London from My Windows (25 page)

“Take them off,” she said, reaching for her foils. “Take them off.”

“What's the matter?” Georgie asked. “Are you having a panic attack?”

“More wine?” Franco said.

Ava snatched Franco's vitamin water out of his hands and drank the rest of it down.

“That was rude,” Franco said. “I'm only half-hydrated.”

“Rude is pretending to be my friend. Rude is making me go bald.”

“Bald?” Georgie said.

“What are you doing to me?” Ava said. Georgie and Franco put their hands up, as if surrendering. “I thought you two liked me.”

“Of course we like you,” Franco said. “Why else would we be here?”

“Hillary,” Ava said. “And don't you even think of lying about it.”

Georgie sighed. “You don't want to cross her.”

“So she did send you,” Ava said.

“We have minds of our own. Your hair is going to be fabulous. But yes. She suggested we do a little reconnaissance.”

“And she helped us get the gig at the club. The club that's only two little blocks away.”

“Why is she doing this? She's the one who dumped him,” Ava said.

“Jealousy makes the heart grow fonder,” Georgie said.

“What is the deal with you and Jasper?” Franco asked.

Ava didn't have to speak. Her face did it for her.

“Oh my God,” Georgie said. “You're in love.” Franco clapped. Georgie swatted his hands away.

“We won't tell her,” Franco said. “We're on Team Ava.”

Team Ava. She'd never had a team before.

“We'll tell her you have a mad crush on Jasper, but he flat out rejected you,” Georgie said.

“We'll tell her Jasper is still madly in love with her. That will turn her off.”

“Tell her Jasper is going to quit his job as a barrister to become a stand-up comedian,” Ava said.

“No,” Franco said. “It has to be believable. Can you imagine?”

“Is there any possibility that you're a lesbian?” Georgie said. “We could go with that one too.”

“Especially if we butch up her hair,” Franco said.

“You are not butching up my hair,” Ava said. Georgie began removing foils. “Right?” Ava said. “Right?”

“How about this? We won't butch up your hair if you promise to at least try and make it to the club on Friday. You can take a taxi if you wish.”

“Of course,” Ava said. Georgie and Franco cheered.
Idiots.
There wasn't a chance in hell she was going to their club. Georgie continued with her hair, Ava drank the rest of the wine, and Franco pulled out a flyer for their club and stuck it on the fridge with a magnet that read: Upstage Me at Your Own Risk.

CHAPTER 26

Ava stared in the mirror long after Team Ava had left. She stood, naked and alone. Her hair was cut in long layers, angled in toward her face. Streaks of dark red made her eyes look darker, almost green. She still recognized herself, but it was like staring at an alter ego. Bad Ava. Sexy Ava. Daring Ava. “The possibilities,” she whispered. She tried on a black silk nightgown of Beverly's. There was no doubt it had been dry-cleaned and never worn again; the tag was still on and plastic was still over it. The woman certainly did dress young. She only kept it on for a few seconds before slipping on sweatpants and a T-shirt. She picked up her sketch pad and headed for her emerald stool. She sat and stared out the window. It was foggy again today. She hadn't seen Deven outside his place in a while. She hoped he was okay. Vic was going to eat him alive. Yet he wanted her to, didn't he? Would a peaceful world ever exist? Where you didn't have to worry about crime, or prejudice, or lovers who just wanted to bulldoze you? Probably not. It was too bad the good people couldn't win out. She had met plenty of good people in London. Some strange ones too. Like everywhere, she supposed. But how was she to know? Ava had been so few places. She concentrated on sketching the scenery. It was too foggy to see the details of any particular person. She started with the London Eye. God, she couldn't imagine why on earth people would want to ride that thing. Then again, was it much different from looking out these windows? Ava imagined what it would feel like if her flat were rotating.
Oh, God.
Yes, it was much different. Nauseating. She'd might as well call it: The-London-Eye-Will-Never-Ride-You.

“You were quite a hit with my friends,” Queenie said. Ava jumped, then turned around. Queenie stood dressed in his black ball gown from the party but wig gone, makeup smeared underneath his eyes, yet he was the one who gasped. “Georgie.” His hands did cartwheels. “Georgie did your hair.”

“What do you think?”

“You look like a different person.”

“I know.”

“You look incredible.”

“Thank you.” She wasn't going to mention that she had Hillary to thank. And that she couldn't wait for Jasper to see her.

“You should go clothes shopping. Or at least order something online.”

“Maybe.” Ava smiled and went back to sketching. Queenie dropped to the floor and began looking under every piece of furniture in the vicinity.

“What are you looking for?” Ava said.

“My lucky charm.”

Ava froze. She'd forgotten all about it. She had also forgotten to tell him. Tell him it was her. The new Ava told the truth. “I thought you said Jasper lost it?”

“But you gave it to him here, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And from the looks of you two, he probably didn't leave right away, so maybe he never actually made it out of the flat with it; maybe it's still here somewhere.” He looked toward the bedroom, then back at her with a grimace. He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. “Did you check? You know. Everywhere?”

“Can't you just buy another? Maybe on eBay?”

Queenie hauled himself up. He was sweating. He looked like her before one of her panic attacks. “I told you. You don't buy lucky charms. They have to be given to you.”

“Oh.”

“I can't stall the audition anymore. It's in two days. I won't get the part if I don't have my lucky charm.”

“Do you think someone from the party took it?” Ava said. She was a bad person. But they were getting along so well. The last thing she needed was Queenie blaming her for not getting a part on the telly.

“Georgie,” Queenie said. He gasped and put his hand over his heart.

“Why Georgie?”

“Because he's going to the same audition. He wants me to fail. Everyone knows I need my lucky charm.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“The only man I've ever loved.”

Even though drama was his middle name, there was a ring of truth to this statement.
Shit.
“You broke up?” Just Ava's luck. If Queenie still had the love of his life he probably wouldn't be staking claim to her flat.

“He passed away. Five years ago.”

“Oh.” Why did she take it outside in the first place? Didn't bring her much luck. Should she tell him it was totally useless? “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

“I'm still sorry.”

Queenie nodded, then picked up his robe and headed to the bathroom. Ava filled the espresso maker and put it on the stove. By the time Queenie returned she had a cup waiting for him. His eyes widened and he placed his hand on his heart. They took their espressos to the living room and sat looking out at London.

“I don't have anything of my father's,” Ava said. “ Just. A song.”

“A song is good.”

“ ‘The Girl from Ipanema.' ”

“Nice choice.”

“Except I've never listened to it since.”

“It's too painful?”

“He was playing it when he died. We were dancing to it.”

“I can think of worse ways to go.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“He was listening to his favorite song; he was dancing; he was with his beautiful daughter.”

Ava hadn't meant to bring it up. “He was too young. I was only ten. It ruined the rest of my life.”

“I'm sorry. Beverly was torn to pieces too.”

“Was she?”

“Yes. She loved Bertrand.”

“You talk about him as if you knew him.”

“I felt as if I did.” Just like Ava felt she knew Jasper, and Queenie. Love had tentacles. It reached.

“What did she have against my mother?”

Queenie looked away, then headed for the kitchen. Ava followed. She watched him put the kettle on and remove a teacup from the cupboard along with a bag of tea. The Brits were probably the only people in the world who could drink a cup of tea after a shot of espresso. “Well?”

“I don't want to troll through ancient history.”

“I do.”

“No.”

“It really hurt my father that Aunt Beverly didn't like my mother. And it really hurt me that she didn't try harder to be in my life.”

“What about her? She lost her only brother.”

“Lost him? To us? His family? To America?”

“Are you close to your mother?”

“I knew it. Aunt Beverly hated her because she's American.” That reminded Ava. Her mother had never returned her phone call. Didn't she want to know what Ava meant by
I know?
Maybe she was glad she was gone. Ava had been too much to handle. Ava's agoraphobia had ruined her mother's life too. She'd never thought of it like that. She'd been too selfish. She should insist her mother come for a visit while she still had the flat.

Queenie took his tea to the table and sat down. Ava followed him. “I think Beverly was most upset by the change in Bertrand after he married your mother.”

“Everybody changes when they get married.”

“Does she still worry about every little thing?”

“No. She was saved by country line dancing.”

“Beverly tried. You have no idea how much she tried.”

“Missing a few matinées? Is that it?”

Queenie slammed down his teaspoon. He jumped up and flew into the living room, where he opened a small cabinet next to the sofa. Ava had never paid any attention to it. He lifted out a box and shoved it at her. “I don't want to answer any more questions.” He took his tea, went back to the table, and turned his back on her. Ava sat on the sofa with the box.

She opened it. A pile of envelopes wrapped in a lavender ribbon greeted her. Cards. All marked: Return to Sender. Ava would have recognized the loopy script anywhere. Her mother was the one who had sent them back. Ava began to finger through them. The first ten were addressed to her, the next several her mother. Ava slammed the lid shut. What were these? Birthday cards, Christmas, valentines? Why would her mother do that to her? How dare she? What had Aunt Beverly done that had made her mother hate her so much? Ava didn't want to open them now. They were festering sores; they were glaring accusations. She knew it anyhow, deep down; she knew there had to have been letters, and cards, and postcards. She definitely wasn't going to read them in front of Queenie. Someday, she would read them. But only when she could savor them, read them without rage in her heart. Her mother was still alive. If she hated her, who would she have left? She put the box back in the cabinet and poured herself a Scotch. She'd buy more for Queenie later. And she'd get his lucky charm back one way or the other. Tricky Vic. How could she get her to give it back?

Ava heard Queenie answer the phone in the other room. His voice went from friendly to Swiss yodeling. “Now? The audition is now?” He flew out of the room, his face glistening with sweat. “They had a cancellation,” he said. “They want me to audition now.”

“Okay, okay. You can do this.”

“Not without my lucky charm.”

Ava went to the kitchen. There was a drawer that held string, and tape, and scissors. She gathered them up and turned to Queenie. He was right behind her with an inquisitive look. “Do you have anything else that belongs to your lover?”

“Not with me. Everything I own is in storage.”

“Okay. Okay. Tell me about him. What did he like?”

“Forget it. I'm not going to get the part.”

“Don't be so dramatic.”

“Don't be so agoraphobic.”

“I'm trying to help you.”

“You're saying I'm crazy for knowing what I know.”

“I'm telling you, you can get roles without your lucky charm.”

“You are hardly the person to be throwing stones. You aren't even in a glass house. You're in a glass palace.”

“That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“It wasn't.”

Ava dug around the bookshelves. She opened the drawer of the end table next to the sofa. On her third attempt, she found an American fifty-cent piece. Her father must have sent this to Beverly once upon a time. It was approximately the same shape and size as Queenie's lucky charm; it would probably even have the same weight against his skin. Ava taped it around the string. “Close your eyes.” Ava slipped it around his neck. Queenie gasped and his hand went for it.

“No touching, no looking. It's your lucky charm.”

Queenie opened one eye and looked at her. “Is it?”

“Repeat after me. ‘It's my lucky charm.' ”

“If it works so well, why don't you just make yourself one?”

“Because I'm not at the lucky charm level.”

“I have to get dressed.” Queenie flung open the closet and pulled out a suit. He held it against him.

“Dapper,” Ava said. She never saw anyone change so fast. When he was ready, he stood in front of her. The new lucky charm was hidden underneath his white shirt and bow tie. He touched it. “It's your lucky charm,” Ava said. “It is.” Queenie nodded and headed for the door. “Queenie?” He turned around. “What if?”

“What if?”

“Your lucky charm didn't bring you luck, but you brought the luck to it.”

“How so?”

“It sat against your skin, soaked up your unstoppable energy, and carried all that love you had for . . .”

“Alfred.”

“Alfred. You brought the luck. Maybe you lost it because it was time you passed it on to someone else. You know. Like blowing a kiss.”

Queenie cocked his head and considered it. Then he considered her. “I guess I'm off to test your theory.”

“Good luck.”

Queenie squeaked. His hands flapped. Ava didn't know if this was some sort of ritual or he was literally trying to fly. “You never, ever say that to an actor.”

“Sorry. Break a leg.”

He exhaled. “Better.” He pulled himself together, flung open the door, and slammed it on his way out. Ava ached a little after he was gone. Could this be it? Would he get the part, become a television star, and give up the fight for this flat? He'd still be friends with her, wouldn't he? Come for a visit? She put the kettle on for tea. She went to the window, and it hit her. She put the kettle on as a reflex to comfort herself. She smiled. Maybe she was becoming a little bit British. She sat on her emerald stool and watched Queenie walk up the street with a bounce in his step. And then, he stopped. He turned. And he looked up at Ava and he waved. She waved back. When he walked away again, she felt like she had just won the lottery. He was going to his audition without his crutch. And he looked up, and he waved. She made that possible.

She liked him. She liked him underfoot. She liked his blue silk kimono, and red scarf strung over a chair, or a door, or a sofa. It was like the middle-aged gay man's version of
Where's Waldo?,
UK-style. She liked the shuffling sound his slippers made in the morning; she liked how he flapped his hands when he got excited; she liked when he had a pep in his step. She liked his vocalizations. Screams. Gasps. Squeals. He was walking drama. Lucky charm her arse. She hoped her tips helped. The fate of the flat aside, she really wanted Queenie to get the role. She could see why Aunt Beverly loved him. Once you got past the bite, he was all bark. He was an excellent chef too. If only this flat were larger. Maybe they could have split it indefinitely. Then again, maybe there was nothing he loved about her. It would probably be an unimaginable drag for anyone, let alone a queen, to have a roomie who never left the room.