London from My Windows (28 page)

CHAPTER 29

Ava's habits were deeply entrenched. She had probably already made grooves in her brain, little trenches of action-fear responses. Could she visualize herself out of this mess? Was there any hope? There had to be. Ava had to get through this. She had to conquer the list. Not just to stick it to Hillary—oh, that was icing on the cake—but the real reason was . . . she wanted to live. Really live. Maybe if Ava continued to force herself to experience the fear, it would gradually decrease. Or maybe she would die. But she would die trying. Jasper wanted to be with her either way. Did she really want to drag him into such a small life? No, he deserved the whole world. And so did she.

She went to Beverly's closet, pulled out another dress. A tight purple one. The color of royalty, perfect for this new Londoner. Ava was going to make a bold move. It was Friday. Jasper had a rehearsal for his show, so she wouldn't be seeing him tonight. She planned on making it to one of his performances, but she had to practice going out first. She didn't want to ruin his show by passing out at it. Franco and Georgie said they were performing just down the street. She had the flyer in her clutch. A couple of blocks. Surely she could make it a couple of blocks. She'd already mapped out the directions. They were right. Pretty much a straight shot. She was, after all, in the heart of London. What a waste, staying inside. This was the day. No matter what the consequences, she would go. She would stand for at least thirty seconds on a dance floor. She wouldn't involve Jasper. Not yet. It would be delicious to surprise him. If she did it once, she could do it again. It would be easy enough to get proof that she'd been there. She'd pick up a book of matches at the bar or have someone take her photo.

For a second she wanted to call Vic. Ava had liked a few things about her. She wished Vic had been nicer. Ava liked Deven too. The three of them could be going to the club together. But Vic had a mean streak, and she might even have Queenie's lucky charm. Ava had seen the look in her eye when she heard that Ava might inherit this flat. The girl was trouble and Ava was going to listen to her instincts. One thing was clear. Ava wasn't alone; everyone in the world had his or her own set of problems. Right now, tonight, she was just going to be a girl out on the town in London on a Friday night. That wasn't fear in her stomach; it was excitement. Fake it until you make it. Even Ben Franklin knew he couldn't guarantee happiness, he could only grant rights to the pursuit.

Ava was dressed. She had her little black clutch, a hundred pounds, her oyster card, and Aunt Beverly's dark red lipstick, which Ava had applied liberally. It matched the streaks in her hair. Did she look Goth? Was that still even a thing? She'd missed out on so many fads, only watching them on television or reading about them in the gossip rags. Now she was going to be a doer. Maybe someone would make fun of her in an article for a change. How lucky would that be? She looked in the mirror. With the hair and the outfit, she looked like someone else. She grabbed the keys—
keys, keys, keys, keys, keys
—and was out the door. She locked the door. She didn't hesitate on the landing, and every time a thought came into her head she countered it.
I am just a girl out on the town, in London.

She flew down the steps. She opened the front door. She stood on the stoop. When her heart began pounding she told it to hush. She was not Ava. She was not trapped. She headed down the steps. The light was on her side; it was signaling her to cross. She crossed. She was on the other side. She'd made it this far before; this was where she had slammed into Deven. She wanted to look back, feast her eyes on the apartment building, but she knew she must not. She kept her eyes on the sidewalk, terrified that vertigo would hit, make her feel as if the streets of London were flipping upside down. But she didn't like just looking at the sidewalk, so she cast her eyes about a foot up, so that she could see the knees of most passersby. It was a warm summer evening, and she was walking the streets of London. If only someone she knew could see her now. She kept going, forward, forward, forward. She wasn't Ava; she was someone else, an actress playing a role. What would her stage name be?
Sydney? Sydney Wilder? Savage. Savage Wilder.
That sounded ridiculous. And kind of cool.
Vanessa. Vanessa Wilder. Ava Keyes. Stop it! Married to Jasper, what a thought.
Nothing that wonderful could ever happen to her.

Stop thinking about the things Ava would be thinking about. Tonight, she was Beatrice. That's right. Something between Bertrand and Beverly. Why not Beatrice? Did they call her Bea? She was off with her little black clutch and all she wanted to do was stand in the middle of a dance floor. The little colored dots appeared. “No,” she said out loud. “No, no, no.” She began to jog. People moved out of her way; knees darted left and right as she approached. “No, no, no,” she continued to say. Sweat was running down her face, but all joggers sweated, didn't they?
Oh, you don't normally see a girl jogging in a dress and kitten heels; well, screw you, it's a new trend. A new Goth, athletic, Septic-abroad trend.

She had to find the club. Straight shot, they said it was a straight shot. The crowd was thickening, along with the noise, and the lights. Headlights, theater signs, business lights.
Go back, Ava. Go back
.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no.
Bea would not turn back. Even though she felt the sweat dripping down the back of her neck. She stumbled, then was forced to look up when a pair of knees dressed in a gray suit stopped directly in front of her.

“Watch where you're going,” he said.

“Sod off,” Ava said. He swore, but moved out of the way and kept going. She laughed. She had just told a Brit to sod off. She'd even used a bit of a British accent. That was fun. She saw it, on the corner. The club. A bouncer sat on a stool just outside the door, checking IDs. She hoped that was all he was checking. If you needed a ticket, or a wristband, or a secret passcode, she would be out of luck. Ava joined the line. She had made this entire trip without raising her eyes past knee level. But it was working. Between convincing herself she was someone else and blocking out most of her view, she was doing it. And even though she hadn't left bread crumbs, she had pretty much stayed on a straight path since crossing the street from her flat. She should be able to get home. Soon she was standing directly next to the massive bouncer.

“ID,” he said. Ava dug in her purse. She didn't bring ID. How could she when she wasn't herself? She never went anywhere, so she never even thought about ID. Keys. She brought her keys. She showed him her keys. He didn't seem to care.

“I'm a lot older than twenty-one,” she said. She tried to get past him. She had to get inside. His arm shot out and she ran straight into it. It was like slamming into a lead pipe. He was all muscle. Apparently he was in the right job.

“ID.”

“I'm twenty-nine.”

“ID.”

“My name is Ava—no, Beatrice. No. Bea.”

“You don't even know your own name? Maybe you should carry some ID.”

Wiseass. “I left it at the hotel.” Might as well pretend to be a tourist all the way.

“Sorry, luv. I can't let you enter without ID.”

“What if I don't drink?”

“You must have ID to enter whether you drink or don't drink.”

“I've come so far.”

“America?”

So much for her convincing accent. “No. Agoraphobia.”

“I'm sorry, luv. Next.”

“I'm on Canadian television.”

“Off with you.”

Poor Canada. It appeared that nobody cared about their telly. “I'm doing a social experiment.”

“Bugger off. Or I'll call the coppers.”

The colored dots were impossible to ignore. She was going to pass out. “Help me,” Ava said. He sighed. She was annoying him now. But she couldn't turn back. Not after all this. “I'm going to have a panic attack,” she told him. “Right here. Right now.” She looked at the ground. Should she just get down now? It wasn't fainting itself that was the problem; it was smashing her head into the concrete.

“Step aside.”

“Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.” Her voice rose with each plea. She was making a scene in London. She gasped for breath as dizziness washed over her.

“Christ,” the bouncer said. “Go on with you.” Did he mean in or out? She stumbled forward. He grabbed her arm and shoved her off to the side.

She slid down the side of the building and sat on the ground. Her breath was constricting; it felt like someone's fist was in her lungs, squeezing the life out of them. She needed a paper bag. What an idiot, she didn't think to bring one. She was never going to beat this, never.

A beautiful blonde was flirting with the bouncer. After a few seconds, he allowed her to go in. Without showing her ID. “Next.”

Ava pulled herself up, and lurched in front of the bouncer again. “Hey!” the girl who was next in line yelled. “No shoving your way in, you wanker!” Ava ignored her, and turned on the bouncer. “You just let that blond bitch go in without ID,” she said. She hadn't meant to say
bitch;
it just poured out of her hot mouth.

“I know her,” the bouncer mumbled. He was lying. Ava could tell. She'd sketched enough criminals to know a liar when she saw one. His jaw tightened and he looked away.

“You did not.”

“Come back with ID or go someplace else.”

“Why? I'm not enough for you? Not tall enough, not pretty enough—I didn't put my hand on your shoulder?”

“Listen—”

“No, you listen.” The sweat was pouring off Ava now. She was sure she probably looked like she had just walked out of a sauna. For all she knew, mahogany streaks were running down her face. The bouncer pulled his head back as far as he could, as if he didn't want to be too close to her. It hurt her feelings, but not enough to stop her. “My father is dead. My aunt is dead. They're British. I'm an agoraphobic and I came to stand on the dance floor for thirty fucking seconds and you're going to let me pass.”

“Oy, you have a mouth on you, you do, do you?” Ava didn't know how to respond. There were too many rhetorical questions stuffed into one sentence.

“Ava!” The voice rang out. Ava turned to find Franco and Georgie dressed in drag, barreling toward her. Everyone looked up when Franco passed; he was just too gorgeous not to stare. The bouncer actually turned red when Franco put his arm around him.

“She's with you, then, is she?”

“Team Ava!” Ava cried. She glared at the bouncer.
I have a team, you wanker
.

“She's our Ava,” Franco said. Before she quite knew what was happening Franco had practically lifted her around the middle and was carrying her into the club. They went down a flight of stairs into a cellar-like entrance. Inside it was the kind of dark Ava liked. Bat dark. The kind of dark where you could just make out shapes, enough to know that there were other people and things in there with you, but blurry enough that you couldn't see every dirty detail.

“Darling, show is on at ten, but you can sit at the bar,” Franco said. Sit at the bar. By herself. At a club in London on a Friday night. The only thing worse was the thought of having to make it back home.

“I can't think,” Ava said. “I need a drink.”

“Won't people think you're violating your social experiment?” Georgie said.

“Did anybody even believe the social experiment?” Ava asked.

Franco and Georgie shook their heads no. “I believed it for about five seconds,” Franco said. “I thought, ‘Girl, I can't sit still for five seconds.' You're in London! If you were in Manchester, I'd highly recommend locking yourself in, round the clock, but London? Nnnn-mmm. You'll just have to find another social experiment.”

“We know plenty of specimens if you're ever in short supply,” Georgie said. They laughed.

“Off we go, then,” Franco said. He kissed Ava on one cheek and then the other. “Dancing and nibbles later?”

Tears came to Ava's eyes. “Dancing? Nibbles? Later? I never thought anyone would say those three little words to me ever.” Franco and Georgie engulfed her in a hug.

“Get used to it,” Franco said. “Team Ava.”

“This is the new you now.” They blew her kisses and were off. Ava took a deep breath and concentrated on the bartender. He was a young, good-looking boy. Ava was happy it was a gay club. Nobody was going to hit on her, or ask her for a date. She didn't have to worry about what she looked like. Given the looks of the crowd, she probably didn't even have to worry if she had a full-blown panic attack. They looked as if they could not only handle the drama but barely even notice it.

“What will it be, luv?” The bartender was talking to her. What was she supposed to order? Wine? Beer? She really wanted a cocktail.

“Xanax?” she said.

“I only serve drinks, luv.”

“Do you have a drink list?”

“What do you like?”

“Something strong, that doesn't taste strong.”

“That's how I like my men.” The bartender winked. Ava laughed. More people were filing in.
Don't look,
Ava told herself.
Just drink.
She must have given him enough to go on, for he simply whirled around, grabbed a couple of shakers, and went to town. His biceps bulged as he shook the drink. Was it normal to be attracted to a gay man? She loved him. Music thumped in through speakers. Disco lights came up and pulsed. The noise level rose. He'd better finish that drink quick. Next to her sat a fat tub of napkins. Ava grabbed the entire tub and pulled it toward her. She began laying napkins out in front of her.