Queen of Babble (9 page)

I squint at him in the semidarkness. The only light is the moonlight that streams through the laundry room’s single narrow window. Andrew, I can see, is wearing black jeans and a white shirt—a waiter’s uniform.

I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe because I’ve been so lonely and depressed all evening.

Maybe because I’m still half asleep.

Or maybe because I truly do love him. But the next thing I know, I’m sitting up and, my fingers entwined in his shirtfront, I’m whispering, “Oh, Andrew, everything’s so awful! Your brother Alistair—he said something today about your having said I was a fatty. That’s not true, is it?”

“What?” Andrew is laughing into my hair as he nuzzles my neck. He is quite a neck nuzzler, I’m finding out. “What are you talking about?”

“Your brother, Alistair. He acted all shocked when he met me, because he said you’d told him I was fat.”

Andrew stops nuzzling my neck and peers down at me in the moonlight.

“Wait,” he says. “He said that? Are you taking the mickey?”

“I don’t know anything about Mickey,” I say. “But, yes, he really did say he’d been expecting me to be fat. ‘A fatty’ were his exact words.”

I realize, a little belatedly, that Andrew might possibly become a little ticked off with his brother for
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

having said this—especially if it’s not true. Which it can’t be. Right? Andrew would never say something like that…

“Oh, Andrew, I’m sorry,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him tenderly. “I can’t believe I even brought it up. Forget I said anything. Alistair was obviously pulling my leg. And I fell for it.

Let’s just forget the whole thing, all right?”

But Andrew doesn’t seem willing to forget it. His arms tighten around me, and he uses some very choice adjectives to describe his brother, which he whispers against my lips. Then he says, “I think you look fucking fantastic. I always have. Sure, when we first met, you were a bit plumper than you are now.

When I first saw you coming out of Customs at the airport in that little Chinese dress, I didn’t even recognize you. I couldn’t stop staring. I kept wondering who the lucky bloke was who was meeting such a hot little number.”

I can only blink at him. Somehow his words are not as encouraging as I think he means them to be.

Maybe it’s because of his seeming inability to pronounce histh ’s as anything butf’ s, so histhinks come out asfinks.

“Then, when I got the page, and I came over and saw you were—well,you —I realizedI was the lucky bloke,” Andrew goes on. “I’m sorry everything has been such a cock-up so far—my mate’s flat falling through, and your not having a proper bed, and my arse-hole of a brother, and my fucking work schedule. But you have to know”—here he snakes an arm around my waist—“I’m over the moon that you’re finally here.” This is where he leans down and kisses my neck some more.

I nod. Much as I am enjoying the neck kissing, there is still something weighing on my mind. So I say,

“Andrew. Just one more thing.”

“Yeah, what’s that, Liz?” he wants to know as his lips approach my ear.

“The thing is, Andrew,” I say slowly, “I really…I…”

“What is it, Liz?” Andrew asks again.

I take a deep breath. I have to do this. Ihave to say it. Otherwise it will be hanging over our heads for my entire stay.

“I really hate tomatoes,” I say all in a rush, to get it over with.

Andrew raises his head to look at me blankly. Then he throws back his head and laughs.

“Oh God!” he whispers. “That’s right! You wrote me that! Mum asked me what you particularly liked, so she could be sure to have it for your arrival breakfast. But I couldn’t remember. I knew you’d said something about tomatoes—”

I try not to take it personally that he remembered I’d said something about tomatoes, but not WHAT I’d said about them. Like that I hated them more than anything in the world.

Andrew is guffawing now. I’m glad he finds the situation so uproarious. “Oh, you poor girl. Don’t worry, I’ll drop a hint. Come here, let me kiss you again—” He does so. “You reallyare a keeper, aren’t you?”

I hadn’t been aware there’d been any doubt on that score.

But I know what he means.

Or I think I do, anyway. It’s hard to tell what I think while he’s kissing me, exceptHooray! He’s kissing me!

And then there’s no whispering at all for a while, as we kiss.

And I can tell that Andrew’s brother is wrong—hedoesn’t think I’m a fatty…unless he means fatty in a good way. He likes me. REALLY likes me. I can feel that like pressing against me through his waiter pants.

Which I feel duty-bound to help him remove. Because they seem so binding.

When he’s laughingly scrambled up into my loft bed with me—thank God it holds. Or, I should say, thank you, Mrs. Marshall—and the two of us are in each other’s arms again, I see why. The pants were so binding, I mean.

“Andrew,” I whisper, “have you got any condoms?”

“Condoms?” Andrew whispers the word back like it’s foreign. “Aren’t you on the pill? I thought all American girls were on the pill.”

“Well,” I say uncomfortably, “I am. But—you know, the pill doesn’t protect you against diseases.”

“Are you suggesting I have a disease?” Andrew demands—not in a joking way, either.

Oh dear. Why can’t I ever learn to keep my mouth shut?

“Um,” I say, thinking fast. Which is hard to do when I’m so tired. And horny. “No. But, um,I might have one. You never know.”

“Oh,” Andrew says with a chuckle. “Right. You? Never. You’re too sweet.” And he goes back to nuzzling my neck.

Which is very nice. But he still hasn’t answered my question.

“Well?” I ask. “Have you got one?”

“For God’s sake, Liz,” Andrew says, sitting up. He fumbles around and finally produces a Trojan from the pocket of his waiter pants, which are wadded up at the end of the bed. “Happy now?”

“Yes,” I say. Because I am. Happy, I mean. Even though my boyfriend apparently goes to work with a condom in his pocket, which might make one ask oneself, if one were of a suspicious nature (which I am not), just what he intended to do with said condom. I mean, considering that his girlfriend is at home, and not at his place of work.

But that is not the point. The point is that he has a condom, and now we can get down to business.

Which we proceed to do without further delay.

Except.

Well, things are going the way I suppose they should, given that my experience in these matters is pretty much limited to some awkward fumblings in an extralong dorm bed with Jeff, my only long-term boyfriend (three months), whom I dated sophomore year and who later that semester tearfully confessed that he was in love with his roommate, Jim.

Still, I have read enough issues ofCosmo to know every girl is responsible for her own orgasm—just like every guest is responsible for her own good time at a party…no hostess can control EVERYTHING! I mean, you really can’t leave this kind of thing up to a guy. He’s just going to mess it up or, worse, not even bother to give it a try (unless, of course, he’s like Jeff, who was very interested in my orgasms…just as he was very interested in my circa 1950 Herbert Levine pumps with the rhinestone buckle, as I discovered when I caught him admiring himself in them).

But while I might have taken care of my own good time, Andrew is apparently having some trouble with his own. He’s abruptly stopped what he was doing and has flopped back onto the bed.

“Um, Andrew,” I say, filled with concern, “is everything all right?”

“I can’t fucking come,” is his romantic reply. “It’s this fucking bed. There’s not enough room.”

I am, to put it mildly, astonished. I have never heard of a man who can’t come. While I know that to some people—Shari, for instance—a man who is perpetually hard would be a godsend, for me it is merely inconvenient. I have already taken care of my own good time, asCosmo advised. The truth is, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out down there. I’m starting to chafe.

Still, it’s wrong to think of yourself when the person next to you is in so much agony and pain. I can’t imagine how Andrew must be feeling.

Feeling very bad for him, I kiss him and ask, “Well, is there anything I can do to help?”

I soon learn that there is. At least if the way Andrew starts pushing my head in a southerly direction is any indication.

The thing is, I’ve never given one ofthose before. I’m not even sure I know how…although that girl Brianna from my dorm floor did try to teach me once, using a banana.

Still. This is really not how I pictured the two of us consummating our relationship.

And yet these are the kinds of things you do for the people you love when they are in need.

I make him change the condom first, though. I don’t love anybody THAT much. Not even Andrew.

The Crusades weren’t all about one culture trying to inflict their religious views on another. They were also about fashion! Returning Crusaders brought back to their womenfolk not only their vanquished enemy’s gold, but also beauty tips from the ladies of the Orient, including pubic shaving (not heard of in most parts of Europe since the age of the early Roman Empire).

Whether or not English ladies adopted this practice from their sisters in the Far East can be left to the imagination of the reader, but we do know from portraits of that era that many of them took matters a little too far, plucking and shaving all the hair from their heads—including eyelashes and eyebrows. As most of them could not read or write at the time, it is no small wonder they got the message wrong.

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

7

Keep your own secret, and get out other people’s.

—Philip Dormer Stanhope, fourth Earl of Chesterfield (1694–1773), British statesman

Iwake up with a feeling of deep and utter contentment, even though I’m sleeping alone, Andrew having stumbled to his own bed after an attempt at sleeping together in the narrow MDF bed failed miserably, thanks to his long legs and my tendency to sleep with my knees curled up to my chest.

Still, he left grateful and happy. I saw to that. I may be a beginner, but I learn quickly.

As I stretch, I replay the night before over in my head. Andrew is lovely. Well, not lovely, because you can’t really call a guy lovely. But sweet. All that worry over him thinking I was fat…I can’t believe I wasted so much time over something so silly! Of course he never thought I was fat, or said anything about that to his family. His brother probably got me mixed up with some other girl.

No, Andrew is the perfect boyfriend. And I’ll soon have him weaned off the red leather jacket. Maybe, to make it up to him, I’ll even get him a new one while we’re out shopping today—because this is what Andrew had promised me (during our postcoital chitchat last night) that we’d do today—shop and see the sights (once he’d completed a quick errand he had to do in the city).

Of course, the sights I’m most interested in seeing—besides Andrew, of course—are the Oxfams where I can find some undiscovered treasure, and maybe this place I’ve heard about called Topshop, which is like the British equivalent of T.J. Maxx, or maybe H&M, which we don’t actually have in Michigan, but that I’ve heard about, of course, as a fashion lover’s mecca.

Only I don’t mention this to Andrew, because of course I want to seem more intellectual than that. I should be interested in his country’s history, which is incredibly rich and goes back many thousands of years…or at least two hundred, as far as interesting fashion goes. Andrew is so sweet. All of his family has been so lovely, fatty remark aside—I wish there were some way I could show my appreciation for their kindness to me…

And then it comes to me, as I’m shaving my legs in the bathtub a little while later, Andrew not being up yet, and the rest of the family appearing to have gone off to their various jobs: I’ll do it with food! Yes!

Tonight I’ll show my appreciation to the Marshall family for all their hospitality by making them my mother’s famous spaghetti due! I’m sure they probably have all the ingredients right here in the house—it’s just pasta, garlic, oil, Parmesan, and hot pepper flakes, after all.

And if there’s something they don’t have—like a nice crusty baguette, which you really need, to sop up the delicious oil—Andrew and I can stop on our way home from sightseeing to pick it up!

Imagine how surprised and happy Mr. and Mrs. Marshall will be to come home from a long day of work to find supper already waiting for them!

Superpleased with my scheme, I put on my makeup, and am just applying an extra layer of topcoat to my pedicure—since I’ll be traipsing around the city in open-toed shoes, and I want to protect my French tips—when Andrew finally stumbles down the stairs, blinking groggily. We have a very nice good-morning lovemaking session in the MDF bed before I throw on my fun 1960s Alex Colman sundress with the leaf pattern (I have a cashmere sweater that matches…thank God I brought it along at the last minute, since I’m going to need it) and urge Andrew to get dressed so we can get started on our many activities for the day. I still have to change money, and he has his appointment downtown.

My first proper day in London—yesterday doesn’t count, because I was so sleepy I hardly remember any of it—has already started out so well (a tomato-free breakfast; a leisurely bath; sex) that I can hardly hope for it to get better, but it does: the sun is shining, and it’s too hot for Andrew to wear his break-dancing jacket!

We leave the Marshalls’ house hand in hand—Geronimo gazing sadly after us (“That dog really likes you,” Andrew observes. Yes! I’ve won over the family pet through the surreptitious slipping of food!

Can the actual family be far behind?) through the glass door—and head for the Tube. I am traveling on the London Tube for the very first time!

And I am not at all frightened of being blown up, because if you let that kind of fear consume you, you have allowed the terrorists to win.

Still, I keep a sharp eye out for young men (and women—it’s as wrong to profile by sex as it is by race) wearing bulky coats on such a gorgeous day. While I look for terrorists, I can’t help noticing how much better dressed everyone in London is than they are back in Ann Arbor. It is a terrible thing to say about one’s own country, but it appears that Londoners simply care about how they look more than people back home. I haven’t seen a single person—except for Alistair, who is, after all, a teenager—in sweats, or even an elastic waistband.