”

Abby radiates happiness. “Of course! Cocoa! Why didn’t I think of that myself? Sit down, love, and I’ll make you a nice cup of hot cocoa.”

And so I sit back on the sofa again, sipping my good night cocoa. Abby offers me homemade cookies, so I try one. They’re delicious—crunchy and buttery, with a hint of ginger.

Glen dunks his cookie into his coffee and glances at me somewhat sheepishly, as if he’s done something naughty.

Instantly, Abby says sternly, “You can’t dunk your cookies. What will Lea think?”

“That they’re dunking cookies,” he says mischievously. “You have to dunk them.”

I smile. Aha. Without his dentures, he can’t eat these cookies. “It’s okay,” I say, dipping my cookie in the cocoa, too, which makes it taste even better. Glen winks at me conspiratorially. Abby continues to protest, but it’s only for show, as evidenced by her indulgent smile. By the end of the night, I’m no longer homesick. I have a feeling that I’ll stick with this old couple till the end.

But what about my bed? Oh my! I’m no princess from “The Princess and the Pea,” but this monstrosity they call a bed is another thing entirely. It’s soft and squishy like a ripe plum, with hard, unyielding bedsprings that poke up between the soft spots. Half asleep, I figure I must decide between sleeping on the soft spots or the bedsprings. But most of the time I land somewhere in between, and each time I roll over onto a bedspring, I feel as if I’ve been punched.

In the morning, I limp downstairs like an old rheumatic woman. Nothing escapes Abby’s sharp eyes. She asks if I’m in pain, and I consider telling her the truth. I don’t want to offend her, but sometimes honesty is the best policy. I confess that the problem is the mattress. Glen and Abby exchange knowing glances but say nothing. Two days later, I have a new mattress. Apparently, they were already aware of the problem. I’m really touched that they remedied the situation so quickly, especially since their finances are so obviously tight.

Although I don’t want to keep griping about the bedroom situation, I have good reason to. The room is unheated—there’s no radiator—and winters here in Essex County are just as cold as they are in Germany.

One afternoon, Glen knocks on my bedroom door. “I have to seal the window, dear,” he says. In one hand, he is holding a roll of paper towels, and in the other a small knife. While I watch him in fascination, he begins to plug the gaps between the panes of glass and the metal frame with the paper towels. Apparently, he’s done this before.

“Glen,” I say, “does this means that I can’t air out the room the whole winter?”

He scratches his head and looks at me thoughtfully. “You don’t need to. It’s cold enough already.”

That’s quite revealing. The fact is, my room gets colder and colder every day. The bed is made English style, which means there are two sheets, one covering the mattress and one underneath a wool blanket. Then everything is completely tucked under the mattress. When I was still back home in Bielefeld, I had a hunch about all this. I decided to bring my own down sleeping bag, but my mother vetoed the idea, saying, “You can’t do that, Lea. It will offend your hosts.” I can’t believe I was stupid enough to listen to her. While my mother is at home, snuggled under her down comforter with the central heating on, I’m freezing to death as I try to fall asleep.